The Exception: A Novel Part 47

She is terrified of being referred to a psychiatric clinic and put back on medication. Many of her former fellow patients are probably able to exist only with the help of mind-bending drugs. Ten years ago, Iben had to fight for her return to stability and real work, and she isnt certain she can do it again.

Before leaving the office she looks out to make sure that theres no dark-haired, square-jawed man waiting down there in the street. Its pointless, though. You cant see properly from up here. Perhaps Dragan Jelisic is there. Perhaps he isnt.

Iben announces that she needs to go home because she has a headache. She quickly checks the on-screen camera image. The landing is empty. The elevator is empty too. n.o.body is waiting for her in the street.

She cycles away. For a February day its not that cold. Then she realizes that her balance is too poor to continue cycling. She locks up the bike just a few hundred feet from the DCIG.

Men, broad smiles on their faces, hold severed human heads in their hands. Archive images drift in front of her minds eye.

We distort our memories when it serves our purposes. Our thoughts too. Even our senses cannot be trusted; we reshape the messages they send to suit our needs.

How much of what Im thinking is nothing but the egoistic, post hoc rationalization that the professor was talking about?

When I stood up for Anne-Lise, I believed I was good. Was I lying to myself? Was my choice to risk my job and my friendship with Malene based on nothing more than a notion of what would be to my own best advantage?

Three million corpses scattered over the paddy fields of Cambodia. All slaughtered by their own countrymen, believing they were right but also because they felt that there might be something in it for them.

Five skulls sticking up from a water-filled ditch. Plants winding their way up, around and between them.

Sure, I might gain from losing my friend. Id be free to date Gunnar. Also, Id be free of the duty to help Malene, whose arthritis will only get worse with time.

How could I believe that I was making a sacrifice in order to resist the bullying? But I did believe it. I truly thought it was hard to make the choice I made. I felt heroic. Truly good.

Hey! Watch where youre going!

Iben walks with her head down without looking where shes stepping. Now she has almost fallen over a small white bulldog. Whining, it leaps sideways against a wall, obviously thinking that its about to be stepped on.

Its owner tells her off while he pulls at the dogs long red leash. Youre not the only one on the sidewalk, you know!

Im sorry. Im so sorry! She sighs.

Meanwhile a thought has struck her. Thats it! Though Ive seen myself as idealistic, Ive lied to myself. Thats the evil act that has been gnawing at the back of my mind all day long. I couldnt figure it out. But now that I know, my nausea will fade and disappear.

The sense of unease and queasiness does not leave her, however. She straightens up and looks around. She hasnt gone very far. No one resembles Jelisic. She scans the street in both directions. Pedestrians are few and far between, but he could be in any one of the cars. The traffic seems unending.

She cannot possibly defend herself against a man in a car.

She cannot possibly go home now.

Jelisic could find her there, no trouble at all there is no steel-lined door, no CCTV camera. If she did go home, she wouldnt be able to relax.

Crowded streets are her best hiding place. She walks quickly now, taking long, decisive strides. It helps against her tremor, which grows fainter the faster she walks.

No Jelisic at the Vibenhus roundabout or in Tagens Road or Nrrebro Street.

She practically flies along, one street after another, running to get away from Jelisic and from the evil she senses in everyone she overtakes. She knows that at one time in his or her life, each person she pa.s.ses has done evil things toward another person, but they no longer think about it. They all pretend theyre so innocent.

If they thought it would benefit them, they would knife the next man in the back, each and every one of them. Only lack of opportunity determines if they become genocidal killers or not. If their community leaders pressed the right b.u.t.tons, these people would be off on the hunt right away.

When she gets to Nrrebro, there are more people about and it is harder to keep her distance.

Iben can smell the evil inside a young man cutting in just ahead of her. He is wearing a long coat and carries a briefcase, but she has a vision of him inside a Russian army helicopter, throwing out mined toys to kill children in Afghanistan. Ruthlessness oozes from his pores and the smell p.r.i.c.kles inside Ibens nostrils, like the drinks of freshly opened lemonade she remembers from childhood.

She veers to pa.s.s him, steps into the cycle path, and hears the bells as two cyclists come up from behind. She leaps back onto the sidewalk.

She lands near a young woman walking her old bike with a child seat on the back. She is the type of person who, as a trained nurse, helped eliminate invalids in gas chambers well before the Second World War. Her brand of evil stinks like the raw meat left in a plastic bag that you forgot to throw out before going away on a holiday.

Im like a rat, Iben tells herself. My sense of smell is a rats. A lab rats.

When they tickle one tiny bit of my brain with an electric current Ill run one way, and when they try another bit Ill run in the opposite direction. Like everyone would. Social psychologists can predict what Ill do next. And when a researcher puts me in a cage with another rat, we will tear and bite each other until one of us dies.

Thats what we do, never mind what intellectual ideas we use for display. Razor-toothed rats without free will.

A little boy is strapped into the bicycle child seat. He is asleep, and his head in its little helmet is drooping. His romper is open at the neck, and the smell of evil rises from him like the reek of burning gra.s.s.

I am sick, she thinks. Its obvious. It isnt normal to smell people like this. Or to think in this way. The next moment she is sweating copiously under her thin jacket. Her whole body becomes damp and cold.

She knows why. And she knows that she doesnt want to think of what is to come. Her nausea grows until at last she throws up. As she leans against a board advertising a kebab place, her stomach contents pump out of her and into the gutter.

Didnt I have one of these attacks in the office one night? The others had left. I remember how furious I was with myself then. And with Malene. What was I doing there? It was something that eased the pressure. Some people smash china or cut themselves. What did I do?

What was I doing? I know I was writing. When I freak out, I write or I read.

She weeps.

Im sick in the head. I dont want to be sick. Its hateful. I want to be able to work at the DCIG. And to live with Gunnar.

I want a life.

I wont have one much longer. The others will realize soon enough that Im the one whos abnormal. Im the only one in the office who has been in a psychiatric ward. The only one who Frederik called Batgirl because he like the rest of them can tell that Im different. Im the only one whod willingly walk around for four months with a knife tied to my leg.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her glove and cleans off the vomit. She is still leaning against the board. She remembers that after the evening in the office she had a headache cycling home.

I was sick then. Like now. When I rode along St. Kjeld Street I kept telling myself: Im not like that. I didnt do that. Nevertheless, I recalled what it was that I had done. But by the time I had turned into Jagt Street it had become very distant, like hearing about it late one night at a party. Once I reached Tagens Road and home, I had even stopped saying, I didnt do that.

Her ability to think is gone. She wants to lie down but cant do that on the sidewalk. The next best thing would be to sit on a bench for a while or maybe go into a shop to rest, but thats out of the question too. She feels safer from Jelisic while shes on the move. Now she has to hurry, or h.e.l.l find her.

I had such a sense of writing the truth. It felt so right: You, Malene Jensen, have sworn to your secret evil And then: You, Iben Hjgaard, are for your actions recognized as self-righteous among the humans.

She strides along, her muscles seeming stronger now that she has thrown up.

Outside Nrrebro Station, she stops. Now where should she go? Shed like to go to Gunnars apartment. He knows about danger. h.e.l.l know what she should do to protect herself from Jelisic. But he mustnt see her this way. At least she has the presence of mind to see that.

The other thing shed like to do is go to Malenes and tell her how sorry she is. Its a good thought, even though she cant imagine that Malene will ever forgive her.

It has become dark. Lights in shops and cars make a shifting pattern around her. She needs to tire out her brain, dampen down her emotions. Other people might take tranquilizers or splash cold water on their face, but she gets the same kind of effect from working intensely. She must concentrate now to distract herself from all these emotions.

She will formulate an entire article in her head, leaving no room for any other thought. Later, all sh.e.l.l have to do is write it down.

THE PSYCHOLOGY OF EVIL XXII.

Here, the previous articles in Genocide News are followed up with an account of processes, uncovered by social psychologists, that allow perpetrators to reach the stage at which they are capable of carrying out one murder after another.

By Iben Hjgaard The social psychologist Albert Bandura recruited a group of students to help him with an experimental study of learning that also involved a group of students from another university She thinks about Omoro in that hut in Kenya.

Ill never have a chance to ask him to forgive me. He died because I hesitated. And I hesitated because I saw an advantage for myself in holding back. He is dead now.

She tries once more: THE PSYCHOLOGY OF EVIL XXII.

Here, the previous articles in Genocide News are followed up with an account of processes, uncovered by social psychologists Two young women step out from a clothes boutique. Their aura of evil smells like pickled gherkins and rotten fish.

Ibens concentration is going. She leans against a wall and tries to take up the thread.

The social psychologist Albert Bandura recruited His helpers were to a.s.sist him in an experiment by administering electric shocks to members of the other group when they didnt do well enough in tests. Just as they were ready to start, the helper group accidentally overheard a senior a.s.sistant speak about the pupils.

I know why everybody praised me, she thinks: because I ran back to the policemen from Nairobi and tried to make them help the hostages. The press, as well as my friends, kept going on about how I put my life on the line to save the others. Its because they need to hear such things to be rea.s.sured that goodness exists. They dream of it. They watch it on television. But its all a lie! Those few seconds only proved that I couldnt conceive of the possibility that the police would beat up or kill a white woman. I believed I was in no danger. My whiteness made me invulnerable, or so I thought.

She recognizes the front door to Malenes stairs. She must ask her forgiveness. Forgiveness would be such a relief. Or maybe it wouldnt?

Malene doesnt reply to the intercom, so Iben uses her key to get in and goes upstairs to knock on Malenes door.

n.o.body answers. She could let herself in, but she doesnt. She knocks again.

On her way downstairs she cant see the large stained-gla.s.s patterns, because its too dark outside. A pane of clear gla.s.s has been fitted in Rasmuss window.

She must pull herself together. Think of nothing but her article.

THE PSYCHOLOGY OF EVIL XXII.

Here, the previous articles in Genocide News are followed up The social psychologist Albert Bandura recruited a group of students to help him with an experimental study of learning We are rats, all of us. Regardless of what has been written in the magazine previously. Were simply Regardless of what has been written in the magazine previously, we may Regardless, it must be admitted that Im sick now. So dreadfully sick I cannot think anymore.

Iben, concentrate!

THE PSYCHOLOGY OF EVIL XXII.

Here, the previous articles The many lies presented in our magazine are The truth is We are also in each others heads. Murder each other when no one is looking. The self-righteous theories previously described in Genocide News are Iben cannot walk now. She sits down on a trash bin at a bus stop. Sh.e.l.l have to throw up again soon. Its all these people that do it their smells: fried food, p.i.s.s, chlorine decay. Shes disappearing. Its so hard to stay in control. Only work to hold on to, and logical thought.

THE PSYCHOLOGY OF EVIL XXII.

Here, the previous articles in Genocide News will carry on, sickly as ever, and unable to think anymore. The reason is that were all rats and ready to bite each others heads off.

I will stay sitting here despite the human rats that smell on top of a trash bin at a bus stop and on behalf of the Danish Center for Information on Genocide evil under my nails, making them smell bad, and inside the early wrinkles in my face. In my cells, in my DNA. In me.

I give up.

Two people in love are waiting for the bus. They dont look my way. They wear the same kind of long coat in a color like b.u.t.terscotch and arent interested in the slightest in a confused woman sitting on a trash bin.

Now a teenage girl comes along to wait. She has painted names of bands and singers all over her rucksack, just as I did in my teens. She is about the same age as a lot of Cambodias Khmer Rouge soldiers. I know what she could do to that couple.

What about the lovers? They look so innocent. Waiting for the bus, thats all.

But close up you see the fat oozing out of their pores long whitish yellow worms. Those two their bad smell wont go away, even though they probably wash every day. It shouldnt have been like this. Ever.

I shouldnt have fallen ill again. I shouldve been with Gunnar, in his kitchen, pottering about with the bread and little dishes for a delicious Sunday lunch. He would come and stand close behind me and hold me tight while he kisses my neck. And his two daughters, who are mine too, would be running about, in and out of the kitchen.

I know this scene so well. Thats how it should have been. And we would have been so happy. We wouldnt have killed anyone then, neither he nor I. Neither of us would have suffered from paranoia or been sick in the head.

Now I know it will never happen. Ive become too weird for him. It shouldntshould not have been like this.

A tall man with long blond hair is approaching me. He speaks to me. Does he say that he wants to drop something into the bin? I get up, but he keeps saying things.

I have to speak to him. Are you trying to use the trash bin? Is that it, the bin? Ive moved off it now. Then it dawns on me that the man is speaking English, with a drawling accent. Whats that hes saying?

Now tell me. Whats your plan?

I dont understand what he wants but decide Id better change to English too and repeat the bit about the bin.

He looks annoyed. Whats wrong with you, Malene? I dont care about that bin. Whats your plan?

What? My name isnt Malene.

I look properly at him. He could have been an aging rock star, once cool but now on his way out. His skin is in poor shape and he has gone flabby, like men do when theyre past their prime. I want him to go away and leave me in peace.

My name isnt Malene.

He stares straight into my eyes.

I know who you are, Malene. Ive waited for you when you come out of the Center. And when you leave your house.

I shake my head. Youve got it all wrong, Im not It is only then that Iben realizes who the man is.

chapter 49.

like when youre off, flying across the handlebars on your bike. Then, in the fraction of a second before you crash to the ground, all your muscles go tense and your mind suddenly focuses one hundred percent.

How can she escape? She glances about her. Some fifteen feet away from Iben and Mirko Zigic, a strong-looking man stands with his hands in the pockets of his pilots jacket. When his eyes catch Ibens and he realizes she has seen him, the corners of his mouth twitch slightly something that is not quite a smile.

And opposite him, fifty feet or so away, another man is standing. He too observes her. His hair is cut very short, and theres something very Eastern European about his matching jeans and denim jacket.

Now she looks at Zigic again, sensing the weight of her knife against her leg. Her heart is pounding. Could she win a fight against him? Of course she couldnt. Are these men armed with weapons other than knives? Of course they are.

Zigic interrogates her. Who do you work for?

The Danish Center for Information on Genocide.