When the Devil Holds the Candle

by Karin Fossum

  I paused and looked at Andreas.

  "Do you want more water?"

  His eyes as he looked at me . . . I've never seen anything like it.

  "Dead?" he whispered. "Is the baby dead?"

  I looked at him. "That's what it says. She found him in his cot. But they're not sure yet. It might have been a cot death. When they open us up," I said, "that's when they find everything out. How we lived, what we ate. Isn't that strange?"

  A spasm flitted across his face.

  "A little boy," I went on. "Only four months old. Couldn't they have left her alone, a young mother with a pram? Cowards. Do you want more water?"

  "I'd like a hammer in my head," he groaned.

  I sat in silence, looking at him. "Were you with Zipp? Did you come here together?"

  Alarmed, he opened his eyes wide. "How did you know that? How the hell do you know his name? How . . ." The outburst made him whimper. "Tell me!" he cried hoarsely. "How do you know!"

  "I know everything," I said. I liked the expression on his face at that moment, the utter bewilderment. Then it changed to something else.

  "He was here with me. He was waiting in the garden. He'll be here soon to find me. If he shows up, just tell him to leave."

  The chair, I thought. "He's not coming," I said aloud. "He would have been here long ago, if he was coming. He has abandoned you, Andreas. Your best friend. How unpleasant for you."

  A gurgle came from his throat; it sounded like laughter.

  "You're crazy. Do you know that?"

  "Who's the crazy person here!" I shouted. "Do I go around with a knife demanding money from people?"

  His face was shiny with sweat.

  "I don't really know what I want," he muttered.

  "It doesn't matter what you want," I told him. "You don't have any options."

  "A person always has options," he said, with his eyes closed. That little shit, always closing his eyes.

  "You're lying to me. You're in pain," I said softly. "I don't want to cause anyone suffering. I have some painkillers upstairs."

  "Give me an overdose," he said.

  "I'll see to it that someone finds you."

  "When are you going to do that? When? I'm lying down here rotting!"

  "When everything is ready," I said. "I'm not ready yet."

  "You've never been ready."

  "Do you want some water?"

  He didn't reply. I went and fetched the water. I had an extra pillow on my bed, so I got that too. And a heater that I wasn't using. I crushed two sleeping pills and sprinkled the powder in the bottle. Carried it all down to the cellar. He couldn't lift his head, I had to do it for him. Put the pillow underneath. He screamed. I tucked the blanket tighter around him. Plugged in the heater and turned it on high. It started glowing. Then I put the bottle on his chest. I caught sight of something on the floor, behind his head. It was the blue cap. I picked it up.

  "There's something fizzy in the water," he said.

  "Sleeping pills. They'll help you sleep for a while."

  "Thanks," he whispered.

  CHAPTER 15

  Zipp bummed 200 kroner from his mother. She sensed a certain desperation in his voice. Something was definitely going on, she was sure of that. Her curiosity gave way to fear. They were no longer young boys, and she didn't really want to know what they were up to. Just the small things, whatever lay within the normal boundaries of youthful rebellion. Her own cowardice had overpowered her, and she thought about his father, who was no longer alive, and wished he could be here. This thought also struck her with horror. She didn't miss him, but he would have taken care of this.

  Zipp went straight over to the Headline. He wanted to sit at the same table and retrace his steps of that evening. Find an explanation. But the table was occupied, and for a moment he felt bewildered as he stood there with a beer in his hand. He found another table, drank his beer slowly. It was 9.00 and starting to get dark. He was planning to go back to the house, ring the doorbell, and ask the woman straight out. Provided she opened the door, that is. He was drinking to muster his courage. It occurred to him that if Andreas never came back, he would be all alone. He had never made any other friends; he hadn't needed anyone else. Or had Andreas arranged things that way? A bigger circle of friends would have meant greater danger. He had actually been used, functioning as a kind of life insurance for Andreas, who was a tactician. But he had liked the way things were, had never had any reason to complain. So why should he complain now? Except for the fact that he was totally alone and might have to beg to be admitted to a new group of distant acquaintances, who might not want to have anything to do with him. But why doubt him? Damn it, all he had to do was ask. When he finally turned up, and of course he'd turn up soon, and pat him on the shoulder. With that slender hand of his. Touching him. Andreas, gay. Zipp wiped his nose. Life had become so difficult. Where should he turn for help? Should he go to the police, tell them the truth? He almost choked on his beer. My buddy and I, we robbed a woman out at Furulund. And by the way, her kid fell out of the pram and started screaming his head off. And then we had a lot to drink, and everything fell apart in the cemetery. He jumped on me, and it was all so fucking awful. For him, and for me. We had to get rid of that shit! And so we chose an old woman who lived alone. Andreas went in, holding a knife. And you know what? He never came out again.

  Zipp emptied his glass and went to get another. He was determined to find out what had happened. He would ask the woman what it was all about, tell her everything, that they were both in on it. If only she would tell him what happened. Andreas' mother had called again, and he had been through the whole story a second time. He knew he sounded as though he was having trouble remembering what he had said the first time. He had told her a different story from the one he told the police officer with the curly hair. Not that it mattered; he could always blame it on the fact that it was late, and dark, and he really wasn't sure about anything. He was feeling desperate, and it was fucking nasty. He wasn't used to such outbursts of emotion. He watched people coming and going. Most of them caught sight of others they knew and started shouting and yelling. Shit, is that you? Things like that. One or two people gave him a distant nod, but nothing more. Andreas had always been his anchor. Organising a definite perimeter around them, in order to keep his disgusting secret. That's what he thought: a disgusting secret. But at the same time, he was ashamed of himself. Andreas was his friend, after all, and for the most part he was still the same person. The way he walked and laughed. The way he held his cigarette. He still lived in the same house, still did the same job. He was better-looking than most men, pretty bright too. The only thing was that when he got horny, he had to have a man. But sex, that was important. It said a lot about who you were. Zipp read men's magazines and there were always articles about how sexual urges governed people's lives, even influencing what profession they chose, which car they bought and of course their likes and dislikes in general. So Andreas and his attraction to men must be part of everything too, even Zipp himself. Andreas had chosen him as his friend, and it had often surprised him. Had Andreas wanted him ever since junior school? Never given up the hope of turning him over on his stomach? On his fucking stomach, the mere thought of it! He squirmed on his chair. At that moment it all came back to him. The shining eyes close to his own, the white teeth, the hand in his crotch. He was sweating fiercely, had to chug down more beer. Damn it, he wasn't feeling good. Not to mention that he'd been assaulted. Well, theoretically. Andreas had forced himself on him. And now he couldn't stop thinking about it. But then he thought about his expression. The narrow shoulders, the stubborn gaze. A new Andreas he had never seen before. It couldn't be true. He had been chosen as a friend. He jumped up and left.

  It was almost pitch dark as he started walking along the street. He wasn't scared, just anxious. A great anger was growing inside him. He wasn't going to come back without an answer, not tonight. He walked so fast that he was sweating. He stopped in front of a
mirror shop and looked at the dozens of tiny Zipps. It suited how he was feeling. Shattered into thousands of pieces. He continued walking, reached the hill, and had to slow his pace. There was the gate and, across from it, the thick hedge. He decided to sneak into the garden first, to look through the window and see if she was at home. He squeezed through, scratching his cheeks on the jagged branches. The chair had been put back into the gazebo. He picked it up and crept to the wall of the house. He set it carefully in the flower bed, fearful that it might bang against the wall and she would hear it. The curtains were partially drawn, but there was a gap big enough for him to see into the kitchen. And there she sat! He saw papers lying on the kitchen table, and a coffee cup. Satisfied, he got back down and walked round to the front door. For several seconds he stood there, gathering his courage. He read the name on the door plate: Irma Funder. Then he pressed the doorbell. Nothing happened. He didn't think she would open the door straightaway, but he refused to give up. He rang the bell again, decided to keep ringing it until she came to the door. Sooner or later the ringing would drive her crazy. And probably she didn't have enough technical cunning to disconnect it. He didn't hear any sound from inside. He ran back to the garden behind the house. Climbed onto the chair. The opening in the curtain had been closed. He could no longer see inside. She had drawn tight the damn curtains! He went back to the front door and rang the bell again. Finally he put his finger on the bell and held it there. The shrill ring reverberated inside. He heard footsteps, but then they stopped. No-one opened the door. He put his finger back on the doorbell and held it there. Suddenly he felt afraid. What if she called the police? This could be considered a form of harassment, couldn't it?

  But just then, she opened the door. Only a crack. He looked at her white face, and her eyes, as sharp as glass.

  "What do you want?"

  A hoarse voice, dry as tinder.

  "Andreas," he panted. "Where's Andreas?"

  For a long time she said nothing as she studied him, almost with curiosity. That was when he was sure that she knew! He felt braver, angrier.

  "Tell me what happened!"

  He tried to slip his foot in the door, but she was too fast for him. The door slammed shut.

  "Shit!" he shouted. "I have to know where he is!"

  "You have no right to know anything."

  "Okay!" he shouted. "But can't you at least give me a hint?"

  "Why should I be nice to you?" she said flatly, her voice barely audible behind the heavy door.

  "Because I'm begging you," he whimpered.

  She opened the door again. "I'm not easily moved," she said. "Go home. I'm sure they'll find him."

  The door closed for the second time. Zipp pressed his finger on the doorbell, but this time nothing happened. He ran to the back of the house, climbed up on the chair. Under the bottom of the curtain was a tiny gap. He peered in, trying to decipher what little he could make out inside. Something blue appeared in his frame of vision, and what looked like a white cross. It was Andreas' cap.

  Andreas opened his eyes. I was standing halfway down the steps, watching him. I have the upper hand. I loomed on the steep steps while he lay on the floor beneath me. I had the feeling that if I stretched out my arms, I could take off and fly. Hover above him in perfect circles, staring down at his helpless form.

  "Did you hear the door bell? A friend of yours. Zipp."

  "You're lying," he whispered.

  "He was asking about you. He begged on his knees." Andreas' chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly under the blanket.

  "That stuff you have on your stomach," he said in a low voice. "That's nothing to be ashamed of."

  "I'm not ashamed!"

  I shrieked the words. Bellowed at him. "I'm not ashamed! It's not my fault!"

  "You're sick, aren't you?"

  I backed up two steps and put my hand on my stomach.

  "It's not your concern. I've never bothered anybody!" Then I sank down on to the steps, exhausted after my outburst and also surprised at my emotions, at screaming like that. Right in his face. Aiming at someone and pulling the trigger. I felt relaxed and at ease. I wanted to laugh out loud. But then Andreas would have more fodder for that idea he kept pulling out, that I was a crazy or something like that, but I wasn't. I'm not.

  "Irma is very odd," he said.

  "Why do you say that?" I stared at him.

  "That's what my mother says. Every time you come to visit her."

  "You recognised me?"

  "Of course."

  "You shouldn't talk like that. It's going to be difficult for me to let you go."

  "You're never going to let me go," he breathed. "I'm going to die down here. My body is disintegrating. Don't you think I know what I smell like?"

  "It's the wound to your head," I said. "It's started to get infected."

  "That colostomy bag," he went on. "That's nothing. If only you knew. I walk around carrying my own burden, my own secret. Well, I won't be doing any more walking. But it's damned heavy nonetheless." His voice sank to a whisper. I moved a step closer. "It's fucking awful," he said, sniffling. He couldn't get enough air into his lungs to cry properly, and that made him seem so pitiful. It was better to be angry, it's an easier emotion, more detached. But now other, more troublesome feelings were slowly coming to life. I felt overwhelmed. That handsome face was most handsome when all malice was gone and only the child was there to see. His lips quivered, and he blinked to stop the tears from spilling out. I remembered when Ingemar was little, the smell of him, the soap and lotion. His round skull, so terrifyingly fragile. The way Andreas was fragile now.

  "The baby," he said. "At Furulund. The baby that died. That was Zipp and me."

  His jaw went slack. For a moment it looked as if he had slipped into a coma. A big bubble of spit grew between his lips.

  "The baby?" I said in surprise.

  He swallowed with difficulty. "We were going to steal her handbag. She was taking a walk along the shore. I don't care what happens to me now. You can do what you want."

  For a long time I sat there, stunned, listening. His voice was growing more faint. "Go away," he said.

  "I'll go when I feel like it. This is my house. We need to talk about this. How could the two of you be so thoughtless!"

  "I know. I understand everything now. But that handbag was just a minor thing."

  "Stealing handbags from people? A minor thing?"

  "I understand everything now. Now that it's too late. You're fucking crazy, but there's nothing you can do to me any more."

  "Watch your mouth!" I shouted. "This conversation is over when I say so. And don't try to use what little time you have left to humiliate me. Do you understand? Get a hold of yourself. Or I won't give you any more water."

  "Dear Irma." His lips contorted. "You don't control me. I do. And I don't want any more water."

  "So you're planning to die of thirst?"

  "You die faster without water."

  "Go ahead and try it. You haven't understood anything at all. If you had, you would have kept a lower profile. You should have shown me a little respect."

  "I'm lying on the floor of your cellar, dying," he said dryly. "I can't get any lower than this. Death is a liberator, Irma. I've abused my place here on earth. It's time for me to withdraw."

  I didn't understand what he was babbling about. He was beginning to get confused. I stood up angrily and left. Sat at the kitchen table for quarter of an hour, thinking. After that I went back down with some warm sugar milk in the bottle. I was sure he would drink it, in spite of his little speech. He reminded me of a baby as he lay there. I had put on a knitted cardigan so I wouldn't be cold, but it was warm down there because of the heater. I liked sitting there, looking at him. When he was done, he was about to doze off again, but I shouted his name, over and over. "Andreas, Andreas." And then he opened his eyes. I took the newspaper out of my apron pocket and showed him the article about him, with the nice picture. "HAS ANYONE SEEN ANDREAS?"r />