When the Devil Holds the Candle

by Karin Fossum

  "They've been friends for years."

  "Yes. And I wonder whether his dissatisfaction is just a cover. That it's actually hiding great emotion. So great that it bothers him."

  "What are you getting at?"

  She went over to the window where the pale light fell across the naked body on the canvas.

  "Call it woman's intuition, but I think that Andreas . . . There's no passion in him. You can feel . . . a certain lack of interest. I think he prefers boys. I think he's in love with Zipp."

  Sejer stared at her in shock.

  "Forgive me if I'm starting a hare. But I think I'm no more than a cover for him. Something he can brag about to others."

  To Zipp, Sejer wondered. "He doesn't spend time with anyone else except Zipp."

  "I know."

  "But you're not positive about this?"

  "At times it's quite blatant. I've had lots of models over the years, and many of them have been homosexual."

  "What are the signs that make you think so?"

  "I think we girls can see it faster than men. Think about it. I look at you. You look at me. We each think our own thoughts. We do this in a split second, before anything else. We appraise one another. Will I make love with this man, with this woman? Yes or no? When we've decided that, then we move on and attend to whatever is our real objective. And we can put the tension aside. But its always there to begin with. A tension that we get so used to throughout our lives that we don't even think about it. Until one day we're confronted with a man, and the tension isn't there. That's a strange experience. It makes us relax. Girls enjoy the company of homosexual men," she said. "Men evidently don't feel as comfortable in the company of lesbians. Isn't that strange?" She suddenly looked a bit hostile. He listened, astonished, as he retreated into himself. Was that the first thing he thought about when he met a woman? Surely that couldn't be true? Except for Sara, when he met her. But first of all Elise. And, very rarely, Mrs Brenningen on reception. But other times? Yes, if the woman was beautiful. But what if she wasn't attractive in any way? Then he rejected her. After first . . . He stopped what he was thinking. "Will the painting be finished soon?" He nodded at the canvas and the face that was still missing a nose and mouth. The eyes were only indicated, two green shadows beneath the red shock of hair.

  "It will be a while. But I'm not going to do anything more with the head. I promised that no-one would be able to recognise him, and I'm going to keep that promise. Where is he?" she asked.

  "We don't know. All we have is Zipp, and he's not very informative. What will you do now?" he said. "He's missing, and you won't be able to finish the painting."

  She shrugged. "I'm sure he'll turn up. And if not, then he'll never be more than a sketch. Would you consider posing for me?"

  Sejer was so taken aback that he almost choked.

  "I thought I made clear what my feelings on that score were."

  "It's important to break down barriers," she said. "To take off your clothes and let someone study you, to allow yourself to be properly seen through someone else's eyes – it's hugely liberating."

  Stand in front of this woman, he thought, without a stitch on. With her eyes everywhere, analytical eyes examining him until all that was left was an impression. And not what he really was. Just the impression he made on her. Which was unique to her. What would she see? A 50-year-old, sinewy body in good physical shape. A trace of eczema in a few places. The line at his waist where his skin was paler than elsewhere. A scar running down his right thigh, shiny and white. Hour after hour, until he was fixed on the canvas for all time. And someone would own it, hang it on their wall. Look at it. But why is that so much more frightening than being photographed? he thought. Because the lens is dead and can't judge. Was he afraid of being judged? Would he overcome something if he agreed to pose? And if so, what would that lead to? Sejer decided he could live with his own curiosity.

  His expression was polite and proper when he thanked her for her help.

  Andreas opened his eyes. His mien, when he finally understood, how shall I describe it? A tiny light that suddenly goes out.

  "You didn't go there," he said, exhausted.

  "Yes, I did!"

  I wrung my hands and felt ashamed. Because I had failed him. But I was also furious at all the prejudiced people who don't really see us. Who just give us a quick look and jump to conclusions.

  "I was there. But he didn't understand a thing. A young man, I don't think he's worked there long. I tried to explain, but he just asked me whether I needed a lift home. As if I were a foolish old woman. And you know what the funny thing is? I've seen him before, but I can't think where. It's so odd!"

  Andreas uttered a whimper. He must still have had some hope until now, but it was gone, the very last bit of it.

  "Shit. You mean you went to the police station, and then you just left?"

  He started wheezing, as if his throat were full of mucus. He couldn't cough it up. His lungs wheezed.

  "Get out of here!"

  "I'll leave when I feel like it. I tried to tell them."

  "No, you didn't! My God, you're so pathetic!"

  "You're the one who's pathetic. Just look at you! Don't provoke me; I can't take much more."

  "Poor Irma. The world has been so unfair to you. No-one understands what it's like for you, is that it?"

  He was crying, but his tears were mixed with laughter. It wasn't attractive.

  "Be quiet, Andreas."

  "I'll talk as much as I like. It's the only thing I can do."

  "I won't give you any more water."

  "Do you enjoy this, Irma? Tormenting me? Where do you feel it? Does it turn you on?"

  "Leave me alone," I snapped. "If you only knew what I might do."

  "But I do know. It's the same for me."

  "You have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Go to bed. I want to be left in peace."

  "You want to be left in peace? You should have thought of that earlier. You know what? I do too. But did you take that into consideration?"

  "No," he said mildly.

  "You weren't counting on Irma!"

  "I didn't know that you were the one who lived here."

  "Liar!"

  "I didn't recognise you until it was too late."

  "Don't give me that! Because if you'd noticed it was me, you would have gone to the next house! And stuck your knife into someone else's face. Some stranger. Because that would have been easier!"

  I was trembling with anger, and it felt wonderful, those fierce emotions burning my cheeks. I was a live human being, justifiably shaking with indignation, in fact I was standing at the front, fighting one of my most important battles. And best of all, he had to listen to me! He couldn't even lift his hands to block his ears. His face went blank. He had closed me out again, but I knew he was listening.

  "You're a spoiled child."

  He didn't answer, but I could see his eyelashes flickering.

  "What did you ever do for your mother? Tell me that. What obligations have you ever had?"

  His smile was weak. "I took out the rubbish. Every day."

  "Oh, how marvellous. You took out the rubbish! I'm so impressed, Andreas."

  "How long have I been lying here?" he whispered.

  I counted to myself. "Three days. Do you want to get out of here? Try to find my weak points. My maternal instincts. The key to your freedom. I've had a child, so I must have them. Try to see if you're a good judge of character."

  "I am a good judge of character," he sighed. "But it's not necessary in this case. Even a child could see it a mile off. You're totally insane."

  I stood up and shook my fists. I wanted to howl out loud, show him how furious I was.

  "You damn little brat!"

  Surprised, he stared up at me with his light blue eyes. "Your cheeks are burning, Irma!"

  I spun round and left. This time I turned off the light, wrapping him in thick darkness.

  "Call them, for God
's sake!" he shouted. "You fucking bitch. Call for help!"

  I knelt down and shoved the trap door shut. I opened it and closed it, over and over. It banged and slammed like an earthquake through the house. Worn out, I sank to the floor.

  CHAPTER 18

  September 5.

  Mrs Winther called. Skarre tried to explain.

  "No, Mrs Winther, that's not possible. We're not unwilling, but I'm speaking from experience. The TV news doesn't report this kind of case. Only if we think it probable that a crime has been committed. And in this case . . . Yes, Mrs Winther, I realise that. But I know the man in charge, and he's not easily persuaded. You can call them, if you like, but I'm trying to spare you the disappointment. Only very special cases. Of course Andreas is special to you, but people disappear every single day. Between two and three thousand a year, to tell you the truth. A girl of ten would get more attention? Yes, that's true, that's how things work. We managed to get a photograph in the local paper, and that was difficult enough. The head of the news section? Of course you can call, but I don't really think . . . Yes, of course we'll call you at once, but there's a limit to how much we can do here. Actually, we've already done much more than we would usually be able to. I realise that you don't see it that way. But we can't rule out that Andreas may have left because he wanted to. And in that situation . . . Yes, I know you don't think that's possible, but no-one ever does. The thing is, if we do find him, we have no right to say where he is. To you. If he doesn't want us to. Unfortunately, those are the rules. He's an adult . . . Goodbye, Mrs Winther."

  Ingrid Sejer was sitting in front of the television, watching the evening news. Matteus stood behind her chair, staring at the screen, barefoot and wearing thin pyjamas. His mother turned round and saw him.

  "Matteus. It's late," she said.

  He nodded, but he stayed where he was. His mother looked a little depressed. She put her hands on his thin shoulders.

  "What are you eating?"

  "A liquorice Porsche."

  She smiled sadly. "Pappa says that I shouldn't pressure you, but I wish you would tell us who wrote that note. That awful note in your school bag."

  "It doesn't bother me," he said.

  "It doesn't frighten you?"

  "No," he said. She gave him a searching look, surprised at his reaction, and realised that she believed him, though she wasn't sure why.

  "I'm not going to run to the headmaster and tell him, or anything like that," she said. "If you tell me who wrote it. And I won't call his mother. Or hers, if it's a girl. I just need to know."

  Matteus was fighting a silent battle. It was hard when his mother begged him like that.

  "All right," he said at last. "It was Tommy."

  His mother was struck dumb. She sat for a moment with her eyes wide, shaking her head. "Tommy?" she stammered in confusion. "But he's . . . he's from Ethiopia. His skin is darker than yours!"

  "I know," Matteus said, shrugging.

  "But why would Tommy, of all . . ." She started to giggle. Matteus giggled too, and they were both laughing hysterically. His mother hugged him, and Matteus didn't understand why she was so happy. But she was. She stood up and got him a glass of Coke. Then she sat down again to watch the news, from time to time shaking her head. Matteus was on the sofa. Imitating the grown-ups, he opened the paper and found himself looking at a photograph of a young man with dark curls. He was smiling at Matteus with white teeth. In the picture he looked nice, much nicer than he had that day in the green car. It was him, he was sure of it.

  "Why is this boy in the newspaper?" he asked.

  His mother glanced at the photograph and read the story underneath.

  "Because he's missing," she told him.

  "What do you mean, missing?" he wanted to know.

  "Missing, gone, disappeared," she explained.

  "Gone like Great-Grandmother?"

  "No. Or rather, they don't know. He left his home and never came back."

  "He's driving around in a green car," Matteus told her.

  "What are you talking about?" She gave him a doubtful look.

  "Him and another boy. In a green car. They asked me how to get to the bowling alley."

  "Is that one of the boys who were bothering you down the street the other day? When you came home from the party?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  She grabbed the newspaper and read the text again. Missing since September 1.

  "I have to call your grandfather," she said.

  "But I don't know where he is now," Matteus said, sounding worried.

  "That doesn't matter. I still have to call him. Go to bed now."

  "I want to talk to Grandpa."

  "You can have two minutes." She dialled her father's number and waited.

  Skarre was chewing on his pen. It was leaving a metallic taste in his mouth. How could someone just disappear off the face of the earth like that? At the same time, he was thinking of what Sejer had said. There's always someone who knows something. And Zipp knew. His thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing.

  "Criminal Division. Jacob Skarre."

  There was a strange rushing sound on the line. He listened for a moment, waiting.

  "Hello? . . . Hello?"

  The silence continued. Just the faint rushing sound. He could have hung up – they had plenty of calls when people never said a word – but he decided to wait.

  "You'd better come soon. He probably won't live much longer!"

  There was a click. The conversation was over. Skarre sat there bewildered, holding the phone.

  A woman. She sounded hysterical, almost tearful. And at that instant something occurred to him. He stood up so fast that his chair fell and went clattering into the filing cabinet behind him. Those words. That despair! Where had he heard them before? He leaned against the cabinet, thinking. That hoarse voice, it reminded him of something, if only he could remember. Something recent. He sat at his desk again. Thought hard. But he couldn't pin it down. How could he make himself remember?

  He tried thinking of something else. Finally it came back to him what she had actually said. He probably won't live much longer. Did it have to do with Andreas Winther? Why did he think of Andreas? He fished in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. A folded piece of paper came out with it. He unfolded it. "A woman of about 60 arrives at the office at 4 p.m. She seems confused." And then he remembered. The confused woman in the brown coat who had come to see him the previous day. It has to do with a missing person. He probably won't live much longer. She was that strange woman with the baby bottle too. That's why she had seemed familiar. What on earth was she up to? He lit his cigarette and went to the window. Opened it and blew the smoke out.

  The phone rang again.

  "This is Runi Winther. I just want to apologise for being such a pest."

  Skarre cleared his throat. "That's quite all right, Mrs Winther. We know this is difficult for you."