Christian Jungersen - The Exception

Iben presses the key to save the message for Malene. Then she stands still, the cold piercing her. No one has ever spoken to her like that. No one has ever used that kind of voice, a sweet, sexy voice.

So what?

She thinks of Gunnar. Malene keeps him on hold ‘just in case’. Gunnar. Right now, he’s presumably sitting in his editor’s chair at the Development office. Lord alone knows what he thinks. How much he envies Rasmus, perhaps. Rasmus, who is allowed to leave such messages for Malene.

When Malene met Rasmus three years ago, she thought he’d be nothing more than a fling. For weeks she told stories about him, giving away the most intimate details, the weird or selfish things he did, his lopsided cock — everything. Then, all of a sudden, Malene stopped handing out these titbits. Iben has a pretty good idea that it is now Rasmus who is learning amazingly personal things about her. There’s no telling what kind of image he has of his beloved’s best friend.

When Rasmus is not away on sales trips, Malene often complains that they don’t see enough of each other. Most evenings he isn’t back from work much before bedtime. She sometimes seems happier when he’s away on business, because then she can look forward to seeing him again and forgets how late he works when he’s back home.

Once Malene told her delightedly that she and Rasmus had been talking about having a baby. Iben asked about their plans for a while afterwards, but now it’s been at least a year since Malene mentioned it.

The days when she is most down, Iben thinks about her friend’s situation and suspects that Rasmus will be off the moment he finds the right woman. Even when she isn’t feeling pessimistic, Iben still believes that Malene and Rasmus’s relationship has lasted only because of Rasmus’s constant travels. Yet Iben hardly dares to think of how bitter Malene would be if Rasmus were to leave her.

Iben punches in Gunnar’s work number on her mobile but then deletes each number, one by one. Next, she phones Tatiana’s secretary in the RTC office and asks for some pictures from their archive for the next DCGI newsletter.

Iben knows the secretary well and casually slips in mention of their problems at work. ‘I’m not positive that she drinks too much. Or else, it could be that some of her problems are caused by trying to stop. I have seen her shaking like a leaf once … Yes, in the office.’

Iben returns to the long passage crowded with semi-conscious patients waiting to be X-rayed.

‘Malene, Rasmus left a message for you. It’s a great message.’

Malene doesn’t respond.

‘He says … he’s crazy about you and you’re going to have a fantastic time when he gets back.’

Still no response. It’s clear that Malene has lost touch with her surroundings; there are beads of sweat all over her pale face and she radiates discomfort.

Iben leans back in her chair, looking around for the usual supply of torn magazines. There are none. She checks her bag, but seems to have forgotten to put in the thin volume of lectures by Christopher Browning that she is currently reading. All she can do is sit in silence by Malene’s side.

They wait until Malene is called in. Then they wait for Malene’s X-rays to be developed. And then they wait for the porter to turn up with the wheelchair.

Back in the rheumatology clinic, the doctor immediately sees how poorly Malene is by now, and brings them into the consulting room at once.

Malene sits quietly on the paper-coated couch as he examines the X-rays. He phones Medical Imaging to consult with a radiologist. The X-ray shows a small, dark line across one of the bones in the knee joint.

When he has finished the call, he is still uncertain. ‘The X-rays don’t show anything unusual. I want to examine your knee again more thoroughly, to look for injured tendons and suchlike.’

Iben can tell by Malene’s face that this is not the time to hold her aching hand.

After more probing, it doesn’t take long before five large syringes are lined up on the little table next to the couch, each one filled with turgid, yellow fluid.

At last, Malene feels better. She sits up, but cautiously.

‘Ouch …! Fuck … oh, no!’ She sighs deeply, many times, and looks around the room as if she hadn’t seen it before. ‘Oh, God. It still hurts so badly. But at least I can feel the rest of me.’ She blinks and turns her head, first to one side, and then to the other. ‘Thank you.’ And then, ‘Iben … thank you.’

Iben feels tearful as she looks at her friend, but doesn’t cry. It’s all over for now. Malene is gradually becoming her old self.

‘Oh, man! Practically everything still hurts. Especially my feet and hands. That came on overnight as well.’

The doctor is bending over one of her hands. ‘Aha. Now, that would explain it!’

‘What explains what?’

‘Look, you didn’t take your tablets yesterday. Perhaps not the day before either.’

‘Of course I did.’

He looks sceptical. ‘I’ve checked your notes. Last time you were here, about six weeks ago, Niels put you on methotrexate, once a week.’

‘Yes.’

‘And, until the methotrexate started to work, you were to take cortisone daily.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘But as long as you’re taking these things, you shouldn’t be having any unprovoked attacks.’

‘But I have taken my medication.’

‘Then this shouldn’t have happened. Inflammation in every joint …’ Obviously the doctor does not believe her; he simply can’t be bothered arguing. He mutters something and starts writing up his notes.

Then something occurs to him: ‘Your medication. Have you got it here?’

Iben finds Malene’s medicines in her handbag. The tablets are kept in an art-nouveau silver cigarette case lined with velvet that Malene bought second-hand.

The doctor leans across the table. He takes one of the tablets and holds it up. ‘There you are. This isn’t cortisone.’

‘But … I put them in there myself.’

The doctor’s thick finger pushes the small white tablets around on the velvety surface. He leans back in his chair, completely sure of himself.

When he speaks, his lips curl a little. ‘The proper pills are notched in a different way from these. But you must have been taking them until the day before yesterday, at least, or you would have had one of these attacks earlier.’

‘What are you saying? That yesterday someone exchanged my proper medication for …?’ Malene’s voice cracks.

Iben makes a sudden noise, as if someone has hit her hard in the solar plexus.

Suddenly they both know that someone has been tampering with Malene’s tablets.

Malene keeps her medicine in her bag, which she always puts on the floor next to her desk. Yesterday, only a very few people would have had access to it.

Malene throws her head back and screams. ‘How could she do this? She’s sick. Sick!’ Then she starts crying: ‘I can’t… Oh, I couldn’t …’

Something flashes across Iben’s mind. Anne-Lise couldn’t be that evil! Could she?

It must be someone else.

But then her common sense tells her that her instinct must be wrong. Anne-Lise is capable of all kinds of things. And despite her outward calm, they know that, deep down, Anne-Lise is enraged.

‘It must be said that for a long time now we’ve had a sneaking suspicion that you might decide to leave us and go on to greater things. And of course we realised that you would prefer to work on something meaningful, somewhere that would offer you the opportunity to make the world a better place. This is precisely why we’re all sad that you’re leaving us, and so soon too.’