She riffled through the pile of clothes to find the warmest pair of tights. The mildew growing up under the tarpaper was a warning. This autumn the weather was unpredictable.

When she was done, she carefully opened the door of her brick house and stared directly out at the rail tracks. Less than two yards separated her and the S-trains, which whipped past at practically all hours of the day.

No one saw her.

So she slipped out, locking the door and buttoning her coat. She walked the twenty steps round the steel-grey transformer that the railway engineers rarely checked, along the asphalt path to a wrought-iron gate that exited on to Ingerslevsgade, and unlocked it.

Back when she could reach the railway building only by walking on the rubble alongside the fence all the way from Dybbølsbro Station – and doing it at night because she’d have been caught otherwise – it had been her greatest dream to have the key to this gate. Three or four hours of sleep were all she could get before having to vacate the little round house. If she were spotted even once, she knew they would throw her out and make sure she didn’t come back. So the night became her companion until the morning she discovered the LØGSTRUP FENCE sign on the gate.

She called the factory and introduced herself as Lily Carstensen, the Danish State Railway’s supplies manager, and arranged to meet the locksmith at the gate. For the occasion she wore a newly pressed blue trouser suit and could have passed for middle management in the state bureaucracy. She had two copies of the keys made and got a bill – which she paid in cash – and now she could come and go as she pleased. If she took precautions, and the demons left her alone, everything would be OK.

On the bus to Østerport she was mumbling to herself and people were staring. Stop it, Kimmie, she told herself. But her mouth wouldn’t obey.

Sometimes she listened to herself as if she were someone else talking, and that’s how it was on this day. She smiled at a little girl, and the girl returned the kindness by making a face at her.

So it must be especially bad.

With ten thousand eyes drilling into her, she got off a few stops early. That was the last time she would take the bus, she promised herself. People were simply too close. The S-train was better.

‘Much better,’ she said aloud, as she made her way along Store Kongensgade. There were almost no people on the street. Almost no cars. Almost no voices in the back of her head.

Kimmie reached the building at Indiakaj straight after the lunch hour. At Brand Nation she discovered the yawningly empty parking spot that, according to an enamel sign, belonged to Torsten Florin.

She opened her handbag and glanced inside. She had stolen the handbag in the foyer of the Palace Cinema from a girl who’d been preoccupied with herself and her reflection in the mirror.

According to her health insurance card, the bimbo’s name was Lise-Maja Petterson. Probably another victim of numerology, she thought, pushing the hand grenade aside and pulling out one of Lise-Maja’s insanely tasty Peter Jackson fags. ‘Smoking Causes Heart Disease’ the packet read.

Lighting up, she laughed aloud, then inhaled deeply into her lungs. She had been smoking ever since she’d been kicked out of boarding school and her heart still beat just fine. It wouldn’t be a heart attack that would do her in, she knew that much.

After a couple of hours she’d emptied the pack, smudging the butts all over the flagstones. Then she grabbed one of the young women sashaying in and out of Brand Nation’s glass doors.

‘Do you know when Torsten Florin will be back?’ she asked, and was answered with silence and a disapproving glare.

‘Do you?’ she said more emphatically, tugging at the girl’s arm.

‘Let go!’ the girl shouted, twisting Kimmie’s arm round with both hands.

Kimmie narrowed her eyes. She hated it when people touched her, hated it when they wouldn’t answer and hated their stares. In one fluid movement, she swung her free arm until it struck the girl’s cheekbone.

The girl dropped like a rag doll. It was a good feeling, and yet it also wasn’t. Kimmie knew this wasn’t how people were supposed to act.

‘Tell me,’ she said, leaning over the shocked woman. ‘Do you know when Torsten Florin’s coming back?’

When the woman stuttered no for the third time, Kimmie turned on her heels, fully aware she couldn’t return for a while.

She ran into Rat-Tine on the crumbling concrete corner outside of Jacob’s Full House on Skelbækgade. She was standing underneath the proprietor’s sign that read THE SEASON’S MUSHROOMS, with her plastic bag and her make-up long since smeared. The first johns she blew in the alleys had been rewarded with sharply drawn eye make-up and rouged cheeks, but the remaining customers would have to settle for less. Her lipstick was now blotched and it was clear she’d removed semen from her face with her sleeves. Tine’s customers didn’t use condoms. It had been years since she’d been in a position to demand that. Years since she’d been in a position to demand anything at all.

‘Hi, Kimmie! Hi, sweetie! Fucking great to see you,’ she snuffled, wobbling towards Kimmie on legs as thin as a crane fly’s. ‘I’ve been looking for you, sweetie,’ she said, waving her freshly lit fag. ‘Did you know that people are asking about you down at the central station?’

She seized Kimmie by the arm and escorted her to the benches across the street at Café Yrsa.

‘Where have you been? I’ve missed you so fucking much,’ Tine said, fishing a couple of beers from her plastic bag.

As Tine opened the bottles, Kimmie glanced towards the Fisketorv Shopping Centre.

‘Who asked about me?’ she said, pushing the bottle back to Tine. Beer was the drink of the proletariat. She’d learned that growing up.

‘Oh, just some blokes.’ Tine set the extra bottle under the bench. She was happy sitting there, Kimmie knew, in that spot where she felt most at home; beer in one hand, money in her pocket and yellowed fingers pinching a fresh cigarette.

‘Tell me everything, Tine.’

‘Oh, Kimmie, I don’t remember so well, you know. It’s the junk, innit? Then it doesn’t work so good in here.’ She patted her head. ‘But I didn’t say anything. Just told ’em I didn’t know a fucking thing about who you were.’ She smiled, shaking her head. ‘They showed me a picture of you, Kimmie. My God, but you were fine in those days, Kimmie, love.’ She took a long drag on her fag. ‘I was nice-looking, too, once, I was. Someone told me that once. His name was …’ She stared into space. That was also gone.

Kimmie nodded. ‘Was there more than one who asked for me?’

Tine nodded and took another gulp. ‘There were two, but not at the same time. One of them came at night, just before the station closed. So maybe it was around four in the morning. Could that be right, Kimmie?’

Kimmie shrugged. Now that she knew there were two, it didn’t really matter.

‘How much?’ The question came from a man standing right in front of Kimmie, but she didn’t react. This was Tine’s business.

‘How much for a blow job?’ he repeated.

She felt Tine’s elbow in her side. ‘He’s asking you, Kimmie,’ she said, gone from the world. She’d already earned all she needed for the day.

Kimmie raised her head and saw an ordinary-looking man with his hands in his coat pocket, wearing a pathetic expression on his face.

‘Sod off,’ she said, giving him a murderous glare. ‘Sod off before I smack you.’

He stepped back and straightened up, then smiled crookedly, as if the threat alone were satisfaction enough.

‘Five hundred. Five hundred if you wash your mouth first. I won’t have any of your slime on my cock, you hear?’

He pulled money from his pocket and flashed the bills, and the voices in Kimmie’s head grew louder. Come on, whispered one. He’s asking for it, sounded the rest. She grabbed the bottle under the bench and put it to her mouth as the man tried to stare her down.