Yes, something would have to happen soon. And if she couldn’t become famous, she would have to become rich. Marry a billionaire or something like that. You certainly wouldn’t become rich as a florist, nail stylist, or makeup artist, and definitely not as a washerwoman in Helsingør. Didn’t they understand that at all? Patrick, her stepdad, and her caseworker were all out to get her. But why? She was destined for something greater. A few months ago she had gone on sick leave for stress because they all demanded too much from her. And now it was all coming back to bite her for the umpteenth time, what with all the crazy hassle with Patrick’s apartment, the fraud, and everything else.
Did it mean that her future was just this studio apartment? Would she have to rush to work early every morning and develop unsightly wrinkles from lack of sleep? Would she have to listen to Patrick’s whining year in and year out? She couldn’t deny how hard he worked, putting in extra hours in the evening for cash-in-hand jobs when he wasn’t otherwise working as a bouncer at Victoria—the nightclub where they had kissed for the first time. But why couldn’t he just come up with a great idea that would make them rich so that they could have a lovely house with nice furniture, freshly ironed tablecloths, and a couple of beautiful children?
Okay, she understood that when he came with her to social services, it was to try to help them have a little more luxury. She needed to bring in some dough, he always said, but what good did her small change do them? Patrick had material needs that her small wage could never cover. The gym three times a week, fancy clothes, and lots of pairs of cowboy boots. And cars. Okay, he already had a car—an Alfa Romeo with light-colored seats—and she appreciated it when he could be bothered to take her out for a drive. But now he would rather have another car, newer and more expensive, and that was without doubt what he would buy with the money she earned. It just wasn’t fair.
She looked down at her left hand. She had a small discreet tattoo of Patrick’s name at the base of her thumb, and Patrick had a tattoo of her name on his biceps exactly where two muscle groups fought for power, and it looked super-hot. But was that all?
Next year she would turn twenty-eight, and if nothing had happened by then, she would leave him and find another man who valued her assets more tangibly.
Michelle looked over at him lying there, half-covered in the bedsheet, stretching his naked lower body. It was actually only in bed that things felt really good with him, now that she thought about it.
“Hi,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “What’s the time?”
“You’ve got half an hour before you have to go,” she answered.
“Damn!” He yawned. “And what will you be doing today? Popping down to social services to say sorry to your caseworker?”
“No, I’m doing something else. So not today, Patrick.”
He leaned up on his elbows. “What did you say? Something else? Damn it, you don’t have anything more important to do, you stupid bitch!”
She gasped for breath. Stupid bitch? She wasn’t going to let anyone talk to her like that.
“You can’t get away with calling me a stupid bitch, I’ll tell you that much!”
“What are you going to do about it, Michelle? There seems to be something very important that you don’t understand, so you must be a stupid bitch. It’s almost three weeks since your caseworker charged us with fraud. And there are two reminders on the table that you haven’t even bothered to open. And why are you now getting letters in the mail from social services—aren’t you checking the damn e-mails they send you? It could be important. Have you thought about that? I bet they’re fines or summons or bills or some other shit.”
“You can just open them yourself and have a look if you’re that interested.”
“They’ve got your bloody name on them, so why don’t you do it yourself? Why the hell should I get more mixed up in that shit? Damn it, Michelle, get a grip or I’ll kick you out. Don’t think I won’t.”
She swallowed a couple of times. It was all too much at once. She stood up from the dressing table and was just about to shout something at him but knew that if she did, she’d pay for it ten times over.
Michelle stared down at the floor. If she didn’t keep it together she’d tear up and that would ruin her perfect makeup.
She staggered the fifteen steps out to the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. She didn’t want Patrick to see how he could throw her off-balance.
“Don’t be in there too long!” he shouted from the bed. “I need to get in there in a minute.”
The mirror revealed all too clearly the effect he had on her. There was already a wrinkle on her forehead. Didn’t he know what it cost to have something like that corrected with Botox? Idiot!
Michelle grabbed the edge of the sink. She was actually feeling quite queasy just now. As if all the horrible words were in the pit of her stomach and she was about to throw them up.
She bit her lip, feeling a burning sensation in her throat. “Kick you out,” he’d said. “Kick you out!”
Her!
She vomited violently without warning, but she didn’t make a sound. There was no way she was going to let him know how he made her feel or that he could get to her so much that she threw up. She had done it a few times before, but standing there with heartburn and the remains of yesterday’s dinner in the corners of her mouth, she made up her mind that this would be the last time.
When Patrick had finally left, she systematically rummaged through all his belongings. She found a few hundred kroner here and there, and some cigarettes in his jacket pocket even though he said he had quit because it was too expensive and that she ought to do the same. She also found some condoms in the small pockets of his Levi’s.
What did he want with condoms? She was bloody well on the pill and terrified of getting blood clots from them. So what did he need condoms for?
She tore up a couple of them and threw them on the bed. Then he would be able to work out for himself why she wasn’t there when he came back.
Michelle looked around, wondering what to take with her. No way was she going to move back to her family, even if it was just for a short while, because Stephan was there—the idiot her mother had been seeing for three years. He was a complete psycho. Didn’t her so-called stepfather want her to work for him in his rotten garage for a measly fourteen thousand a month? Did he really expect her to get oily and dirty for fourteen thousand a month?
As if he was doing her a favor.
She sat for a moment and stared at the wallpaper, trying to see everything from the outside. Why was she so bad at this sort of thing? Why couldn’t she just do what was best for herself? She really needed some support and good advice.
Then she thought of Denise and Jazmine, who were both so focused. What would they do in her situation?
—
Michelle walked down the street feeling positive. She had called the girls and they were meeting in town in an hour. She felt ready to lay all her cards on the table. Perhaps they could help her, and one of them might even have an idea about where she could find a decent place to sleep for a while.
She smiled and noticed the red car a little farther down the street pulling out from where it was parked. The driver was probably someone not so different from her, albeit without all the demands she was subjected to. Someone who took herself seriously.
She nodded. In a few months she would probably have her own car. Just before she left the apartment, she had checked Facebook and seen that there was another casting for a TV show that she was definitely better suited for than the person who had posted the link. It was a totally new concept—nothing Michelle had heard of before—something about girls on a farm having to fend for themselves and that sort of thing. That was definitely something she could do—but she wouldn’t tell the producers that. She would just play dumb, pretending not to even know how to boil a potato or anything. Play
dumb and look amazing while showing off her tits and ass. They’d take her without a doubt.
She crossed the street. There was also another reality show looking for contestants. Dream Date it was called or s—
She looked instinctively over her shoulder, but it was already too late. The car was suddenly there, a bright red blotch in the middle of the street, coming quickly at her with the engine roaring in low gear.
The woman behind the windshield looked directly at her while jerking the wheel toward her—a face that made Michelle throw out her hand protectively in panic.
But her hand couldn’t stop the car.
—
She was woken by a faint throbbing in her arm. She tried to open her eyes and sit up, but her body wouldn’t budge.
I’m lying with my mouth open, aren’t I? she thought as smells and sounds she couldn’t place smothered her like a heavy blanket.
“Michelle, listen.” She felt a soft tug on her good arm. “You’ve been in an accident, but it’s not serious. Can you open your eyes?”
She mumbled something or other. It was just a silly dream.
But then someone patted her on the cheek. “Wake up now, Michelle. There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”
She took a deep breath that pulled her out of her daze.
A bright white light surrounded a face that was looking directly down at her.
“You’re at Copenhagen University Hospital, Michelle, and you’re okay. You’ve been very lucky.”
She saw now that it was a nurse. She had freckles just like Michelle had once had.
A man was standing behind her nodding with a friendly smile.
“The police are here to ask you a few questions, Michelle.”
The man stepped forward. “Hello, my name is Preben Harbæk. I’m a police sergeant from Bellahøj Police Station. I’d like to ask you a few questions about what you can remember from the accident.”
Michelle crinkled her nose. There was a strong smell, and the light was far too bright.
“Where am I?” she asked. “Am I in the hospital?”
The man nodded. “You were in a hit-and-run accident, Michelle. Can you remember that?”
“I’m meeting Denise and Jazmine. Can I please go?” She tried to support herself on her elbows again, but it made her head hurt. “I need to talk to them.”
The nurse looked at her insistently. “You need to stay where you are, Michelle. You have a deep gash in the back of your neck and you have a lot of stitches. The friends you were meant to be meeting are in the waiting room. They called your cell phone to ask why you hadn’t arrived.” She looked serious—but why, if Jazmine and Denise were outside waiting?
“You’ve been here for three hours and we need to keep you under observation for concussion because you took a heavy blow to the head when you hit the pavement. You were lying unconscious when someone from the neighborhood found you. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Michelle didn’t understand everything, but she nodded. At least Jazmine and Denise were here. Now she could tell them that she had left Patrick.
“Do you understand how serious this is, Michelle?” asked the policeman.
She nodded and answered his questions as best she could. Yes, she had seen the car. It was red and not too big. It drove right at her as she was crossing the road. When she realized the danger she had tried to stop it with her hand. Was that why it hurt so much?
The policeman nodded. “But it is miraculously not broken,” he said. “You must really be a strong girl.”
She liked that he said that. He was okay. Other than that, she had nothing to add.
—
“They say you need to stay here for a few days, Michelle.” Jazmine looked around the room. It was apparent that she didn’t feel comfortable, but then the place did smell pretty disgusting. Only a screen separated her bed from her neighbor’s, and there was a bad smell emanating from there. Over by the sink and mirror there was a trolley with the bedpan the nurse’s aide had just taken from her bed. So all in all the place wasn’t exactly appealing.
“We’ll come and visit every day,” said Denise. She didn’t really seem to mind the place or the stench.
“We would’ve brought flowers, but then we thought we’d rather use the money in the cafeteria,” said Jazmine. “Are you allowed to get out of bed?”
Michelle didn’t know, so she just shrugged.
“I’ve left Patrick,” she said casually. “Would you mind checking if that’s my bag over there?” She pointed over at the pile on the chair, and they nodded. That was good.
“I don’t want him coming here. Can you let them know out there?”
They nodded.
“Then maybe I have somewhere you can live that won’t cost you anything,” said Denise. “And there’s room for you too, Jazmine.”
Michelle looked at her gratefully. Brilliant.
“For a while anyway,” she added.
Michelle pursed her lips. That was awesome, but then she’d known all along that those two would sort everything out for her.
“What happened? They said you were run over. What did you say to the police?” asked Denise.
She explained everything about the car.
“It wasn’t Patrick, was it?” asked Denise.
“No,” she said with a laugh. What kind of a question was that? Hadn’t she just said that it was a small, old, red rust bucket? As if Patrick would be seen dead in something like that.
“Patrick drives an Alfa Romeo. It’s bigger and black.”
“Drivers are psychos,” said Jazmine.
Then came the thing she just had to say. “But I do think I recognized the face of the woman in the car.”
They went silent as if they expected a complete description on top of her explanation.
“Have you told the police?” asked Denise.
“No.” Michelle kicked her blanket off. It felt suffocating.
She nodded over to the screen separating the person in the next bed. It was none of her business what she was about to say.
“I was just about to tell the policeman,” she whispered, “but I wanted to ask you first what you think I should do.” She put her finger to her mouth to remind them to keep their voices down.
“What do you mean?” Denise whispered.
“I think it was Anne-Line Svendsen behind the wheel.”
She got the reactions she had hoped for: shock, disbelief, and confusion.
“Christ! Are you sure?” asked Denise.
She shrugged. “I think so. At least it was someone who looked like her. Even the sweater.”
Denise and Jazmine looked at each other. Didn’t they believe her?
“Do you think I should report it?” she asked.
They sat for a while staring blankly. All three of them hated Anne-Line Svendsen. Three claimants whose lives the bitch had made difficult for years.
Michelle was sure that she was thinking the same as they were just now. If it really was Anne-Line Svendsen, who would believe a girl like her? Why would a caseworker who on top of everything else had won a huge sum of money do something like that? She could see the problem.
I’m the one who’s committed fraud, she thought. And wasn’t it extremely risky to make false accusations? Wouldn’t there be severe consequences? Yes, that much she knew from TV shows.
“I have a meeting with her on Monday,” said Jazmine a moment later. “So I’ll just ask her straight out if it was her who did it.”
Denise nodded. “Okay. ‘Straight to the point,’ as my granddad always said.”
“But if she denies it—and she will—what do we do then?” asked Jazmine. “Any suggestions?”
Denise smiled but said nothing.
13
Friday, May 13th, and Tuesday, May
17th, 2016
In Allerød, the barbecue was already in full swing, and while before there had been a mild aroma of smoke from the neighbor’s garden, now the entire parking lot was covered in a thick haze that smelled strongly of burned meat.
“Howdy, Morten and Hardy!” shouted Carl, throwing his jacket in the hallway. “Are you also having a barbecue?”
There was a faint humming from Hardy’s electric wheelchair as he approached. He was dressed in white from top to toe—a stark contrast to his gloomy expression.
“Anything wrong?” asked Carl.
“Mika has just been here.”
“Oh! Are you having treatment with him on Fridays now? I thought . . .”
“Mika has been here with Morten’s stuff. They’ve split up. Morten’s sitting in a corner of the sitting room in a right state, I can tell you. He needs his friends around him just now, so I’ve told him that he can move back into the basement, okay?”
Carl nodded. “What the . . .” He put his hand on Hardy’s shoulder. It was a good thing that at least Morten and Hardy had each other.
The rejected lover was huddled up in the corner of the sofa looking as dejected as someone who had just received a death sentence. Ashen, tearful, and by all appearances totally exhausted.
“Hi, mate, what’s this I hear?” asked Carl.
Perhaps he should have approached the subject more delicately, because the result was that Morten jumped up and threw his arms around Carl with a guttural wail as the tears streamed down his face.
The Scarred Woman Page 10
