Pauline Berg enjoyed the film. Although she had seen it many times, it was just as good every time. Then suddenly a text crawl broke in over Julia Roberts and announced an extra TV news broadcast in ten minutes. Pauline shuddered. News that was important enough to interrupt programming was seldom good. A brief channel surf to text-TV was uninformative, so there was nothing to do but wait. The film no longer captivated her. She used up the next few minutes calling for Gorm, around the house and out on the terrace, without the animal making an appearance. He usually showed up at mealtimes, but on the other hand he had become considerably more independent since they’d moved, now that he had a game preserve that had to be tended. Sometimes she heard vicious cat fights at night, and some mornings he came home scratched, tired, and proud as a peacock. No doubt he had benefited from the change of scene.
She sat back in her chair just in time for the extra broadcast, activated the sound, which she had put on mute before so she could listen for the cat better, and barely glimpsed an image of the TV studio with two serious announcers before the TV went off with a little pop. Not only the picture and sound disappeared, the standby lamp went out too. She tried to use the remote control to switch off and start again, but with no effect. The same procedure on the buttons of the TV was no use either. Her first thought was that with her immediate financial crisis this might mean several months without a television, but then she remembered that she had bought the set no more than five months ago, so it was still covered by the warranty.
Irritated, she went into her study and turned on the computer. Outside rain was striking the window, and the irregular percussion of the drops and the wind howling around the sides of the house made her feel exposed, so she drew the curtains. As soon as the computer was functional, she opened the web browser and connected to the Dagbladet news portal, but experienced disbelief when instead she was directed to a website for the Louvre museum in Paris, even though the address field quite correctly showed dbnews.dk, which she had also typed. She tried dr.dk and got the same result. The next three addresses ended up in a similar situation. She had experienced many strange things with her computer, but never anything this peculiar. She considered restarting, but first she activated her Windows Messenger, eager to get in contact with the outside world, which with the cell phone, TV and now the computer seemed to be withdrawing. For that reason she was very relieved when the program window popped up as usual, and she could put aside her paranoid thoughts. Three friends were on-line, and she chose an old schoolmate, whom she normally avoided because he almost worshipped her, but a little adoration was just what she needed on an evening like this, where everything was messed up.
Princess Pauline says: Hi Mads, have you seen the news?
My TV is dead.
Mads from R?dovre says: Pauline, great to talk with you!!! News OK, what do you want to know?
Princess Pauline says: Extra broadcast on TV about what?
Mads from R?dovre says: You ought to know that, aren’t you still a cop? :-)
Princess Pauline says: Still a cop, home sick today, what news???
Mads from R?dovre says: Why do you write that, I haven’t bothered you :-(
Princess Pauline says: What do you mean???
Mads from R?dovre says: 1/3 2/3 1/8 3/8 5/8 7/8 7/8 5/8 3/8 1/8 2/3 1/3
Princess Pauline says: That was complete gibberish, try again.
Mads from R?dovre says: Old witch with the coal-black hair, the clock is striking, the clock is striking
Pauline all alone says: Don’t you mean yellow-green?
Mads from R?dovre says: No, it’s coal-black, disgusting whore.
Mads from R?dovre says: Send news, start news, enjoy news.
She looked nervously over her shoulder towards the door to the study, while the Windows Messenger screen disappeared and an hourglass told her that the computer was working on an unknown job she had not requested. Suddenly a face appeared, a weeping, horror-stricken face that she recognised immediately. The sound of Jeanette Hvidt’s pleading voice, punctuated with sobs, streamed out of the speakers, while the girl on-screen threw her head back and forth in a vain attempt to avoid her fate.
“I don’t want to, don’t do it, won’t you please stop?”
“He is angry at her, she is impolite, she must have another blow with the staff.”
“No, no, I’ll do anything you say, whatever you ask for.”
“Everything that he says, everything that he asks me to. That’s what she will say.”
“I’ll do anything he says, anything he asks me to.”
“Then she will tell about the song.”
“This song is for you, Pauline.”
“She must not cry when she says it. Otherwise she’ll get something to cry about.”
“Excuse me, I will, don’t do that. I will.”
“Then she will say it again, with a smile on her ugly face.”
Pauline watched, paralysed, how Jeanette Hvidt tried to smile while the tears rolled down her cheeks. The video continued:
“This song is for you, Pauline.”
“Then she will sing the song.”
“Can you guess where he is, can you guess where he is, because I put the mask on, misk mask mask on . . . ”
“No, she is singing it wrong. Because he has put the mask on . . . that’s what’s fun. How stupid she is. Then she will sing again, the right way, or else she’ll get the staff.”
Jeanette Hvidt sang again, though scared out of her wits. It sounded awful, crazy and heart-rending, but that was not the reason Pauline Berg put her hands over her ears.