by Karin Fossum
He gazed a little uncertainly at me as I crossed the floor. Perhaps he caught something in my manner, something new and ominous, for he was suddenly on his guard.
‘Aren’t you feeling well?’ he asked. ‘You look very pale.’
I walked past him without a word.
Across the room, past the sofa and out into the kitchen, propelled by something so explosive that I struggled to control my pulse and breathing. I had some tools in a drawer, including a large hammer. It had a rubber grip and felt comfortable in the hand. With the hammer raised I went back into the living room, and now I was no longer bereft of power, I was mad with anger. He knew nothing about what happened next. The vodka had made him slow, and I was as quick as a rattlesnake. The last thing I saw was his eyes, a surprised expression, and a movement as if he wanted to get up and leave. Leave the house, go down the road, with my money in his pocket.
Arnfinn the thief. Arnfinn the traitor, the deceiver, the drunk, the sponger and the parasite. The head of the hammer struck home. I hit him once with all my strength, it felt like cracking a huge egg. He fell over on to his side and then rolled on to the floor. The hammer had left a great dent in his skull. I heard a feeble moaning. It was coming from the depths of his lungs and didn’t sound quite human. I was terribly disturbed by this moaning, it seemed to penetrate the very marrow of my bones, and now there was no way back, I had to strike again, I had to make him cease his noise once and for all. But it felt impossible. I no longer had that fire inside me, my fury had dissipated, but a corner of my brain worked feverishly on the problem. None of my neighbours could see the rear of my house. If I waited until dark, I could dig a grave on the edge of the forest bordering my back garden, and push him into it. I could manage perfectly well without lights, and no one ever came to the door, certainly not at night. I was gripping the hammer. Now it felt as heavy as lead. I had cramp in my fingers, the rubberised shaft felt hot in my hand. I paced the floor and thought about what I’d just done; the gravity of it, that I’d smashed a man’s skull, how everything had happened so fast, I’d had no time to think. My God, I’d struck him in a blind rage. I began to walk round and round while Arnfinn lay there whimpering.
I’d have to hit him again.
But at that moment, at that very instant, as I stood with the hammer raised and lined up above Arnfinn’s head, there was a ring at the door. I started like a thief. Nobody ever came to the house, and this was hardly a convenient moment. The hammer suddenly felt out of place in my hand, as if put there by something outside myself, an alien force. Obviously I couldn’t open the door. Presumably it was just a salesman, or someone collecting for famine relief in Africa. Or cancer research, or the blind: so many people come begging. So I stood in the middle of the room holding the hammer and waiting, as if frozen fast by my own evil deed. I listened, I counted the seconds, there was another, strident ring. Then I heard an alarming sound. I nearly lost my composure altogether when I realised what was happening. Someone was turning the handle of the door and opening it. And I remembered that the door wasn’t locked; I hadn’t turned the key again after Arnfinn had arrived.
Now, someone had opened it.
And that someone was at this very moment standing on the doorstep.
‘Riktor? Are you there?’
Then silence for a couple of seconds. There was the sound of light footsteps.
‘It’s only me. Are you at home? May I come in?’
I recognised the voice at once. Sister Anna was standing out there calling, she was the one trying to get in, angel Anna, that good fairy, suddenly here in my house. And here I was, clutching a blood-covered hammer. A miserable alcoholic was lying on the floor with his skull smashed in. A dying man. A moaning man. I laid the hammer on the floor and carefully studied my hands. I couldn’t see any blood on them. I stepped over Arnfinn and crossed the room quickly and went out into the hall. Anna was standing with one foot on the doorstep. She was holding a plate with a small cake on it.
‘Many happy returns!’ she said, brightening as I made my appearance. ‘I know you’re off duty. But you’ll have to put up with a little interruption on your birthday.’
I was overwhelmed by everything about her. The red dress she wore, the walnut-topped marzipan cake she held in her hands.
‘Happy birthday,’ she said again. And then, with a light laugh: ‘Have I caught you in the midst of some evil deed?’
I could only stand there and gawp. I couldn’t utter a word. My heart almost stopped and I felt boiling hot.
‘Maybe you’ve got a female visitor?’ Anna asked.
The question fazed me completely. I was about to nod, yes, I had, just to gain time, when a deep groan from the living room echoed through the house, and out to the door where we stood. Anna immediately became solemn. The cake dish tilted in her hand. She took a small step back and bit her lip, her eyes big with surprise.
‘You’ve got someone with you,’ she said uncertainly.
‘It’s my father,’ I replied. I said it quickly and without thinking. ‘He’s poorly,’ I added, ‘so he’s staying here a few days. Because he’s ill. He’s pretty frail,’ I went on, ‘he calls out whenever I disappear from view.’
I could have bitten my tongue off. I was beginning to get slightly manic, and I still hadn’t taken the cake.
‘Your father?’ Anna said doubtfully. Then she slowly shook her head. ‘Your father?’ she repeated sceptically.
‘I’m rather busy,’ I said clumsily. ‘Or I’d ask you in. For a cup of coffee. But there’s my father. He’s lying on the sofa in the living room. So it’s a bit inconvenient.’
She sent me a look of incomprehension, shook her head almost imperceptibly, as if there was something she didn’t understand. She turned and glanced over her shoulder, as if searching for an answer somewhere out on the drive. I could see that she was struggling to make sense of the situation. Then she held out the cake and nodded.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Your father. Well, I’m sorry to hear he’s poorly. You must share the cake with him.’
I took the dish and thanked her. Anna retreated to the top of the steps, and stood there for a moment or two, as if considering. And I thought to myself, if Arnfinn moans again, it’ll all be over. Or perhaps it was all over anyway, because the excuse about my father had been a bit rash, and vague recollections of previous conversations, chats when we’d been sitting in the ward office, for example, had begun to plague my mind. What I’d revealed and hadn’t revealed over the years.
‘I’m sorry I took the liberty,’ Anna said, ‘of opening the door and coming in. But I was so certain you were in the house. You always say it yourself, how you like being at home.’
I couldn’t come up with any answer. I was still paralysed with fear at the idea that Arnfinn might groan again. But he didn’t, there was no sound from the living room. I made her a bow as I stood in the doorway, with the cake dish in my hands.
‘Thank you for the kind thought,’ I said, as effusively as I could. ‘You’re in a league of your own when it comes to birthdays.’
‘I think you ought to go back in to your father,’ she said emphatically. ‘When someone makes that sort of noise, it must be serious.’
Then she turned on her heel. She jogged down the steps and on to the drive. I caught a glimpse of her car; it was parked by the gate. Afterwards, I was totally bewildered. I could hardly believe what had happened, perhaps it was no more than a bad dream. And as I stood there like an idiot, with the cake dish in my hands, something reignited my fury, as if a spring within me was wound to breaking point. I slammed the front door shut behind me, dumped the cake on the sideboard and ran into the living room. I picked up the hammer from the floor, and stood there, legs apart, an enraged crook in my knees, seeing the prostrate Arnfinn through the red mist that hung before my eyes.
Then I began to lash out.
I pounded for a good while, the blows landing somewhat randomly, on his head and face, and also on his ches
t, my fury fuelling my strength, I’d never been so savage and demented. I kept going until I was totally exhausted. I stood staring down at his gory, pulped head. I could no longer tell that it was Arnfinn lying there. A grey and porridge-like substance had poured out of his nose. The membrane around his brain had ruptured. The contents were flowing out, running over his lips and chin.
Chapter 17
AFTERWARDS, WHEN MY equilibrium had returned, I cut a slice of cake, put it on a plate and carried it into the living room. I sat and ate while I contemplated the object that lay on the floor. The cake was topped with pale green marzipan, and filled with raspberries and cream. The slice had a walnut perched on the icing.
I’d killed a man.
I’d killed him because of a few banknotes, killed him because I’d been hurt, shattered his skull because I’d been taken in and deceived. I was indignant. It was Arnfinn who’d got me into this predicament. Now he’d turned into an insurmountable obstacle, as he lay on the floor, the contents of his brain oozing out over the floorboards and seeping into them. I finished my slice of cake. I saved the walnut until last. I tramped about the house swearing, I cursed him and hurled imprecations at him, against the drunkard, the thief, the deceiver. I had a long night before me. It’s not easy to dispose of a man’s body, Arnfinn was hardly something you could just flush down the toilet. But oh, what a wonderful solution, if only it had been that easy! He deserved no more, even though at certain moments of generosity I hadn’t realised it, and had seen him as a sterling character, a modest creature. My next thought, as I walked about with my hands pressed to my head, was that no one would miss him. But it would be the same when my own time came, not a living soul would regret my passing. When my tough, old heart muscle had contracted for the last time.
I waited until darkness had fallen late that night before going to work. In the cellar I found a spade and immediately set to work digging, with hard, desperate thrusts, just on the edge of the forest. It was harder than I’d imagined, I’ve never had much of a physique, the intellect is more my métier. The blade only bit a few centimetres into the hard, dry ground, and I quickly realised that I’d never manage to dig a grave two metres deep. At best I’d be able to scoop out a shallow trench. I’d have to pile earth on the body and cover it as best I could. Nobody ever came to the house, nobody would see the small mound in amongst the pines and birches, nobody would think there was anything mysterious about an inconspicuous pile of stones on the brow of the forest. So I dug, my God how I dug. There was a crisp, slicing sound each time the blade cut into the sandy soil. There was also a lot of stones, and several roots which caused big problems, and all this began to infuriate me. With the anger came adrenalin, and that provided more strength, which I badly needed in order to conceal my unfortunate accident. I looked about and wiped away the sweat.
If it had been November, the darkness would have shrouded me and my evil deeds. But the summer night was transparent, and I prayed that my neighbours were asleep. The noise of digging carried far on the still air, and with each thrust I moaned a little as much from exertion as rising panic. Now and then I rested on my spade. I panted and wiped away the sweat, then thought about Arnfinn lying in the living room. I had a lot of cleaning up to do as well. Much of the contents of Arnfinn’s head had spilt over the floorboards and run down the cracks, and that might have implications. I’ll have to do it a bit at a time, I thought, and drove the spade into the ground; again and again I drove it into the soil, urged on by rage and despair. Why the bloody hell did this have to happen! Those blows that had worked the fury out of my body had been satisfying and wholly necessary, but I could well have done without all this cleaning-up. I took a breather. Suddenly I saw a cat slinking in from the forest; it watched me from amongst the trees, paused for a few seconds, then padded off. It felt strange being stared at. Even if it was only by a cat with yellow eyes: an intense, unblinking gaze. I went on digging. The spade continued to strike roots and stones, and the impact sent jarring pains up my arm. But the whole situation seemed familiar, too. As if it were something I’d always known, that this was how it would end. As if my life had been mapped out in advance, and that I, in a few brief glimpses, had discerned the outline of the crime to come. That that was why I lay awake at night. And why there was so much din in the room, from the diesel engine.
All this went through my mind as I dug.
I worked as hard as I could, but after an hour I’d only made a shallow trench in the ground, two metres long: it might have been deep enough to bury a broom handle, or perhaps at a pinch, little Miranda. But she wasn’t the one I’d killed. So I went on digging. I drove the spade into the earth with all my might, scraped, hacked and pounded with the sharp tip. The sound carried in the silence. Each time the spade struck a stone there was a loud ringing clang, come and see, come and see, look what Riktor’s done, murder! Would there ever be enough room for Arnfinn in this grave, I wondered, as I toiled on. I worked up more rage, more despair, more desperation. And then at last it was as if I’d passed over some threshold. All at once everything became so easy, and I had the strength of a lion. I dug, I was completely unstoppable. Finally, the grave was finished. I leant heavily on my spade. I felt like a proper workman, someone who gets things done.
Later on, when I had to haul the heavy corpse out of the living room, the weight of it was almost too much. Never had a man been so heavy. I had to pause repeatedly for breath. His head, or what was left of it, thudded against the treads going down the steps, but I paid no heed to that, I just wanted to get him buried. Once on the gravel, I dragged him round the back of the house, through the grass and over to the yawning grave. I peered into its black earthiness. One day I, too, would lie in a hole in the ground. But there’d be no one to take care of things when that day arrived. Only a few bored council workers, perhaps. The ceremony would fall on deaf ears. Suddenly I felt deeply depressed at the idea of my own impending death. And, no matter how much I tried, it was impossible to lay Arnfinn neatly on his back in the grave, with his hands folded across his stomach, as I’d originally intended. I shoved him over the edge, and he fell heavily into the hole, face down. He was squashed up against the wall of earth, his legs splayed and his arms beneath him, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Not very restful, I thought, straightening my back. It was quiet, there were no sounds from the neighbouring houses. But people might have heard the noise of the spade in the stillness. And later on they’d remember, that there’d been some digging over at Riktor’s house. On the night of 17 July. Yes, we heard it clearly, we heard a spade striking against rock. They’d mention it to the police, who’d doubtless go from door to door to find out what had happened to the lonely alcoholic from the park by Lake Mester. As far as I knew, nobody was aware of my association with Arnfinn, but you never could tell. When it comes to the police, it’s a mistake to underestimate them, even the force has its share of smart cookies. What I could rely on with confidence, was my ability to lie with complete conviction. I look people straight in the eye and lie without blinking, and they nod and believe what I say. It’s easy. I began shovelling earth over the corpse. Well, Arnfinn, I thought, this isn’t quite what you were expecting, but it’s more than Anna’s brother got. He’s rotting on the bottom of Lake Mester.
I spent more than an hour cleaning up.
That night I lay awake.
I could still feel Arnfinn’s proximity outside the house, as if some heat remained in his body, something smouldering slowly out there on the edge of the forest, like the embers in a hearth. For a long while I mused on Arnfinn and his weak character. The sort of man who gnaws away at people, like some carnivorous bacterium, I thought, who didn’t deserve to die perhaps, but who’d overstepped the mark with such audacity that it took my breath away.
And then my reason.
At the same time, there was something nagging at a corner of my mind, a feeling that I’d overlooked something important, something incriminating. I knew the police would arrive, I�
�m not naive. Two men presumably, I surmised, standing on the steps in their dark uniforms, legs apart. Two detached and dependable men who’d require an explanation for the sounds of digging. I could do nothing but await the hour of reckoning. I drew up my knees. Lay with my hands clamped between my thighs, like a frightened child, and waited for sleep. Trying, all the while, to suss out the feeling, the anxiety, that I’d made a mistake. As if beating Arnfinn to death hadn’t been a mistake. Just think how Anna had come to the door, and with a delicious cake as well. What did it mean? Only that she’s considerate, I said, scolding myself as I lay in bed. If only I had a woman! My elbows ached after the digging. If anyone came to the house, anyone who took the trouble to look round the back, they’d immediately notice the small mound of earth, so I was hoping for rain. I was hoping for a shower that would settle the earth and make it appear more natural. At last, I couldn’t be bothered to lie there sleepless any more, so I got up, slipped on a dressing gown and went out of the house. Round the corner, through the grass and over to the grave. Despondency overtook me and I stood staring, dry-eyed. I can explain, I mumbled to myself, if you’ll both just listen. I turned and went into the house again and stood looking out of the window. A car passed slowly with its lights on. I followed the circles of light through the darkness, and took the car as an omen. That someone was keeping me under surveillance. I laid my forehead against the windowpane. It’s madness, I whispered into the darkness, everything in this world, everything we human beings do to one another. The pious will also perish, and we’ll get no reward in heaven, so what’s the point of exerting ourselves?
Chapter 18
18 JULY.
I got up and went to work, quite determined to boast about Sister Anna’s cake. I enjoyed imagining the cake as a declaration of love, even though I knew it was nothing of the kind. I do possess some self-awareness, but a lovely daydream is not to be shunned. It was a grey day with threatening clouds, and I wished that rain would come and wash away all traces of the night’s misdeeds, that luck would be on my side, and why shouldn’t it be? Arnfinn, I hoped, would be able to rest there in perpetuity, on the edge of the forest. And become a part of the great cycle of life, without anyone knowing. Just as Anna’s brother lay at rest on the bottom of Lake Mester, undisturbed by the living. As if nature can’t deal with things herself, without any help from us; she devours us and converts us, other living organisms feed on us, it’s really a lovely thought. But when I bumped into Anna in the corridor, I could see straight away that there was something on her mind. That there was something she was puzzling over. That’s the strange thing about a person’s eyes, how much they can express, the coloured iris against the white background, and the black pupil pulsating. The delicate lines in the corner of the eye. A set of highly tuned messages that can broadcast displeasure, scepticism or joy in a fraction of a second.
