Karin Fossum - Bad Intentions

‘Go to sleep,’ Ruth laughed, ‘and give that sharp tongue of yours a rest.’

Ingerid Moreno was standing by the window.

Her hands were resting on the windowsill. She still wore Tony Moreno’s ring on her right hand. He had left her, but she liked the ring with the pink pearl. Her eyes swept across the garden and the other houses in the residential area where she lived. Everything was pretty, well maintained and green, every hedge trimmed, every fruit tree pruned, because the people who lived there were hard-working. For a long time she admired birds on a branch, the early autumn foliage and the damp grass. Tumbling clouds, the sound of music from an open window, all these things Jon had lost. She turned and glanced at the coffee table where the diary glowed red. I may not have the right, she thought, but I’m a human being in need. She curled up in an armchair with the diary on her lap. On the back of it she discovered a white label with the text MADE IN CHINA and also a yellow price sticker. This is Jon’s life, she mused, and the price is 29.99 kroner. She switched on the reading lamp and opened the first page.

My name is Jon Moreno. I’m a patient at Ladegården Psychiatric Hospital and I have sat down to write. Is there any point in writing things down?

Will everything become clearer, will it be a relief? Does it serve as a confession, and as a result will I be forgiven for everything? I need absolution. But I have ended up in a situation where it is unobtainable. People will say that my actions were unforgivable and that is true. But if I don’t confess then I will go tainted to my grave. I don’t believe in God, but I cannot bear the thought of being consumed by remorse in my final hour. But then there are always other considerations. There are other people and their dreams and plans for the future. Should I destroy even more than I have already? I’m not very strong. Sometimes, at night, when I lie in the darkness, tossing and turning, I end up praying to God anyway. It helps for a few minutes. Then I feel even more of a fraud than before because I’m praying to someone I don’t believe in, but then again He might exist and He is watching my hypocrisy and that makes it even worse. When I finally fall asleep I have nightmares. Someone is hammering on my door, they have come for me and it’s all over. Perhaps I have this dream because deep down this is what I want. Someone to expose me finally and call me to account. That black December night haunts every second of my life. When I woke up the next day, I felt confused. I tried to recall what had happened. Did we drive off the road and end up in a ditch? Perhaps that’s one way of looking at it: we lost our way and I’m still in that ditch. I have been so privileged. I had a good childhood. My mum taught me right from wrong. All my life I have imagined that my morals were high, that I was decent and honest and truthful. But what happened to my morals when I was tested? A nasty voice started whispering in my ear: it was all right to run away, besides there were more of us, a lot was at stake. I don’t understand where that voice came from, I didn’t know it even existed. Perhaps it had been dormant for a long time and then, when I needed it, it started its vile whispering. Reilly does have a conscience, he is a humble guy, but Axel Frimann is a Master of the Universe. It was a battle of wills I was bound to lose. No matter how I handle this I will be exposed to contempt. At times I can see the contours of a devil, someone who watched us that night and laid a trap for us. I know that’s nonsense. Life is full of coincidences. Yet I feel so bitter because we’re not bad people. How can you know you’re a good person if your life has been nothing but plain sailing?

Axel Frimann had his own office in the advertising agency Repeat, and he had personally designed its elegant interior. That was how he saw himself: he had style and class – and most people agreed with him. This was Axel Frimann’s kingdom. In here he ruled supreme, in here he was creative and inspired, in here he would seduce people through the power of advertising, and he was an expert. He understood its psychology and mechanisms. He knew the power of humour and the importance of laughter, which made people open up, allowing the message to pour in, slip past every barrier. He was doodling on a notepad when one of his colleagues entered.

‘It looks like we’re getting the new razor account,’ he said. ‘It’s made in Norway. It’s called Hellrazor. Cool name, don’t you think?’

He waved a sheet of paper. ‘They hope to force Gillette out of the Norwegian market, no less, and that’s why they’ve hired us. So you know what your remit is. And they don’t want us replicating an old pompous approach. We’ve got to come up with something completely new.’

‘Hellrazor?’ Axel enthused. ‘The razor from hell. Those guys have a sense of humour, we can work with that.’

He snatched the sheet. He studied the picture and the text, the razor, its features and hyped-up superiority.

‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Hellrazor shaves closer than any other razor?’

His colleague shrugged. ‘I presume so. After all, it’s brand new.’

Axel shook his head and smiled. ‘But, really, how much closer can they shave?’

His colleague gave him a baffled look. ‘I suppose they’re using new and better materials,’ he said. ‘Who cares? All we’ve got to do is make sure it sells, and better than Gillette, if possible.’

‘Then this is my idea,’ Axel said, ‘to get the message across once and for all.’

He reclined in his chair and took a deep breath.

‘A couple is asleep in bed. Black silk bed linen, white walls and curtains. Sun beaming through the window. Are you listening?’

‘Yes,’ his colleague said.

‘The alarm clock goes off, the man wakes up and embraces his beloved. He is unshaven, so we add a horrible rasping sound effect – sandpaper on sandpaper for example. The woman pushes him away and goes into the bathroom. He follows her. The bathroom’, he added, ‘has black tiles and recessed lighting. White china suite from Porsgrund and a lily in a wall-mounted vase. The man puts on a dressing gown and stands in front of the mirror. He picks up the razor while she cleans her teeth.’

Axel Frimann paused.

‘And then?’ his colleague said. ‘What happens?’

‘He’s finished shaving. He goes to her for another hug. After all, he’s just shaved. But above the collar of his dressing gown all we see is his skull.’

‘Eh?’

‘The razor has gone right to the bone,’ Axel said. ‘All we see is his smooth, white skull. And then a voiceover at the end: “Hellrazor. You’ll never have a closer shave.”’

‘Pull the other one,’ his colleague responded. ‘It’s got bells on.’

‘I’m deadly serious,’ Axel Frimann said. ‘That kind of ad would match the name, and we’re talking about a bloody close shave, aren’t we? So we’ll give them a skeleton. We’ve got to address a younger, trendier market, and humour is very important.’

His colleague disappeared, slamming the door behind him. Ten seconds later he opened it again and looked in.

‘That’s not an ad,’ he said. ‘It’s a mockery.’

He disappeared for the second time. Axel, however, was delighted with the idea. An ad like this would get everyone talking because it was outrageous, daring and witty. It would win awards. He chewed his pen. The violent burst of creativity had left him, he was alone and it grew silent around him. The silence made him feel like he was floating. He was overcome by the urge to bark orders, slam his fist on the table, bang on a door to show he was still here and still in charge. Something had started to trouble his otherwise tightly controlled universe: a tiny prickle when someone knocked on the door, a pounding heart whenever the telephone rang. A feeling that someone was following him when he walked down the street, a new awareness of sounds and footsteps, at night thoughts of detectives in an office discussing whether Jon really killed himself. Axel Frimann was restless. The light from the window irritated him, and then the silence was broken by a series of noises from the big building, doors slamming, telephones ringing, someone laughing – what the hell were they laughing at?