The Considerate Killer by Agnete Friis, Lene Kaaberbøl Page B

clatter of nine-year-old footsteps. Anton came running through the living room. He had been playing next door with Filip, the neighbor’s grandson, who was also visiting during the midterm vacation.
    â€œMom!”
    Nina got up a little too quickly, but a discreet hand on the doorjamb allowed her to retain her balance.
    â€œCome here, you rascal you . . .”
    He had grown so big during the past six months. Everything downy and babyish had been whittled away. He was a boy now, with knobby knees and broad hands and an apparently bottomless reservoir of energy. He was still happy to give and get hugs, but he had begun to protest if she tried to kiss him.
    Right now he dug in his heels and put on the breaks so you could hear an almost cartoon-like shriek of boy feet against the lacquered wood floor.
    â€œWhat happened to your eyes?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s just a mask to hide my secret identity,” she said. The swelling from the raccoon-eye hematoma was mostly gone, thank God, but traces of the bruising still lingered.
    He gave a single awkward croak-like laugh, but she could see that he was startled and uneasy.
    â€œIt’s okay, sweetie,” she said. “It’ll fade soon.”
    â€œSomeone hit you,” he said as if he was only now realizing it.
    â€œNot here,” she said and touched one cheek. “It’s because I got bonked on the back of the head.”
    â€œBut someone did that,” he insisted. “Hit you on the head, I mean.” His face was serious, and she could see a deep, glittering fear in his eyes.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, sweetie?”
    He bit his lower lip for so long that she could see the mark of his teeth remain for a brief moment when he opened his mouth.
    â€œWhat if he does it again?”
    â€œHe won’t.”
    â€œYes . . . but what if?”
    â€œIf he tries, the police will come and arrest him,” she said firmly. “They are already searching for him.”
    She pulled Anton close, and he clung to her in a highly uncharacteristic way. She could feel his shoulders shaking and knew he was crying but trying to suppress it.
    â€œIt’s okay,” she said. “Nothing is going to happen. It’s okay.”
    Her reassurances only made it worse. A heartbreaking sob emerged from the boy.
    Ida passed by with the cake tray and punched him in the shoulder.
    â€œCome on, Anton. Only losers cry.”
    â€œIda!”
    But Ida got it right. Anton took a deep, uncertain breath and freed himself from Nina’s arms.
    â€œYep,” he said. “The rest of us get up and go for the gold.”
    â€œPrecisely, maggot!”
    â€œMaggot yourself. You . . . booger!”
    â€œFart!”
    â€œEarwax.”
    â€œTapeworm!”
    They grinned more and more broadly with every disgusting word.
    â€œSame to you . . . dog turd!” Anton concluded, apparently completely restored to his boyish composure.
    â€œYes, all right,” said Nina. “I think we get the general idea.”
    But later, when the cake platter had been vacuumed for the last crumbs and Anton sat in his favorite corner in the living room, absorbed in a PlayStation game, Ida stood staring out the kitchen window with her hands stuck as deep in pockets of her hoodie as they could possibly get.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, sweetie?”
    â€œNothing.” But then she turned around anyway, and Nina could see how tense her face was. “You’re not going to leave us, are you?”
    â€œIda. No! Of course I won’t. Where would I go?”
    â€œI don’t know. One of those places where people die.”
    Nina put her hand on her daughter’s cheek and for once was not pushed away.
    â€œPeople die everywhere, sweet pea. But Grandma is going to get well.”
    In the course of the afternoon coffee ritual, Nina had finally realized what all those pink hearts were all about. Ida had discovered the existence of death. Not as