In the Darkness

by Karin Fossum

  Eva had to steady herself on the wall. ‘I did not kill her!’

  He looked at her through narrowed eyes. ‘I don’t give a fuck about that! The money’s mine!’

  She backed into the hallway and slammed the door shut. It had a night latch. She stumbled through the living room, hearing him begin to work on the lock, quietly at first, as if he had a picklock. She wasted no time. She shot down the cellar steps, ran through it, squeezing past the old carpenter’s bench, and found the main electricity switch. Everything went black. Now, from up above, she heard him attacking the door with heavier tools, there was banging and scraping. She fumbled her way to the cellar door, ran her hands over the woodwork, her temples pounding. The door hadn’t been used for years, perhaps it was locked, perhaps with a padlock, she couldn’t remember, but it led out into a wilderness of garden, and just behind the hedge was her neighbour’s garden and a side street she could escape into. More violent blows upstairs: the sound of metal splintering woodwork, perhaps he was wielding an axe. She found the bar that ran across the door and hoped it wasn’t padlocked, she couldn’t feel anything, but it wouldn’t budge, it had probably rusted fast. Quickly, she removed a shoe and used the heel to hit it from below, she struck it again and again while the man upstairs smashed his way through the door and tramped into the living room, and at last it gave. She lifted it carefully, because now he’d halted, he stood still listening, at any moment he’d see the stairs down to the cellar and realise that she was standing down here in the dark, that perhaps there was a way out, she couldn’t open it now that he was so silent. She waited for him to move again, and he did, he approached the stairs, the soles of his shoes sighing on the parquet flooring, she popped her shoe back on and pushed the door open with one shoulder, she hoped it wouldn’t creak, but it gave a squeal that reverberated in the cellar’s space. Now there was only the cellar hatch above her. She thought it was open, she’d never normally locked it, so she ascended the four steps and had begun to push at it with her shoulder when she heard his footfall on the stairs, he’d realised now that she’d fled this way, so he began to hurry, while Eva used her shoulder as a battering ram and drove it up against the hatch again and again. It opened a crack, then closed again, through the gap she saw that someone had put a peg through the steel catch outside, perhaps it had been Jostein, he’d always been so practical. But if it were a wooden peg it would break, sooner or later it would break, so she continued to attack the hatch with her shoulder, the chink got larger, it felt as if her shoulder would break before the peg, it was numb, almost without feeling, so she continued, and suddenly she saw his foot on the bottom step of the cellar stairs, a light-coloured moccasin, and his white teeth in the dark. He moved a few paces and stretched out an arm, and Eva battered her shoulder into the hatch with all her might. Just then the peg broke and the hatch flew up with a crash. She fell down the four steps, got up them again, shot out of the opening and was making for the hedge when she felt his hands round her ankle, he had a firm hold, he yanked her towards him, her chin bumped down the steps. The cement floor was icy. She couldn’t feel her shoulder any more. The inside of her mouth was bleeding. He dropped her foot with a little thud.

  Eva lay on her stomach. He stood astride her and she caught the scent of his aftershave, a strangely alien smell in the musty cellar. Her thoughts swam for an instant, then she thought: he isn’t particularly large, he’s quite slender, and the cellar hatch is open. I’ve got longer legs, if I could only surprise him …

  ‘Lie still,’ he snarled.

  She tried to make a plan. She had to think of something, ruin his concentration, catch him off balance. There were four steps up to the garden, if she took two at a time …

  ‘Tell me where you’ve hidden the money, and nothing will happen to you.’ His voice was almost comforting. ‘But if you don’t, things will heat up, in lots of places.’

  He struck a match. She gulped back the beginnings of nausea and tried to think, how many seconds would she need to stand up and dash out, get through the hedge and cross her neighbour’s lawn? She went through the movement in her mind, drawing her arms and legs under her, leaping up, two steps, into the hedge, across the lawn, down the street, traffic, people …

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ he said huskily.

  ‘I don’t keep it here,’ she groaned. ‘You didn’t really think I would, did you?’

  He laughed softly. ‘It doesn’t matter to me where it is. Provided you show me the way.’

  What would surprise him, she thought, some unexpected action, perhaps a loud scream, the scream that never materialises from the throat when you’re truly frightened, but sticks there blocking the breath? A scream. Perhaps that would paralyse him for a couple of seconds, just long enough to get halfway up from the floor.

  She raised her head.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  She drew air into her lungs, filled them to capacity and got ready.

  ‘Which will it be?’

  The match went out. And then she screamed. Her scream reverberated, bouncing off the cellar walls in piercing waves from room to room, she jumped up, drew in more air and screamed again, and now he collected himself, sprang after her just as she took the four steps in two bounds, she crossed the garden and dived into the hedge, felt it catching and tearing at her skin and hair, and heard her coat ripping and his panting right behind her, as she pushed her way through and suddenly was out again, picking up speed, went on round her neighbour’s house and out through the gate, down the street, which was silent now, cut in through another gate, she was covering the distance with her long legs, the pain and the fear gave her strength, she heard his feet a little way behind, ran round the house, found a further hedge, she could go through it and continue across another property, but she decided against it, ran instead round the house and stopped at the opposite corner, just in time to see him in pursuit. He thought she’d carried on through the next hedge, but she ran out on to the road again, following the ditch so that her shoes wouldn’t make a noise on the asphalt, caught a glimpse of the main road far ahead, and the first car lights, then she put on speed, no longer looking back, but drove on, with lungs bursting and gasping for breath, and at last caught sight of a car, it was moving slowly, she leapt out into the road and heard the screeching of brakes. She collapsed on to the bonnet like a sack. Sejer stared at her in alarm through the windscreen. It was several seconds before she recognised him. Then she spun round, cut across the road and turned into a drive on the other side, she heard his car make a U-turn to that side of the road. It halted, a car door opened, she heard his feet on the pavement. Eva’s strength was exhausted, but still she ran, with her skirt flapping round her legs, Sejer followed her into the garden, he was running on gravel, she could hear him clearly although her ears were ringing, and then another sound, a well-known sound that made her throat tighten. A dog. Kollberg wanted to join in the game. He watched lovingly as his master sped off, it took the dog a few seconds to catch him up, he wagged his tail eagerly, jumping up and tugging at his jacket, then he suddenly noticed the woman running a little way ahead and the flapping of her long skirt in the twilit garden. He forgot Sejer and bounded after her. Eva turned and saw the huge dog and its red jaws, steam was coming from its mouth, its tongue was lolling from side to side like a pendulum as it tore through the garden. She had no thought of Sejer now, she was just running from the dog, from those yellow teeth and big canine paws which cut through the long grass in huge strides, ate up the distance in great bites. There was a small Wendy house amongst the old apple trees. She careered towards it with the very last of her strength, yanked open the door and slammed it shut behind her. Inside here she was safe from the dog. At least she was safe from the dog.

  Sejer eased off and walked slowly towards the diminutive house. He patted the dog, when it came back disappointed, then bent down, took it by the collar and walked towards the door. He opened it warily. She was sitting on the floor with her knees drawn up un
der her chin, next to a laid table. A tiny coffee pot and two china cups graced the white tablecloth. Beside her on the floor lay a discarded doll with her hair cut off.

  ‘Eva Magnus,’ he said quietly, ‘I think you’d better accompany me to the station.’

  Chapter 16

  EVA RETURNED TO reality.

  She glanced up at Sejer, amazed that he was still sitting there.

  He could have told her to start talking now, but he didn’t. He could take a break, it was worse for her. She was still wearing her coat, now she put her hand in her pocket and fumbled for something.

  ‘Cigarette?’ he asked, and found the packet in his desk, the packet he never touched.

  He lit one for her, still keeping quiet; he could see she was trying to gather herself, find the beginning, a good place to start. The blood had begun to congeal around her mouth, and her lower lip was swollen. She couldn’t go back to the house. So, finally, she began at the beginning. With the day Emma had gone on holiday, and she’d taken the bus into town. She’d been standing in Nedre Storgate feeling cold, with her back to the Glassmagasinet department store and thirty-nine kroner in her pocket. A carrier bag in one hand. With the other, she clasped the top of her coat together under her chin. It was the last day of September, and cold.

  She should have been at home working, it was eleven in the morning, but she’d fled from the house. Before that she’d phoned her electricity supplier and phone company; she’d asked them for a breathing space, for just a few more days, then she’d pay. And she was allowed to keep her electricity supply as she had a young child, but the telephone would be cut off in the course of the day. If the house burnt down, they’d have to live in the ruins as she hadn’t paid her insurance. Every week a new debt-recovery threat came in the post. Her Arts Council grant was late. The fridge was empty. The thirty-nine kroner was all she had. In her studio she had great piles of paintings, the work of several years which no one wanted to buy. She glanced to her left, across to the square, to where she could make out the illuminated Sparebank sign. A few months before the bank had been robbed. The man in the tracksuit had taken less than two minutes to make off with four hundred thousand kroner. About one hundred seconds, she thought. The case remained unsolved.

  She shook her head in despair and looked furtively across at the paint shop, peered down into her bag where the aerosol can of fixative lay. It had cost 102 kroner and was faulty. Something was wrong with the nozzle so that nothing came out, or worse, it would suddenly deliver a great flood of the stuff at her pictures and ruin them. Like the sketch of her father that she’d been so lucky with. She hadn’t the money to buy another one, she’d have to exchange it. The few kroner she had left would buy her milk, bread and coffee and that was all. The problem was that Emma ate like a horse, a loaf didn’t last long. She’d phoned the Arts Council, who’d said that her grant would be sent out ‘any day now’, so it could take another week. She had no idea what she would eat tomorrow. It didn’t take her breath away or make her panic, she was used to living from hand to mouth, they’d done it for years. Ever since she and Emma had been left alone, and there was no longer a man bringing in money. Something would turn up, it always did. But the worry was like a barb in her breast, over the years she’d become empty inside. Sometimes reality began to quiver, and rumble quietly as if there were an earthquake in the making. The only thing that held her fast was the overarching task of satisfying Emma’s hunger. While she had Emma she had a sheet anchor. Today she’d gone to her father’s, and Eva searched for something to hold on to. All she had was the carrier bag.

  Eva was tall and truculent, pale and frightened all at once, but the years with little money had taught her to use her imagination. Maybe she could demand her money back instead of a new aerosol, she thought, then she’d have another 102 kroner to buy food with. It was just a bit awkward asking. She was an artist, after all, she needed fixative and the man in the paint shop knew it. Perhaps she should sweep into the shop and make a real scene, act the difficult customer and mouth off and complain and threaten them with the Consumer Council; then he’d understand how the land lay, that actually she was broke and upset, and he’d refund her money. He was a nice man. Just as Père Tanguy had been when, for payment, he’d cut a pink prawn out of a van Gogh picture. Provided he could buy a tube of paint, he didn’t care if he ate or not. Nor did Eva for that matter, but she had a child with a ravenous appetite. The Dutchman hadn’t had to contend with that. She psyched herself up, crossed the street and went into the shop. It was warmer inside, quite cosy, and had the same smell as her studio at home. A young girl was behind the counter in the perfume section, flicking through a hair-tone chart. The paint man himself was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I want to return this,’ Eva said with determination, ‘the spray mechanism doesn’t work. I want my money back.’

  The girl assumed a pouting expression and took the bag. ‘You couldn’t have bought that here,’ she said sullenly. ‘We don’t stock that hairspray.’

  Eva rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not hairspray, it’s fixative,’ she said wearily. ‘I ruined a rather good sketch on account of that aerosol.’

  The girl blushed, lifted the can out and sprayed above Eva’s head. Nothing came out. ‘You can have a replacement,’ she said tersely.

  ‘The money,’ Eva persisted doggedly. ‘I know the owner, he’d give me my money back.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I’m asking for it. It’s called service,’ she said curtly.

  The girl sighed, she hadn’t been in the shop long and she was twenty years Eva’s junior. She opened the till and took out a hundred-kroner note and two kroner pieces.

  ‘Just sign here.’

  Eva signed her name, took the money and left. She tried to relax. Now perhaps she could manage for a couple of days more. She did some mental arithmetic and worked out she had 141 kroner, almost enough to treat herself to a cup of coffee at Glassmagasinet’s in-store café. You could get a coffee there without having to eat as well. She crossed the street and went through the double glass doors which parted invitingly. She took a quick look in the book and stationery department and was just about to make for the escalator, when she caught sight of a woman standing at one of the shelves. A buxom brunette with closely cropped hair and dark eyebrows. She was leafing through a book. Many years had passed, but it wasn’t a face you could forget. Eva stopped dead, she couldn’t believe her eyes. Suddenly the years fell away and she was transported all the way back to that day when, as a fifteen-year-old, she’d been sitting on the stone steps at home. Everything they possessed had been packed in boxes and put on a lorry. She sat staring at it, unable to believe that everything had really fitted into one small lorry, when the house and garage and cellar had been so full of stuff. They were moving. Just then it was as if they didn’t live anywhere, it was horrible. Eva didn’t want to leave. Her father went about with restless eyes as if afraid they’d forget something. He’d got a job at last. But he couldn’t meet Eva’s gaze.

  Then there was a crunch of gravel and a familiar figure rounded the corner.

  ‘I had to come and say goodbye,’ she said.

  Eva nodded.

  ‘We can write to each other, can’t we? I’ve never had anyone to write letters to before. Will you come back in the summer holidays?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Eva mumbled.

  She’d never find another friend, she was certain of it. They’d grown up together, they’d shared everything. No one else knew how she felt. The future was a dreary grey landscape, she wanted to cry. There was a quick, shy hug, and then she’d gone. That was almost twenty-five years ago, and since then they’d never set eyes on one another. Not until now.

  ‘Maja?’ she queried and waited expectantly. The woman turned and tried to pinpoint the call, and caught sight of Eva. Her eyes opened wide and grew large, then she rushed towards her.

  ‘Well, of all things! I can’t believe my eyes. Eva Marie! My
God, how tall you’ve grown!’

  ‘And you’re even smaller than I remember you!’

  Then they were silent for a moment, suddenly bashful, as they scrutinised one another to pick out everything, the changes, all the traces left by the intervening years, recognising their own decay in the other’s wrinkles and lines, and after that they searched for everything they knew so well and which still was there. Maja said: ‘We’ll go to the café. Come along, we must talk Eva. So, you’re still living here? You really do still live here?’

  She placed an arm around Eva’s waist and shepherded her along, full of amazement, but soon the same person Eva remembered: bright, chatty, determined and always bubbly, in other words the opposite of Eva. They had complemented one another. Oh God, how they’d needed each other!

  ‘I never got any further,’ Eva replied. ‘This is a bad place to live, I should never have come with that removal lorry.’

  ‘You’re just like you were when we were girls,’ Maja giggled. ‘Downcast. Come on, let’s grab that window table!’

  They rushed over to claim it before anyone else, and plonked themselves down on the chairs. Maja got to her feet again.

  ‘Sit here and keep our places, I’ll go and get us something. What would you like?’

  ‘Just coffee.’

  ‘You need a piece of cake,’ Maja objected, ‘you’re thinner than ever.’

  ‘I haven’t got the money.’ She’d blurted it out before she’d had time to think.

  ‘Oh? Well I have.’

  She went off, and Eva watched the way she helped herself greedily at the cake counter. It was awful having to say that she couldn’t afford a piece of cake, but she wasn’t used to lying to Maja. The truth popped out all of its own accord. She could hardly believe it was true, that she really was over there pouring out their coffee. It was as if those twenty-five years had just rolled away, and as she looked at Maja from a distance she still seemed like a young girl. You get sleeker if you’re a bit chubby, Eva thought enviously, and pulled off her coat. She didn’t bother much about food. She ate only when hunger became a physical discomfort and ruined her concentration. Apart from that she lived on coffee, cigarettes and wine.