Black Seconds

by Karin Fossum

  "Some of these birds kill the females," Skarre told him. "Instead of mating with them. So I've been told. Is he one of those? Is that why he's called Henry the Eighth?"

  "No," Emil mumbled. He did not seem to follow where Skarre was going with this. Now he just looked sad. What kind of man is this, Skarre wondered, who only says "no"? Is that all he can say? He decided to test him.

  "Do you live here with your family?" he asked.

  "No," Emil said. He would not want that. His mother was more than enough; he did not want any more people trampling around his house.

  "Any children?" Skarre persisted.

  No, Emil did not have children, though to be honest he preferred them to adults. They pestered him, but they told it like it was. Such as whether his three-wheeler was cute or ugly. Sometimes they asked for a ride in the body. But he said no.

  Skarre thought for a while. "But your mother visits you sometimes. Elsa Marie?"

  Emil was silent. Skarre patted the pocket of his jacket and tried again. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

  No, Emil did not mind. The smell was unfamiliar to him, but it also offered him a novel experience. He did not remember anyone ever sitting by this table blowing fine smoke out into the air. He followed it with his eyes. Skarre watched the broad face as he searched for his next question.

  "Perhaps you might have an ashtray?"

  Emil did not. But he got up and opened a cupboard above the kitchen counter. Skarre could see the patterned shelf paper, which was fraying around the edges. Emil selected a chipped saucer.

  "So where do you work?" Skarre asked casually, pretending he did not know that Emil was on disability benefit. Silence. Yet again the sad expression in his eyes. "Perhaps you don't have a job?" "No," Emil said.

  Skarre touched his pocket. "Do you want a cigarette? I forgot to ask you." He held out the packet. "No. No!"

  A violent shaking of the head, followed by dismissive waving with one hand.

  Skarre stared at the tablecloth for a moment. Did he really only know this one word? Could it be true?

  "Do you have many visitors?" he said lightly.

  "No," Emil said.

  "But your mother comes, doesn't she?"

  Emil turned around again and stared out of the window. His head was hurting. Skarre did not know what to do. The man might be the turning point in this impenetrable case. He owned a bird with red tail feathers called Henry. A man who only said "no." Or stayed silent. An oddball. Who might be able to read and write, or might not. Who was mentally disabled. He seemed to have some understanding, but lacked the words to express himself. A man who might have killed Ida Joner. He looked at Emil again. Why on earth would he want to do that? It just did not make sense.

  Emil was being very defensive. He turned a broad shoulder to Skarre. Again he tucked his thumbs under his suspenders, and kept staring out at the drive.

  "Are you expecting someone?" Skarre asked carefully.

  "No," he said abruptly. But this was not entirely true. He was scared that his mother's car would pull up in front of the house. Seeing the police car might make her panic and drive off so quickly she would send the gravel flying. Suddenly the word was repeated by a similar but metallic voice from the room next door. No!

  It took Skarre a second to work out that it was coming from the bird. "Henry the Eighth can talk," he said excitedly.

  Emil wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Skarre returned to the living room, and Emil followed him. He clearly wanted to know what Skarre was doing. Skarre on the other hand had not yet recovered from the shock. The human voice from the bird and the force behind it. He went over to the cage. Emil followed him with his eyes. Skarre sensed him like a shadow behind his back, where he stood, legs apart, silently tugging at his Levi's suspenders. The bird pressed itself against the bars and puffed up its feathers. This made it look bigger. Skarre did not know what this signified. He stuck a finger in between the bars to stroke its head. It offered itself lovingly and he felt the tiny cranium underneath the soft feathers. Suddenly there was a snapping sound and he felt a sharp pain. Perplexed, he pulled his finger back. The bird withdrew rapidly and gave him an almost vicious stare, Skarre thought. He studied the cut in disbelief. A circular hole was visible on the tip of his index finger. Slowly it filled with blood. He spun around quickly and looked at Emil.

  "That taught me," he said, wiping his forehead. "He doesn't like strangers. Does he like you?"

  "No," said Emil. He was staring at the floor. Perhaps he was hiding his laughter.

  "You just feed him, is that it?"

  Emil wanted to get back to the kitchen. Skarre kept watching the bird. His finger was throbbing fiercely.

  "Hey." He followed Emil. "You wouldn't happen to have a Band-Aid in the house, would you?" he said, waving his bleeding finger. Of course Emil did. He had a whole box of them. He held out the box so that Skarre could help himself.

  "Never attach a Band-Aid in a circle, and don't ever tighten it," Skarre recited; he recalled this from his first-aid training. "But I'll just have to. Not many other options when it comes to fingers." He looked to Emil for a smile. It never came.

  "I need to ask you something," he said eventually. He observed Emil carefully. It was crunch time. Nevertheless, he kept thinking it had to be the wrong house. It could not be this one, not like this. "Do you know a girl called Ida?" he asked.

  There was no reply from Emil. Only a downcast look.

  Skarre struggled to move on. "Has she ever been to this house?"

  Still no reply. How was he supposed to do this? "Emil," he pleaded. "Emil Johannes. Listen to me. Ida was in this house, I'm sure of it. Do you deny it?" "No," said Emil Johannes.

  CHAPTER 23

  Once Skarre had left, Emil was overcome by misgivings. He had believed that he would be able to handle it and put it right, but no, it was an impossible thought. Now he regretted it deeply. At the same time, he experienced a pleasant feeling because this man had sat at his table. The smell of cigarette smoke still hung in the air. The box of Band-Aids lay on the kitchen table. The telephone started ringing again. He did not want to answer it now. He rushed out of the house, started his three-wheeler and drove off toward the waterfall. It felt good to be back on the three-wheeler; when he was driving it he was in control. It felt good to grip the handlebars and feel the wind on his face. It was a gray day, but the light was pleasant. His green driving jacket was unzipped. He pulled out into the right-hand lane as soon as he got to the church. Before long the church disappeared from view. When he reached the waterfall, he parked, turned off the engine, pushed his cap backward, and walked the last few steps to the edge. It had rained a lot during September; the waterfall was huge and thundering. When he stood there he felt the roar of the water spread through his body. There was no one else around. Everyone was at work now.

  Emil had had a job once, in a sheltered workshop. He sorted screws and nuts and put them into boxes. It was easy but boring, and the pay was lousy. However, the hardest part was the other people who worked there. He never got along with them. They were all like kids. And I'm an adult, Emil thought. But because he never spoke, no one ever noticed that, or he was simply ignored. He preferred being alone in his own home, all alone rather than with company. He deliberately started making mistakes with his boxes. He mixed up screws and nuts and put too many in. They asked him to stop. His mother had been furious, he recalled. It was humiliating for her to have a son on disability. It was one thing that he would never get married. Another that he could not talk. But she would have been so proud if she could have talked about his job. Emil, my son, he's in full-time employment now, she would say when the sewing circle met, without mentioning precisely what he did. To be able to say this one important thing. That he got up in the morning like other people and went to work. Emil always got up early. He certainly did not stay in bed all day. He never had any problem passing the time.

  He walked to the edge of the waterfall. Stood so near that he could fee
l the cool mist on his face. The waterfall did not have just one voice. After a while he could detect several. There was the deep hum from the bottom and there were other, higher notes from the top. Even a tinkling from the shallow water that trickled over the stones on the bank far below. It's a whole orchestra, Emil thought, playing a neverending, wondrous tune. The deep one said, "I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm unstoppable and strong," while the high notes hurried after it, crying, "Wait for us, we're coming, too" and the fainter ones near the bank busied themselves with other things, hiding away and dancing across the pebbles, mixing with the vortex, the yellow and white foam. All those colors, Emil thought. From the gray-black deep to the white foam. A steady and violent stream heading for the ocean. He thought of the moment when the water arrived. When it poured out and merged with the big blue sea. Sometimes he drove down to the sea just to watch it. If he got there early, the sea lay calm as a mirror. Every time, he thought that in itself was a miracle. That so much water could lie so still.

  He pursed his lips and tried a word. He wanted to say "impossible." He forced air from his diaphragm out through his mouth. He remembered that sound was formed by the tongue and the lips. Faintly he heard something resembling a grunt. He tried again, opened his mouth wide and listened intently through the roar of the waterfall. A long, coarse sound emerged from his throat. He became annoyed and tried once more. His voice was so gruff; he did not understand why. "No" was easy. "No" lay at the roof of his mouth, ready to be spat out like a cherry stone. How about "yes"? Could he say that? However, he did not like that word as much: it felt like surrendering to something, and he did not want to do that. How would he ever manage to form long words? Such as the difficult word "misunderstanding?" It was quite impossible. He gave up and felt sad. His face was wet. Then he remembered "s." This was a sound he could form at the front of his mouth; no tone, just a hiss, like that of a snake. He could manage that! This cheered him up. Quit while you're ahead, Emil Johannes thought. He padded back to his three-wheeler. Pulled his cap back down. Started the engine and swung out on to the road. He did not realize that two kids had been lying behind a rock watching him the whole time. They were laughing so much it hurt.

  ***

  Later he was back in his living room. He could not stay by the waterfall till nighttime. He could not escape, either; he had nowhere to hide. It was a question of waiting. Thirty minutes later he heard a car door slam out on the drive. Emil planted his palms on the windowsill and rested his whole body weight on them. That weight was considerable. The windowsill groaned and squeaked like the floorboards. It was not his mother's car. He looked at the bird. Stuck his finger into the cage. Instantly it started nibbling him and licking his finger with a warm black tongue. It was coarse, like sandpaper. Then came the knocking he was anticipating, three sharp knocks. Emil took his time. Checked that the bird had food in both its cups, water and cubes of apple. Softly he walked to the door. At first he was puzzled. The police officer was a woman; he had not expected that. He made no sound, just stood still watching her. She actually looked friendly. Another officer stepped out of the car, the same one with the curly hair who had visited him earlier. Emil saw the Band-Aid on his finger. What an idiot, he thought. But his expression was kind. At the same time they appeared serious. Emil sensed this seriousness, but he could not tell them that.

  "Emil Johannes Mork?" the female officer said.

  He did not nod, just waited.

  "You need to come with us, please."

  He stood for a while considering this. She was asking him nicely. Emil went back inside the house. There was something he had to take care of first. He put a towel over the birdcage and checked the radiator below the window. Opened up the curtains and made sure that they did not overhang it. There was all this talk of fire precautions; his mother went on about it all the time, so he was aware of such things.

  Then he went back out into the hall and found his green driving jacket. They waited by the car while he locked the front door. He thought about his mother, wondered if they had picked her up too. He thought so.

  Jacob Skarre held out his hand. He asked for the key to the house. Emil hesitated. His mother had cleaned it. Thrown away the garbage and tidied everywhere. He handed over his key. They held open the car door for him and helped him get seated in the back. He rarely went in a car. He felt enclosed; it was airless. The female officer took the wheel. She had a long blond braid down her back. It was fastened tightly and shone like a nylon rope. Emil kept looking at it. It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen, but it would have looked nicer if she had tied a bow at the end of it.

  ***

  Elsa Mork was arrested simultaneously. She wanted to see Emil and became quite difficult when they refused. As if denying her access to her own son were completely unheard-of and thoroughly reprehensible. Is it legal to treat people in this way? she asked. And they answered, yes, it's legal. She said that Emil Johannes could not be questioned at all, because he simply could not speak, and they said, yes, we know. They asked her if her son could write. Her reply was evasive. The ground beneath her feet, which had been solid for more than seventy years, crumbled away. She reached out to the wall for support.

  "His name," she said. "I've taught him that. But as for anything else—I don't really know what he can or cannot do."

  And her ignorance made her feel terribly ashamed.

  "He has a newspaper delivered," she remembered. "But I don't know what he does with it. Perhaps he has fun taking it out of the letterbox every morning like other people. Perhaps he likes the pictures. Perhaps he can manage the headlines. I really don't know." She ventured a bitter suggestion. "You'll just have to find out for yourselves."

  Everything seemed unreal to her. They took her coat and her handbag, which she was clinging to tightly. A female officer reached out for it; Elsa held on to it. At the same time she could see how ridiculous the situation was. But she felt naked without the bag. She watched as they emptied the contents onto the table. Mirror, comb, and handkerchief. And a mock-crocodile purse. She stood still, her hands unoccupied for once, taking in the strange surroundings. People came into the room and left again. She felt they were staring at her. It was just as well that Emil was the way he was, she thought. All he had to do was what he had always done. Keep quiet.

  CHAPTER 24

  She was waiting in the interrogation room. Sejer walked slowly along with a folder tucked under his arm. Oh, she's good at cleaning, he thought. But not that good. If Ida was in her son's house, we'll know about it.

  What was going on inside her head? He thought she was mainly concerned about Emil. Even though he did not know her, he did not underestimate how strong and determined she might be. She had lived her whole life with a son who was different. A son she had cleaned up after, washed for, and taken care of for more than fifty years. How well did she know him? How disabled was he? Had it been his own choice to withdraw from all contact? People did, sometimes for good reasons. What kind of life had they lived? Perhaps she had no life of her own because she had never wanted or been able to have one? She got involved with the lives of others instead, and cleaned up after them. He thought of her with humility as he walked down the corridor. She was a person who had never previously broken the law. At the same time he was thinking of Ida.

  She was sitting with both hands in her lap. It would be wrong to describe Elsa Mork as a beautiful woman. But everybody has got something, Sejer thought. Now he noticed her posture. Her back was effortlessly straight. There was fighting spirit in her strong face. Her hands, hidden under the table, were red and dry from cleaning. He remembered this from their first meeting. She was wearing a thin sweater with a round neck and a straight skirt with no pleats. It reached halfway down her calves. She wore low-heeled, sensible shoes with laces. No perm in her hair, which was short and the color of steel, not unlike Sejer's own.

  He greeted her kindly and pulled out a chair. She nodded briefly, but did not smile. Her face was exp
ectant. Beneath that calm exterior she had to be under great stress, Sejer thought, but she was hiding it well. This might mean that she was used to hiding things, used to keeping up appearances, like the one he was observing now. But this is about a dead child, he thought. An adorable child with brown eyes, who looked like Mary Pickford. Elsa Mork had a child of her own. It had to be possible to reach her.

  He poured himself a glass of Farris mineral water. The fizz from the water was the only sound in the quiet room. It seemed very loud. Elsa waited. Sejer drank from his glass.

  "The air in here is dry," he stated. "I'm just telling you. It helps having something to drink, should you begin to feel tired." He indicated the bottle next to her seat.

  She did not reply. He was friendly, but she was on her guard. She was used to it; she was always on her guard.

  "Do you understand why you're here?" he began.

  Elsa had to think about that. Of course she did. However, it was important to articulate this in the best possible way.

  "I think so," she said stiffly. "Emil and I have both been brought here in connection with that case. The girl you found by the road."

  "Correct," he said, watching her. Her gaze was steady for the time being.

  "Do you recall her name from the papers?" he said. She was reluctant to say the name out loud, but it came anyway. "Ida Joner," she said in a subdued voice.

  "Did you ever meet Ida Joner?" Sejer asked. "No." The answer came quickly. It might also be partly true. Perhaps she had only seen her once she was dead. "Do you know if your son ever met Ida Joner?" Again this no, again the same firmness. "He owns his own house?" Sejer said. "No, it's public housing," she said.