The Therapist

by Helene Flood

  “So what can I help you with?” Arild says.

  He’s speaking with the soft accent of people who come from somewhere just outside Drammen, from Mjøndalen or Hokksund or thereabouts. Somewhat relaxed, as if with a slight delay, and to hear him offering his help does wonders for me. He sounds safe.

  “Someone keeps breaking into my house,” I say.

  I tell him the whole story. About Sigurd’s murder, the nightly break-ins. The indifference of the police, the fridge magnets, the moment with Fredly out on the lawn in which I understood that they view me as hysterical. “I see,” Arild says as I explain, “right, yes, I see.” For not a moment does it seem that he thinks me highly strung, or that I’m making it all up. He listens. Sometimes asks me questions. So is it right that the front door was locked every time, and there was no sign of a break-in? Do you have any kind of burglar alarm? As I reach the end of the story, he says:

  “I’d recommend one of our more comprehensive packages. An alarm with motion detectors for zones inside the house, for example, so that any movement outside your bedroom will trigger the alarm at night. A separate perimeter alarm that covers all the doors. New locks, of course, and perhaps some reinforced locks as well – we can discuss the options. And then I’d probably recommend some motion-triggered lights outside the house, too, at least outside the front entrance. Whether these are connected to the alarm is up to you.”

  “I want everything,” I say.

  “Of course, that’s going to be a bit more expensive.”

  “I don’t care. I want to feel safe.”

  Whether it’s the money that triggers this I don’t know, but Arild promises that he’ll take care of it personally, with his assistant, and that they’ll be here within half an hour. I should just try to relax in the meantime. I give him the address, and before we hang up, he says:

  “See you soon.”

  These words fill me with an indescribable relief. Arild is on his way.

  Gundersen calls while I’m waiting for Arild, and I tell him about the revolver.

  “You had a firearm in the house, and you never thought to mention it?” he says, obviously irritated.

  “I didn’t even think of it,” I say. “I mean, I could have kept it on my bedside table to defend myself against intruders, but I’d completely forgotten that it was there. I don’t even know whether it works. Sigurd’s grandfather said it did, but, I mean, it’s as old as the hills.”

  “Under no circumstances should you ever keep a gun in the bedroom for protection,” Gundersen barks. “Guns can be extremely dangerous – you might end up getting shot. Or killing someone. You’re intelligent enough to know that, Sara. And unless you have a permit, it’s illegal for you even to have it in the first place.”

  “I know,” I sigh. “But that’s exactly what I’m saying, I didn’t even think about it being up there.”

  There’s a roaring sound behind him. Perhaps he’s in his car, perhaps it’s the traffic I can hear.

  “When did you last see it?”

  I think about this.

  “We saw it when we went through all the stuff when we moved in, so maybe August of last year. Or, wait, I was cleaning up there some time in the autumn – I opened the box then, and looked at it. You know, he said it was worth something, and it had some carvings on the grip, I just wanted to see. But other than that? No, that must’ve been the last time. We never used the room.”

  “When in the autumn?”

  “I was doing a sort of pre-Christmas clean. So at the end of November, perhaps.”

  Gundersen goes quiet for a moment. I imagine him parking, turning the steering wheel back and forth to move the car into position, looking over his shoulder as he reverses.

  “I see,” he says eventually. “So for all you know, Sigurd might have taken it in connection with something unrelated.”

  “And what would that be?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to sell it, if it was so valuable.”

  “Well, maybe,” I say. “I don’t know. All I know is that it was there at the end of November, and now it’s gone.”

  Gundersen is silent again.

  “So it isn’t possible that someone on your team might have taken it, then?” I ask hopefully.

  It would be nice if that were the case. Comforting to know that the stupid revolver I had completely forgotten about is now safely stored at police headquarters; has been entered in the register as being in Gundersen’s possession.

  “No,” Gundersen says firmly. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else I should know about, Sara? No other weapons? Hunting rifles or flamethrowers – or what do I know? No old, attractively decorated instruments of torture? No intricate surveillance systems?”

  “No,” I say, tired now. “Not that I know of. But listen – this isn’t information I’ve deliberately withheld. I just didn’t think of it.”

  “I understand. I have to go now, but we’ll keep in touch.”

  After we hang up I stay at the table, drumming my fingers against its surface. I daren’t even touch my things, daren’t open my drawers or make myself a cup of something, coffee or tea, for fear that the intruder may have tampered with whatever is in the cabinets. Instead, I sit and wait, an uncomfortable rumbling in my stomach after the conversation with Gundersen – my dawning realisation that I’m about to lose his sympathy.

  Arild looks to be in his fifties, with greying, red curly hair and a broad-shouldered, stocky build that gives him a teddy-bearish appearance. At the centre of his face is a grey, bushy moustache that hangs down over his mouth like a brush. As he amiably shakes my hand and says that it’s nice to meet me I have the desire to collapse against his chest, because he’s exactly the kind of person I need: a safe, stable father figure, quite unlike my actual father, and equipped with a battery of effects that are to be used for my protection. He has a young lad with him who can’t be more than twenty – a lanky, silent, shy kid named Kristoffer, who Arild refers to as “the apprentice”.

  “Right,” Arild says, setting his hands squarely on his hips, “so this is the house we need to secure.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Shall I show you around?”

  We start in the front hallway, and I show them the study in the cellar that was once going to be the nursery, the laundry room, the second bedroom downstairs, and the storeroom. Then we go up to the first floor and they eagerly examine the kitchen and living room. Arild gestures to his apprentice, signalling him to come over, and they stand and study the lock on the veranda door with interest. I show them the kitchen entrance and unlock it, so they can inspect the door from both inside and out. Then we go up to the second floor and they check the bedroom – especially the bedroom window – and the bathroom, and then we go all the way up to the loft. I tell them about Old Torp, and about the missing revolver, since the thought of it has been bothering me since my telephone conversation with Gundersen. Down in the kitchen again, Arild sketches a quick plan of the four floors of the house.

  “So,” he says. “My first thought is that we have to secure all the doors. The veranda door has a pretty poor lock, and the timber it’s sitting in is so rotten that with a little force it could be kicked in – I’m not saying this to frighten you, Sara, but we have to be realistic. At some point you should replace the door, but I think a decent lock will do the trick in the meantime. I have a buddy up in Nittedal who’s a locksmith – a really talented guy. The kitchen entrance should have a new lock, too, and we should put an extra security lock on both. It seems your intruder may have a key as there’s no sign of damage to any of the doors or windows, so unless they’ve been open – and you say they haven’t – it’s the front door we need to concentrate on. But we don’t know what the perpetrator will do if he wants to get in but finds the front door impenetrable, so I think we should secure all potential entrances as best we can. Make it really di
fficult for him, right?”

  “Yes,” I say gratefully, “I agree.”

  “Good,” Arild says, and a smile lights up his bushy face. “We’ll change the lock on the front door, and then I think we should slap on a really good safety lock, with double mountings and full retention. A lock you shouldn’t mess around with. My buddy up in Nittedal has a few options to choose from, and I suggest we go for one of the best available. With a safety chain and extra lock, for additional security. The perimeter alarm will make sure that all attempts to come in or out of the doors trigger the main alarm – you can leave the alarm on all the time, just turn it off when you’re coming in or going out, at least while things are as they are. You should turn on the motion sensor alarm inside the house when you go to bed, and if you want we can secure the bedroom window against forced entry and get a proper lock for the bedroom door, so that you’ll feel safe in your bedroom even if the alarm goes off in the house.”

  “Yes,” I say, feeling the night’s anxiety dissolve and trickle down to the floor at this thought.

  “All the alarms are connected to our security centre in Økern,” Arild says, “and that’s manned around the clock. Usually we call you and agree whether we should come out or not, but in this case I think we should activate a “code red”, which means that we’ll come out regardless of what you say to us on the phone. I mean, for the time being. Until your . . .”

  He looks towards the window, embarrassed.

  “. . . Until your husband’s case is solved.”

  “Good,” I say.

  “The apprentice and I will get to work straight away. It’ll take a few hours to install everything, so you carry on with whatever you’d planned to do today, and we’ll work around you. Is it O.K. that we make a copy of the key to the front door to keep at our central security office?”

  I give them everything they ask for. While they’re in the house I feel safe enough to take a shower and get dressed. Only when I’m waiting for the train does it hit me that I’ve made myself vulnerable by giving strangers I found online full access to my home.

  I see them from a distance when I come out of the station. They are standing there, waiting for me. Margrethe’s slim, long-legged figure, a touch unstable for the occasion, beside a tall, stoop-shouldered man who must be Harald. Beside him stands a short, thin female figure – surely the infamous Lana Mei. I’m too far away to see them in detail, but Margrethe’s silhouette is unmistakable.

  They don’t see me. They stand there, talking among themselves. Harald and his girlfriend pull their jackets close against the wind. Margrethe simply stands there. I haven’t seen her in several days. Maybe I should have been to see her, but I don’t know. Does she not have an equal obligation to call on me? Perhaps she’d rather be alone, as would I. I can’t imagine we’d be any comfort to one another.

  I stop for a moment and watch them – a family waiting for someone. It occurs to me that they’re not waiting for me – although of course that’s what they would answer were you to ask them – they’re waiting for him. Sigurd’s family, standing there waiting for Sigurd. I want to turn and go home. Sigurd will never come, of course. But maybe it’s not him they’re waiting for. Perhaps they’re just waiting for time to pass. Or to start moving again.

  Harald sees me when I’m fifty metres away. He lifts a hand and waves, and this acts as a signal to the two women, who turn their heads towards me as I approach.

  “Hello,” I say.

  They look at me. Margrethe’s eyes are both red and dull. I hug her; there’s no strength in her body. I hug Harald, who is stiff and unfamiliar, but who at least pats my back, if only lightly. Then I meet Lana Mei.

  Sweet is what you’d call her. As in the photographs I’ve seen, although perhaps less attractive in reality. At least here, in this car park in Smestad, where there’s nobody to pose for. She takes my hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she says in her nasal American voice with a subdued smile, “although I’m so very sorry for the circumstances.”

  I try to smile. I’ve hated the thought of Lana Mei since Margrethe first showed Sigurd and me a photograph of her, when she told us how Harald’s new girlfriend was “tremendously clever” and had “a PhD in applied physics” and “a really great job at one of those energy companies in California who are going to solve the climate crisis and save the world”, but now that I know we’ll never get to know each other – she’s on the way into the family and I’m on my way out – I feel a kind of familial goodwill towards her. But I can’t summon a smile.

  “Well,” Harald says, pulling his jacket around him, “shall we go in?”

  The man who greets us is around my age, smartly dressed in a suit. He takes each of our hands in turn, holding my and Margrethe’s hands the longest, the same time for both of us. We follow him to his office.

  “There are many choices to make,” he says solemnly. “But I’m here to help you.”

  It surprises me that he manages to balance his tone so perfectly; not too sorrowful, but not too ordinary or chummy, either. He seems almost neutral. It occurs to me that I’ve already forgotten his name.

  Then the discussion starts. Which coffin, with what kind of lining? Which flowers? Where would we like to hold the ceremony, and will it be a religious one or not? Do we have a plot for the grave, and, if not, have we thought about where we would like him to be buried? These are absurd questions – I can’t take them seriously. But Margrethe, who has obviously taken some strong barbiturates to have any hope of keeping herself together, suddenly springs into action. She’s thought about this. She wants a classic, elegant coffin with gold fittings. This will be expensive, but she’s paying. She wants the ceremony to be held in the crematorium at Vestre Gravlund, and wants Sigurd to be buried in the graveyard there, in the grave in which her parents are buried.

  “Where I, too, will be interred,” she says. There is something tragic, but also a trifle theatrical, in her voice.

  The director, if that’s what we’re supposed to call him, nods slowly, as if this is a carefully considered and tasteful choice, and then turns towards me.

  “And how do you feel about that?” he says.

  “That’s fine by me,” I say, my voice thick.

  I’m grateful that he’s asked me, but unable to form an opinion. Margrethe brings up the dilemma of red and white roses or white lilies.

  “What do you all think Sigurd would have liked?” she says.

  I have to bite my lip to restrain a sound that’s bubbling up through my chest. What would Sigurd have liked? He would have liked to live longer than to the age of thirty-two. But there’s no point in saying this out loud. It’s hard for me to imagine him having a strong opinion one way or the other when the question is whether roses or lilies would provide the better decoration at his own funeral service.

  Only once during the proceedings do I form an opinion. We’re talking about the music. Margrethe suggests “Solveig’s Song” by Edvard Grieg and “Bridge over Troubled Water” by Simon and Garfunkel.

  “Not that last one,” I say. “Sigurd didn’t like that song.”

  “We used to listen to it when he was small,” Margrethe says, hurt. “He used to sit close to me and listen.”

  “He didn’t like it,” I say. “A couple we know played it at their wedding, and he said he thought it was a cliché.”

  “He never told me that,” she says.

  I shrug.

  “I don’t know how strongly he felt about it, but I’m not going to sit there and listen to a song he told me he thinks is a cliché. Sigurd hates clichés.”

  “For God’s sake, Sara, would you stop saying cliché,” Margrethe says crossly, and for a moment I think I see the old Margrethe appear in the midst of the fog the sedatives have put her in. “I like that song. It reminds me of Sigurd.”

  The funeral director clears his thro
at.

  “We do recommend that people choose something that everyone can feel happy with,” he says, and Margrethe turns her gaze on him.

  “This is my son we’re talking about,” she says. “He’ll be with me for the rest of my life. Can you say the same, Sara?”

  Tears spring into my eyes at this. Margrethe has always known how to strike down her opponents, and like any proficient poison tongue she knows that it’s the truth that hits the hardest. How will I think of Sigurd in ten years, or in twenty? What place will he occupy in the story of my life, should it ever be told? I haven’t had a chance to think about that yet. In the time that has passed since Sigurd disappeared – less than a week – I’ve just been trying to cope. The thought of all the years that lie ahead is so huge. What will I do with them?

  Then Harald recrosses his legs.

  “Mamma,” he says, “I’m sure there are other songs you listened to with Sigurd when he was small.”

  I look at him from the corner of my eye and feel a tenderness towards him at the fact that he’s taking my side in the matter. Me – about to disappear from the family, and whom he’s never really known. I see now that he resembles Sigurd, a little. A certain integrity in cases like this, matters of principle. The way in which he tightens his jaw when he steels himself against his mother. Perhaps they got this from their father.

  Margrethe lets out a sob and looks away.

  “Didn’t we used to listen to Bob Dylan when he was little?” Harald asks.

  “And what would you have them play?” Margrethe says. “‘Like a Rolling Stone’?”