by Helene Flood
“Have you called the police?” Kristoffer says once he’s finished securing the house.
“No,” I say, without looking up from the glass sphere.
“We probably should.”
“Soon.”
I don’t move. The key has come back to me, an intruder has thrown it through the glass panel, and yet it looks so innocent, there on the table. Just a bubble of glass, some twine and the key to a front door. What does it mean? Why was it returned in this way? Is it a challenge, or an invitation? Or a hint?
I’m not afraid. Krokskogen. It seems so easy, so simple. Inside the sphere, behind the mesh of the crocheted twine, it’s as if I catch a glimpse of something. But it only lasts for a moment, and then it’s gone.
“O.K., then,” the apprentice says.
He looks at me; I look at the glass ball.
“I should get back to the office,” he says.
“O.K.,” I say.
He waits. Wants me to say something more, to look at him, but I feel so far away. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that he’s observing me, standing there with his arms at his sides and waiting for me to come to my senses, and somewhere, in the very back of my mind, it dawns on me – there are social norms to be adhered to when someone is a visitor in your house – you should listen to them, respond to what they say, see them to the door. But I have no time for that. Because if I just concentrate on the garnkule long enough, that glimmer of understanding might come back.
“You should call the police,” Kristoffer says.
“Hmm,” I say.
“Do you feel able to do that?”’
“Yes,” I say, momentarily pulling my gaze away from the object on the table. “Yes, I’ll call them when they’re awake.”
“There’ll be people on duty there now – you can call them right away.”
“I mean, Gundersen,” I say, returning my gaze to the garnkule. “I’ll call Gundersen in a few hours. When I’m sure he’ll be awake.”
There’s no rush. I’ll call the police when I’m ready. They’ll get the message, but not before I feel it’s time. And I have all the time in the world.
“O.K.,” Kristoffer says. He stands there for a minute or two, but when I say nothing more he shoves his hands in his pockets and leaves. Does he say goodbye? I don’t know. I’m not paying attention. I hear his car start. Outside, the sky is starting to brighten.
At around six, I get up from my chair and make breakfast. I eat well. The garnkule is lying beside me, and I glance at it every now and then. The fridge door is bare now – I’ve taken down the magnets – but I don’t feel afraid looking at it. If anything, I feel content. The key has come back. There’s no denying that there’s something threatening about its return, but at the same time it feels as if something is about to become clear to me. As if the answer is now so tangible, so close, that I need only reach out and touch it. I know what I have to do.
I drink a large glass of juice. I shower and get dressed. I make the bed; put my plate and glass in the dishwasher. I take a rucksack from one of the hallway cupboards. Put the kitchen knife in it, just in case. Take the garnkule with me, too. But before I put it in the bag, I hold it up in front of me. Smell it. Does this trigger anything? I’m not sure. I stand this way for a while, the coarse net pressed to my nose, and in the end think it smells only of salt water.
At seven o’clock I put on the alarm, go out, and lock the door behind me. Feeling calm, and with my bag on my back, I set off towards the T-banen.
It’s the kind of early spring day when it feels as if summer might be just around the corner. I’m in a hire car, driving out of the city, against the general flow of the traffic and with my sunglasses on. It’s good to drive – the car does my bidding. I should have brought some music with me, that’s the only thing that’s missing, but soft rock is playing on the radio and that’s good enough. I hum along, feel a wonderful energy coursing through me. I know what I have to do. I also know that I’m taking a risk – the slim figure dressed in black with a hat over its head is certainly more foe than friend. Looking at it like that, Kristoffer is right – I should call the police. But on the other hand . . . I need to know what happened. Whatever the cost. The road before me is lit by the sun as I drive alongside Tyrifjorden, bare birch trees clinging to the rocky mountainsides. Up ahead, at the edge of the forest, there’s still snow.
This is the road taken by Sigurd almost a week ago – I can’t believe coming up here has not occurred to me before now. I imagine I am him, and at the same moment feel a pang of uncertainty. But it feels as if I’m getting closer to him. As if I’m starting to understand.
I park on the road a short distance before Kleivstua, sling the bag onto my back and start to make my way into the forest. It isn’t far to walk, fifteen minutes perhaps, twenty at a stroll. There’s a slight uphill climb at the start. In some places the path is almost grown over, and every now and then the occasional stone pops up in the middle of it – I’m forced to step aside, walk off the track. Only the path is clear – snow still lies around it – and I step into half-melted snowdrifts several times. I get a little out of breath.
It’s a long time since I’ve been here, and I’ve maybe only been three or four times in total. I have never much enjoyed being at the cabin, which doesn’t have running water, so you have to go to the loo in a freezing cold shack. After about a quarter of an hour I start to wonder whether I may have taken a wrong turn – I don’t remember the pile of stones I can see beside me. Nor do I recall the trees being quite so dense – and wasn’t I supposed to pass a bog? My self-confidence from the drive up starts to slip away. I’m sweating. This isn’t what I imagined, the way I thought this would go. I had the idea that I would sail into the forest; that the cabin would be standing there, bathed in sunlight, and enlightenment would wash over me the moment I touched the handle of the front door. Gundersen would never have let me come up here, and that’s why I haven’t called him. Now I’m starting to wonder whether I should have told him what I was planning, after all. I consider taking out my mobile and giving him a call. Maybe I could check the G.P.S. at the same time. But then I see the cabin, a little further up the hillside, shielded from the path by some tall spruces. My memory was correct.
Krokskogen forest is dense, but the cabin itself lies in a clearing atop a knoll, with a kind of view – at least, you can catch a glimpse of the Tyrifjorden from the veranda. Sigurd’s father, the principled woodsman with the mild smile, had it built before Sigurd was born. It’s small and spartan. The solar panel that provides electricity was installed after his death. The cabin’s timber is stained brown, and it has the small, square windows that are typical of cabins all across the country. When I make it up onto the stoop I stand there for a moment, leaning against the railing, to get my breath back.
It’s so quiet here. The cabin is isolated – I can see nothing but trees and glimpses of the fjord between the treetops. I hear no sounds from the road, nor any birds. Were it not for the slight breeze gently rustling the bushes, there would be no sounds to be heard at all. The spruces are so dark – I’ve always disliked them, this dense wall of forest that encloses the cabin. But now that I’m standing here, watching the surface of the Tyrifjorden glitter between the trees, I have to admit that the forest can be beautiful, too. I hope that’s how it seemed to Sigurd – that his final hours were beautiful.
I dig around in my bag and fish out the garnkule. It sits satisfyingly heavy in my hand, the key just a tiny appendage to the sphere of glass. I look at it, trying to recall the calm I felt earlier in the day, without success. I feel a little uneasy now; the darkness of the forest has lodged in my chest. But the key slides into the lock without friction. The heavy door swings open on its well-oiled, well-maintained hinges.
Everything is quiet inside, too. In the living room the items of furniture stand there, turned towards one another, as if deliber
ating a question. Along the wall facing me is the kitchen counter, and on it a plate and an empty glass. One of the chairs around the kitchen table has been pulled out, as if whoever was using it has just popped out for a moment. Nothing suggests that half a dozen police officers in heavy boots have tramped their way through here. They must have taken great pains to put everything back in its proper place. I stand there with my back to the front door, hesitating. Then I pull myself together.
The air isn’t as stuffy as you would expect. I set down my bag beside the front door and cross the floor. The floorboards creak as I step on them; they’re getting old. I go over to the kitchen chair, the one that’s been pulled out. Is this where Sigurd sat that morning? Or did a police officer take a seat here, and forget to push the chair back in upon leaving?
A narrow passage leads off the kitchen to two bedrooms: one for Margrethe, one for the boys. I walk down to the doors; enter Margrethe’s room. There’s the uncomfortable double bed with its pine frame, a patchwork quilt spread across it. There’s the pine wardrobe, and the small iron wall lamps with their checked shades. I trail my fingers across the bedspread. There are no indentations in the duvet, no sign that anyone has sat on the bed.
The door to the boys’ room is locked. I tug on the handle, but it’s stuck.
This surprises me. I didn’t even know it could be locked and have never seen a key in it – but it has a keyhole, so there must be a key. I try it a couple more times, shoving my weight behind the door.
Why would it be locked? Did Sigurd lock it? Or did the police?
I go back to the living room. There’s something I can’t quite put my finger on, some detail I’m missing. I look around. Trail my fingers along the mantelpiece. Not a fleck of dust.
The plate on the kitchen counter has been used – there are crumbs on it. In the sink are a few drops of water. The empty milk glass beside the plate has a white ring around its edge, and above this a faint layer of condensation, as if the glass was recently filled. As if the coldness of the milk still hangs there within it. I press a finger against a breadcrumb on the plate; roll its coarseness against my thumb. There’s a small piece of cheese beside it – I press my finger against this, too. It is soft, gives way. Has no crust, no beads of sweat. Is cold, as if it’s just been taken out of the fridge. I press it down against the plate.
I have to get out of here. Have to take my bag and run, as fast as I can. But I only stand there, as if my eyes are glued to the worktop, staring at the crumbs. My body is so heavy, as if it would take infinite energy to move it. Or maybe it’s just that the moment is over so fast. Because the second I realise, it’s already too late.
A tinny sound reverberates between the walls in the silence: the click of the lock on the boys’ bedroom door.
It’s too late to run. I hear footsteps coming down the corridor and it feels as if the moment lasts and lasts, as if, as I stand there beside the kitchen counter, my back to the living room, I’m waiting.
The footsteps stop behind me. I hear breathing, feverish and quick, and then she says:
“Turn around.”
I don’t want to face her, but it can’t be helped. I turn as slowly as I can. See her stockinged feet on the polished wooden floor, the tattered cuffs of her sweater, the bracelet with its tiny silver pearl, her hands wrapped around something metallic. The blonde hair in a ponytail. Am I surprised? I don’t know who I was expecting to see. It’s as if my mind is too thick, too viscous.
“Vera?” I say, and I say it as a question, as if I can’t quite believe this is happening.
We stand there facing each other, staring. Vera is focused. Her jaw is tense. Then she slowly raises her hands. The metallic object they are holding is a revolver. I can’t be sure, but it looks like the revolver that belonged to Old Torp. I feel cold looking at it – I’m not sure why. I’ve never had a weapon pointed at me before, and this frozen feeling is unlike anything I’ve ever ex-perienced. As if I’m sinking into an ice-cold mountain lake. Only the sensation is coming from inside me.
“Vera?” I ask again. She says nothing. Presses her lips together. I take in every detail about her, have never before examined anyone so intently. The curls at her temples that have escaped from her ponytail; the light flush in her cheeks from clenching her jaw. There is what looks like an acne scar on the side of her nose – it must have been there a long time, so how have I never noticed it before? The nails of the fingers clutching the revolver have been bitten to the quick, but I can hardly see them because I can’t look straight at the revolver – it’s like trying to look directly at the sun. But she’s aiming it at me, I can see that. This is more than just a threat, more than just a play for attention. She concentrates on holding the weapon level, has me right in the line of fire. She’s only eighteen, a secondary school student. I can’t imagine what good it would do her to shoot me.
“Wait,” I say.
I stretch out my hand. Want to say something. Stop her. Help us out of the situation.
“Don’t move,” she says.
Her tone is sharp with the obstinacy that sometimes flares up in her, “Do you even have any friends at all?” I withdraw my hand. She’s already decided.
She cocks the weapon. The silver bracelet around her wrist slips down her forearm to the cuff of her sweater.
Now I have to be smart, be the adult. Be the therapist. Find an opening, the right words for the moment. Hit exactly the right note. There must be a way out, must be words I can say that will reach her. I take a breath.
“No,” she says, before I can say anything. “Today we’re not going to fucking talk.”
She aims. Concentrates. Narrows her eyes. Her jaw quivers. She’s afraid, too – she must be, or agitated at the very least – but she doesn’t want to be helped out of this. Especially not by me. She knows better than everyone else, needs no-one.
My breath comes faster, shallower. I know that I should do something. Appeal to her compassionate side, to the person behind the gun. But I’m losing my grip – the words seem to be slipping away. I can’t think – not like this, with a revolver pointed at me. I’m weak at the knees. So small. Have nothing to say.
“Vera,” I say again.
There’s nothing more to do. Is this how it all ends? I close my eyes.
Saturday, March 14: Waiting, spinning
I wake with a start, my neck aching. I didn’t intend to fall asleep. I was tired, so decided to lie down on the uncomfortable sofa. The clock on the wall beside the door says it’s ten past midnight. It’s Saturday, technically. My neck has been twisted, my head halfway up the armrest. Not the ideal position to sleep in. But I’ve been in this room for almost nine hours. I’ve tried sitting quietly on the sofa, sprawling in the armchair; I’ve tried wandering around, stretching, lying down.
I haven’t asked anyone whether I can go home – I’m afraid of the answer. They’re the police. They might decide to transfer me to a cell. In the meantime, I’ve been left in this room, in limbo. Not detained, nor free to go.
I was questioned in the middle of the day. Two police officers interviewed me, a man in his sixties, grey and ordinary as sliced bread, and a younger one, a woman who looked to be of South East Asian descent. They were professional. Serious. They asked me to tell them what had happened, so I told them. Started with Arild’s Security. Told them how the break-in had bothered me, how the city police had failed to take it seriously. They were impressively expressionless, nodded to indicate that they understood, but didn’t show any embarrassment on behalf of their organisation, seeing as I now have photographic evidence of the intruder – that I was right all along. I tell them about the alarm being triggered, about the figure in black on my front doorstep; about the key to the cabin in Krokskogen. About Vera aiming Sigurd’s grandfather’s revolver at me. This they were less interested in, but they had a few follow-up questions about the break-in.
A
ttempted break-in, we should say. I sign a form that grants them permission to obtain the video footage from Arild Security. They can have whatever they want. The woman accompanies me to this room. On the way I ask her where Gundersen is.
“The investigation is in a critical phase right now,” she says. “That’s why you’ve not been given much information up to this point.”
This doesn’t answer my question. Or maybe it does. I don’t know, and daren’t ask any more questions. I’m already so tired, so heavy-headed. I’ve been thinking, my mind racing since the early hours – since the moment I stood there in the kitchen while Vera pointed the revolver at me. It’s been a lot of work, all this thinking – I no longer have it in me to be logical. The investigators with their stern expressions said nothing about their opinions, about what they thought. When the woman has gone, I start to shiver again. Do they think I killed Sigurd? I didn’t dare ask.
As Vera cocked the weapon I closed my eyes, and just then, when I thought she was about to pull the trigger, we heard footsteps on the front porch – I hadn’t locked the door after me and it was thrown open with full force. We looked towards it, both of us. Into the room stormed Fredly, red in the face and sweaty-browed so that her dark auburn hair curled at her temples, in full uniform, tie and all. The three of us stood there, taking each other in, it couldn’t have been for more than a hundredth of a second, but to me it seemed that time had stopped, as if I could return to it now and look around, examine all the details of that instant, Fredly’s skin, the way in which her nostrils flared, how she stared at us with wide-open eyes. And Vera. The acne scar, the ponytail. Eyes huge, mouth open, but with no air moving in or out of her. She stood stock-still, holding her breath.
Fredly lowered her hand to her hip and drew her weapon; cocked it and pointed it at Vera.
“Drop the gun,” she barked.
