Friday, May 13th, 2016
Rose braked the scooter two hundred meters before the red light.
She suddenly couldn’t remember the way. Even though she had taken the same route for so many years, it didn’t look like it normally did today.
She looked around. Only ten minutes ago in Ballerup it had been the same, and now it was happening again. The coordination between her senses and her brain momentarily cut off. Her memory was playing tricks on her. Of course she knew that she couldn’t drive through the viaduct and up onto Bispeengbuen on a scooter, which was allowed to travel at only thirty kilometers an hour. So where was it she was meant to turn? Was there a road a little farther along that went down toward Borups Allé? Maybe to the right?
In desperation, she rested the tips of her toes on the tarmac and pressed her lips together. “What’s going on with you, Rose?” she said aloud, causing a passerby to shake her head before hurrying away.
She coughed a couple of times in frustration, feeling like she was about to throw up. She stared in bewilderment at the traffic, which resembled an endless chaos of playing pieces at war with one another. The deep humming of dozens of engines and even just the variety of colors of the vehicles caused her to break out in a cold sweat.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember what she could usually do blindfolded. For a moment, she considered turning around and driving home, but then she would have to cross the road, and how would she manage to do that? When it came to it, could she even remember the way home? She shook her head. Why on earth should she turn around when she was closer to the police headquarters than she was to home? It didn’t make any sense.
Rose had been in this state of confusion for several days now, and suddenly it felt as if her body had become too small for everything it was carrying. As if all the thoughts swarming in her head that she couldn’t cope with couldn’t even be contained in several heads. If she didn’t break down when she was feeling like this, coming up instead with all sorts of strange ideas to avoid it, she’d probably slowly burn out.
Rose bit her cheek until it bled. Maybe the ward in Glostrup had discharged her too early last time. One of her sisters had certainly implied it, and there was no mistaking Assad’s worried looks. Could she really rule out that her sister might have been right? Maybe it wasn’t an alarming mix of depression and personality disorder that was at the root of her breakdown. Was she basically just ins—?
“Stop these thoughts, Rose!” she blurted out, and once again a passerby turned around and stared at her.
She looked at him apologetically. It had been impressed upon her that she could call the psychiatrist if she feared a relapse. But was that what was happening? Wasn’t she just under a lot of pressure with work, and wasn’t she failing to get enough sleep? Wasn’t it simply stress?
Rose looked straight ahead and immediately recognized the broad steps of Bellahøj Swimming Stadium and the high-rise buildings in the background. A mild sense of relief came over her that she hadn’t completely lost control, causing her to sigh and start the scooter.
Everything seemed to have fallen into place, but after a few minutes she was overtaken by a bike in low gear.
Rose looked down at the speedometer. She was doing only nineteen kilometers an hour; apparently she hadn’t even had the composure to keep her hand on the throttle.
She wasn’t really in control after all.
I really need to be careful today, she thought. Keep to myself and try to calm my nerves.
She dried her forehead with shaky hands, looking about attentively. Above all, she needed to make sure she didn’t faint in traffic and find herself made into mincemeat by a turning truck. Surely she could manage that.
—
On good days, police HQ looked immensely appealing, with its light facade and imposing architecture, but today the innocent white appearance had taken on a greyish hue, the gaps between the columns more frightening and blacker than usual, almost as if they could swallow her whole.
She didn’t say hello to the security guard like she normally did and only half registered the sweet look the secretary, Lis, gave her in the stairwell. It was one of those days.
It was quiet down in the basement, where Department Q was located: no stench from Assad’s mint tea, no blabbering from TV2 News on Carl’s oversize flat-screen, no puzzled Gordon.
Thank God they haven’t turned up yet, she thought, staggering into her office.
She slumped in front of her desk, pressing her diaphragm hard against it; it sometimes helped when she was feeling like this. It lessened the feeling of not being in control, and sometimes she also felt the benefit of pressing her clenched fist against her solar plexus.
It wasn’t working just now. Friday the thirteenth, what else could she expect?
Rose stood up and closed the door to the hallway. If it was shut, the others would probably think she hadn’t arrived.
Peace at last.
For now.
3
Monday, May 2nd, 2016
From the moment she walked into the social security office, Michelle’s pulse quickened. The name alone had that effect despite being fairly neutral. In her opinion, names like Agony Office, Beggars’ Institution, or Humiliation Center were much more fitting, but who in the public sector ever called things what they really are?
Michelle had been pushed from pillar to post in this demeaning system for years. First in Matthæusgade, then as far out as Gammel Køge Landevej, and now back to Vesterbro. Wherever she was sent, she was met with the same demands and wretched atmosphere, and nothing could erase this feeling. As far as she was concerned, they could put up as many new, polished counters with large numbers as they wanted, and provide computers so you could sit there and do their work for them—if you could figure out how to use them, that is.
The majority of people who came to this center were people she wasn’t overly keen on. People who stared at her as if she was one of them. As if she would have anything to do with them in their shabby and unsightly clothes! They couldn’t even manage to put an outfit together. Had she ever gone out without making an effort with her appearance? Without washing her hair or thinking about what jewelry went best together? No, she hadn’t, and no matter what happened, she wouldn’t dream of it.
If she hadn’t had Patrick with her today, she would have just turned around at the entrance, even though she was well aware that she had to go in, partly because she needed to ask permission to go on vacation. Patrick had also reminded her about that.
Patrick was an apprentice electrician and Michelle’s best trophy. If anyone doubted what sort of person she was, all they had to do was look at him, because he afforded her a certain status. Few were taller, broader, more muscular, or more stylishly tattooed than Patrick. No one she knew had darker or shinier hair. And it suited him to wear slim-fitting shirts. It really showed off how proud he was of his body and why he had good reason to feel that way.
Now she was sitting next to him in front of the useless caseworker, who like a ghost had followed her no matter what office Michelle was registered at. Someone in the waiting room had once said that she’d won a large sum of money. But if that was the case, why the hell didn’t she just disappear from Michelle’s life?
Her name was Anne-Line. A ridiculous name that only someone like her would have, so there her name was, Anne-Line Svendsen, on one of the typical metal signs on the edge of the table, and at which Michelle had been staring for the past twenty minutes. She hadn’t even heard a word they were saying for the past five minutes.
“Do you agree with what Patrick has just said, Michelle?” Anne-Line Svendsen asked her now and then.
Michelle responded with a robotic nod. Would there be any reason not to? She and Patrick agreed on almost everything.
“Fine, Michelle. So you’ve said yes to being assigned a job at Berendsen?”
> Michelle frowned. That wasn’t why they’d come here. They’d come to make this woman understand that she simply couldn’t cope with the stress of working and to get permission to take two weeks’ vacation from her job search. Hadn’t they explained a hundred times how much pressure and stress the system was putting her under? Didn’t she understand what they were saying? Not everyone had had the same good fortune as this idiotic caseworker. If Michelle had been the one who had won the lottery, or whatever, would she be sitting here? Not a chance.
“Berendsen? Er, no, I don’t think so,” she answered.
Michelle looked imploringly at Patrick, but he was just glaring at her.
“What exactly is Berendsen?” she asked. “Is it a clothes store?”
Anne-Line smiled, and it didn’t look good with her wine-stained teeth. Hadn’t she ever heard of whitening?
“Well, yes. In some way it is clothes they are handling,” she answered. Was she being patronizing?
“Berendsen is a well-reputed company that works primarily with washing bed linens for large companies and public institutions.”
Michelle shook her head. She hadn’t agreed to anything like this with Patrick; he knew that.
Anne-Line Svendsen knitted her unkempt eyebrows. “You don’t seem to understand the seriousness of the situation, do you, Michelle?”
The woman turned her attention to Patrick. “You two do live together, so I assume, Patrick, that you’re aware that Michelle has been illegally claiming benefits for almost six months. That’s what we call fraud and it’s a serious matter. Have you thought about that?”
Patrick pulled his sleeves up. The swelling from his new tattoos still hadn’t gone down, which was probably why he seemed irritated.
“There must be a misunderstanding, because we don’t live together. Not really. Michelle has a room out in Vanløse.”
This information certainly didn’t faze the caseworker. “I’ve spoken this morning with the family at Holmestien who rented out a room to Michelle. They inform me that Michelle hasn’t paid her rent for the past five months, so she lives with you, shall we agree on that? We’ll be deducting the benefits for the entire period from your wages, you must realize that, Patrick, and there will probably also be legal consequences. But presumably you’re aware of the new rules.”
Patrick slowly turned to direct a menacing look toward Michelle. There was something in his expression that she didn’t like the look of.
“But . . .” Michelle frowned, even though it didn’t look flattering. “We only came today to get permission to go on vacation. We’ve seen a really cheap last-minute deal leaving in two weeks, and Patrick can get the time off, so . . .” Michelle paused and bit her lip.
It was a mistake that she’d handed in the notice on the room. Or at least a mistake that she hadn’t told Patrick about it, and this wouldn’t be the last she’d hear of it; that was for sure. Up until now, Patrick had never laid a finger on her, which was one of the reasons she stayed with him, but just now it seemed like that situation might change.
“I see, but I don’t think that’s going to happen, Michelle. From Patrick’s expression, it seems to me that you might have forgotten to tell him about the room. Isn’t that right?” the hag continued.
Michelle nodded almost unnoticeably. Patrick suddenly stood up in front of the window, almost entirely blocking out the light. “There must be a mistake,” he protested with a frown. “I’ll drive out to see the family and find out why they’re saying this.”
He turned to face Michelle. What he said to her next wasn’t to be understood as a suggestion but an order; that much was clear.
“Stay here, Michelle. Your caseworker has offered you a job, so I think you should have a chat with her about it, okay?”
She pressed her lips together as he angrily slammed the door behind him. How mean of him to abandon her in this situation. If she had had any inkling that the woman would check up on her living situation like this, she would never have given up the room. What on earth was she supposed to do now? They couldn’t afford to lose that money, and especially not if there was going to be a fine on top of it.
If only Patrick could talk the family around, maybe she could rent the room again; they couldn’t have any objection to that. As long as the rent was less than her benefits, it would still leave something, even if eighteen hundred kroner in rent was money she wouldn’t have in her pocket.
She’d actually thought she could use that money on herself; that’s why she’d done it. Wasn’t Patrick happy with her appearance when she’d been to the hairdresser? Did he complain when she was wearing sexy new lingerie?
—
Ten minutes later, Michelle was sitting in the waiting room to compose herself and take in what had just happened. There would definitely be an investigation into the benefit fraud—the woman in the office had said as much—and they’d have to pay back a lot of money. She simply hadn’t been able to deal with listening to how much it actually was. It made her feel queasy. But why did Anne-Line have to be like that? Was it because she wouldn’t take that job at the laundry?
No way! Michelle shook her head, it was so depressing. She certainly wasn’t going to get up at four every morning and take the S-train all the way to Helsingør to handle other people’s shit-stained sheets. Much of it came directly from hospitals, where sick people had been using the linens. Who knew what they had wrong with them. It could be contagious, maybe even deadly. Hepatitis or Ebola or something like that. Just the thought made her nauseous.
No, they couldn’t demand that of her. Not that.
“What did you expect, Michelle?” the woman had asked her caustically. “You haven’t been able to handle a single job we’ve offered you. Neither have you completed any of the courses we’ve enrolled you in. Are you aware what a girl like you who doesn’t contribute anything actually costs society? And on top of all that, now you want to go on vacation with the money you’ve fraudulently claimed? It can’t go on like this, can it, now, Michelle?”
But why was she like this? What had Michelle ever done to her? Didn’t she understand the mind-set of people like Michelle?
She was really good at looking after the apartment she shared with Patrick, making sure it was always clean and tidy. She did the laundry for both of them and could even turn her hand to a bit of cooking, and it was also she who did the shopping. Wasn’t that worth anything?
“The social isn’t going to pay for that, Michelle,” Patrick had said, as if she didn’t know that. But her mother and sister had always been homemakers, so why not her?
She looked down at her smart red suede boots, which she had bought to look good for precisely this meeting, and to what avail? Michelle took a deep breath. This was all just too much to take in at once.
She scratched a little mark off her pants with her polished nails and smoothed down the sleeves of her blouse. She always did that when she couldn’t keep up with what was going on.
Damn that snotty woman, Anne-Line Svendsen. If only she’d walk in front of a car and die.
Michelle looked around forlornly. Screw all the people sitting here, hanging about wearing worn-out shoes and hoods pulled down over their ears, looking like shit. It was their fault that there wasn’t enough money to keep someone like Michelle on benefits. Good people like herself who didn’t hurt anyone or drink or get so fat that they had to be hospitalized, who didn’t stick needles in their arms or go around stealing from others. Who out of all the others sitting here could say that? She smiled at the thought, it was so stupid. Did any of these people do what they were supposed to do? Were any of them even respectable? Certainly not many.
She looked over at a pair of young women standing in the queue waiting for a number. They both appeared to be around her age, and she thought that in contrast to everyone else, they might be all right. At least the sort it was easier to identify wi
th due to their super-nice clothes and attractive makeup.
When the two women had taken their numbers, they looked around, catching sight of the two empty seats in the corner by Michelle, and sat down.
They exchanged respectful and knowing looks.
“Are you waiting too?” one of them asked, and five minutes later all three of them were chatting together as if they were old friends.
It was funny how much they had in common. The corner in the waiting room where they were sitting quickly became the center of good taste. Tight, light jeans and tops from Føtex or H&M, earrings, necklaces, rings, and bracelets from Tiger or somewhat dubious shops on the side streets. All three of them had carefully styled hair extensions and high-heeled boots, but, as one of them said, once in a while you could also wear moon boots with fake fur. Yes, it was funny how alike they all were.
They had one further thing in common, much to Michelle’s surprise. They were all fed up with being pushed around by the system and having all sorts of demands put upon them. And as if that wasn’t enough, God help them, they all had the same caseworker: Anne-Line Svendsen.
Michelle laughed, throwing her head back. There was another girl sitting directly opposite them. Her face was furrowed and she had punk hair and eye makeup that was far too black: ugly through and through. She was staring at them in a tense and uncomfortable way, almost as if she were jealous. Michelle smiled to herself because that girl had every reason to be, with her weird fashion and odd mannerisms. She was tapping her feet as if she were hitting a drum pedal, and she looked like she was on speed or something, her glare becoming slowly more and more intense. Maybe she just needed a cigarette. Michelle knew the feeling well enough.
“Freaking weird that anyone here would want to associate with you three wet blankets,” came the sudden tirade obviously directed at Michelle and the other two. “Shit is gold in comparison to people like you.”
The girl next to Michelle seemed taken aback as she turned to face the punk. It was the one who had said her name was Jazmine and who was otherwise pretty cool, just not right now. But the second of the two girls, the one called Denise, reacted ice cool, giving the punk the finger, even though Jazmine tried to stop her.
The Scarred Woman Page 3
