The Therapist

by Helene Flood

  “Someone has been in my house.”

  “O.K.,” Fredly says, and she seems alert, on the lookout.

  “They might still be inside,” I sob.

  “We’ll check it out,” she says, and the west-side bitch gets into the car again, perhaps to call for backup. “Just tell me what happened.”

  “I came downstairs this morning and saw that someone had been here,” I say. “They took all the pictures off the fridge door and moved all the magnets.”

  “The fridge door?”

  “Yes. We put various bits and bobs up there, photographs, postcards, menus and stuff, but now it’s all gone.”

  “Right. Is there anything else – I mean, has anything been stolen?”

  “I don’t know. I only saw that everything on the fridge was gone, and then I ran.”

  “Are you sure that the pictures were there when you went to bed?” asks a voice from behind us, and I see that the posh west-side cow has returned from the car.

  “Yes,” I say. “I mean, I would have noticed if they hadn’t been there.”

  “Right.”

  “Was there any sign of forced entry?” Fredly says.

  “I don’t know,” I say, starting to feel uneasy – why are they asking all these questions, are they not going to do something?

  “Was the front door open? Had the lock been removed, or anything like that?”

  I think back.

  “No,” I say. “It was locked.”

  They exchange glances, a kind of understanding passing between them. I withdraw, taking a step back, so that Fredly’s arm, still on my shoulder, releases me.

  “Aren’t you going to investigate?”

  There’s something heavy weighing on them now – no, something resigned.

  “Of course,” Fredly says, amiably. “Of course we’ll investigate.”

  Something about her voice is patronising, as if I’m a child, as if they’re my babysitters and I’m asking them to search the cellar for ghosts.

  They go inside. I lean against the police car and wait. It doesn’t look as if any backup is coming. I wait for a while, standing there in the freezing cold, realising that I should have stopped and put on a pair of trainers while I was running for my life. I put one foot on top of the other, planning to swap them, to divide up the exposure to the cold. A little more time passes. I see the policewoman who isn’t Fredly open the veranda door and close it again. I walk across the lawn and into the front hallway.

  I meet Fredly in the living room. Her colleague is up on the second floor, checking all the windows. She hands me a pile of photographs and paper.

  “Is this them?” she asks.

  I look at them.

  “Yes.”

  Is there anything missing? I try to remember – which photographs did we have pinned up? The postcard Margrethe sent from Budapest – did we throw it out a couple of weeks ago, or was it still hanging there?

  “There are no signs of a break-in,” Fredly says.

  I nod. We look over at the kitchen, at the incriminating fridge magnets. I feel the blood start to rush into my face, red and hot. There was I in my dressing gown, running screaming and barefoot through slush and mud, all because of seven fridge magnets.

  But someone was here, I know it. It would be no different if someone had taken Sigurd’s laptop or gone through all our cupboards, but there’s something ridiculous about the fact that they’ve taken photographs from the fridge door. It seems so meaningless. There was nothing of importance on the fridge door, that’s obvious enough. It seems meaningless to have killed Sigurd, too. There must be a pattern.

  “Check that everything’s here,” Fredly says. “I mean, check your documents, valuables, that kind of thing.”

  She’s taking it seriously, I’ll give her that, but she doesn’t sound very enthusiastic. Fridge magnets. When they’re investigating a murder. I poke through a couple of drawers; the deeds to the house, tax returns. In the top of one of them is Sigurd’s appointment book, where I put it yesterday. Atkinson. Something squeezes in my chest. I take the book, tuck it inside my dressing gown. My hands are still shaking.

  Breathe, and start again. I stand in the shower and let the hot water warm my body. My frozen feet finally start to thaw out and prickle with pins and needles. Stay calm. Relax. See the world as it is. Fear is natural, I’m off balance, have experienced two break-ins just days after my husband was killed. But fear cannot be trusted. It tricks the senses, turns up the heat on reason. Breathe.

  Someone was in my house again last night. It seems undeniable. I know now that it wasn’t Sigurd. I also know that the door was locked when I ran outside. I remember running into it, cursing the delay caused by my having to unlock the door, because I feared I had an insane murderer at my heels. Well. The house was empty, but that doesn’t mean that whoever was here hadn’t either broken in, or – and this is the more disquieting alternative – had a key.

  My keys are in my handbag. Sigurd’s keys are with the police. Margrethe has her set of keys. That’s all.

  But of course it’s possible to make copies. I think about this. I once lost the keys to our previous apartment, and had to have new ones made. The key to the main front door was a security key that could not be copied, but the key that opened the door to our apartment had no such security. I could go to the key cutter at the Storo shopping centre and in less than half an hour make as many copies as I wanted. So Sigurd might have made copies without my knowing about it. He could have doled out spare keys left, right and centre. Why he would do such a thing I have no idea, but it seems he kept more secrets from me than I thought. What Mammod told me – about the woman waiting for him, the one with medium-length blondish hair. I have a mental picture of her, leaning against the lamp post outside the FleMaSi offices, eyes searching for him. Is she a person Sigurd might have given a set of keys to?

  And then the fridge magnets. My mind is blank. All the photog- raphs I can remember are there, but there are still some things I’m unsure about: the postcard from Margrethe, a list of items we were going to buy from Maxbo to do up the bathroom. Did we throw away the postcard? Did Sigurd take down the shopping list, or might I have done so myself? But why would anyone be interested in what Margrethe wrote to us from Budapest? Why would anyone care about what supplies we needed to buy? My head is spinning again, and I press my hands against Old Torp’s dirty tiles. Codes in shopping lists; mystical postcards that might not be from Margrethe, after all. It’s too far-fetched.

  It’s Wednesday. The day lies open before me – all my patients have been cancelled. I don’t know what to do, but I am certain that I don’t want to stay here, with the police rummaging around and the fridge magnets screaming at me. I could go into the city. Take a walk – around St Hanshaugen, for example. Sigurd’s appointment book is in here with me, sitting beside the sink, beneath my dressing gown, and I think of the last pages, the ones containing the addresses. Atkinson. Or is that a stupid idea? Will I get myself mixed up in something if I go over there? I turn off the water. It’s best to take it easy. Breathe. Start again.

  When I go downstairs there is no-one in the kitchen. The police car is gone. I stand at the window and see Fredly’s paper cup still on the ground where she dropped it, and I just know the police are done with the whole fridge magnet story. I see myself as they must see me: a woman in the process of losing her mind. My credibility has gone up in smoke. On Monday we talked about professional principles, the right of patients to expect that their medical records will not be shared. I saw Sasha. There’s much that I have lost in just a few days.

  But I would like to ensure my personal safety. I take out my tablet and search for security systems, for burglar alarms. One of the first companies to come up is called Arild’s Security. The logo is a house with a lock around it, and there’s something reassuring about the image. A proper lock – that’s w
hat I need, I think.

  I tap the number into the telephone, but stand there without calling. Look at the number and think, am I sure? Were the fridge magnets really in their usual places yesterday evening? Can I be absolutely sure? How about when I stood in the kitchen tidying up yesterday night, after Annika and I had supper? I remember how I put the dishes in the dishwasher, visualise the fridge door. I only swept it with my gaze, but yes, everything was there as usual – the restaurant menus, the photographs, a memo about recycling. Are the postcard and shopping list there? I can’t focus in on these details – can’t force my memory to recall whether they’re there or not. But everything else is there. Or is it? Am I misremembering? Am I imagining another day? Is Annika even there in this specific memory,? I try to force my gaze out into the room, looking for her in my mind, but it’s impossible to find her there. I see only the fridge door and the open dishwasher.

  I remember little from after I came home from the Institute of Public Health. I must have walked up to the first floor. Probably drank a glass of water in the kitchen. Probably tidied away whatever had been left out. But these memories are unclear, they slide away whenever I try to fix my gaze on them. Me – who always remembers everything. Might I have moved the fridge magnets myself? Been so distraught that I did so without realising? Been in such a daze that I now can’t recall? Am I still able to trust what I see, what I remember?

  The telephone number shines from the screen of my mobile. Arild’s Security. I change my mind. Save the number on my phone. I can always call later.

  *

  A few hours later I’m crossing the cemetery on foot. I find it oddly quiet here. No groups of schoolchildren wearing reflect-ive vests and backpacks; no teachers counting them over and over again to be sure they haven’t lost anyone, as there would have been up at St Hanshaugen. No hipster couples drinking coffee from reusable cups, jabbering away about this concert and that new bar. No post-natal groups, the rows of new mothers with their prams before them like shields. The cemetery is almost empty. An older lady with a walking stick. A girl with a dog on a lead. The headstones. Big, ancient trees.

  The Atkinsons’ apartment is a couple of streets up, in an old, classical apartment building. It looks well maintained. Not particularly fashionable, as the buildings further up are – just normal. The paint is peeling only a little here and there. The gate is open. I walk in, manage a peek into the rear courtyard, catch sight of a bicycle with a child seat on the back and a pink doll’s pram. I go into the stairwell, which is spacious, so different from the way Sigurd and his architect friends design stairwells – today every square metre counts. The Atkinsons live on the ground floor. The door says only this – atkinson – on an old brass sign attached to the door with rusty screws. I summon up my courage, try to plan what I’ll say. All Sigurd has told me about them is that the husband is English and works in the shipping industry, and that she’s a total bitch. But I no longer trust the things Sigurd has said. The Atkinsons? They could be anyone.

  I ring the doorbell. It screams out, loud and aggressive within. I hear no movement, but I wait. The paint on the door frame is peeling in places, the doormat on which I’m standing hasn’t been shaken for a long while. I don’t know whether or not this means anything.

  I push the button again, hear the same piercing sound of the doorbell and then footsteps inside. My stomach churns. Am I about to tread on Gundersen’s toes? But it’s too late to turn back now, and nor do I want to. There’s a click as the lock turns. The door opens a crack, held back by a thick security chain, and a voice, thin and full of air, says:

  “Yes?”

  I peer into the crack, see only the contours – a white cloud of hair, a light-blue eye.

  “Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “My name is Sara. I’m here on behalf of FleMaSi Architects.”

  Silence.

  “Yes?” the voice says again.

  It smells sweetish in there, heavy and close, an old-fashioned smell, dirty and fragrant at the same time.

  “I was just wondering about something.”

  I clear my throat again.

  “I’m Sigurd’s assistant. Sigurd Torp.”

  The door opens a few more centimetres and now I see her. She’s small and old, at least eighty. Her skin isn’t actually wrinkled, not on her face, but her white hair is sparse, almost transparent, and her throat is nothing but sinew and folds of skin. She’s wearing a dress with a pattern of blue flowers, and has the kind of blue eyes that only old people have, astoundingly pale blue and a little damp, as if the sun has bleached them, worn them out over the decades. On top of all the other odours she smells of smoke. She has a small, thin mouth, and a red tongue that wets her lips. Around her neck is a heavy gold chain. Now she smiles at me; she stares and smiles.

  “So!” she says. “You’re Sigurd Torp’s assistant.” Her speech is a drawl – had I met her at the clinic, I would have guessed that she uses some kind of strong sedative. I’m a touch disappointed that I’m not standing opposite the mysterious woman with dirty blonde hair.

  “Yes,” I say. “There’s something he was wondering about. Or rather, we were – at the office. Is it . . . I mean . . . Can I come in?”

  She nods slowly, closes the door, rattles the chain and then opens the door wide. Now the smell of the apartment streams towards me – thick smoke, perfume and old lady. It seems that this is the first time in several days that fresh air has been let in. I go in regardless, taking a deep breath and diving into the hallway. She’s barefoot, smoking a cigarette in a holder.

  “There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” I say as she closes and locks the door behind me.

  “Come through first,” she says.

  She walks past me and I follow her into the living room. The smoke is dense; the room dim because the blinds are closed, but the sun outside is shining so brightly that strips of light break in: one grazes the fireplace so that the ornaments on the mantelpiece are lit up; another hits the dark mahogany bookcase; a third is reflected back into my eyes from a bell jar standing on a set of nesting tables beside a gigantic brocade armchair. The mistress of the house sits down on the edge of a shiny, dark-wood chair. She’s put up her white hair in a plastic clip. Now she taps the ash from her cigarette into a huge ebony ashtray. I look around, mostly to avoid looking at her, letting my gaze roam across the old-fashioned suite and the paintings on the wall; a blotchy painting of two small children in sailor suits, a painting of a strict-looking man in uniform in a silver frame.

  “Would you like some tea?” the woman asks.

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  She remains in her seat, taps the ash from her cigarette again, takes another drag. I look at her bare feet – they’re swollen, almost blue. She carefully extinguishes her cigarette, takes the butt from the holder and puts it in the ashtray. For a moment she holds the cigarette holder up in the air; there are intricate patterns along its length. She studies them.

  “Do you like it?” she asks me.

  “Yes,” I say, and swallow.

  The air in here is dry. I wish I had a bottle of water with me.

  “I bought it in Paris,” she says.

  She puts the cigarette holder in a box on the table, closing the lid with some effort.

  “It’s just a piece of cheap crap,” she says then, and pushes the box across the table.

  I nod. She gets up from the chair.

  “Just take a seat,” she says. “I’ll put the water on to boil.”

  She disappears out of the room behind a curtain. I look over at the chair in which she was sitting, at the cushion made of an expensive fabric, now worn thin. At the same moment something touches my leg, making me jump – a fat, fluffy cat rubs itself against my calf. It doesn’t even look up when I jump. A low, grumbling sound comes from its throat, and I don’t understand it, how cats make that sound – it seems foreign,
doesn’t sound like something that should come from an animal. The cat rubs itself. I don’t move. When it has finished with me it swaggers off, tail in the air. Halfway across the floor it turns and looks at me, its eyes narrow and green. I notice something moving in the bookcase – a cat drawing itself along a row of books with red spines, one shelf above the ribbon of light. Out in the kitchen some pots clatter against one another. I turn my head, eyes searching the sofa, where there’s yet another cat, this one white and just as fat and long-haired as the one that stroked my leg. I can’t believe Sigurd never told me about this: the smell of smoke, and all the cats.

  The mistress of the house glides back into the room. She now has a tiara in her hair, the cheap kind that little girls want for Christmas, covered in plastic gemstones and glitter. I make no comment on it; I don’t know what to say.

  “I’ve put the water on,” she says.

  “Yes,” I say. “Are you Fru Atkinson?”

  “Yes,” she says, and smiles. She’s missing several teeth. “That’s me – nice to meet you.”

  She curtsies, her feet pointing towards each other, and for a moment she looks like a child.

  “Sara,” I say.

  “Yes,” she says. “You already said.”

  “Is it,” I ask clumsily, “I mean, is it here that Sigurd’s been designing something? In this room?”

  She shakes her head. A fourth cat brushes past her legs and vanishes out into the kitchen.

  “I’m not completely sure,” I say, dragging it out as my mind spins in an attempt to find the right angle, “I’m not completely sure, but wasn’t it a cellar extension he was supposed to be working on?”

  I’m not used to obtaining information without being honest. Psychologists can ask about almost any private matter; for architects’ assistants it’s presumably a little different. Fru Atkinson studies me, her small marble-like eyes rolling in her head.