Flynn and Gorski followed Thorsen into the phalanx of buildings. As they got closer, Flynn noted that the houses radiated around a large central structure, as if the homes were at points on a clock from nine through to three. He could see seven houses—between nine and twelve on the clock—so Flynn assumed fourteen homes in total. The ones closer to the parking lot looked newer but not new, and they were tall townhouses of varying heights, while the ones at the rear appeared older and larger and more like small single-family homes.
Thorsen led them to the building in the middle. It had the general shape and size of a large barn with a chimney, but the siding had been replaced and the building repurposed. After stepping in through glass doors, Flynn found himself in a foyer that reminded him of a community hall or even a public gym. There was industrial carpet and rows of benches and hooks along either side, where raincoats, umbrellas, and boots had been deposited.
“What is this place?” asked Gorski.
“It’s our communal building. The main kitchen and dining room. There are some small meeting spaces upstairs and a television room, and a kids’ playroom out the back.”
Gorski frowned. “You live on a commune?”
“That’s not how we call it, but yes. In Danish the term is bofællesskab. In English we call it cohousing. Fourteen families and almost fifty people live here. We each have our own homes, but we share the major spaces and the responsibilities of maintaining the place.”
“Like hippies?”
“No, Gorski, not like hippies. We are engineers and scientists and web designers and teachers and business people, and retired folks and children. Come, you’ll see.”
They shook off their coats and hung them up. Thorsen then removed his shoes and put on a pair of slip-ons he took from a wicker bin below where he had hung his coat.
“Take off your boots. We have slippers.”
“Take off our boots?” asked Gorski.
“Yes. It helps keep the place clean. Don’t worry, everyone has indoor shoes, or you can just go in socks.”
Socks felt too informal for the situation for Flynn, so he sat and removed his boots and put on the slippers. Gorski shrugged and did the same.
Thorsen then led them into the building, through another set of doors, and into a large room. It was bright. The floors were pale wood and the walls were white. It was a large dining room—or, Flynn thought, a small cafeteria. The wood tables and plastic chairs looked like they had come from Ikea, and most of them were pushed up against the walls to make space for the forty-odd people in the room.
Everyone was standing except for a group of older folks who sat against the wall. They were drinking and eating finger food that had been laid out on a center table. Others busied themselves in an open-plan kitchen that reminded Flynn of an American army barracks, lots of stainless steel countertops and open shelving.
It didn’t look like a wake. There were no tears or morbid faces. People were talking as if they had just come out of a church service. The conversations seemed serious but not sad, as if they were discussing the day’s business rather than a life lost.
Thorsen introduced them to some people around the table. Everyone spoke English to them and Danish to each other. Thorsen disappeared and then returned with a beer for Gorski and an American-style coffee for Flynn. He took a beer for himself and then vanished again.
Flynn was asked several times how he knew Peder, and he repeated he was an old army buddy. He found that people were indeed engineers and teachers and businessmen. Some worked remotely from home, some commuted to the nearest larger town of Stenløse, and others took the train each day into Copenhagen.
Flynn found the group accommodating rather than welcoming. He knew the type. It was a broad statement and wrong as often as it was right, but Europeans—especially northern Europeans—were often difficult to get to know. He had served with some and come across many more, time and again finding their veneer difficult to crack. He also found, however, that once he did, the bonds created were tight.
It had been the same with Thorsen, whom he had known as Thorn in the French Foreign Legion. Thorn had appeared to many in their training regiment to be a humorless pedant who preferred the company of computers and machines and engines over people. He didn’t understand most of the jokes tossed around the barracks and so became the butt of many. But Flynn knew that every man in the Legion wore a mask. Some hid backgrounds of crime and violence, but mostly they were just stories of exclusion. Legion men didn’t serve in their own home militaries for all kinds of reasons, but most of them involved a common thread: not being wanted—by armies and governments and families and friends. Flynn had his own story, and it wasn’t so different, so he made a point of learning each man’s triggers, if not his story. Over time, Flynn worked his way through the façade and learned what made Peter Thorn—Peder Thorsen—tick, and a friendship was forged that would last until they were both dead.
As the afternoon fell toward evening, the crowded room thinned out. People said their farewells and retreated to their homes. A man called Markus, who had chatted with Gorski about motorcycle racing for an hour, opened up a bottle of akvavit and offered him a glass. Gorski accepted with gusto. Flynn declined with a smile.
Some of the older members of the group were walked home as the dishes were cleared and the tables and chairs were returned to their regular setup. Markus and Gorski took seats at a table and toasted the deceased with shots of akvavit followed by tall glasses of beer. Flynn helped clean up. He was washing platters in the sink when Thorsen came up beside him.
“John, I’d like you to meet someone.”
Flynn turned and wiped his hands. Before him stood a tall, wiry woman with auburn hair. She wore a light summer dress that draped casually in a way that her funeral attire had not.
“John, this is my wife, Begitte.”
Flynn smiled and offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
Begitte took his hand, and he noted that her skin was soft.
“I am pleased to meet you,” she said with a gentle smile. “Peder has spoken of you often.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” he replied.
She lost the smile. “Thank you.”
“Was it your brother or sister?”
“Sister.”
“Older.”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“John is like the Sherlock Holmes,” said Thorsen. “He notices things.”
Begitte nodded. “I see. Well, I’m sorry I didn’t come to meet you when you arrived. It was quite rude.”
“Not to me,” said Flynn. “This day is certainly not about me. I’m sorry to have intruded.”
“Not at all. You are welcome here. Life goes on.”
It was an odd thing to say, perhaps a reaction to events, a way of coping. Life did indeed go on, but there was always time to stop and honor the lost and the fallen.
They stood in silence for a moment before Begitte spoke again. “I am going to retire for the evening. But I hope you will join us for breakfast.”
“Sure,” he said, glancing around the dining room.
She took his hand once more and squeezed it. “It is very nice to meet you.”
“You too. Sleep well.”
She smiled and then walked away.
Thorsen watched her go and then said to Flynn, “It’s been a long day for her.”
“I can imagine.”
“It’s been a long few months,” he said, more to himself than Flynn. Then he lifted his head and breathed deeply.
“I will show you to your quarters,” he said.
Flynn glanced at Gorski and his buddy at the table.
“Don’t worry about him,” said Thorsen. “Markus will point him in the right direction.”
Thorsen led Flynn out of the dining room, into the foyer, and up the wooden stairs onto the second floor.
“This is where we have our television room and meeting spaces. Some people do crafts or read books. Anything that yo
u might do in a specialized room in a large house, except we share those often-wasted spaces. And here, we have two bedrooms.”
He pushed open a door to reveal a small room with two single beds and a desk. There were flowers in a vase on the desk, and a window that overlooked what appeared to be a community garden outside. The room reminded Flynn of an officer’s quarters, except for the extra bed.
Flynn noticed his pack was at the foot of one bed.
“Where’s Gorski’s pack?” he asked.
“In the other room. This is not the Legion; you don’t have to share.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. We don’t have spare rooms in our homes. Again, it’s wasted space. A spare bedroom that gets used twice a year. So we share these rooms. There’s a toilet and a shower room at the end of the hallway, towel on the bed.”
“Thank you, Thorn—sorry, Thorsen. Or do you prefer Peder?”
“From you, mon adjudant, I think Thorsen.”
“And from you, I’m Flynn. I told you, we’re not in the unit anymore. I don’t command anyone.”
Thorsen offered his hand, and Flynn gripped it. He looked into his old friend’s eyes and saw the strain of a long, hard day. He looked like a man who might need a hug, but he knew that wasn’t Thorsen at all.
“It’s good to see you,” said Thorsen.
“And you.”
“It’s still early, but I will retire to my home.”
“Of course. I understand.”
“Please feel free to join Gorski downstairs, or relax as you wish.”
“I think I’ll wash up and lie down.”
“Of course. Tomorrow we will catch up properly.”
“Good,” said Flynn.
Thorsen frowned, then nodded and left.
Flynn looked around the small room. He had slept in a lot of small rooms. Few of them had flowers in a vase. None of them had been on a commune.
He took the towel and headed for the shower. He washed himself from top to bottom, then rinsed and did it all over again. Then he put on a T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts and lay on the bed. He thought about the commune—or cohousing, as Thorsen had called it. He didn’t understand how it functioned exactly, but it felt somewhat familiar to him. He was a military brat. His father’s career in the Marines had taken them all over the world, but everywhere they went they arrived to find a built-in community waiting. He was familiar with communal spaces and shared facilities—the Marines were big on not wasting resources, as was the Legion. Flynn could see how Thorsen might gravitate to such an arrangement.
He was still staring at the ceiling an hour later when Gorski pushed his way into the room.
“Desole, mon adjudant,” Gorski slurred.
“At ease, Gorski. You’re in the next room.”
“Really? My own room?”
“Like a big boy.”
He pouted as if this impressed him. “Did you figure out who died?”
“Thorsen’s wife’s sister.”
Gorski nodded. “Strange,” he said. “No one was talking about her.”
“I don’t know. I don’t speak Danish.”
“My new friend, Markus, he said as much. He told me there was a mood in the group. He said the Danes were a pragmatic bunch, but he also said they were here out of respect for—what was Thorsen’s wife called again?”
“Begitte.”
“Right, Begitte. They were here out of respect for her, and her family. But they had other things on their minds.”
“Like what?”
“Like tomorrow. As if it was somehow going to be worse than today.”
“What happens tomorrow?”
“He didn’t say. Hey, where’s the toilette?”
“End of the hallway. Your pack is in your room next door.”
Gorski nodded again. “My own room. Goodnight, mon adjudant.”
“Goodnight, Aleksy.”
Gorski pulled the door closed, leaving Flynn alone to stare at the ceiling, thinking about all the ways the next day could be worse than a funeral day.
Chapter Three
The rain was gone when Flynn woke early the next morning. He lay for a moment listening to birds chirping in the first light. He used the toilet, washed his face, and then pulled his second pair of trousers and a clean shirt from his pack.
He didn’t need much to survive. He had found during the years in the Legion that he could be quite happy with all the material goods he could hold in a pack. He probably carried what most people would take away for a weekend, but he found he was near a laundry every week or two, and after having worn the same outer clothes for months at times in the Legion, every couple of weeks was no chore at all. Plus he liked laundromats. If he ever wanted to gauge the feel of a place, all he needed to do was spend a little time in a coin laundry.
Flynn made the bed and then wandered downstairs to the empty dining room. The low sun shone through the French doors, lighting up the blond wood and alabaster walls. With the finer weather he could see out into a fenced yard. There was a children’s play set and a wooden picnic table. To the side, below his bedroom window, he saw vegetables growing.
After rummaging around in the kitchen, Flynn found a glass and got some water. A coffee machine sat enticingly on the counter at the back—an empty glass pot like he remembered from American diners. It wasn’t as good as an espresso machine but would do the job if he could find coffee beans. He didn’t, so he took his water over to the dining table and sat.
He figured Gorski would be up shortly. It wasn’t the first time he had seen his Polish friend drink plenty, and he knew that a restless night’s sleep was usually the result. Gorski would say waking early with a hangover was punishment for the previous night’s excess, but Flynn never saw him shirk his responsibilities even when he was under the weather.
When Gorski arrived twenty minutes later, he looked terrible. His pale skin was blotchy, and his hair shot in all directions. He sat heavily at the table. Flynn got up and retrieved another glass and poured Gorski some water, which he downed in one long gulp.
“Thank you.”
Flynn smiled. “Any time.”
“Akvavit,” said Gorski, shaking his head. “Markus says it’s reserved for special occasions. Right now I can feel why.”
Flynn said nothing.
Gorski wiped his face with his hands and then looked around the empty room. “I take it they don’t eat breakfast here.”
“It would seem not.”
“Where do they do it?”
“I don’t know,” said Flynn. “Maybe they don’t.”
“That’s not what I want to hear right now.”
Flynn looked up as the door to the dining room opened. Begitte Thorsen walked in. She saw him but she didn’t smile. He didn’t blame her.
“Peder said you’d be up.”
Flynn nodded.
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“I wouldn’t say no to an espresso,” said Flynn.
“We don’t do espresso at home,” said Begitte. “Danish people prefer filtered coffee. Not like Europe.”
“Whatever you have is fine,” he replied, wondering how Denmark wasn’t part of Europe.
Begitte led them out into the foyer, where they put on their boots and she slipped on her shoes. They walked around the common building toward one of the houses at the rear of the property, at eleven on Flynn’s imaginary clockface. As they moved around the common building, he saw that his assumption of the houses being in a symmetrical arrangement was false but his estimate of fourteen homes was accurate.
The houses appeared newer on both sides the farther away they were from twelve on the clock. The original homes had been built behind the common building. Then, as new residents came, more housing had been erected around the arc. But it had not happened symmetrically. More houses were on the twelve to three side than the nine to twelve side. One more, to be precise. Perhaps there had been a gap in between periods of construction wh
en the ethos changed or the economics shifted and the buildings went from single homes to townhouses.
Flynn looked at the side of the arc he hadn’t seen the day before, but his eye lingered on one house. Or where one had been. There had once been eight homes on the far side, but now there were seven. One space was a dark pile of scorched lumber and debris. It had been razed to the ground. Not in the past few days, but not weeks ago either. From the size of the lot and the space between adjacent buildings it appeared to have been a single-family home, not a townhouse.
Begitte paid it no attention as she strode across the lawn toward her home. She opened the door, stepped inside, and waited for Flynn and Gorski to follow. Flynn paused at the threshold, his eye still on the burned home. Gorski touched his shoulder to bring his focus back, nodded to him, and Flynn took a deep breath and stepped inside. Begitte kicked off her shoes, so the two men followed her lead, taking turns to sit on a small bench by the door and removing their boots.
The house was cozy. The entrance led straight into a living room with enough space for a sofa and a television but not much more. There were family photographs on the walls and a line of shelves holding books, a mix of Danish, French, and English titles. Off the living area was a tiny kitchen, where Begitte put coffee grounds into a machine and then dropped thick bread into a toaster.
Flynn and Gorski sat on two wooden stools at the short peninsula dividing the kitchen from the living room.
“You have a kitchen,” said Gorski.
“Of course,” said Begitte.
“So you don’t cook everything over in the other building?”
“No. Our homes are small, but they are complete. We eat communally three times a week, taking turns to prepare dinner. But the rest of the time we eat at home.”
“It’s a nice place,” said Gorski. “Cozy.”
“Thank you,” replied Begitte. She took cups from a shelf and poured coffee, then placed the toast on plates. She laid out butter and jam for them to prepare for themselves. The two men ate and drank as Begitte sipped her coffee. Flynn longed for a thick espresso but made do with the American-style brewed coffee.
The Rotten State: A John Flynn Thriller Page 2
