But he was silent now. The man that moaned in pain before was silent. She didn’t know if it was him or not.
Above her, the water pipes started singing. The sound reminding her of her mother. The pipes made the same noise in her childhood home when her mother opened the tap in the morning to make coffee and now she was pretending to be asleep in the darkness of her childhood room.
She touched her knees, carefully feeling the abrasions. The blood felt sticky on her fingers.
“Ouch.”
The sound made her jump. She turned in the direction of the sound and started to crawl on her stomach. Advancing slowly, she could feel the concrete floor crumble beneath her shaking hands. She had never experienced a darkness like this inky blackness. She had no sense whatsoever of the size or shape of the room she had found herself in. There was some reverb to the sounds which didn’t tell her much else, other than the room was empty. Or might be empty. Or mostly empty. Or maybe it told her nothing at all.
And then her hand touched something soft. Skin. She heard a male voice moaning as she again felt the sticky sensation of blood on her fingers. She rushed closer, sliding her hands over the body in search of the head, trying to feel the shape of the face to tell if it was really him, but it was hopeless. He grunted as she touched his nose. It felt big, swollen, broken into an unnatural angle.
“Is it you?” she whispered. He must be able to hear her, he must be conscious if he’s reacting to the pain from her touch…mustn’t he? Mustn’t he?
“What have they done to you?” she whispered, her swollen lips blurring the pronunciation. He might not even have been able to recognize her voice.
IT’S NOT LIKE HE’S STILL DOING IT, YOU KNOW
Staring into a pocket mirror, Belinda refreshed her makeup, using a vast amount of mascara. “It’s so fucked up with my mother. It’s like, I don’t even know where to spend the night.”
Agnes was looking at the laptop screen, letting her tongue trace the rows of teeth in her mouth. No chance of getting much work done on the thesis for the rest of the evening. “What about your boyfriend’s place?”
“What about it?”
“Can’t you spend the night at his place?”
She shook her head but said, “Maybe.” Waving the mascara wand. “There’s not much room there. And I’m not sure I’d want to stay there.”
Agnes reckoned the right thing to do would be to offer Belinda a night on the couch, but she didn’t. Instead, she went over to the coffee maker to make them each a cup of coffee.
“My mother would kill me if I spent the night at his place.” Belinda laughed. Satisfied with the result on her left eye, she started applying mascara to the lashes of the right eye. “She’s a maniac.”
Agnes replaced the coffee filter and spooned ground coffee into it. The smell of coffee was pleasant. She glanced at the clock. It was still not even two hours into her shift. Would it be extremely insensitive of her to ask for some peace and quiet to work on her thesis?
“Ever since he got that conditional sentence, she’s been freaking out. Like he’s some kind of psycho or something. I don’t know what’s getting to her. It’s not like he’s Ted Bundy, you know.”
Agnes turned on the coffee machine and soon it started to fizzle. “What did he do?”
“Happy slapping.”
Agnes turned to look at Belinda, who by now had finished reapplying her mascara. The white of her eyes were still reddish, though. Not even the heaviest application of mascara could conceal that. “Happy slapping?”
“Nothing special. You know, just for the fun of it.”
“The fun of it? What are you talking about? It’s violence, Belinda. Do you think the victims find it funny?”
She smiled. “No. But it wasn’t that violent. They just pushed people over and Christoffer didn’t really participate.”
Agnes felt a sudden chill in the air. “How did he not participate? He wouldn’t have been convicted if he didn’t participate.”
Belinda sighed deeply and dramatically. “He was the one filming it. On his cell phone. He didn’t push or hurt anybody. That was the others.”
“Then he did participate!” The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the room, but Agnes didn’t gain any pleasure from it. “Belinda. What if you were the victim?”
“I never ride my bicycle when I’m drunk.”
Agnes slowly sat down on the chair by her laptop, staring down at the keyboard.
“That’s what they did. They pushed a drunk off his bicycle up by the village hall. It is kind of lame riding a bicycle drunk as a skunk. Don’t you think so?”
Agnes shrugged. “How did they get caught?”
“The police drove by, by coincidence. Of course, they told the police it was an accident but then the police found all the other happy slapping films they’d recorded on Christoffer’s cell phone.”
“All the other films?”
“Oh, well, it was just for laughs. Nobody really got hurt, you know.”
Agnes’s mind wandered to Benjamin, she already missed his company. She longed for him, longed for him to get that position at the state hospital so they could move far away from this hole, so she wouldn’t need to work here any longer, so she could find something to do in a place where she’d be surrounded by sensible coworkers.
“It’s not like he’s still doing it, you know!” Belinda cried, searching Agnes’s face for any trace of emotion. “I tried to make him stop doing it once, but he was all caught up in it, Agnes. I told him that I didn’t want to have anything to do with it, and he wouldn’t either if he…What?”
“I don’t get it. What are you doing hanging out with a guy like that?”
“So, you think my mother’s right?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t understand why you want to be with someone like him.”
“He’s really a nice guy when we’re alone. He’s the kindest most loving man you’ll ever imagine. Not that he’s gay or anything, of course. He’s still macho. But he’s got a sensitive side to him as well. That’s the real Christoffer. All that other shit, that’s not really him, not really, you know, it’s just…He has trouble controlling himself from time to time.”
The coffee was ready so Agnes rose to pour them both a cup.
“It’s not like he’s hurting me or anything,” Belinda said to her back.
DON’T YOU FIND THAT WEIRD?
“Agnes! Come out here!” Belinda shouted a little later from the shop.
“What is it?” Agnes stared at the ceiling with a tired and cumbersome feeling inside her chest. She pushed the chair back and stood, sending her thesis a long last look.
“There’s something you need to see!”
Please, not another YouTube clip, Agnes muttered to herself, as she went to her. “What?”
“The air pump.” She pointed a finger at something outside the shop’s large windows.
“What about it?”
“It’s standing in the middle of everything.”
“So what? One of the customers must have forgotten to put it back in place.”
“What customers? The guy with the Wunderbaum or the other two with the woman in the backseat?”
“I don’t know. Surely, it didn’t get there by itself. It didn’t walk out there.” Agnes exited the shop, walked straight to the air pump standing in the driveway between the two rows of petrol pumps, and picked it up.
Belinda followed her. “I’ve already put it back once before. It was in exactly the same place an hour ago. Don’t you find that weird?”
BELINDA-BABE, YOU’RE NOT MAD AT ME, ARE YOU?
Agnes was once again studying in the back room, leaving Belinda bored. Belinda yawned, texted her friend Clara who didn’t answer. She opened the cash register, closed the cash register, opened the cash register once more, closed the cash register once more. She juggled three packets of cigarettes but kept dropping one of them. She whistled the theme song from Paradise Hotel while walking around
the shop moving stuff. All to no avail at all.
A car drove by out on the highway. The first in a long time. Maybe the final is over, she thought. There might be a few customers when it’s over. There might.
She could hear the little soft clicks from the keyboard of Agnes writing up her divine thesis. Actually, it’s rather irritating her studying on the job, leaving little ol’ Belinda to handle the shop and everything. She’s not being paid to study, now is she?
Not there’s a hell of a lot to do here, but still. Had it been one of the others working this shift, Kenny, Valdemar or Melanie, it wouldn’t have to be so fucking boring.
She grabbed her cell phone and texted Christoffer.
So what?
He didn’t answer either, so she texted Clara again.
Can I spend the night at your place? Mum’s insane.
If Clara didn’t get back to her before closing time, she’d have to call her granny and ask her if she could spend the night there. She’d done that before. Her mother had a habit of going nuts on a regular basis. However, she wasn’t keen on dragging granny into this mess. Granny also wanted her to dump Christoffer and she wasn’t in the mood for that tonight. She’d heard it all before.
For a while, she sat in silence staring at her cell phone, thoughts racing around inside her head. She was silently discussing life with her mother and grandmother, shouting at them, explaining to them that they needed to stay out of her life—she could decide for herself who to be with. If they were so fucking smart when it came to men, then why had they both been single parents? They should take a firm look in the mirror before picking on her!
She bit her lip, clutching the cell phone so hard her knuckles turned white, tense all over. Even so, she didn’t feel any of it, she was lost inside her own world.
Until the sound of a scooter brought her back to reality. She lifted her head drowsily to look out the windows at Christoffer riding the scooter all the way up to the automatic doors, so close they glided open even before he stopped and kicked down the outriggers. He waved to her, smiling, and got off the scooter.
“Why’re you not wearing your helmet?”
“You think I should?” He laughed. “I forgot, okay mum?”
She hated it when he called her mum.
“Are you mad at me?” He took a cola from the fridge and unscrewed the lid. “Belinda-babe, you’re not mad at me, are you?”
“No, it’s just some shit with my mother.”
“Fuck her!” He took a swig of the cola and burped loudly.
“She’s thrown me out on the street.”
“Why?”
“You.”
“Bummer.”
She walked to him. Let her fingers caress the trimmed patterns of hair on the back of his head. “I’m not allowing her to split us up.”
“Cool.”
“Have you been smoking?”
“What?”
“Are you on something?”
“No, I’m broke. I can’t afford that shit.” He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her butt. “That’s kinda the reason I came.”
“Hm.” She kissed his neck below his ear. “Then who’s going to pay for that cola you’re drinking?”
He laughed. “I don’t know. I guess there must be a little shrinkage in a shop like this.”
She closed her eyes, resting her head against his chest. “You’re standing right under one of the surveillance cameras. You’re busted.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to lend me the money. Anyway, that’s why I came. I need a grand.”
She stepped away from him. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, I just really need a grand right now. You’ll get it back soon enough, you know you will.”
“I don’t have that kind of money on me. What are you thinking?”
“Your credit card. You could charge it on the cash register, give me the money in cash.”
“I can’t spare a thousand kroner.”
“Fuck it, Belinda. Do you have to be so fucking selfish? I wouldn’t be asking you if I didn’t need the money, now would I? Come on, give me the money.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest and shook her head.
“Fuck, you!” he said slowly. “If your girlfriend won’t help you out when you really need it, then…”
“I thought you were watching the final?”
“Fuck the final. I got other things on my mind.”
She slid around the counter and picked up her purse. “What do you need the money for?”
“Someone I owe, okay?”
“Who?”
“Someone who likes getting his money.”
She hesitated, purse in hand. She’d like to help him out, but still…
“I’ve got two hundred. You can have it.”
“Two hundred?” He sneered.
“It’s all I’ve got.”
“Can’t you charge your credit card?”
“There’s nothing in the account.”
“Can’t you just make an overdraft?”
“No.”
She handed him the two hundred kroner bill and he snatched it from her fingers, spun around, and left. On his way to the automatic doors, he said something she didn’t quite catch. It could’ve been ‘bitch’. But then it could have been a lot of other words, like: ‘Thanks for helping me out, baby’ or ‘I love you so much right now’ — but it did sound an awful lot like ‘bitch’.
THAT’S NOT HOW HE REALLY IS
Agnes hurried to Belinda as soon as she heard the scooter leaving. “Are you okay?”
Belinda nodded but didn’t meet her eyes.
“I don’t think that was acceptable behavior, Belinda. Why do you put up with it?”
Belinda returned her purse to the shelf beneath the counter. “Maybe that’s none of your business?”
“It isn’t.” Agnes sighed. “However, you came to me earlier, so I figured…”
“That’s,” Belinda said, looking at Christoffer, who was by now nothing but a tiny silhouette far off on the highway. “That’s not how he really is. You have to know him better to see the other side of him. That…that’s…Everybody can have a bad day, you know?”
Agnes stared at Belinda for a long time. She saw the bleached hair, the thick layer of mascara, the dark solarium-tanned skin. Belinda and Agnes were coming from two very different worlds, two very different cultures, even if they were both born in Denmark to Danish parents. “Everybody can have a bad day,” she agreed and returned to her thesis in the back room.
THE PROBLEM WAS THAT HE WAS NOT ALONE
Benjamin called twenty minutes later, making Agnes’s phone play a happy little tune, letting her know who was calling. She didn’t need to look at the phone to know it was him, but still did out of habit.
“Hi, baby. What’s up? Did we win the final?”
“No, it’s complete madness.” His laughter sounding both happy and sad at the same time. “They had all but started the game, delayed from the riots outside the stadium, then some fool ran onto the field butt naked. Now, the game’s on hiatus, has been so for almost an hour.”
“For real? All because of one streaker?”
“The problem was he wasn’t alone. They’d only just caught him when a horde of naked people swarmed the field. Twenty-seven in all. It was chaos.”
Trying to imagine the scene, Agnes couldn’t help smiling.
“There’re police everywhere. Nobody knows, if or when the match will continue. Still, it’s hard to believe they’ll dare to cancel it at this point, fearing the riots it might set off.”
“Hold on one minute, baby. I’m not sure I get this? My thoughts are still wrapped around my thesis here. Did you say twenty-seven streakers all at the same game? How can something like that happen?”
“Nobody knows, I guess. It must have been a planned flash mob. It’s hard to imagine twenty-seven individuals spontaneously choosing the same match to ruin with their sick need for attention.”
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Hearing the anger boiling in Benjamin’s voice, Agnes stayed mute. Like so many others, he’d been looking forward to the final, and she understood and respected that. On the other hand, I was just a game. She’d never been one for taking sports too seriously.
“Oh, now they’re saying something on the TV, about some weird group of performance artists that might have been trying to make some kind of scene to draw attention to their art or some shit. A German viewer seems to have recognized one of the naked women, it appears.”
“I see,” she says. “Was the event itself their artwork?”
“Meaning what?”
“Them rushing the field naked. It could have been some kind of art-performance.”
Benjamin laughed. “You never know. It could be. Or they could have teamed up with one of the press photographers, making his photos of them their work of art…Still, I think, they just wanted to get on fucking worldwide television.”
“I miss you.” She gazed out the window. The sun was setting. “There’s not a living soul here. We’ve had three customers so far.”
“You won’t get many more before the final is over. They’re using the delays to show pictures from different Danish cities. All the streets are deserted. Except for the larger squares where there are giant screens showing the final. Trains and busses are driving around empty. Even the airports appear abandoned.”
“That’s crazy.”
“It’s national history, man.”
“No, it’s not. It’s sport.”
THEY HAVE RETURNED
“Belinda! You’re not going to believe this!” Agnes rushed into the shop to tell Belinda about the twenty-seven streakers running onto the field at the final. However, upon seeing the look on Belinda’s face, she halted abruptly. Belinda was scared. Fear radiated from her. Despite her overly-tanned skin, she appeared pale. Petrified.
The Ringmaster Page 3
