“The Spit of Him,” by Thomas Korsgaard

Henrik extended a hand into the rain.

“What terrible weather,” the man said. “A good thing we took the washing in.”

“We?” Birgitte said.

“Summer’s long gone,” Kevin said. He felt a drip run down his neck.

“Birgitte,” Henrik said. “Why don’t you fetch those cookies?”

“They’re supposed to be for later.”

“Fetch them, go on.”

She stepped past him and disappeared from view.

“The proceeds go to—” Kevin began, only to be cut off. It was Birgitte, back already. Her hands held out a baking tray. She gave it a little shake and the cookies loosened from the greaseproof paper.

“Take one,” she said, looking at Kevin and then at her husband.

“Just the one, mind,” Henrik said.

Kevin’s fingers hovered over the cookies before selecting a medium-sized one.

“Thank you,” he said, and popped it into his mouth.

He shuffled forward, slightly out of the rain. Under-floor heating streamed from the house and warmed his face.

“I know who you are,” Henrik said.

Birgitte looked at her husband in surprise.

Kevin was going to say he knew who they were, too, only his cookie was in the way.

“There’s no mistaking it,” Henrik said, his eyes finding Birgitte as if wanting her to say something, too. “Can’t you see?”

She scrutinized Kevin.

“It’s Åge Jørgensen’s lad,” he said.

A little gasp escaped her. A snap of breath.

“It is, isn’t it?” Henrik said, and then seemed to examine Kevin’s clothing. A moment passed in which Kevin munched and pointed at his mouth, munched and pointed.

Kevin swallowed at last and smiled with pride.

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

“I hadn’t realized,” Birgitte said. She kept looking first at Kevin, then at her husband.

“Do you know my dad?” Kevin said.

“Oh, we don’t know him,” Henrik said, his expression changing. “But we know who he is.”

Kevin gave a puzzled look.

“From when he used to live here,” Henrik explained.

“Here?” Kevin said.

“That’s right,” Henrik said.

“But he’s never lived here.”

They all went quiet.

“You’ll be Jan,” Henrik said after a second.

“Not Jan, Jon,” Kevin said.

“Jon,” Henrik said.

“Jon, yes,” Kevin said. “He’s my younger brother.”

“Yes, you would have a younger brother,” Henrik said, glancing again at Birgitte.

“Two, in a way, if my dad’s new girlfriend’s boy counts. But they live in Pattaya,” Kevin said. “It’s in Thailand.”

“You don’t say,” Henrik said, and laughed as if what Kevin had said was funny.

“Have you been there?” Kevin asked. He smoothed the front of his top.

“No,” Henrik said, rather quickly. “We certainly have not.”

“Me neither,” Kevin said. He could hear his father’s voice in his head: Someday we’ll go there together. Only it’s a bit expensive if we’re all going to go.

One of the candles on the chest of drawers in the hall went out. Birgitte opened a drawer, took out a long-necked lighter, and lit the candle again.

“They’re very nice candles,” Kevin said.

“We produce them ourselves,” Henrik said.

“I know.”

“It keeps half the village in work,” Henrik said. “But what’s your name, if it isn’t Jon?”

“Kevin Jørgensen.”

“Kevin,” Henrik said.

“Yes.”

“Birgitte,” Henrik said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Offer Kevin another cookie, would you?”

Birgitte held out the baking tray. He chose another one and put it in his pocket.

“Thank you very much,” he said.

“Take a couple.”

Kevin studied the cookies again.

“In fact, you can take as many as you like,” Henrik said, and so Kevin took one, two, three more cookies and put them in his pocket.

“Are you sure that’s all? Go on, have some more,” Henrik said.

“I don’t mind if I do,” Kevin said.

“I thought so,” Henrik said.

Kevin didn’t know what else to say. Fortunately, Henrik did.

“You’re the absolute spit of him,” he said.

“The spit?”

“That’s right. You look just like him. Your dad, that is,” Henrik said. “It’s amazing, when you think about it, that a person can look so much like somebody else.”

Kevin’s father was tall and hairy. His forehead was creased, and the creases never went away, not even when he relaxed. His father had five DVDs of porn hidden under the mattress and a bat next to his bed. His father walked with a slight limp and coughed up mucus into the bathroom sink every night without washing it away. His father hated the government, which made people work for their disability benefits. His father was a Libra. His father had green eyes.

“I’ve got my mum’s eyes,” Kevin said, widening them so that both Henrik and Birgitte could see.

“It’s your honker that gives you away,” Henrik said, tapping the side of his own nose with a forefinger. “What’s he doing with himself, anyway?”

“Now, you mean?”

“Yes, now.”

“I can phone him, if you like. But I don’t think he’d answer.”

“I’m sure,” Henrik said.

“It’s because we’ve only got one charger at the moment.”

“Ah.”

“Our dog keeps chewing them up.”

“I see. That’s not very good.”

“No, he chews everything up.”

“Dogs need to be trained, or else—”

“Or else what?” Birgitte said.

“Well, or else you shouldn’t have one.”

“He just needs to learn, that’s all,” Kevin said. “He’s only a puppy.”

Birgitte was about to say something, but then her husband did.

“I saw that advert your dad put in the local paper. What was the slogan, now? It’s slipped my mind.”