‘I’m sending it together with a short text message I prepared,’ the boy said. ‘Listen.
Røed opened his mouth to say something but didn’t manage to get a word out before something was forced between his lips.
‘Soon everyone you know will discover what a perverted pig you are,’ Prim said, fixing a piece of tape over Røed’s mouth, into which he had stuffed one of the Bulgarian’s left-behind woollen socks. ‘And after a day or so the rest of the world will know as well. What do you think of that?’
No answer. Just a pair of wide-open eyes and tears rolling down round cheeks.
‘There, there,’ Prim said. ‘Let me offer you a little comfort, Father. I’m not going to carry out my original plan, which was to out you, then take my own life, and let you live with the public humiliation. Because I want to live after all. You see, I’ve found a woman I love. And tonight, I’m going to propose. Look what I bought for her today.’
Prim took the burgundy velvet-covered box from his trouser pocket and opened it. The small diamond on the ring glittered in the torchlight from the phone on the stand.
‘So I’ve decided to live a long and happy life instead, but of course that entails my identity not being revealed. And that means those who do know need to die in place of me.
Prim wiped away one of Røed’s tears with his forefinger and licked at it. They wrote about bitter tears in literature, but didn’t all tears actually taste the same?
‘The bad news is I was planning to kill you slowly to compensate for you avoiding the humiliation. The good news is I’m not going to kill you
Prim took hold of the mattress with both hands. After two or three hard yanks he managed to pull it from under Røed, the iron bedsprings issuing a screech as the weight of his body landed on them. Prim walked over to the blackened brick wall and fetched the camping stove beside the jerrycan. He placed the camping stove on the floor beneath the bed directly below his stepfather’s head, turned on the gas and lit it.
‘I don’t know if you remember, but this is the best torture method in that book about Comanches you gave me as a Christmas present. The skull is the pot and in a while your brain will begin to bubble and boil. The consolation is the parasites will die before you.’
Markus Røed writhed and thrashed about. Some of the iron springs pierced his skin and drops of blood fell on the ash-covered floor. And then sweat also began to drip from his back. Prim watched as veins protruded on Markus Røed’s neck and forehead as he tried to scream behind the woollen sock.
Prim watched him. Waited. Swallowed. Because nothing was happening inside him. That is to say, something was happening, but not what was supposed to happen. Yes, he had been prepared for vengeance not tasting as sweet as it had in his imagination, but not this. Not that it would taste like his stepfather’s bitter tears. It came as more of a shock than a disappointment to feel this way. He felt sorry for the man lying there. The man who had destroyed his childhood and was to blame for his mother killing herself. He didn’t want to feel this way! Was it Her fault, was it because She had brought love into his life? In the Bible it said that Love was the greatest. Was that true, was it greater than revenge?
Prim began to cry, could not stop. He walked over to the charred staircase, found the heavy, old spade lying half buried in ash. Took hold of it and went back over to the iron bed. This wasn’t the plan, long drawn-out suffering had been the intention, not compassion! But he raised the spade above his head. Saw the desperation in Markus Røed’s eyes as he jerked his head this way and that to avoid the flat blade, as though he would rather live a few more torturous minutes than die quickly.
Prim aimed. Then brought the spade down. Once, twice. Three times. Wiping away the spray of blood that had hit his eye, he bent down and listened for breathing. Straightened up and lifted the spade above his head again.
