Rose bit her cheek until it bled. Maybe the ward in Glostrup had discharged her too early last time. One of her sisters had certainly implied it, and there was no mistaking Assad’s worried looks. Could she really rule out that her sister might have been right? Maybe it wasn’t an alarming mix of depression and personality disorder that was at the root of her breakdown. Was she basically just ins—?
“Stop these thoughts, Rose!” she blurted out, and once again a passerby turned around and stared at her.
She looked at him apologetically. It had been impressed upon her that she could call the psychiatrist if she feared a relapse. But was that what was happening? Wasn’t she just under a lot of pressure with work, and wasn’t she failing to get enough sleep? Wasn’t it simply stress?
Rose looked straight ahead and immediately recognized the broad steps of Bellah?j Swimming Stadium and the high-rise buildings in the background. A mild sense of relief came over her that she hadn’t completely lost control, causing her to sigh and start the scooter.
Everything seemed to have fallen into place, but after a few minutes she was overtaken by a bike in low gear.
Rose looked down at the speedometer. She was doing only nineteen kilometers an hour; apparently she hadn’t even had the composure to keep her hand on the throttle.
She wasn’t really in control after all.
I really need to be careful today, she thought. Keep to myself and try to calm my nerves.
She dried her forehead with shaky hands, looking about attentively. Above all, she needed to make sure she didn’t faint in traffic and find herself made into mincemeat by a turning truck. Surely she could manage that.
—
On good days, police HQ looked immensely appealing, with its light facade and imposing architecture, but today the innocent white appearance had taken on a greyish hue, the gaps between the columns more frightening and blacker than usual, almost as if they could swallow her whole.
She didn’t say hello to the security guard like she normally did and only half registered the sweet look the secretary, Lis, gave her in the stairwell. It was one of those days.
It was quiet down in the basement, where Department Q was located: no stench from Assad’s mint tea, no blabbering from TV2 News on Carl’s oversize flat-screen, no puzzled Gordon.
Thank God they haven’t turned up yet, she thought, staggering into her office.
She slumped in front of her desk, pressing her diaphragm hard against it; it sometimes helped when she was feeling like this. It lessened the feeling of not being in control, and sometimes she also felt the benefit of pressing her clenched fist against her solar plexus.
It wasn’t working just now. Friday the thirteenth, what else could she expect?
Rose stood up and closed the door to the hallway. If it was shut, the others would probably think she hadn’t arrived.
Peace at last.
For now.
3
Monday, May 2nd, 2016
From the moment she walked into the social security office, Michelle’s pulse quickened. The name alone had that effect despite being fairly neutral. In her opinion, names like Agony Office, Beggars’ Institution, or Humiliation Center were much more fitting, but who in the public sector ever called things what they really are?
Michelle had been pushed from pillar to post in this demeaning system for years. First in Matth?usgade, then as far out as Gammel K?ge Landevej, and now back to Vesterbro. Wherever she was sent, she was met with the same demands and wretched atmosphere, and nothing could erase this feeling. As far as she was concerned, they could put up as many new, polished counters with large numbers as they wanted, and provide computers so you could sit there and do their work for them—if you could figure out how to use them, that is.
The majority of people who came to this center were people she wasn’t overly keen on. People who stared at her as if she was one of them. As if she would have anything to do with them in their shabby and unsightly clothes! They couldn’t even manage to put an outfit together. Had she ever gone out without making an effort with her appearance? Without washing her hair or thinking about what jewelry went best together? No, she hadn’t, and no matter what happened, she wouldn’t dream of it.
If she hadn’t had Patrick with her today, she would have just turned around at the entrance, even though she was well aware that she had to go in, partly because she needed to ask permission to go on vacation. Patrick had also reminded her about that.
Patrick was an apprentice electrician and Michelle’s best trophy. If anyone doubted what sort of person she was, all they had to do was look at him, because he afforded her a certain status. Few were taller, broader, more muscular, or more stylishly tattooed than Patrick. No one she knew had darker or shinier hair. And it suited him to wear slim-fitting shirts. It really showed off how proud he was of his body and why he had good reason to feel that way.
Now she was sitting next to him in front of the useless caseworker, who like a ghost had followed her no matter what office Michelle was registered at. Someone in the waiting room had once said that she’d won a large sum of money. But if that was the case, why the hell didn’t she just disappear from Michelle’s life?
Her name was Anne-Line. A ridiculous name that only someone like her would have, so there her name was, Anne-Line Svendsen, on one of the typical metal signs on the edge of the table, and at which Michelle had been staring for the past twenty minutes. She hadn’t even heard a word they were saying for the past five minutes.
“Do you agree with what Patrick has just said, Michelle?” Anne-Line Svendsen asked her now and then.
Michelle responded with a robotic nod. Would there be any reason not to? She and Patrick agreed on almost everything.
“Fine, Michelle. So you’ve said yes to being assigned a job at Berendsen?”
Michelle frowned. That wasn’t why they’d come here. They’d come to make this woman understand that she simply couldn’t cope with the stress of working and to get permission to take two weeks’ vacation from her job search. Hadn’t they explained a hundred times how much pressure and stress the system was putting her under? Didn’t she understand what they were saying? Not everyone had had the same good fortune as this idiotic caseworker. If Michelle had been the one who had won the lottery, or whatever, would she be sitting here? Not a chance.
“Berendsen? Er, no, I don’t think so,” she answered.
Michelle looked imploringly at Patrick, but he was just glaring at her.
“What exactly is Berendsen?” she asked. “Is it a clothes store?”
Anne-Line smiled, and it didn’t look good with her wine-stained teeth. Hadn’t she ever heard of whitening?
“Well, yes. In some way it is clothes they are handling,” she answered. Was she being patronizing?
“Berendsen is a well-reputed company that works primarily with washing bed linens for large companies and public institutions.”
Michelle shook her head. She hadn’t agreed to anything like this with Patrick; he knew that.