by Karin Fossum
Now she was thinking about their telephone conversation. He was upset about something, and as she pulled out onto the highway, a feeling of anxiety crept up on her. Since she detested any feelings resembling sentimentality, her anxiety turned to anger. If Emil had got himself into trouble, she would force him to confess to her whatever it was and then she would clear it up. For more than forty years she had been waiting for something to happen. So she braced herself. She hated tears, despair, and grief, everything that turned sensible adults into soppy, pathetic creatures incapable of action. Whenever it happened she lost her confidence. Her heart was encased in a hard shell, but it still beat with compassion on the inside even when her eyes were bone dry. She hoped for nothing in this world, nothing at all, except death. She had friends, but she was not close to them. They were her audience when she needed to have a good moan, and she allowed herself to be used for the same in return. Occasionally she would laugh, but mostly at the misfortune of others. She was happy to help others, such as her neighbor, Margot, who had broken her hip, but she always did so with a martyred air. Nevertheless, when she finally went to bed at night, she would lie awake worrying about everyone who could not manage as well as she could. Unable to sleep, she would agonize over Margot's hip and the pain it caused her.
Now Emil was troubling her. He had said "no." That was all he ever said, but she knew him well enough to suspect that something had happened. Deep down she believed that her son was able to speak, but that he just did not want to. She had never said it out loud to anyone; no one would believe her anyway, and she regarded it as a personal insult that he had chosen silence. She was less concerned with whether or not he was backward. She no longer had the strength to speculate about him. He was Emil Johannes and she was used to him. She reminded herself that in a few years she might very well be dead and Emil would be pottering about the house while everything grew wild around him. In her mind she could see grass and dandelions creeping up between the floorboards in his kitchen. Perhaps the town would assign him some home help, if anyone dared be around this gruff creature.
She shuddered and realized that they were already in September and all the windows would need a thorough cleaning before the frost set in. Or she could just add a dash of white spirit to the soapy water. Elsa always had a solution to things like that. She pulled up in front of the house and got out of the car. Opened the trunk and lifted out the plastic box. Then she slammed the trunk hard and went over to Emil's front door. It was locked. A bolt of irritation went through her tough body and she started knocking on the window so forcefully that the glass nearly shattered.
"Come on, Emil!" she shouted angrily. "I haven't got time for games today. You're not the only one on my list!"
The house was deadly silent. She listened and knocked on the locked door a few more times. At this point it was purely anger that propelled her as she plonked the plastic box on the steps and went back to her car. He could sulk all he wanted to, she was one step ahead of him. She had her own key to her son's house, obviously. It was in the glove compartment and she fetched it. Resolutely she put the key in the lock. Or rather halfway in. Something was blocking the keyhole. Stunned by this, she remained on the top step while she pushed the key as hard as she could. Still it would not go in. At the same time, it was difficult to pull it back out again. What on earth was he up to? He had shoved something in the hole; the key was stuck in something viscous. Her face turned red with anger, and fear began its journey through her body. It spread from her abdomen and sooner or later it would reach her fossilized heart. She stepped down, emptied the box of cleaning materials, and placed it below the kitchen window. Then she climbed up on it. The kitchen was deserted. But the light was on. She moved the box to his bedroom window. The curtains were drawn. There was not so much as a tiny gap for her to peer through. She returned to the door and took a look at the three-wheeler. It was covered by the tarpaulin as usual. So he was home. Emil never ventured out on foot. He did not feel safe walking; he felt exposed. People might stop him and say something to him or ask him questions. For the third and last time she banged on the door. Finally she gave up. She left the box and got into the car, where she began sounding the horn. Then she remembered that Emil had neighbors and she was afraid that the noise might attract their attention. She stared at the kitchen curtains, but there was no sign of her son. Elsa's patience was exhausted. She got out of the car and walked over to the garage. She looked for tools, but found nothing suitable. So she drove home, stomped back inside her own house, and went over to the telephone.
Just as she heard the dial tone her chest tightened. It ached fiercely. Perhaps he had fallen down the stairs to the basement. Perhaps he was lying on the floor down there, unconscious. He was very heavy. No, this is nonsense, she thought. Something is stuck in the keyhole. He is keeping me out on purpose. Then the telephone was picked up. He never said anything, simply lifted the handset so her flow of words could begin. No one else ever called Emil.
When he picked up she felt relief wash over her like warm water. Then her rage took over and she was on familiar territory once again. She almost threatened him. She needed to clean! "You must understand that, Emil!"
Dust and fluff, scum round the sink, crumbs on the floor: they were like demons; they clawed her and she would find no peace until she had got rid of them. She could not sleep at night if his windows were filthy. She could not think clearly if his sofa was covered with broken bits of chips.
"Now you open that door!" she shouted down the receiver. "I'm not playing this game with you! If it weren't for me you'd be in a home. Go remove that stuff you've put in the keyhole. I'm leaving now. I'll be on your doorstep in five minutes and you'll let me in!"
"No!" Emil screamed. He hung up. Elsa stood for a while listening to the silence. Then she marched across the floor and out into the hallway. Her sturdy shoes banged on the parquet flooring. It was vital to keep going, don't ever stop to think. Keep busy, keep busy! Get things done, her inner voice told her. Keep going, just keep going all the way to the bitter end; that is where we are all heading.
***
She found a crowbar in her garage. Then she drove back to Emil's house. Now she was hunched on the top step holding a hammer in one hand and the crowbar in the other. She forced the crowbar in between the door and the frame and started driving it in with the hammer. Elsa was very strong and the woodwork was old and dry. Once the crowbar was a few centimeters in, she started twisting and bending it. Sweat was pouring down her. She wondered if any of the neighbors could see her. It troubled her that they might be watching, but she could not stop. Now she could hear her son inside; he was pacing up and down, slamming doors. Her head was throbbing. Suddenly the frame gave a loud crack. The door swung open. She let go of the crowbar, which landed on the steps with a harsh, clanging sound. Then she went inside.
Emil was standing in the kitchen, his arms hanging down loosely. She tried to interpret the expression on his face, but failed. For her part she was silent. This did not happen often. For a long time they stared at each other.
"Tell me what's going on," she said, strangely subdued.
Emil turned his back on her. He went over to the counter-top and found a bag of peanuts. Took one out and snapped it in half. Stood for a while staring at its contents. His mother took a step forward. She snatched the bag from his hands and put it back on the countertop.
"I know something has happened," she said, louder now. She spun around and went into the living room. She stopped abruptly, baffled.
"What on earth..." she exclaimed. "Are you sleeping on the sofa now? And this place hasn't been aired for days."
Her eyes flickered round the room and her pale irises glowered with disgust. "It stinks," she said. "You can't leave leftovers in the bin, you've got to empty it every single day or it'll start to smell in just a few hours. How many times have I told you? It'll attract flies, too, if you don't watch it! And the mess that bird's making! You must vacuum underneath his
cage at least once a day. When was the last time you replaced the newspapers at the bottom of the cage? Is that where that smell is coming from?"
Then she stared at the door to his bedroom. She did not know why, but she felt compelled to move toward it. Toward this door. One step at a time. Her eyes flashed between the duvet on the sofa and the bedroom door. Emil followed her, his eyes blinking. For a moment she stood by the door, listening. There was not a sound to be heard. She pushed down the door handle. The door would not open. She felt like retching. Her fear grew stronger. It was this smell, so pervasive and strange, so nauseating and sweet. She pushed her fears aside and worked up her rage instead. Went back outside, got the crowbar from the steps and marched back in. Emil pressed himself up against the wall. He was scared, too. She resumed twisting, hitting and hammering. Emil's heavy body jerked with every stroke. This door was harder to force than the front door. The resistance of the woodwork drove her insane. Emil ducked. When the door finally sprang open with a crack, he closed his eyes and covered his ears with his hands. Elsa Marie went into the bedroom. Then she stopped, petrified.
CHAPTER 8
The search for Ida Joner was continuing full-force. Of course they would find her. A child did not just vanish into thin air. A child would have to be placed somewhere, hidden completely or partly. Somewhere in the vicinity of where she lived. They kept enlarging the search area, and the search parties found and bagged the strangest items. Later the police would decide what was important. People who hardly knew each other began talking. Ida's disappearance was like a net and it drew them all in. The feeling was both pleasant and scary. They were united in something. At the same time, there was one person who knew the truth. They imagined it was a man, maybe two. They believed that the worst-case scenario was that he would turn out to be someone they knew. But sick, obviously. Perverted and dangerous. Perhaps he was out looking for another child. Sometimes they felt intense anger; at other times they were overcome by fear. But most of all it had given them something new to talk about. They were no longer talking about the weather or politics. Now the only topic was the identity of Ida's killer. The adults tried to lower their voices whenever children were near but did not always succeed. They were obsessed by it and so were the radio, the television, and the newspapers. When the children were at school their teachers took up where their parents had left off. They could not escape it, and they did not want to, either. They could barely remember what their lives had been like before Ida's disappearance; it had hit their community like a violent earthquake.
Marion Rix was having breakfast. She stuck her spoon in the jam jar and stirred the raspberries carefully. Everything was happening in slow motion. Her thoughts were elsewhere, the spoon stirred itself. Ruth saw her bowed head and felt a dull pain inside. What could she say? How much could Marion cope with? But I don't know anything, she remembered. I don't know what's happened to Ida. All the same, she could not act as if nothing had happened. It was important to talk about things. And Ruth knew the words. She was just scared of using them.
Marion sensed her mother's stare. She was finally satisfied with the consistency of the raspberry jam. Why won't she look at me? Ruth thought. Why are we so afraid to talk? We should be screaming, lashing out, we should be clinging to each other. Holding on to this one thought, that you and I, we still have each other. And that you must not take that for granted, ever. Was this what Marion was thinking? That it had happened to Ida, so it could happen to her?
Marion chewed slowly and washed the bread down with milk. She was a chubby girl with dark hair, not fragile or skinny like Tomme. She actually looked a lot like Helga. Ruth studied her daughter's face. Her fringe fell in soft waves on either side of her pale forehead. She had a lazy eye, which caused her to squint slightly. She did not want to wear glasses.
"So, Marion," Ruth began. "Do you talk a lot about Ida at school?"
Her daughter stopped munching. "Not so much now," she said quietly.
"But you're thinking about it?" Marion nodded down toward the table. "And your teachers. What are they saying?" "Some talk about it a lot. Others say nothing at all."
"But what do you think? Would you like to talk about Ida? Or would you rather not? If you could choose?"
Marion considered this. Her face colored with embarrassment. "Don't know," she said.
"But if I were to ask you what you think?" Ruth said. "About what's happened? What would you say?"
Marion was silent for a long time. Ruth was almost afraid to breathe for fear that her daughter would censor herself.
"I think she's dead," Marion said quietly. She sounded so guilty that Ruth winced.
"So do I," she said.
Finally it had been said out loud. What everyone was thinking. Everyone except Helga, Ruth thought. Helga had to keep hoping, or her body would explode and all her bones would splinter. Her blood would stop flowing and her lungs would no longer breathe. Her broken body would hit the ground like a sack of bricks. Ruth gasped at her own imagination. She could see it so clearly, she felt she had to hug herself tightly in order to keep all her own organs in place. She feared that they would come loose and roll around inside her. Only her heart would stay put and beat heavily.
"I feel really bad about it," Marion said. "Because it's almost like I've given up on her. And I haven't. It's just that so much time has passed! They've been looking everywhere!" She pushed her plate away and lowered her head. Her hair covered her face. "But actually I haven't given up," she said. "At night, when I go to bed, I haven't given up. But when I wake up and it's morning again and they still haven't found her, then I think she must be dead."
"Yes," Ruth said. "We hope for a miracle while we are asleep. That someone will take over while we rest and fix it for us. But it doesn't happen."
Marion reached for her plate again. Ruth looked at her chubby cheeks and wanted to burst with emotion. Her love for Marion was so deep that when she thought of Helga, she was consumed by despair. If she lost one child, she would still have one left. Now Helga had neither husband nor daughter. Just her own restless body.
"Tomme cries at night," Marion said suddenly.
Ruth's eyes widened. What was she saying? Tomme, eighteen-year-old Tomme, crying in the night?
"Why does he do that?" she said without thinking.
Marion shrugged. "I can hear him through the wall. But I don't want to ask."
She ate the rest of her food and went to the bathroom to clean her teeth. Then she came back, put on her denim jacket and picked up her school bag. Ruth was still sitting at the table, wondering. Had she misunderstood her son completely? Was he in fact a sensitive soul hiding behind an air of indifference? She was probably not the first person to get it wrong. Yet something continued to irk her, though she did not know what it was. It existed in a place she could not access. Or she did not dare to. Just then she heard Tomme on the stairs. She got up quickly to hug Marion before she left. She always had to do that; this last touch meant the difference between life and death. If she forgot, she would lose Marion. She tried to understand the strange effect fear was having on her and decided to go easy on herself. These were exceptional circumstances.
"You'll stop by Helene's house, won't you?" she said.
Marion nodded.
"You must always go in twos. Don't ever forget that." "We won't," Marion said earnestly.
"If one day Helene is ill, you'll come straight back again and I'll drive you. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Marion said. "Can I please go now?"
She disappeared. Grew smaller and smaller as she went down the road, as Ida had grown smaller and smaller as seen through the window in Helga's house. Tomme came out from the bathroom. Ruth went back to the kitchen counter and busied herself with the breakfast things.
Tomme sat down without saying a word and grabbed the milk. Again he drank straight from the carton, but this time Ruth did not comment. Instead she opened the fridge and took out the packed lunch that she had careful
ly made for him the night before. He could buy something to drink at school. She did not like him drinking Coke with his food, but she chose to regard it as a minor issue. It was not the worst vice a young person could indulge in. So many temptations, so many challenges. Would he make friends? Would he get himself a girlfriend, a house, and a job?
She placed the packed lunch next to him and nudged him affectionately on the shoulder. She wanted to find out more about what Marion had said, that he cried in the night. He did not react to her touch.
"Are you coming straight home from school?" she asked casually. As his car was at Willy's, he had to catch the bus to the college and he hated that.
"Going to see Willy," he said in the same casual tone of voice.
"Today as well? You've hardly been doing any homework." She instantly regretted nagging him about his homework. On the whole he did well at school and she despised herself when she went on like this. Especially after everything that had happened.
"We need to get it finished," he said. "I don't know how I ever managed without a car."
He put a lump of butter on his bread and then stopped. He started spreading the butter, but then tried to scrape it off.
"Did you call Bjørn like I told you to?" she asked.
He squirmed in his chair. "I'm going to. But we need to finish the car first."
"How about Helge?" she continued. "Do you ever see him?"
"Yeah, yeah. Sometimes."
