My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time

by Liz Jensen

  And the door closed behind them.

  Half an hour later Else emerged a richer woman, and we embraced. The scene was set.

  Later that day the Pastor came to call, wearing a frock coat & bearing a heavy Bible: Fru Krak led him into the parlour where they sat for an hour. From the basement below, we listened as best we could with the aid of a surveillance device called a baby alarm obtained by the Professor in London, which enabled one to eavesdrop through walls & floors, but all we could distinguish were verses from Leviticus. Fru Krak was not ready to confess her secret, & if the Pastor suspected his bride-to-be was hiding something, he showed it not.

  But after he had left, we had ample evidence of her state of mind. That night, courtesy of the three yellow amphetamine pills the salesman of ladies’ restorative products had bade her take as a ‘kick-starter’ with a swig of cod-liver oil on the twenty-third day of every month, Fru Krak slept not one millisecond. All night we heard her in the house above us, kicking up an almighty shindig of self-pity: a veritable hullabaloo-fest of weeping, screaming, ranting aloud, pacing of floors, & what seemed like furniture removal, for every now & then we would hear a thundacion or a crash.

  ‘She is packing her trunks,’ assessed Professor Krak, rubbing his hands in glee. ‘And preparing to leave. Mark my words, dear friends, the thing is working! How long have I waited for this!’

  Then, at five o’clock, just as the first cock was crowing, the second phase of the Østerbro master-plan swings into action. This is my moment, dear reader, & I will admit to you in confidence that I feel a little nervous, if you can forgive me a moment of weakness – for to be honest, much as I find her ridiculous, Fru Krak always gives me something of the creeps. Now, however, is the time to turn the tables, so behold me there, my face ghostified with white powder, and clad in a wispy gauze apparel purchased in a horror shop near Covent Garden, as I slither out of the ventilation shaft, don rollerblades beneath my long dress, & glide in wobblesome fashion to the front of the house, where I carefully mount the steps in the sideways motion my footwear demands, make some final adjustments to my attire, & then bang thrice, slowly and threateningly, on the heavy wooden door.

  Some lights come on, & I fancy I hear footsteps. I bang again, most doomily, until finally comes the sound of chains jangling, bolts being drawn, & keys turning & then, with a dark creak, the door opens a crack to reveal a slice of Fru Krak’s puffed-out visage, the corners of its mouth turned down in a familiar wattled scowl. As soon as she sees me, she makes to slam the door, but I hold it open: & on seeing my face in its eerie blanchedness, her piggy eyes shoot open wide: she gives a frail, whimpering scream & steps back: at which the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl pushes the door open further & rolls past her down the corridor, coming to an elegant halt in the middle of the sitting-room, before turning to face her former mistress. Who now looks as if she might faint.

  The Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl has practised hard on her voice: a weak whisper, hoarse but insistent: to hear it, Fru Krak must lean closer & catch the smell of mothballs – a smell which not quite masks the stranger & altogether more butcherish odour that wafts from the innards of my dress.

  ‘You murdered me in cold blood, Fru Krak,’ whispers the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl.

  ‘No!’ she falters. ‘No, I did not! Or at least I did not mean to!’

  But ghosts, Professor Krak & I agreed back in Canary Wharf, are deaf, or at least unprepared to listen to the self-justifications of those who have wronged them in life, so the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl answers her not, but instead breathes, in the same slow, druzzed whisper: ‘Behold your gruesome work, Fru Krak. You shall come face to face with what you have done, & beg forgiveness.’ Fru Krak stands quaking & transfixed as the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl begins unwinding her shroud, & then unlacing her bodice, to reveal a glimpse of a prodigiously bloody, realistic & gaping gash right between her breasts – sited on the very bull’s-eye at which Fru Krak aimed the blunderbuss on that night of fatal errors &, with the most alarming accuracy for one so maddened by rage, fired a single bullet. ‘Come closer, Fine Lady,’ now whispers the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl. ‘Come & feel how my wound still bleeds.’

  ‘No!’ screams the desperate creature, so fearful that I wonder for a moment if she might soil her knickers. But there is no escape from holy justice, for the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl has now reached out with her clammy fingers (courtesy of a modern gel soap favoured by car mechanics, & known as Swarfega) & grabbed her wrist, then shoved Fru Krak’s hand to her unshrouded chest, whereupon the grisly wound, thanks to a polythene bag filled with fresh blood & offal from the butcher’s shop, purchased yesterday by Professor Krak, bursts forth its contents, to wit one full litre of red gore, that gushes splatteringly on to Fru Krak’s hand & arm in most repulsive fashion.

  O horror! So convincing is the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl (and I have not trod the boards for nothing) that I am almost terrified myself!

  With a grating high-pitched screech, the Krakster snatches her blood-spotted hand away & staggers backward, falling on to the chaise-longue & writhing there, amid much flailing of haberdashery and klunke-tassels, in what I assume to be an agony of remorse. The Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl, quickly wrapping her shawl around her to hide the now exposed artifice of her wound, but letting the blood continue to trickle down her white gauze garments to the floor, a most impressive sight, then warns Fru Krak in that same terrifying whisper that she will not leave until justice has been done. No: she will continue to bleed like this, all over the Aquarian Lady’s beautiful home, & follow her former mistress out through the streets, naming & shaming her, & the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl will also appear before Pastor Dahlberg too, & do likewise, if Fru Krak does not obey her commands, for the Little Cleaning Girl is no longer of human flesh, & now abides only by the rules of beyond, where the living hold no sway.

  ‘You have no proof of what I did!’ Fru Krak falters finally, clutching the place where a normal woman’s heart would lie. But the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl is well into her stride now, & remains immune to her protestations, & instead motions her to follow. Fru Krak shrinks back, so the ghost makes to snatch her wrist again, at which she succumbs & follows her phantom tormentor who glides smoothly down the corridor & commands her to unlock the metal grille with which she has barred the staircase, & see for herself what lurks down there.

  ‘No, please, I beg you,’ she cries, ‘do not make me go there!’ but the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl is by now revelling in her own mercilessness, & stands there silent, menacing & immobile, until Fru Krak tremblingly fumbles for the key from the vast jangling chain that dangles from her belt & unclasps the huge padlock that affixes the grille to the stairwell entrance.

  ‘Descend!’ hisses the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl. And so with shaking steps Fru Krak opens the grille & makes her way down the stairs alone, while the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl remains where she is, on account of the somewhat inconvenient rollerblades, & there, at the bottom of that dark & dismal stairwell, unlit & stinking of toad-spore, comes Fru Krak face to face – O mercy! – with none other than the massive bulk of the righteously vengeful Fru Schleswig, bloated with rage, who fixes her former employer with a hell-scurved eye & bellows with all her might: ‘You eevil wun! You merdered my pore littel babby & then lokked me in here, wer I have been livin on rattes & fungusses these past six weekes! But now I am goin strayt to Sargent Svensen to report to him this grusom killinge of my beluvvid onlie chylde!’

  Which terrifying threat sends the hapless Fru Krak shooting back up the stairs & collapsing in a gibbering mush of tears & snot at my feet, which she now attempts to clutch (I swiftly roll backwards a metre to avoid her grip), & lies there glaggering & groaning.

  And now the time has come for the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl to name her price. And it is this: that firstly, Fru Krak must empty her coffers of all the cash she possess
es, & leave it on the hall table as pecuniary penance for the foul act of murder. Then she must furthermore sign this document (the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl proffers it in duplicate: bloodstained now, but still legally viable), revoking all her rights to the house, which she unreservedly bequeaths hereunto & theretofore to the victims alleged mother, Fru Fanny Schleswig widow of this parish, & her various appointees & agents, who will from henceforth both titularly & in fact be the owners of the aforementioned property, in verisimilitude, turpitude, & for all eternity.

  ‘And finally,’ finishes the Ghost of the Little Cleaning Girl, when Fru Krak has signed her trembly-lettered name upon the dotted line with an otherly writing-tool, namely a ball point pen, on both copies, ‘you must pack your belongings at once, & leave Copenhagen by daybreak, never to return.’

  ‘By daybreak?’ she gasps, boggle-eyed. ‘Mercy, the sun is almost here!’

  But ghosts are deaf. The Little Cleaning Girl glides out, leaving her former mistress snivelling in a heap to contemplate her bleak future.

  What larks!

  After I had made my exit & disposed of my rollerblades, Professor Krak, Fergus & I crouched in our hiding-place behind the juniper bush & watched the house. Soon dawn broke, & with the new day arrived a horse-drawn carriage, summoned by a street-urchin whom the desperate woman had flagged down shortly after my departure. Once her ten trunks had been loaded into the luggage compartment, we heard her then call weakly to the driver: ‘Take me to meet Pastor Dahlberg at St Jakob’s Kirke. Wait for us there half an hour, & bear us both thence nonstop to Silkeborg!’

  And with the crack of a whip & a shatter-clatter of hooves, Fru Krak was gone – headed (as we later learned) for the hastiest marriage ever organized, followed by an impromptu honeymoon in a dismal out-of-season spa. With ownership of Number Nine Rosenvængets Allé & the Time Machine secured, Christmas was ours.

  O glædelig indeed was the Jul that followed! Fergus had explained to Josie that the Christmas festivities in Denmark took place on the evening of the twenty-fourth, but this meant little to a child who had just been whipped out of a London summer, & was due to return there within a few days, according to the commandment of our flow-chart. Indeed the whole idea of time, for a child, is a muddled thing, as I recall: suffice it to say that upon hearing the news that Christmas was coming tonight, some five months early, Josie was over the moon, which is just where she deserved to be (have you noticed, precious one, how my loathing for children had dissipated, now that I finally knew one?), & all morning she made most hozzicky-wild running up & down throughout the house, peeking inside every cupboard, exploring every nook & cranny, & being as rowdy as she wished, now that there was no more need for secrecy & silence. Fergus & I lit all the gaslights until the whole place was volcanically ablaze, & then we did much teenagerish snogging beneath the chandelier, before we all set about decorating the huge fir tree Professor Krak had ordered for delivery that afternoon, & for which Else, who arrived clad in a fetching outfit of pink & gold like a veritable Christmas fairy, provided the most abundant adornments & baubles harvested from her shop.

  ‘How do you do,’ she said in perfect English to Fergus, who attempted an elaborate bow, while Josie in turn curtsied, for our modern visitors seemed hell-bent on practising what they deemed to be ‘old-fashioned’ customs. Together, Josie & I set about adding the decorations to the Christmas tree: she was in quite a turmoil of delight.

  ‘Will we go to Legoland?’ she asked, as I lifted her to hang the angel at the top. I was beginning to explain that Legoland was not yet built (for she had not quite got the hang of our journey through time, & according to Fergus believed we were ‘visiting a wee theme park’) when Gudrun Olsen showed up, & the child rushed to practise her curtsy again. The reunion between Gudrun Olsen & Professor Krak, who had not clapped eyes on one another in seven years, was a charming sight to behold indeed, & most poignant, for they were clearly fond of one another.

  ‘Were they lovers before, or what?’ whispered Fergus, watching them.

  ‘No: she worked for him but it all went wrong when she accidentally murdered his orangutan, after it attacked her face. That’s how she got the scar,’ I explained.

  ‘Ah, of course,’ he said, looking at me wryly, for there were many parts of my story I had merely skated over, & he was learning what he called ‘Venutian’ somewhat on the hoof.

  The afternoon was set aside for cooking, which task Else & I began with relish, for I had much missed the traditional sweetmeats & treats of Denmark, and longed to share them with my love. Else had transformed my mourning wreath into a glorious centrepiece for the table, which by seven o’clock that same night was groaning with the most gastronomically resplendent of victuals, & the priciest wine & schnapps you ever smelled, tasted or clapped eyes on, all laid out on precious Krak crockery, with silverware & dainty napkins, & a multitude of candles & a roaring, spitting elm fire in the hearth, scented with cedarwood.

  And then we all joined hands & stood around the Juletrœ, & then began to circle it, singing Christmas songs the while: ‘Hojt fra Treets Gronne Top’; ‘Glade ful, Dejlige ful’ ‘Dejlig er den Himmel Blå’.

  ‘What a joy to welcome you all here at last, in the heart of my home!’ cried Professor Krak, to whom the occasion was clearly a most emotional event, as evidenced by his frequent need to dab at his eyes with a handkerchief, & blow his nose. He raised his champagne-filled glass, & we raised ours. ‘Seven long years I have waited to reclaim what is rightfully mine, & I thank you all for enabling this happy moment to come about!’

  We all cheered & said skål & drank to good fortune, & that champagne was I swear, O dearest one, the finest that I ever tasted. ‘And then a second toast, this one to the miracle drug, Viagra!’ beamed Professor Krak, announcing that he had made a thousand kroner selling it on the black market – enough to provide not just for tonight’s feast, & the many tantalizing gifts that had suddenly materialized beneath the tree, but for many years’ financial cushioning to come.

  The huge steaming golden goose was so magnificent, my dear one, that I hesitate to tell you about its mouthwatering grandeur, & all that accompanied it, in too much detail lest you become so famished that you lay me aside & rush first to your fridge & then your microwave, in order to assuage your own sudden lust for food! Yet I cannot resist the account, so seductive to the taste-buds and so hyggeligt-cosy was that stupefying meal: the goose, so golden-skinned & fragrant, bathed in its own juices & stuffed inside with seasoned apples and prunes, smothered in a fine goose-gravy & served with glistening dollops of heliotrope ribs-géle; boiled potatoes, white & gleaming soft, & alongside (O yum!) a huge ornamental plate of sweet brune-kartofler;, red cabbage cooked with marmalade & vinegar; & afterwards a high, toppling white mound of ris à lamande, a mini-Himalaya over which we poured generous quantities of warm sweet cherry-sauce shining with fruit-lumps. Gudrun, who had most happily reverted to her role as housekeeper & insisted on serving, engineered the helpings so that it was Josie who found the whole almond in her pudding, & won the marzipan pig, much to her delight.

  Glædelig jul!

  And the conversation flowed as did the wine & the laughter – though Fru Schleswig was an exception on the talking front, having transformed herself into a veritable eating machine: a napkin tucked beneath her chin & a determined glint in her eye, she was in her gluttonous element, & becoming suddenly & impressively ambidextrous in her gastronomic enthusiasm, declaring herself ‘happie as a pygge in shitte’. Then, stuffed to the gills, we finished the repast with brune-kager and vaniliekranse, figs & dates, & we pulled crackers & drank wine & schnapps & made most merry, until Josie, exhausted, tore open her gifts & played for five minutes with the charming little wooden tram set that Professor Krak had bought her, before falling fast asleep with her tousled head on my lap.

  The following week was Paradise. For what, pray, is bliss, but living in harmony with those you love, & having the time to kiss & hug them all you can? I spea
k here of Fergus & Josie, to be sure, but also of my dear Else, of whom we saw a great deal, & Gudrun too, when her duties at the laundry permitted. Fru Schleswig I leave to your imagination – suffice it to say she too was happy, in the way a house-plant might be, if well-watered & kept at the right temperature. Although the residence was now officially the property of Fru Schleswig, Professor Krak & I agreed it best to keep the tragic crone ‘out of the loop’ on this matter, for the time being, in case property-ownership should befuddle a brain already so dangerously overcharged with puzzling events that it might disintegrate altogether. While Josie & I played hide-and-seek and Chase throughout the house, revelling in our new-found freedom, my Fergus & Professor Krak, much in cahoots, discussed the technicalities of time-travel, & to the elder man’s delight, my husband (husband in spirit, though not yet in fact) scrutinized the objects the orangutan Pandora had brought back from her travels, and identified their probable nature & origins.

  ‘I’d say she went to Africa on more than one occasion,’ Fergus pondered, ‘to judge from all these sea-shells.’

  Herr Krak nodded in vehement agreement, declaring that indeed, he believed that Pandora may well have visited several countries in Africa, namely Algeria, Mali, Ghana and Togo, during a range of eras.

  Fergus was fingering a most macabre handbag fashioned from the body of an armoured ratty creature, its scales like the petals of an artichoke. It was semi-curled, as if caught and skinned in a cringe of fear; its tail formed the handle. ‘This armadillo artefact is likely to come from South America, very possibly Brazil,’ said my dear one & I gazed with pride at him, & the more I gazed the more the wonder grew that one small head could carry all he knew. ‘And I do believe that this,’ he said, hefting a length of hollow bamboo with a spear-tip, ‘is a blowpipe used by the tribal people of Borneo.’

  Professor Krak was as surprised as he was delighted with this news, for he declared he had always suspected that the time-sucking mechanism could, in rare circumstances, catapult subjects to other locations than those situated on the Prime Meridian, but had never been able to prove it.