We Shall Be Monsters by Christoffer Petersen

Author:Christoffer Petersen [Petersen, Christoffer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aarluuk Press for Arctic Noir, Action Thrillers and Greenland Crime
Published: 2018-11-28T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

The prickle of heat teased at Petra's skin, the crack, hiss and spit of wood in the pot-bellied stove worried at her ears, and the smell of smoke wrinkled her nose as she opened her eyes. Petra stared through the sticky film of tears, spit and sweat, and saw him sitting beside the stove. The funnel of his hood was dipped comically low as he read the book on his lap through a tunnel of fur. The book was lit by lantern light and the thick wick twisted black inside the oily flame. Petra could see it if she squinted, a dance of orange inside a smoky glass bulb. The wick crackled, dry like her tongue when she moved it from where it sat heavy and thick inside her mouth. The sucking noise of dry spit lifted the man's head from his book. She saw him rise, heard the chains of her cuffs scrape rusted flakes from the links as she shrank to the wall and he clumped across the dusty floorboards towards her. He tugged something black from his jacket pocket and then the orange flame was gone as he bound Petra's eyes.

“You're awake,” he said.

His Danish was strong, but with an unfamiliar stress on the endings. Petra surprised herself with the analysis, wondered if she was getting stronger, or if the will to survive had taken over her senses, searching for details, filtering the dark, dust and despair for something to cling to, some kind of hope.

She heard the zip of the funnel hood, and then his voice, clearer now, as he sat down and the wooden legs of the chair creaked between the spit and crack of wood, the crackle of the flame, and the thump of her pulse.

“I've put your show on hold,” he said. “You're quite the little earner. You deserve a break.”

“Cold,” she breathed.

“Yes, of course. No-one's watching right now.”

The chair creaked, the floor vibrated, and Petra felt something heavy draped over her shoulders. A fleece-lined jacket perhaps. She turned her head, felt the chunky plastic teeth of the zip press into her cheek, and smelled the tang of old fish blood. She shivered inside the jacket, and drew her feet beneath her bottom. She could feel her rough heels on her skin, but couldn't remember if she had been wearing jeans once, when, or if, they had been removed.

“I'm sure this is strange for you, Sergeant Jensen. But we all have our part to play, you understand? I hope you understand. It's not so very different from what you do in your job. We both provide a service. People are needy, and you and I attend to those needs. Of course, in your work you had physical contact with the people who needed you. But let me reassure you that now, with my help, you are enhancing people's sad lives, giving them pleasure. Like I say, providing a useful service.”

“You hurt me,” Petra said.

“I hurt you? No,” he said. “That wasn't me. I didn't hurt you.

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