by Karin Fossum
"I remember it now. The androids. Replicants. That only live for four years."
"Right, Zipp. So be happy with your allotted time."
Andreas tore off the corner of a magazine lying on the table.
"I can fold a little cock for you."
He leaned closer to the screen. "Now he's ordering a Tsing Tao. Shit, this is good. Salome and the snake."
"I've seen it before," Zipp grumbled.
"The way she dies," said Andreas, waxing emotionally. "It's so fucking beautiful. The way she sails through the glass."
"That's called slow motion. Not especially innovative."
"You don't get it," said Andreas angrily. "Look at her! Wearing only a see-through raincoat. And the blood inside the plastic when the bullets hit – that's pure genius. Salome's death. It's magnificent, plain and simple. And that part's great!" he went on. "'Can the maker repair what he makes?'" He looked at Zipp. "Pressing the eyeballs into the head of a man with your bare thumbs – could you do that?"
Zipp didn't think so. But it occurred to him that Andreas could very possibly be a replicant. Who only livened up at the sight of his own kind. With implanted memories and a built-in emotional response, like Roy Batty. An advanced design from the Tyrell Corporation, "Nexus 6 fighting model". Soon he'd fall victim to reversing cells. And he even wanted to sit through the music of Vangelis during the credits. By then Zipp was on the verge of sleep.
"Wake up," Andreas said, pounding Zipp on the shoulder. "Time to die."
I want to be left in peace. The price I pay is that I no longer count, I'm not seen or considered important. Wearing the brown coat I'm not taken seriously. And yet, if people only knew, God forbid, but the worst of all . . .
The doctor tells me that I'm healthy, there's nothing wrong with me. Strong as a horse. That animal keeps plaguing me. I have a brisk gait, move with ease, even though I'm big-boned. Some people would say chubby, but at least I've kept my figure. I'm not tall, which suits me fine because women should be petite. It's strange how different other people are from me. I'm almost invisible, no-one ever notices me. They veer aside if they're heading towards me in the street. But they don't notice who they're skirting around because I'm just a shadow at the corner of their eyes. It doesn't bother me, since I've never known anything else. Oh yes, I have a son. Ingemar. I carried him around when he was little, rocked him and caressed him. Felt almost astonished that he was mine. That he was dependent on me, that he would die if I dropped him. That made Irma blossom. She was needed by another human being. She was life or death! But it didn't last. Nothing lasts. He grew up, passed me by, and looked at my feet when he spoke. Then he moved away. That's how it goes. I'm invisible, so dreadfully ordinary, so terribly different. I know only a few people, I know them better than they know me. They think they know me, but they're wrong. By all reckoning, they're wrong.
Several days passed before they reported Andreas missing in the newspapers. His colleagues at work had come forward to say flattering things about him, as they always do. No-one wants to be embarrassed later, in case he should be found dead. That word hovers between the lines in the paper like toxic bacteria. No-one dares to say it out loud, since it might turn out to be true. Did they think he had committed suicide? No, no, for God's sake, not Andreas. He sauntered through life. He wouldn't leave it of his own free will, and he didn't have any enemies. Yes, it's true that he took chances, innocent kinds of things, the way boys do. A beer or two on a Saturday night. But that's not a crime, surely? We're terribly worried. They pose for the newspaper photographer, loving the spotlight, the fact that they know someone who might have died under mysterious circumstances. If he suddenly shows up, safe and sound, if he'd just been out partying on the Danish ferryboat, what a let down that would be, when it could have been something exciting. I haven't disappointed them.
I've turned off the lights in most of the house. But there's a light on in the bathroom. Soon Andreas will start to decompose. Like a piece of meat that's been left out on the worktop. It changes colour, gets soft and jelly-like, then it starts to smell. At some point the meat becomes poisonous. I'm poisonous now too, perhaps I've started to smell different. I, who am so careful about things like that. I always use soap and deodorant. Wash my hair frequently. And the floors. The windows are shiny. All the door handles are polished and clean. But I myself have become a piece of spoiled meat. I didn't want that to happen.
CHAPTER 5
"Matteus?"
He heard the voice the instant the door slammed. He promptly reached for the bag of sweets in his pocket. Wanted her to notice it and clap her hands.
"Yes," he said in a low voice, rustling the bag. His mother came in from the living room. She pressed his cheek to her breast.
"Did you meet someone on the way home?"
"No, but my jacket was under all the others," he blurted out.
"Grandpa is here."
Matteus rushed into his grandpa's open arms. And then he flew up in the air, flew like the wind, almost up to the ceiling.
"Watch out for your back," Ingrid said to her father.
And then she smiled. After so many years alone, he had at last pulled himself together and grown from 96 centimetres to two metres tall, or so it seemed. Because of a woman.
"You're 17 minutes late," said Sejer, looking at his grandson.
"My jacket was underneath all the others," Matteus repeated.
"I see," said Sejer, smiling. "With all the buttonholes tangled up in each other?"
A network of delicate lines appeared on his face as his smile grew. Nothing gave him as much joy as this child with the chocolate-coloured skin. He felt overwhelmed, tender, almost weak in the knees. It was unsettling, considering what life was like and everything that could happen. And that was something about which he knew a great deal. The boy slipped under his arm and grabbed his hands from behind.
"Teach me the police hold!" he begged eagerly.
"I'll give you a police hold," Sejer said, laughing, as he spun the boy around, bundled him up, and carried him to the sofa. "Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
Matteus squealed with glee. Ingrid stood leaning against the doorframe, watching them. Sejer looked up. Her back curved in a certain way that reminded him of her mother.
"You forgot about the time because you were having so much fun!" he guessed, looking into the boy's brown eyes. "You forgot your promise to your mother."
"No," shouted Matteus, wriggling on to his stomach.
"You met a stray dog on the street. You sat on the curb to stroke him, while you tried to work out how to get your mother to let you keep him. A scruffy-looking mutt. Am I right?"
"No, no!" he shouted again. He grabbed a pillow and put it over his head.
"You met a gang of bullies, and they wouldn't let you pass."
Silence. Ingrid looked at her father in surprise, and then at her son, who had curled himself up into a ball of corduroy and denim.
"They were sitting in a car."
"Who?"
Ingrid was at his side in an instant.
"Relax," said Sejer swiftly. "He's here, isn't he?"
"What did they do? Tell me!"
"Nothing."
He was talking into the upholstery.
"Don't play games with me!"
"I don't like my name! Matteus is a stupid name!" he shouted, throwing the pillow to the floor. He wasn't crying. He almost never cried. He had soon realised that he was different, that people expected other things from him. That it was best if he moved quietly and didn't make too much noise. With his kind of colouring it was almost too much for them.
"I want to know what they did," said his mother again.
"Ingrid," said her father, "if he doesn't want to tell you, he should be allowed to keep it to himself."
Matteus cleared his throat. "They asked me how to get to the bowling alley. But they knew where it was. Afterwards they came back. They didn't do anything."
He took out the bag of sweets that he had been clutching in his hand, lifted it up to his nose and sniffed at it. It contained sour balls, jelly worms, and marshmallows.
"I'm sorry," said his mother softly. "I was just so worried."
Chief Inspector Konrad Sejer picked up his grandson and sat him on his lap. He buried his face in the boy's curly hair and thought about the years yet to come. Tried his utmost to decipher the shadowy images that lay ahead, far in the future.
"They said I had a cool jacket," said Matteus, grinning.
"What's inside is even cooler," Sejer said. "Walk me to the door. I have to go home."
"No, you don't. I know Kollberg isn't alone."
"I have to go home to Sara."
"Is she going to move in with you? Where am I going to sleep when I come to stay?"
"She's not going to live with me. She lives with her father, because he's sick. But she comes to see me, and sometimes she stays overnight. If she's there when you come over, you can sleep on the floor. All by yourself. On a foam mattress."
Matteus blinked his eyes in dismay. He stood there holding his grandfather's hand, tugging at it. Ingrid had to turn away to giggle.
"She's not fat, is she? So that there wouldn't be room for all of us?"
"No," Sejer said, "she's not fat."
He patted his daughter rather awkwardly on the arm and went out into the courtyard. Waved to Matteus in the open doorway. He drove slowly towards his apartment building. Later he would remember that, in those few minutes it took him to drive home from his daughter's house, life had seemed so orderly, so predictable and safe. Lonely, perhaps, but he had his dog. A Leonberger that weighed 70 kilos and was lacking in any manners. He was actually ashamed about that. Sara had a dog too. A well-behaved Alsatian. Sejer didn't like surprises. He was used to being always in control. He had almost everything. A good reputation. Respect. And, after many years as a widower, he had Sara. Life was no longer predictable. She was waiting for him now. They had invited Jacob Skarre to dinner. He was a younger officer whom Sejer liked and in an odd way counted as a friend, even though he was old enough to be Skarre's father. But he liked that. Enjoyed being with someone who was still young. And, he had to admit, it was good to have someone who listened, who still had a lot to learn. He had never had a son. Perhaps that was where his fondness for Skarre stemmed from.
He braked gently for a red light. Sara is standing in the kitchen. She's dressed up, but not too much. Probably put on a dress, he thought. She has brushed her long, blonde hair. She's not stressed. Her movements are measured and gentle, like the way I drive my car through town. The nape of her neck. A shiver ran down his spine. Those short, blonde hairs against her smooth skin. Her wide shoulders. She looks at her watch because she's expecting me home, and Jacob could turn up at any moment. The food is ready, but if it's not, that doesn't make her nervous. She's not like other people. She's in control. She's mine. He started humming a tune by Dani Klein – "Don't Break My Heart" – and then he glanced in the rear-view mirror. For a moment he was shocked at how grey his hair was. Sara was so blonde and slender. Oh well. I'm a grown man, thought Konrad Sejer as he pulled in to the garage. He took the stairs, even though he lived on the 13th floor. He was trying to stay in shape, and maybe he'd have time for a shower. He ran up the stairs without getting out of breath. As he pushed down the door handle, he heard his dog making a racket and coming rushing out to greet him. He opened the door a crack and whistled. Once Sejer was inside, the dog stood on his hind legs and pressed him against the wall. Afterwards he was wet all over. Now he definitely needed a shower. The dog sauntered into the living room. Sara called hello.
That's when he noticed the smell. He stood still for a moment, breathing it in. There were several different smells: nutmeg from the kitchen, and melted cheese. Fresh-baked bread from the oven. He could also still smell the dog, who had nearly devoured him. But the other smell! The unfamiliar smell coming from the living room. He took a few steps, peeked into the kitchen. She wasn't there. He kept going, the smell got stronger. Something wasn't right. He stopped. She was sitting on the sofa with her feet propped on the table. Soft music reached his ears from the stereo. Billie Holiday singing "God Bless the Child". She was wearing lipstick and a green dress. Her hair gleamed, blonde and shiny, and he thought: She's beautiful. But that's not it. He glared at her.
"What is it?" she said gently. There was no trace of anxiety in her voice.
"What are you doing?" he stammered.
"Relaxing." She gave him a radiant smile. "Dinner's ready. Jacob called, said he'd be here shortly."
It smells of hash, thought Sejer. Here, in my own living room. I know that smell, it's not like anything else, I can't be mistaken. He was dumbstruck. He was a mute beast, a fish out of water. The smell was thick in the whole room. He cast a wild glance at the balcony door, went over and opened it. He was so unbelievably surprised, so completely bowled over.
"Konrad," she said. "You look so strange."
He turned to face her. "It's nothing. Just . . . something occurred to me." His voice didn't sound normal. He tried to think. Jacob could be there any second. Sara didn't look stoned, but maybe she would be soon. Jacob would think he condoned it, and he didn't. What on earth should he do? She's a psychiatrist, she works with people who are very sick, many of them destroyed by drugs – heroin and ecstasy – and here she sits, getting stoned. On my sofa. I thought I knew her. But I suppose, after all, I don't. The crease on Sejer's forehead was deeper than it had ever been.
Sara got to her feet. She placed her hands on his chest and stood on her toes. He was still taller than she was.
"You look so worried. Please don't be worried."
The only thing he smelled was the caramel scent of her lipstick. He swallowed hard, and there was an audible gulp in his throat.
Why do I become a child in the arms of this woman? he wondered. And then, out loud, his voice hoarse: "What's that strange smell?"
She laughed slyly. "I put a whole nutmeg in the mousaka by mistake, and I haven't been able to find it."
He stared at his feet. He certainly didn't have time for a shower now. Jacob would be at the door any moment. The fresh September air came streaming into the room. Billie Holiday was singing. He didn't know if the smell was still there as the room gradually cooled off. Norwegian law, he thought. In accordance with Norwegian law. It sounded ridiculous. He could say anything to her, but not that. It occurred to him that this woman had her own laws. And yet she had higher moral standards than anyone he knew. He felt like a schoolboy. Realised there was so much he didn't know, so much he had never tried. He was curious about people, he wanted to know about them, who they were and why they were that way. But right now he felt something wavering inside him.
The doorbell rang. Sara went to open the door. Jacob was sharp, for all that he looked like a schoolboy. Was the smell still there? His eyes stopped at the picture of Elise on the wall in front of him. She smiled back. She had no worries. She disappeared for an instant, seemed more dead than usual. It was harder to summon her back, her voice, her laughter. He felt a new kind of grief that she was about to disappear in a different way. Would it never end? He went out to the balcony. He liked the crisp autumn air and the bright colours. Liked this time of year better than the summer. He took several deep breaths. He thought he ought to work out more; he wasn't getting any younger. There was plenty of life left. Matteus would grow up, black in a white world. He had to be there for him. Sejer shook his head, bewildered. Couldn't understand his sudden gloom. And then, there was Jacob Skarre standing next to him.
"Smells good!"
"What do you mean?" asked Sejer, on the defensive.
"From the kitchen," Jacob said.
They ate and drank and talked about their jobs. Sara told stories from the Beacon psychiatric hospital, where she worked as a doctor. She wasn't the least bit stoned, at least not that Sejer could see. But now and then he would glance at her surrept
itiously, and he scrutinised Jacob more closely than usual. One of the things about Jacob was that he was so tactful. If he noticed anything he would never say so. Should he mention it himself when they were alone? He brooded over this as Jacob talked about a shooting incident. It was a bad case, but, even so, an old story that repeated itself with few variations. Jacob was determined to confer with his God, to find some meaning in something which had no meaning. Because there wasn't any meaning or purpose, it wasn't part of any higher plan that would lead to anything good. Sejer was convinced of that.
