A Conspiracy of Faith (12 page)

He had waited an hour before breaking into the house, after the family had left for worship and the March sun had settled into the horizon. It had taken him only two minutes to unlatch a window in the main house and wriggle into the bedroom of one of the children.

The room he broke into belonged to the youngest of the girls. That much was immediately obvious to him. Not because it was pink, or because the sofa was strewn with small cushions embroidered with hearts. Quite the opposite. In this room there were no Barbie dolls, or pencils with teddy bears on the ends, or little shoes with ankle straps under the bed. In this room there was absolutely nothing that might be considered to reflect a normal ten-year-old girl’s outlook on either herself or the world
around her. The only thing to indicate that the room indeed belonged to the youngest sister was the christening gown on display on the wall. Such was the tradition of the Mother Church. The christening gown was the swaddling cloth of the Mother of God, to be treasured and passed down to the next-born girl, who was obliged to protect the gown with might and main. To brush it gently each Saturday before the hour of rest. To smooth its collar and lace when Easter came.

Fortune would smile upon the girl who treasured this holy cloth the longest. Indeed, not only would she find fortune in life, she would also be blessed with unusual happiness and joy. So it was said.

He went into the father’s study and quickly found what he was looking for. Documents confirming the family’s wealth, the annual appraisal specifying the Mother Church’s assessment of each individual’s place within it, and finally the contact lists that provided him with a new overview of the geographical distribution of the sect, both in Denmark and around the globe.

Since the last time he had struck within this particular movement, approximately one hundred new members had come to the fold in mid-Jutland alone.

It was not a pleasant thought.

Once he had checked all the rooms, he slid out of the window and pushed it back into place. He stared down the garden. Magdalena’s little corner wasn’t a bad spot at all in which to play. There she would be almost unseen from the main house and the rest of the garden.

He looked up at the blackening low-hanging cloud. It would soon be dark. He needed to get a move on.

He knew where to look, otherwise he would never have found it. Magdalena’s hiding place was revealed only by a twig sticking up from the edge of a piece of turf. He smiled when he saw it, then carefully levered up the hand-size clod.

The hole was lined with a yellow plastic bag, and in it was a folded sheet of glossy paper.

He smiled when he unfolded it.

And then he put it in his pocket.

In the congregation hall, he stood for a long time watching this girl, with her long hair, and her brother Samuel, who was smirking defiantly. Here, they were safe among the congregation. Among people who would live on in ignorance, and those who very soon would be compelled to live with a knowledge that would be unbearable.

The terrible knowledge of what he was going to do.

When the singing was over, the worshippers surrounded him, caressing his head and face and upper body. This was how they expressed their delight in his seeking the Mother of God. This was how they repaid him for his trust, and all were enraptured, in transports of delight, for they had been blessed with the opportunity of showing him the way to eternal truth. Afterward, the flock stepped back and stretched its hands to the heavens. In a moment they would begin to caress one another with the palms of their hands. Their caresses would continue until one of them fell to the floor and allowed the Mother to enter her quivering body. He knew which of them it would be. The ecstasy of it all was already radiant in the woman’s eyes. A slight, young woman whose greatest achievement in life was three fat children jumping up and down at her side.

Like all the others, he cried to the ceiling when it happened. The only difference was that he held back what everyone else with all their might now tried to release. The Devil within.

When the congregation eventually said their good-byes to one another on the steps outside, he moved imperceptibly forward and stuck out his foot, sending Samuel tumbling from the top step into empty space.

The crack that sounded as the boy’s knee hit the ground was a release. Like the crack of a neck in a gallows.

Everything was right now.

From now on, he was in charge. From now on, it was all a foregone conclusion.

When he came home
to Rønneholtparken on a night like this, with crap TV resounding through the concrete blocks and silhouettes of women in kitchen windows, he felt like a tone-deaf musician in a symphony orchestra unable to read music.

He still found it hard to grasp how things had come to this. Why he should feel so alone.

If a bookkeeper of ample waist and a computer nerd with upper arms like matchsticks could start families and make them work, why the hell couldn’t he?

Reluctantly, he returned the wave of his neighbor Sysser, who was standing in the frigid light of her kitchen, frying something at the stove. Thank God she’d made her way back to her own place after that dodgy start on Monday morning. If she hadn’t, he’d have been at his wits’ end by now.

He stared dolefully at the nameplate on the door. There were new names on it now, besides Vigga’s and his own. It wasn’t that he felt a lack of company sharing these walls with Morten Holland, Jesper, and Hardy, and even as he stood there he could hear an inviting murmur of activity around the back. Perhaps they were a family of sorts, too.

Just not the kind he had dreamed about.

Normally, his sense of smell could inform him of the evening’s menu the moment he stepped into the hallway. But what wafted into his nostrils now was not the aroma of Morten’s culinary exertions. At least, he hoped not.

“All right?” he called into the front room, where Morten and Hardy were usually to be found. He put his head around the door. There wasn’t a soul in sight. On the patio outside, however, it was all go. At the center, under the warmth of the patio heater, he could just see Hardy’s bed with all his IV apparatus, and around it stood a crowd of neighbors in thermal jackets, stuffing themselves with grilled sausages and throwing bottled beer down their necks. By the gormless looks of them, they’d been at it for a couple of hours at least.

Carl tried to localize the foul odor that had assailed him as soon as he came in through the front door. His nostrils led him to a saucepan on the kitchen counter. The contents most of all reminded him of tinned food that had passed its sell-by date and been reduced to carbon on a glowing red hotplate. Most unpleasant. And a shame about the saucepan, whose future prospects were now decidedly dim.

“What’s going on?” Carl inquired as he came out onto the patio, his eyes fixed on Hardy, who lay motionless under four duvets with a big grin on his face.

“Hardy’s got some feeling back in a small area of his upper arm,” Morten told him.

“So he says, yeah.”

Morten looked like a boy who had just laid hands on his first dirty mag and was about to behold the contents. “So you know he’s got a slight reflex in the index and middle fingers of one hand?”

Carl shook his head and glanced down at Hardy. “What is this, some kind of neurological guessing game? Just make sure it stops when we get to the nether regions, OK?”

Morten revealed wine-tinted teeth in a grin. “And two hours ago, he moved his wrist, Carl. Straight up. Made me forget I had dinner on the go!” He threw his arms wide with glee, revealing the full outline of his corpulent
figure. He looked like he was about to leap into Carl’s arms. Carl hoped he wouldn’t.

“Go on then, Hardy, let’s have a look,” he said drily.

Morten pulled back the duvets to reveal Hardy’s chalk-white skin.

“Come on, mate,” Carl reiterated.

Hardy closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, his jaw muscles a clear indication of the extent of his exertion. It was as though he was commanding every impulse in his body along the nerves to this intensely monitored wrist. The muscles in his face began to quiver, and kept doing so for some time until eventually he was forced to exhale and capitulate.

A sigh ran through his audience, accompanied by various expressions of encouragement. But Hardy’s wrist didn’t move.

Carl gave him a comforting wink, then drew Morten toward the hedge.

“You’ve got some explaining to do, Morten. What’s all this supposed to prove? You’re responsible for him; it’s your job, for Chrissake. Stop building the poor sod’s hopes up. What is he, anyway, some kind of circus act? I’m going upstairs to slip into something more comfortable. In the meantime, you’re sending everyone home and putting Hardy back where you found him, understand? We’ll have a talk about this.”

He wasn’t in the mood for excuses. Morten could save them for the rest of the audience.

“Say that again,” Carl said half an hour later.

Hardy’s gaze was calm. He looked dignified, lying there. Two hundred and seven centimeters of life gone wrong.

“It’s right enough, Carl. Morten didn’t see it, but he was standing beside me. I moved my wrist. I’ve got a bit of pain, too. In my shoulder.”