The House That Jack Built Read Free Page B

other room. More boxes, a threadbare couch, a TV. He opened the door to the balcony. The hinges squeaked. The cigarette smoke mingled with petrol fumes and the smell of hot asphalt. An eggplant-coloured Toyota on its last legs chugged out of the roundabout, clanking all the while. Roads, sidewalks, houses — everything was oozing with pent-up heat from the sun. He looked down Folmer Bendtsens Plads, below the elevated railway where Ørnevej met Bregnerødgade. On the far side of the roundabout was one of the ubiquitous green grocers as well as a store that, taking its sign at face value, sold “Muffler.”
    So this was home.
    He flicked the cigarette butt over the balcony and went back inside, leaving the door open. He walked into the kitchen. It was a standard Copenhagen kitchen with two narrow windows facing a dark courtyard. He put away his groceries: milk in the fridge, coffee and oats in the greasy wall cupboard. Then he found the moving box with kitchen utensils, dug out a plate and a fork, and rinsed them under the tap.
    He couldn’t shake the image of the dead woman, naked and vulnerable at the edge of the water, the empty eye sockets staring out into nothing. Lars dried the fork, put it on the plate, and went into the living room. He was getting hungry, but first he had to hook up the stereo.
    He managed to manoeuvre the amplifier, preamplifier, and speakers onto the low bookcase; he connected everything and plugged it in. Now all he needed was the turntable. The old Rega P1. He lifted it out of the moving box, placed it next to the amplifier, and plugged in the cables.
    It took some time finding the box with the LPs but before long he had eased the stylus onto Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out and dove into his cashew chicken with extra chilli.
    A little while later, he plugged in the TV, adjusted it so he could see the screen from the other room, and turned the volume all the way down. A home-improvement program flashed across the screen. An actor was helping an accountant build a patio for his house. Lars lit a cigarette, laced his fingers behind his neck, and tilted his chair back.
    Why had the murderer removed her eyes? Had she seen something she wasn’t supposed to? Was there something she wasn’t allowed to see?
    He sent a billowy smoke ring drifting up toward the ceiling.
    There was a violent crash from the apartment above followed by loud swearing.
    Two more months in this vacuum, then he’d be gone.

May 1953
    H e’s been sitting on the sofa since Grandfather and the men brought him back from the woods the previous night. In the morning, Grandfather takes one look at him, then grabs his doctor’s bag to go on a house call. Mother is in her rocking chair, staring into space. As always.
    Creak-creak , creak-creak , Mother rocks back and forth. He gets up and strokes her porcelain pale cheek. Her loose skin quivers, moves away under his fingers.
    She needs a pick-me-up. He takes off his jacket, walks into the kitchen to make her some warm juice. He pours water into a pot and lights the old cast iron stove.
    On his way down to the cellar for the cups with the English motif, the ones Grandfather forbids them to use, he checks in on Mother. She’s sitting as he left her, stone-faced, her hands folded in her lap, in the rocking chair in the empty living room. The sunlight enters through the window, casting squares and rectangles on the wide floorboards. Dust dances. He hurries down to the cellar, pushes past all the junk Grandfather keeps there to the wall-mounted vitrine with the china, then hurries upstairs to avoid the voices.
    Back in the kitchen, the water is boiling. He fills the cup halfway with Ribena fruit concentrate, and tops it up with hot water. He crumbles a rusk into the thick juice mix and already has the teaspoon in his hand when he discovers a chip in the saucer. A piece has broken off the rim; the crack spreads all the way down the glaze. A sudden rage surges up