Christian Jungersen - The Exception

‘Oh, yes of course! I’d almost forgotten …’

Between them, they manage to cheer Anne-Lise up. Her mood has improved when she goes off to the Ladies’ room. The Eric Clapton song is playing in her head.

Several women are standing in front of the mirror. A soprano called Vibeke speaks to Anne-Lise. ‘You will enjoy having Camilla here next week. Especially since you know her so well.’

‘I did, once. We were in the same class up to fourth form, but I haven’t seen her in years. How is she now?’

Silence.

‘What is it? Have I said something wrong?’

Vibeke backs away from the mirror. ‘I was under the impression that she had no friends in her class.’

‘Well, it was quite a long time ago … I have no idea what she’s doing now.’

‘Were you really in her class?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘What did you think about what went on?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where were you when your class gathered around Camilla every single breaktime, and picked on her? When they forced the weakest kids to touch her so that they would scream because everyone said she was dirty and smelly?’

The others try to calm Vibeke down. ‘Vibeke! Take it easy!’

But Vibeke is on a roll. ‘What did you think when a pupil in another class tried to kill herself because she was so badly bullied? And the rest of you simply carried on as if nothing had happened? Would anyone have cared if Camilla had tried to kill herself too? What were you thinking?’ Vibeke has worked herself up into such a state that Anne-Lise hasn’t had a chance to answer before she storms away, slamming the door behind her.

The others start apologising at once. They tell Anne-Lise that Vibeke has her own problems and that she is prone to outbursts. She had one just before a performance in Malmö. They assure Anne-Lise that if she joins the choir she’ll find that there’s a much nicer side to Vibeke. Most likely Vibeke will tell her she’s sorry.

But no one says anything about the truth of Vibeke’s accusations.

*

Walking back to the rehearsal room, no one speaks. Tess comes to meet them. ‘You’re in luck, Brigitte!’ She beams.

‘Really? Why?’

‘It seems Camilla’s parent — teacher meeting was over sooner than she’d expected. She’s decided to come tonight after all.’

Anne-Lise freezes. She hopes the others won’t notice.

‘She’s just taking off her wet things. I told her about you and she thought she could place you straightaway.’

Anne-Lise can barely swallow. ‘Ahaaa …’

She turns away from them and tries to pull herself together. ‘Oh, damn, I’ve left my eye-liner in the toilet. You go ahead and start. I’ll be right back.’

‘Don’t worry, Brigitte. We’ll wait for you.’

At least there is nobody in the bathroom now. Anne-Lise knows that she must get out of there. But how?

She needs to find a different staircase that will take her down into the network of basement corridors that lead to the exit. Then Anne-Lise remembers that her coat and umbrella are still in the rehearsal room. At least she had the foresight to bring a coat that Camilla has never seen her wear, in case the others start describing Brigitte to her. But her wallet, with her driver’s licence and credit card, is in her coat pocket. How can she grab it without Camilla spotting her?

Why didn’t I put the wallet in my handbag? I was just about to. Now it’s there, right under Camilla’s nose.

When Anne-Lise no longer hears voices in the corridor, she sneaks out of the toilet and slips away. After turning a few corners and passing through two sets of fire doors, she reaches the top of a staircase that leads down to the basement.

Below, the hallways seem even more confusing. She has no idea where she is in the maze. The lighting is uniform and everywhere looks the same. She searches her memory for markers: a firehose wound up in a drum, anything, but there’s not the smallest piece of graffiti, not a single discarded postbag. Nothing at all to go by.

After turning several corners, she spots a darkish trail on the light floor. It looks like a skid mark. She can’t recall having seen it before. Next, she comes across one of the metal staircases. She runs up it and finds a large door.

If she pushes it, will the alarm go off?

Somewhere down here they keep money and valuables worth millions; security guards must patrol these corridors round the clock. What if she’s arrested and dragged away in front of the choir, including Camilla?

She stands still and listens. The door looks heavy. Presumably sounds wouldn’t penetrate it easily? She listens but can’t hear a thing. No barking of guard dogs. No voices.

She reaches for the handle and pushes it down.

No alarm, but the door is locked. She feels like hitting something, anything, but orders herself to calm down.

Walking noiselessly, she retraces her way along the corridor. Is it the same one? Impossible to be sure.

If only she could make her way to the reception area. Then she could spy on the choir through the glass wall and see when Camilla leaves. And once she’s gone, Anne-Lise could run back through the corridors, praying that she won’t meet Camilla on the way, and retrieve her coat before anyone starts going through its pockets and discovers she’s not Brigitte. Anne-Lise knows that she will have to be improbably lucky to succeed. Still, what other option does she have? She could try finding the route the postal vans take into the complex — there must be vehicle access somewhere — but that wouldn’t solve the problem of her purse.

She comes to another metal staircase and the door at the top is not locked. It leads to a small anteroom with three doors — two of them locked, the third with a large triangular sign saying ‘Alarm’ pinned above it. She doesn’t dare try it and returns to the basement.

How long has she been down here? Twenty-five minutes, according to her watch, but that doesn’t feel right. It must be longer.

She hears breathing somewhere nearby. Panting. Possibly the sound made by one — no, two — dogs, excited at picking up a scent and pulling impatiently on their leads.

Anne-Lise stops and takes off her shoes. Then, after turning a corner, she spots a half-used roll of kitchen paper on the floor. She recognises it. It tells her that she is not far from the staircase leading up to the entrance door.

She hurries again now, trying all the doors to find one that isn’t locked. All the time she hears the panting noises coming from somewhere behind her. At last, one of the doors opens. Behind it is a cupboard full of boxes, bottles and cleaning equipment. It’s dark but she wouldn’t dare put the light on even if she could find the switch.

A little later she hears two men walk past. She holds her breath and sits perfectly still on the floor, hugging a vacuum cleaner. The men are speaking an unrecognisable foreign language. Could it be Serbian? Bizarre conspiracy theories flash through her head. It occurs to her, when their voices have died away, that one of them could easily have been Paul’s, but that doesn’t make sense. Everything is so unfamiliar, almost otherworldly down here in the darkness.

She picks up the strong smell of ammonium chloride.

Then she hears a voice outside calling. ‘Brigitte! Brigitte!’ It is the woman with the navy scarf. ‘Maybe she got lost on the way back from the toilet?’

Another voice replies: ‘You know as well as I do that it’s Vibeke’s fault. I don’t know why she has to be like that. Remember when we were with that Swedish choir in Malmö and she …’

Their voices gradually fade away.

Anne-Lise persuades herself that the panting is probably not dogs but a defective pump somewhere in the ventilation system. She listens for people talking. Not a sound.