The Informer (Sabotage Group BB)

6

BB is sitting in his study, staring at the blank piece of paper in the typewriter. He bites his lip, typing a few words.

We are gathered here today to pay our last respects to William Birkegaard Hansen. He will be remembered and missed, not only as an enterprising businessman, but also as a loving

BB halts in the middle of the sentence, letting his head fall back. “I am a hooker,” he whispers to the stucco on the ceiling. “I’m a f*cking whore!”

He slowly pulls the paper from the typewriter, letting it drop down into the trash can. He feeds a new piece, turns the reel until the paper is placed correctly, and starts typing.

There is hardly anybody who will miss William Birkegaard Hansen, as he was an a*shole if there ever was one. How often have we who live in this neighborhood heard the fighting taking place in his house, only to see the marks on his wife’s face the day after?

“You can’t say something like that, Johannes!” BB’s wife, Grete, says, placing a tray with coffee and cookies next to the typewriter. “It is a funeral after all.”

“The man’s a bastard anyway.”

“Sure, he was.” She stands there looking at him. Touches his neck. “I worry about you.”

“About me?”

“I am not blind, you know. I can see what you are doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sneaking out at night. You think you’re so clever, but you’re not.” She pours a cup of coffee, handing it to him. “Either you’re a saboteur, Johannes, or you’ve got a mistress.”

“I can’t sleep at night,” he lies, gently taking her hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Sometimes I get up and go for a walk. It helps most of the time. That’s all it is.”

“Even when there’s a curfew?”

He drums a finger at the typewriter. Looking down the coffee cup. She’s been a good wife to him for many years. She’s so thin. Always has been. But nice tits. Light, almost white hair. At night she looks like a ghost in her white nightgown. Once, he used to kid her about that. Her hands are beautiful, and she lights up when she smiles with those cute dimples. Johannes fell in love with those dimples back in the day. Back then she smiled all the time. The reverend’s daughter from Struer. So well-behaved and nice. Wild in bed, though…and in the hay…and in the forest. How many years have passed? BB lets out a deep sigh.

“Yesterday I heard you talking to a man down at the church. I was out in the back. You were both whispering, but I could hear every single word. You were talking about a garage called Super. You were going to sabotage the garage last night.”

“You must have gotten something wrong there. We were talking about a broken gas generator. He was thinking they might be able to fix it at that garage.” BB gets up and walks to the heater to stir up the fire.

“What’s going to happen to me if you get killed?” she asks with no emotion. “How am I going to manage on my own? Tell me, Johannes.”

“Grete …” What can he say? He waves his hands. “I have to finish this eulogy.”

She scans his face like she’s searching for something. He meets her stare. She’s got wrinkles around her eyes. He hadn’t noticed that before. Actually, he can’t seem to remember the last time he looked into her eyes. For a brief moment, he wants to kiss her…grab her around the hips and take her right there on his desk on top of William Birkegaard Hansen’s funeral eulogy. Then the moment passes.

“Suit yourself,” she says, closing the door as she leaves the room.

He stands there in the middle of the room, looking at the closed door. The paint is starting to peel off the top of the door. Everything decays. He pulls the chair to sit down in front of the typewriter, but instantly gets up again. He empties the cup of coffee in one big gulp. Ersatz coffee, tastes terrible, but at least it’s warm. He falls back into the chair, running his hands down his face.

Everything’s a mess. He’s losing his grip. His life’s a jigsaw spilled on the floor.