The Water's Edge
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
THE WATER'S EDGE
ALSO BY KARIN FOSSUM
Don't Look Back
He Who Fears the Wolf
When the Devil Holds the Candle
Calling Out For You
Black Seconds
Broken
Karin Fossum
The Water's Edge
TRANSLATED
FROM THE NORWEGIAN
BY
Charlotte Barslund
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 9781409078869
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Harvill Secker 2009
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Karin Fossum 2007
English translation copyright © Charlotte Barslund 2009
Karin Fossum has asserted her right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published with the title Den som elsker noe annet in 2007
by J.W. Cappelens Forlag AS, Oslo
First published in Great Britain in 2009 by
HARVILL SECKER, Random House
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA
www.rbooks.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 9781409078869
Version 1.0
This translation has been published with the financial assistance of NORLA
THE WATER'S EDGE
A long, gentle hill sloped down from the main road to the loch known as Loch Bonna. At the edge of the water was a beach with sharp stones and a steep drop further out. A narrow tarmac road wound its way like a grey ribbon between the fields, the houses lay arranged in colourful rows, their verandas and balconies facing north towards the water. In the distance well-kept farms with grey and white farmhouses and red barns could be seen. There was Fagre Vest which belonged to Waldemar Skagen whose horse, Evidence, was grazing inside an enclosure. East of the lake lay Fagre Øst, owned by Skagen's brother-in-law. A rainbow formed a colourful arch between the two farms, a shower of rain had crossed the sky recently and the sun was breaking through.
At the top of the road overlooking Loch Bonna was a shop, which had lately become a branch of the Kiwi supermarket chain; a bright spark in marketing had decided to dress the employees in green uniforms. On the front door was a notice ordering schoolchildren to leave their rucksacks outside, they shoplifted constantly, nicking cigarettes and sweets.
Signe Lund was sitting by the till, groceries gliding past her on the belt, daydreaming as teenagers do. She could see Loch Bonna through the window and Fagre Vest with its undulating pink and yellow fields. On a field below Svart Ridge was a small mound with pretty rowan trees, it rose like an island in a sea of wheat. The mound with its trees and bushes held a secret, a small earth cellar known to only a few. She was thinking of it now. The bittersweet memory lingered still.
CHAPTER 1
No one saw him walk through the woods; no one saw what he was carrying. A modest burden for a grown man, yet it caused him difficulty, his steps were faltering and he stumbled. From time to time he would stop, gasp for air and make noises which sounded like whimpering. Then he would stagger on as quickly as he could. He walked underneath the trees like an old man, weighed down by it all, weighed down by horror and tears. It was so overwhelming that his knees threatened to buckle; he kept looking over his shoulder, his head twitching nervously. He increased his speed as he approached a cluster of trees. He did not wish to discard his burden casually on the ground; he wanted this precise cluster of trees, which would serve as a kind of monument. This last scrap of decency comforted him, he was still a human being, he had feelings, many of them good ones. Again he looked over his shoulder: there was not a soul around. He remained standing, sensing every sound as his heart pounded. The forest was like a huge organism, it breathed, it watched him, it condemned him with its deep, ominous rustling. How could you stoop so low? the forest intoned, no human being will ever smile at you with warmth or love, not after this.
He had reached the cluster of trees.
He squatted down.
He placed his burden on a bed of soft moss. He got up and wiped the sweat from his brow; it felt hot. This does not look good, he thought, not in any way. Emotions surged inside him, a mixture of panic and rage, nothing ever worked out for him, it was a mistake, the whole thing. How could it have happened? Horrified, he buried his face in his hands, they smelled like hot iron. He tasted fear in his mouth and felt it in his blood and in his lungs. Fate had played a mean trick on him and dealt him a rotten hand; now he was being hurled down towards condemnation and denunciation. Hanging's too good for him, people would say, lock him up and throw away the key; a man like him should never be allowed out again. He lurched a little to the side, he felt weak at the knees. I have to go now, he thought, I need to get out of here, I must get back to my car, drive home to my house, lock the door and draw the curtains. Huddle in a corner and listen out in case anyone should come. But I won't answer the door, he decided, I'll lock myself in, I won't be able to cope with this! He raised a clenched fist towards the sky, towards God, who had created him with such strong urges, but who would not allow him to satisfy them the way he wanted to.
His car was parked close to a road barrier a little way off. He walked briskly without looking back and moved as quickly as he could through the forest. It was not long before he saw the barrier and his car. And something else: something was moving, something red and white against the green. He stopped abruptly. A man and a woman were out walking. His first thought was to hide between the spruces, but at the last second he thought better of it and continued, averting his eyes, along the short distance he had left. The storm raged inside him with renewed force. This is fatal, he thought, this will be my undoing, those two people walking towards me, they will remember me and tell the whole world. We saw him and we can describe him clearly, they would say, he was wearing a blue anorak. And the hunt would begin. He did not look up until he reached his car and he met the woman's eyes for a fleeting moment. It surprised him that she smiled at him, a broad and friendly smile. When he failed to return her smile and stared at her in horror, she looked puzzled. The couple continued past the barrier and into the forest. The woman, however, turned one last time and looked after him.
CHAPTER 2
They were a couple, but they had been married for many years and they no longer held hands. The woman was wearing a raspberry red coat, the man a white windbreaker. He was constantly one step ahead of her, tall, self-assured and fit. The woman watched him furtively while she contemplated her own thoughts. Her husband was a man who owned his space; now he owned this forest and he helped himself to it. The vegetation was compressed beneath his feet as he walked, dry twigs snapped and the woman struggled to keep up with him. They were out of step. They had thoughts they didn't want to share or admit. But they had gone out for a walk together, it was their habit and they needed habits, habits held them together and made the world predictable.
It was a surprisingly warm September day. The man unbuttoned his jacket and a gust of wind made it flap like a sail. He rummaged around in his pockets, looking for a cigarette.
'Reinhardt,' the woman said. 'It's ever so dry around here.'
Her voice was devoid of authority, it was more like a pitiful plea. He snarled in irritation; he was not one of those men who allowed themselves to be reprimanded. He closed his lips around the filter of the cigarette and lit it with a Zippo lighter. His irises were blue like the ocean with golden flecks, his nose was sharp and looked good in profile.
The woman chose to say nothing; experience had taught her this was her best option. She focused on the forest floor, there were tufts of grass and the odd dip; every now and again roots would crisscross the path. She glanced quickly at her husband: he was much taller than her, broader, stronger, he always led the way. She had suppressed her own views for years because he was so argumentative and opinionated. Now she worried about the dry ground and the burning cigarette.
The light that once existed between us has been extinguished, she thought sadly, nothing shines any more, we should have had a child. A child would have brought us closer, it would have united us and made us good people. This is what she believed. But the years had passed and no child had come; her husband had said no and she hadn't dared cross him. Whenever she raised the subject, he became sullen and would jut out his chin while she lowered her eyes and grew silent. We're all right as we are, aren't we, he would say, we both work full-time, there's the house and the garden, we're mortgaged to the hilt. How do people find the time, he pushed on, how do they find the money? She offered him no reply, but she noticed that people did find the time. She also noticed that they looked exhausted, torn between the demands of their children, their careers and their personal needs. But the moment their child crawled up on their lap, they became radiant, and she longed with all of her heart for this glow. That unique glow she had seen in her friends' eyes.
Her husband had finished smoking, the tobacco still glowed red. Suddenly he flicked the stub away, it leapt into the air and sparks flew in an arc. The woman followed it with her eyes: it landed in the heather, still smoking.
'Reinhardt,' she begged. 'Stamp it out!'
Reinhardt took a few steps to the side and ground the butt with exaggerated force using the sole of his shoe.
'You worry too much, Kristine.'
She shrugged defensively, she dared not show any greater rebellion than that. The sun, which would soon set, let its last rays spill out between the trees. And Kristine, too, unbuttoned her jacket. She brushed her long hair away from her cheeks and her forehead. It was thick and brown with auburn streaks. She was petite, her face was small with a high domed forehead and round cheeks. She had tiny hands and feet, and indeed her husband would in more affectionate moments call her his 'doll'. Reinhardt, too, ran his fingers through his hair. A short, sandy-coloured tuft stuck up at the front, it looked like a shark's fin. They were heading towards Lake Linde; this was their usual destination, every Sunday after lunch. Kristine was struck by their routine life, the habits that trapped them, the old grooves which held them in place. No one ever broke the rhythm. They left their house together every morning and said goodbye outside the Central Hospital, where she worked as a receptionist. Reinhardt drove on to the offices of Hafslund where he worked with security systems. They ate dinner together and watched television, side by side in front of the blue glare. Afterwards Reinhardt would sit in front of his computer and play games while Kristine did the housework. It really bothered her that he spent so much time on the computer, she did not think a grown man of thirty-six should be playing at wizards and dragons. Not only did his eyes shine with excitement but he often indulged in childish outbursts, which embarrassed her. He would curse and swear appallingly or he would shout out in triumph when he managed to slay an enemy. In addition he talked incessantly, he had an opinion about everything and he had a solution to every problem. They never talked about themselves or how they felt. Most of it had already been said and, in her darker moments, Kristine felt that they had become strangers. At night she would lie awake for long periods breathing against the wall, while Reinhardt snored violently. At times he would take her with an intensity that came close to scaring her. This is my life, she thought, I won't get any more than this. I could leave him, but where would I go, what would I say? He is reliable and faithful, he never hits me and every month he receives a pay cheque which is considerably bigger than mine. She was weighed down by these thoughts as they walked through the forest. Are other people happy, she wondered, is there something wrong with us, is there something that we've failed to grasp?
Reinhardt was way ahead of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his moving shadow. She felt permanently guilty. No matter how hard she looked, she could discover no positive feelings towards him and she felt like a traitor. Her betrayal brought her to her knees. She did not dare confront him, cause him to doubt her or make demands, because then he might expose her: you don't love me, did you honestly think I didn't know? Do you really think I don't know that you're faking? She plodded after him on the path, her thoughts making her cheeks burn. They were aiming for Lake Linde where they would stand on the shore for a few minutes as usual; the water always made her feel better. The water would extinguish the fire in her cheeks and cool her down. She would ponder the ruins of the old settlement by the shore, small, modest circles of stone. Once they had contained families with children, living and working, falling ill and dying, brief moments of happiness and despair. It was hard to imagine how people used to manage with so little. Between them, Reinhardt and she had two hundred and fifty square metres they hardly ever used, they sat next to each other on the sofa in front of the television while the bedrooms waited for children who never came, for friends who never stayed over.
Only the tallest trees were touched by the sun now. This, Kristine thought, is the best time of year. Not the hysteria of summer, or the storms of autumn, or the cold of winter, or even the treacherous late frost or the early spring with its sudden sleet and unpredictable gusts of wind, but September with its unique serenity. Dark cool nights, refreshing mornings. Suddenly she felt e
xhausted, she was weighed down by so many thoughts and though it was warm, she wrapped her coat around her body more tightly.
'It's Sunday,' Reinhardt said, 'it's Sunday and the weather is fine. And there's not a soul to be seen. Can you believe it?'
She looked up at him with wide green eyes.
'We're here,' she said softly.
He jutted out his chin as he always did when someone corrected him and she loathed that tiny gesture, hated that he could never just nod in agreement. And she despised herself because she was afraid of him. She was constantly on the defensive, she was always on her guard, because he had this hold over her, as if something existed deep inside him that she did not dare face. An image from a childhood fairy tale of a monster slumbering at the bottom of a swamp surfaced in her mind.
'Yes, but all the same,' he countered, 'look how deserted it is. There's not a single tent or a boat here. Lake Linde is a pearl, but people can't be bothered to come up here because they can't drive the whole way.'
'But that's why we like walking here,' she said: 'because it's so peaceful.'
Reinhardt felt in his pockets for another cigarette, the low sun touched his broad cheekbones and his forceful chin. And she recalled the first time she saw him and how he had seemed carved out of granite. There were many edges and protrusions in his broad face, but his eyes were deep-set. On Sundays he skipped shaving and a pale shadow was spreading across his jaw.