The Leopard(198)

Lene gulped as Tony lifted a distorted, arthritic finger and ran it along the top part of the scar on his chest. And then she noticed his missing finger.

‘Tony! What happ—?’

‘Shh! The last time my father beat me I was fifteen, and he used the belt for twenty-three minutes without a break. One thousand three hundred and ninety-two seconds. I counted them. He hit me every four seconds like a machine. Kept hitting me, his rage steadily increasing because I refused to cry. In the end his arm was so tired that he had to give up. Three hundred and forty-eight lashes. That night I waited until I heard his snoring, sneaked into their bedroom and poured a drop of acid into his eye. He screamed and screamed while I held him and whispered in his ear that if he touched me again I would kill him. And I felt him stiffen in my arms, I knew he knew I was stronger than him. And he knew I had it in me.’

‘Had what in you, Tony?’

‘Him. The killer.’

Lene’s heart stopped pumping. It was not true. Couldn’t be true. He had told her it wasn’t him, they were mistaken.

‘After that day we watched each other like hawks. And Mum knew it was either him or me. One day she came to me and said he had been to Geilo to buy ammunition for the rifle. I had to get away, she had decided with my grandfather what had to be done. He was a widower and lived by Lake Lyseren. He knew he would have to keep me hidden, otherwise the old man would come after me. So I left. Mum made it look as if I had been killed in an avalanche. My father shunned society so it was always Mum who did anything that required contact with people. He thought she had reported me missing, but in reality she had informed only one person what she had done and why. She and Officer Roy Stille, they … well, they knew each other very well. Stille was wise enough to know that the police could do little to protect me against Dad and vice versa, so he helped to cover our traces. I was fine at Grandad’s. Until the message came that Mum had gone missing in the mountains.’

Lene put out her hand. ‘Poor, poor Tony.’

‘I said: close your eyes!’

She winced at the snarl in his voice, retracted her hand and squeezed her eyes shut.

‘I couldn’t go to the service, my grandfather said. Nobody should find out I was alive. When he returned he told me word for word what the priest had said about her in his speech. Three sentences. Three sentences about the world’s strongest, most beautiful woman. The last was “Karen trod lightly on this earth”. The rest was about Jesus and forgiveness of sins. Three sentences and forgiveness of sins she had never committed.’ Lene could hear Tony breathing heavily now.

‘Trod lightly. The bastard priest stood there in the pulpit and said she had left no prints. Vanished as she had lived, without leaving a trace. On to the next verse in the Bible. Grandad told me this straight, no beating about the bush, and do you know what, Lene? It was the most important day in my life. Do you understand?’

‘Er … no, Tony.’

‘I knew he was sitting there, the bastard who had killed her. And I swore I would take my revenge. I would show him. I would show them all. That was the day I decided that whatever happened I would not end up like him. Or her. Three lines. And neither I nor the bastard sitting there needed forgiveness for their sins. We would both burn. Rather that than share paradise with a God like this.’ He lowered his voice. ‘No one, no one was going to stand in my way. Do you understand me now?’

‘Yes,’ Lene smiled. ‘And you’ve deserved it, Tony. Everything. You’ve worked so hard!’

‘I’m glad you’re so understanding, my sweet. Here comes the rest. Are you ready?’

‘Yes,’ Lene said, clapping her hands. She would see, her too, sitting at home, envious, lonely and bitter, begrudging her own daughter the chance to experience love.

‘I had it all in the palm of my hand,’ Tony said, and Lene felt his hand on her knee. ‘You, your father’s money, the project here in Africa. I thought nothing could go wrong. Until I fucked that randy bitch at the cabin in Håvass. I couldn’t even remember her name when I received a letter from her saying she was pregnant and wanted money. She was in the way, Lene. I was meticulous in my planning. Covered the car in plastic. Took a blank postcard of the Congo I had lying around, forced her to write a few lines explaining her disappearance. Then I plunged the knife into her neck. The sound of blood on plastic, Lene … it’s something quite unique.’





85


Edvard Munch


IT WAS LIKE SOMEONE HAD BANGED AN ICICLE INTO LENE’S skull. Nevertheless she forced her eyes open again. ‘You … you … killed her? A woman you … slept with in the mountains?’