by Karin Fossum
‘When you got out of the car, I saw you lose your balance.’
He tried to find something to say, something to downplay it. ‘I have low blood pressure.’
‘Low blood pressure?’ She gave a little snort.
‘I’ve always had low blood pressure,’ he said. ‘When I sit in the car for a long time then get up too quickly –’
‘Sit in the car for a long time? Didn’t you drive here from the police station? It’s a three-minute trip.’
‘I was just a little dizzy,’ he mumbled. ‘It can happen to the best of us.’
‘Have you been to the doctor’s?’
‘I can’t bother a doctor just because I’m a little dizzy now and then.’
‘Yes, you can,’ she said. ‘Are you afraid of doctors?’
‘It’s so much trouble, Ingrid, with tests and all the rest. I mean, spending half the day in a waiting room. I don’t have the time.’
She gave up, slumped forward. Her father was intelligent and kind and generous, but he was also, when it came to himself, unapproachable. ‘You’re shy,’ she said. ‘You don’t like the thought of getting undressed in front of someone else. Lying on a doctor’s examination table. Answering questions about how you live.’
‘I live well.’
‘I know. You don’t need to be embarrassed, because you’re actually in quite good shape. But it’s not right that you get dizzy every time you stand up.’
‘Not every time, Ingrid. Just now and then.’
She leaned closer and tapped his nose. ‘If I ask you to stay for a while, or for dinner, you’ll say no, because you’ve got to head home to Frank.’
‘He’s been alone since seven this morning.’ He rose and pushed his chair into place. ‘When you were small,’ he reminded her, ‘you threw a tantrum to get what you wanted.’
‘And it worked every single time,’ she smiled.
The door banged open in the hallway. Matteus tumbled in.
Sejer noticed he was limping.
Ingrid didn’t mention the cheeseburger.
Chapter 16
Johnny Beskow didn’t own much.
His mother never shared anything, and never gave him anything. He had his Suzuki Estilete, a helmet and a pair of top-quality biking gloves with red skulls. Two pairs of jeans, some faded T-shirts, a hooded jumper and trainers which he wore year round.
He stood in the doorway to his room, and instantly he knew something was missing.
Bleeding Heart was gone.
The empty cage confused him. He examined it carefully, putting his hand inside and lifting the little plastic maze. But no guinea pig emerged. He got down on all fours and searched under his bed. He hunted behind the curtains, under his desk and pillows, and the rubbish bin in the corner. He turned and walked, soundlessly, into the living room. His mother sat in a chair with a stack of bills. She glanced up.
‘What have you done with him?!’ he shouted. ‘Tell me now!’
She looked at him indifferently, then put her finger on a stack of yellow payment forms and made a tired face. ‘They’ll cut the electricity soon,’ she mumbled.
‘Where’s Bleeding Heart?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Do you mean the little rat? He got loose. I can’t have rats running around the house. He chewed on the cords and all kinds of things, and that can cause a short circuit and burn the whole house down. But I guess you’d probably like that.’
Johnny began to tremble from head to toe. After years of bullying and neglect, he’d grown rather thick-skinned. But this was too much for him.
‘He didn’t get loose,’ he screamed. ‘He can’t get out of the cage on his own. There’s a latch on the door. You just went and took him, that’s what you did. You took him. You need to tell me where he is, now!’
She gathered her payment forms, got up and shoved them in a drawer. Then she looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Well, what should we do with a dead rat? What do you think, Johnny?’
He knew what she’d done. Standing a few metres away, his fists clenched, he understood that she’d killed the most precious thing he owned. Somehow. And it made him angry. He got so angry that his thoughts ran to horrible places. I’ll put the army knife into your spine, he thought, so you’ll be paralysed in both legs and you’ll have to crawl on your elbows while I sit in a chair and tell you how you’re going to die. He wondered exactly where in the back he’d have to stab her to slice the right nerve.
‘I put it in an empty milk carton,’ she said suddenly.
He breathed deeply. Moved a few steps closer, opening and closing his fists. ‘And where’s the milk carton? Is it in the rubbish? Are you telling me Bleeding Heart is in the rubbish?’
‘Yes,’ she confessed. ‘In the bin for food waste. I won’t have rats here,’ she repeated. ‘It smells of them. It smells of piss from that cage, Johnny!’
Quietly Johnny Beskow made his way out of the house. Went down to the gate where the rubbish bins stood. He opened the bin and looked inside, and immediately he recognised the milk carton. She had folded it tight, and his hands trembled when he opened it. Bleeding Heart, sticky wet, was curled into a ball. She had drowned him. Maybe in the bathroom sink.
For a long time he held the wet fur ball. I can deal with almost anything, he thought. Year after year I’ve held my tongue. But the day is coming when I will get up and take my gruesome revenge. She doesn’t know it, but that day is very close. I just need the right moment. To hell with the consequences – life is a drag, and so is death. When I get my revenge people can do what they want and think what they want, I won’t care. That’s why I’m better than them.
He pulled himself away and strode to the back of the house, where he found an old rusty spade. He put the guinea pig on the grass and began to dig. Extremely focused, he dug a deep grave, laid the small animal inside and covered it with dirt. Then he found a stone and put it on top of the grave, like a heavy lid. I hope it’s deep enough, he thought, so the badgers don’t get you. He stood tall and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was beaten, but he didn’t intend to stay down. He marched over to his moped, put on his helmet and drove on to the road.
Twenty minutes later he arrived at the shopping centre in Kirkeby. Because he liked breaking rules, he parked in a disabled space. Whenever Johnny could break a rule, he did so, and now he wished for nothing more than to be insufferable. After everything that had happened. He took the escalator up to the second floor and trudged into the pet shop. A girl behind the counter followed him with her eyes; she fingered some papers, stared at him for a moment and kept him under surveillance. First, Johnny went to the aquarium and admired the catfish. Then the girl strolled slowly towards him, long and stooped and swaying; she had large, heavy eyelids and long lashes. Her lower lip was very full, making him think of a camel.
‘Are you interested in fish?’
‘No,’ Johnny said. ‘I want a guinea pig. One with three colours, black, brown and white. A male. I don’t care how much it costs.’
‘We don’t have any guinea pigs,’ she said.
‘What? Not a single one?’
He wasn’t sure he had heard right. He was in a pet shop, and they didn’t have a guinea pig.
The camel headed towards a row of cages against the wall, pointed and showed him what she had to offer, which was a little bit of everything.
‘We have dwarf rabbits,’ she said temptingly, ‘and polecats and brown rats. And we have a large chinchilla, but it’s sort of boring – sleeps all day.’
Johnny Beskow hesitated. He didn’t want to go home without a new pet. So he studied the furry creatures with considerable interest.
‘And we have a hamster,’ she remembered. ‘It’s all by itself now. Its siblings have been sold.’ She opened one of the cages and lifted out a small champagne-coloured fur ball. ‘The hamster is great. It’s much smarter than a guinea pig. And really tame.’
He took the animal, and held it up to his cheek. ‘I see,’ he said, set
ting it back in its cage. He didn’t want to be hasty. He took his time. The rats were strong; they smelled like cloves, and were fast as lightning. One was an albino and had red eyes, like rubies. The chinchilla seemed aloof, didn’t even bother to blink, and the dwarf rabbits were for girls. He picked up the animals one by one, weighed them in his hands and held them up to his cheek. Thought long and hard.
‘The hamster,’ he said decisively and walked to the counter.
The camel followed with the little animal in her hand.
‘You’ll also need a number of things,’ she explained eagerly. ‘Cage. Toys. Food bowl and water bowl. You should get this vitamin supplement which you drip into the drinking water. And they like to make a nest for themselves. You can buy cotton rags at the petrol station next door, they don’t cost much.’ She held a little bottle with a dropper out to him. ‘Here are the vitamins. We also have a powder here, with minerals and such, which you sprinkle over his food every morning. For his bones. You shouldn’t be careless about such things.’
‘No!’ he objected. ‘Leave me alone. I already have a cage. I have everything I need, and I don’t have the money for all that stuff. Jesus, it’s only a hamster. I’m not running a hotel!’
She put the hamster in a box with holes. Squeezed her lips into a thin line and was affronted because he’d rejected her expertise.
But Johnny was content. He paid 250 kroner for the little devil, and left the shop with his new friend under his arm. If she drowns this one, I’ll bring a spider home, he thought.
Or a snake.
When he got home, his mother was wearing a dress.
It happened very rarely, so he stood staring into the kitchen. The dress was dark blue with a white ruche at the hem and, to be honest, resembled something from a bygone era. But it was a change, perhaps even an improvement. For in this outfit she acted completely differently. She wore high-heeled shoes with ankle straps, the heels resembling spools: narrow in the middle and fatter above and below. She had brushed her dark hair, and, at first glance, she could’ve passed for a woman with her life under control, a woman with a certain level of self-discipline, will and decisiveness. But her suffering was just as visible. The affliction, the alcoholism, could be seen in the fierce line of her mouth, the wronged look in her eyes, the trembling in her hands and unsteadiness of her gait. It was obvious she was hardened. She’d been unjustly treated and wasn’t responsible for her own situation; her alcoholism had been out of her control, just as people who are struck by lightning cannot control the lightning. She couldn’t have defended herself against it. She was a victim. She didn’t have a choice; she listened to her body, and her body wrenched her whenever the intoxication began to ebb. The discomfort, she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t follow through, couldn’t please, couldn’t serve, couldn’t participate. She was a shipwreck, and she was sinking. But now she had put on a dress and was stone-cold sober, or at least that’s what it seemed to him. She had raised her sails. The goal, he thought as he observed her, is money. She tottered around in her high heels, and he held his breath when he saw how her ankles struggled to hold her weight, to keep her upright.
But so far, it was working.
She held her head high. Smoothing her dress, she didn’t see him. He pressed himself against the door frame, holding the box behind his back. The hamster scratched and clawed inside the box, but she didn’t notice it. She looked out of the window, noted the clouds, and grabbed a coat from a wall hook. The coat was ancient, a thin, faux fur, grey-brown with some darker spots.
She put it on before the mirror in the hallway.
Yes, she’s looking for money, Johnny thought. She must have discovered some form of public assistance she might be entitled to. Maybe there was something in the newspaper about new welfare regulations – after all, the government has promised to help the poor. If she looked presentable, if her heels carried her, if people just noticed the ruche on the hem of her dress. Silently he leaned against the wall and listened to her footsteps, the sharp clap. The heels spoke their own language. It is my right, the heels said decisively. It’s not too much to ask for.
Finally she grabbed her bag and left. He ran straight to the window and watched her stalk towards the bus stop. She’s probably going into the city, he thought, to some office or other, where she’ll wipe away tears in her theatrical way. She wobbled slightly in her heels. His cheeks began to burn, because he realised everyone could see her: the neighbours and anyone driving past. The spotted coat made her look like a hyena, and now she was out hunting for carrion. Without wanting to, he felt pity for her. She looked so vulnerable in the harsh light. It tormented and confused him. The empathy weighed him down, made him heavy and sad and despondent. So he tried to muster some anger instead. His anger gave him the energy to act. When she was finally out of sight, he went to his room to get a closer look at the hamster. He decided to call it Butch. Or, put in another way, the Butcher from Askeland. It was doing well. He put it in the cage, and it seemed happy in its new home. After he had eaten a bowl of cereal, he went out and started up his moped again. He put his helmet on and drove on to the road, throwing a glance towards the bus stop.
The hyena was gone.
He checked his fuel gauge and accelerated. He wore his thin riding gloves with the skulls. Speed gave him a feeling of superiority. He felt invincible, faster and smarter than everyone else. Here comes Johnny Beskow, he thought. You can build all you want, but I will tear down your towers. That’s how powerful I am.
The road cut through a landscape of yellow fields, passed the church and Lake Skarve, Bjerkås town centre, headed towards Kirkeby and finally went eastward to Sandberg, Out here people had more money. You could see it in the houses, which were bigger and better kept than they were at Askeland. Swiss-style houses. Double garages. Big gardens. Small, silly fountains, solar-powered lights along the driveways. He neared the centre of Sandberg. To the left was a grassy slope bordering a playing field, and to the right an enormous house. He was on Sandbergveien. When he passed house number 15, something caught his attention. He eased up on the throttle. A couple were sitting outside in the sun, at a table. The man stood out for several reasons.
He was older than the woman.
He was emaciated, his body hunched.
He was in a wheelchair.
Johnny pulled off the road and laid the moped on the slope. Then he squatted down in the grass and stared at the couple. Sensing his presence, they looked at him. So he took out his mobile, pretended to punch in a number and put it to his ear. Then they turned their attention back to each other.
Johnny observed them on the sly. The man in the wheelchair wore shorts; he had bare, bluish-white legs that wouldn’t support him. His hair was thin and matted, and his hands, resting on the wheels, also seemed to be unusable. There must be something more going on than paralysis in his legs, Johnny thought, because as he studied the man he noticed the thick plastic tube in his neck. That meant he needed help breathing. It meant that his illness had spread and reached the muscles around his lungs. The woman scurried about and tended to him, poured drinks, held the cup to his mouth. Wiped his chin and cheek with a napkin, fluffed a pillow behind his back. Aimlessly she rearranged a dish on the table, but neither of them touched the food.
After staring for a long time at the couple in the garden, Johnny wandered a few steps down the road. He stopped at their mailbox, read the name and address, and returned to the slope and sat. The Landmarks. Astrid and Helge Landmark, Sandbergveien 15. He found their number through directory enquiries, and dialled.
The woman heard the telephone ringing through the open patio door, and she disappeared into the house to answer.
The man was now alone in the garden. Helpless in his wheelchair with his ruined legs. He tried to work out where the woman, his helper, the one he was dependent on, had gone. If he needed something, he would have to shout. If he was able to shout. He hardly had the strength to communicate the unrest in his doughy bo
dy.
Johnny turned off his mobile. Seconds later the woman returned, a little confused because someone had fooled her into leaving. She was back quickly, stroking the man’s arm. Johnny hopped on to his moped and rode off. The man’s helplessness and the woman’s anxiety had put him in a different mood.
On the way home, he stopped at the Sparbo Dam.
He pushed the moped the final stretch through the woods and leaned it against the trunk of a spruce. He had begun walking to the dam when he caught sight of something between the trees. Someone had beaten him there. Whoever it was had gone out on to the wall of the dam where he liked to sit. He was so furious that he wanted to scream, because that was his spot, his secret place at the water, and he had never seen anyone else there. Then he saw a blue bicycle lying in the heather to his right. He hid behind a tree, and stared with stinging eyes. The bicycle was a Nakamura. It was Else Meiner, that nasty little girl, the one with the big mouth. She was reading a book, and didn’t realise he was watching her. He glared at her red plait. The sun made it shine like a thick copper wire. A little shove, he thought, and you’d fall face first into the water. I’ll come back for you, he thought. I’ll find the right moment, and you’ll get it. He stayed a few minutes longer observing her narrow back, and then carefully returned through the heather. He pulled his army knife from his belt and slashed up both of her tyres. The sun had warmed the rubber, and the knife sliced easily. He rolled his moped on to the road and walked a good while before finally starting the engine. With the wind in his face, tears formed in his eyes and exultation in his heart!
His mother was still out when he got home.
He went straight to his room, opened the door to the cage and carried Butch over to his bed. He was smaller than Bleeding Heart, his body fatter, but just as lively as the guinea pig had been. He let the hamster crawl across the duvet, and before he knew it, it had dropped some tiny turds. They were dry and hard, and easy to pick up. Maybe I should keep them, he thought, so I can mix them with the hyena’s food. Later he sneaked into his mother’s bedroom, and stared at her mess. The hyena lives here, he thought, this is her lair. I should get a fox trap, and I should put it outside her door. So she’ll head right into the trap when she gets up to go into the hall. Then she’ll have to stagger around with that trap until the iron rusts and her foot rots.
