When the Devil Holds the Candle

by Karin Fossum

  "But not you, surely not you?" he said.

  He wrapped his arm tighter around her waist, surprised at how different they were. They didn't really suit each other, or at any rate it wouldn't last for ever. It won't last. She dreamed up things, and he didn't know if he was up to all her whims. There was something unpredictable about Sara. He'd never known anyone like her. Was it even possible for him to get to know her properly? To follow the strange leaps she was always taking, to get used to them? Enjoy them? He liked them, of course. She made him laugh. But she could turn very serious. Her mood changes were abrupt, but at the same time she always had total control. As if she felt that all impulses ought to be followed. Not evaluated and suppressed, which is what he did. Think first and then act. Wasn't that important?

  Later, when they finally reached his flat, he went into the kitchen. Sara appeared in the doorway, looking at him. Her expression took him aback.

  "I'm just going to make some coffee," he muttered, turning on the tap.

  "It's not coffee that I want." She walked across the room, turned off the water and pressed herself against him. He was still hesitating, but was drawn into a fierce embrace. He could feel how determined she was; she was not going to back down.

  "Carry me to the bed," she commanded. He shook his head, but didn't let her go.

  "Well, all right. The kitchen is good. On the table. I saw it in an American film."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It looks so exciting," she whispered.

  He was in a fog. Didn't know if he'd even be able to do it. But he was still holding her and could feel something rising inside him. He could hold everything else down, but not this! At the same time his brain was buzzing, telling him to take it easy and not throw himself into it without inhibitions, like a teenager. But he didn't want to be taken to task. Not on this account. Other things, like the fact that he couldn't cook or that he couldn't control his dog, fine.

  "Could you just stop thinking for a second?"

  "You're not making it easy for me," he said. "I'm just a man."

  "Yes," she said with a smile. "Poor man. How vulnerable he was when he stood up on his legs and walked for the first time."

  She gave a husky laugh against his chest. "You men think everything is so hard for you, that your urges are so fierce, so much stronger than ours, but that's not true."

  "It's not?" He cleared his throat. He was out of breath. God help him!

  "Right now," she said, pressing against him, "right now when I want you so badly, do you know what that feels like? Has any woman ever told you?"

  He tried, but it was impossible to think of any other woman at a moment like this, because he could feel her desire through his own body, and it amazed him that he could prompt such emotion in another human being.

  "It's like having a fish between your legs," she whispered. "A soft fish with a blunt snout that's gently butting and wants to get through, and I'll go crazy if it doesn't get through!"

  "A fish!" he said.

  The phone rang. He reacted on reflex. He also looked at his watch: it was almost midnight. It would be either Ingrid or someone from work. He had to take the call. He picked up the phone and stood there for a few seconds, listening. Sara came over to him and watched him with her arms folded. He put down the receiver.

  "You have to leave, don't you? Somebody's dead."

  He nodded.

  "That's what happens when you're in love with a police officer," she said nervously.

  He tried to stay on his feet. Leaned against the old chest of drawers and felt one of his keys poking him in the back.

  "Somebody's dead?" she said again.

  "My mother," he said in a low voice. "My mother died. Two hours ago."

  Then he gave a deep sigh. "While I was sitting drinking beer."

  He walked past her, out to the hall. Turned and came back. "I have to call Ingrid."

  "I know."

  "What are we going to say to Matteus?" he whispered.

  He was in no hurry going down to the garage. All the time he was thinking: This is the last time I'll be doing this, going to see my mother. Being on my way to the nursing home. Through the door, over to her bed, for the last time. He drove slowly through the town. It was actually a beautiful night. The red tower building was charmingly lit up, the reflected lights glittering in the river. Didn't it seem quieter than usual? As he turned into the car park, he realised that something was different. This was night-time, not the normal visiting hours, so the car park was deserted. Everything seemed strange and out of character. Being here, in the middle of the night. And the door being locked. He had to ring the bell and speak into an intercom on the wall. Practically plead to be allowed in. He managed to croak a few hoarse words into the microphone and then put his shoulder to the door. Once inside, he hesitated as he looked at the stairs. There were some things he needed to think about first. The senior sister saw him from the nursing station.

  "Would you like to be alone there?"

  He nodded.

  "You take as much time as you need."

  He walked to the wide blue metal door. For years she had lain in bed without being able to move, never recognising him when he came to see her. Because of a thrombosis in the brain stem. A tiny little clot in the wrong place, and she was gone. Except that her heart continued to beat. Her eyes would wander around the room, flickering, searching for something that they never found. What was she looking at? Did she see everything for the first time whenever she looked around? Did she realise that the room was always the same? Did she have a need for some particular thing, without ever being able to say what it was? He had heard about things like that. Could he just as well have been a lamp? Or a coat rack? Did she have thoughts to add to the picture? Was anything going on in her ruined brain? Was anything whirring there, anything familiar or beloved, some meagre comfort? Not any more now, he thought.

  For a long time he stood and stared at the door, thinking: Now they can see me from the nursing station, see me standing here and brooding. This is all too much for me. Not just this, but everything else that is bubbling up, all that happened long ago. No, not long ago. It might feel as if it had just happened, that Elise was torn from him again. But this was his mother, it was about her. Couldn't he even pull himself together enough to think about her for one last time?

  So he went in. For some reason at that moment he checked his watch. It was 12.45. The door gave a plaintive creak as it closed behind him. The lamp next to her bed was on, but the shade had been tilted towards the wall so that his mother's face was in shadow. This thoughtfulness touched him. For a moment he was surprised by how normal she looked. But when he drew closer, he saw how pale she was. Her lips were pressed together a little more tightly than usual. That's not how she was, he thought. She was as gentle as cream, as soft as butter. He pulled a chair over to the bed, but not too close. He needed to keep a certain distance, had to approach with caution. He tried to summon up memories from his childhood, from in the past. Strawberry pudding. The little brown hens in the pen in the back garden. The bread dough rising under a tea-towel on the kitchen counter. Berries cooking in a pan. The smell of fruit and sugar. And her voice; he could hear it clearly. The delicate enunciation after so many years in Denmark.

  Konrad. It's late now.

  The words rang crystal clear in his head. She used to sit next to a lamp with her sewing. It was impossible to protest by saying "I don't want to go to bed." She would have burst out laughing. She would rise slowly to her feet, take him by the arm, and lead him upstairs to his bedroom. To think that someone so tiny and frail and peaceable could have had such power over him! But always with love, thinking of his best interests. He never had any doubt on that score. He raised his head and looked at her. He thought she looked beautiful, that she always had. Even now. If she seemed stern, maybe it was because she was standing at the gates of heaven, staring at something so grand that she felt quite abashed. Otherwise she had always been so good-humou
red. But I don't believe it, he thought. He found himself in a state of emergency, on board a sinking ship. Gently he leaned over the bed. Her hands weren't cold, but not warm either, and very dry.

  "Mother," he murmured.

  How strange to say that word out loud and never to hear an answer again. He sank back on the chair, thinking that he ought to go home. He stood up, but left the chair where it was, as if it might yet keep her company. He happened to look as his watch again. It was 12.52. He did the arithmetic in his mind. Seven minutes. That's how much time he had granted her, to thank her for everything. Seven minutes to say thank you for a whole lifetime. Take all the time you need. He started shaking. Stood there with his shoulders hunched in shame. Turned round and went back to the bed. Sat on the edge, picked up her gaunt hands and held them tight. For a long time.

  CHAPTER 10

  September 3.

  Mrs Winther seemed to have aged since her last visit. Her anger was gone, replaced by a growing panic, which was visible in the flickering light in her eyes.

  "The fact that Andreas still hasn't come home is something that we're taking very seriously," said Skarre sympathetically. "But people have gone missing for longer than this and have still turned up safe and sound. There's always some explanation."

  She was listening, but the words made no impression.

  "By now it's serious," she stammered. "By now something must have happened!"

  "Have you been in touch with his father?"

  She opened wide her eyes. "Let's leave him out of this."

  "We can't force you, of course, but I would strongly urge you to inform his father," Skarre said. "Maybe he could help us."

  "They practically never see each other. That much I know," she said vehemently.

  Skarre looked her in the eye. "Forgive me for mentioning this, but if anything has happened to Andreas, how do you think his father will feel if you've kept him out of the whole thing?"

  "Dear God! Didn't you just say that he's bound to turn up? What exactly do you mean?"

  Skarre wiped his forehead, which already felt sweaty. "For some reason he has disappeared. For two days now. I don't know why. But you shouldn't have to deal with this alone."

  She wrung her hands, seemed to try to shape some words with her mouth, but no words came out.

  "Excuse me? What did you say?"

  "All right," she whispered.

  "Does he live here in town?"

  "Yes. You'll have to call him. I don't dare. There's certain to be trouble."

  "Why will there be trouble?" Skarre asked.

  "We're not on speaking terms."

  "But this is about Andreas," he said quietly.

  "Yes. We're not exactly on speaking terms when it comes to Andreas."

  "Can you tell me a little about that?"

  She didn't answer.

  "If you want us to help you, you're going to have to cooperate. Why will there be trouble?" he said again.

  "We . . . He . . . Nicolai . . . His father . . . has the idea that Andreas is getting off on the wrong path or something. He says I have no idea what's going on. That Andreas has got involved in some bad things. But he doesn't live with the boy as I do!"

  Skarre had been expecting this. He restrained an impulse at the last second.

  "Andreas is a good boy," she said. "If there's anything at all, it's just a matter of those things that all boys do. Things that go with growing up."

  "Like what, for example?" Skarre said.

  "Partying now and then. Throwing apples," she said angrily.

  "Throwing apples?" Skarre frowned. "An 18-year-old boy?"

  "You know what I mean," she muttered.

  "Not really."

  "He has a friend. Zipp. His real name is Sivert Skorpe, but they call him Zipp. They're inseparable. I can't very well follow them, so I don't know exactly what they do, but I have no reason to believe that it's anything dangerous. Or illegal."

  "But his father takes a different view?"

  "To be quite honest, I don't really know what his view is."

  "Is it possible that Andreas has more contact with his father than you realise?"

  "You mean does he visit him on the sly?"

  "He's a grown boy," said Skarre with a smile. "He may not tell you everything."

  "Isn't that the gods' truth! But live at home and eat for free – sure, they want to do that!"

  She regretted her outburst and hid her face. Mrs Winther was attractive, but her hands betrayed the beginnings of ageing.

  "Why should I believe there's anything wrong when he never says anything? He gets up and goes to work. Dresses neatly. Goes out in the evening. I know that he's with Zipp. I know Zipp's mother and she's never said anything to me either. They watch a lot of videos. Drive around and look at girls. Zipp has an old car that his father gave him. If they have any money, they go to a bar. You're supposed to be 20, but they both manage to get in. Andreas is tall, 185 centimetres."

  "I see," Skarre said. "Tell me about Zipp."

  "He doesn't have a job and he doesn't want one. Andreas pays for his beer. I don't understand why he puts up with it; he's much too nice."

  Skarre smiled. He had a dazzling smile, but he restrained himself, in view of the seriousness of the situation.

  "I'll need a list of the people who know him. Girlfriends, buddies. Everyone you can think of."

  "He spends all his time with Zipp," she said swiftly.

  "But there must be others who know him. He has work colleagues. And a boss."

  "You don't understand," she said. "He spends all his time with Zipp. If anyone knows anything, it would be Zipp!"

  Skarre fought back his impatience. "I'll need more than that to get things started," he said, trying to sound more stern. "What about a girlfriend?"

  "Right now he doesn't have one," she said, sullenly.

  "I'll settle for a former girlfriend," he said, smiling again. "Judging by his picture, there must have been quite a few over the years."

  She shrugged. "Well, yes. But I don't know any of their names."

  "None of them?" Skarre said.

  "He never wanted to bring any of them home."

  "I see."

  "But I'm sure I can think of someone who can vouch for him, if that's what you need."

  "That would be fine," said Skarre, and began writing as she gave him two names.

  "You called his friend? What did he say?"

  "He couldn't help me," she said. "But they had spent the evening together."

  "And what did they do exactly?"

  "Aren't you going to talk to him yourself?"

  "Of course. I was just asking."

  "They had a pint at the Headline. After that they watched a video together, at Zipp's house. And I guess that was about it."

  "And when did Andreas leave Zipp's house? Did you get a time?"