by Karin Fossum
“Well, I never,” Møller says, shaking his head. Charlo is soon warm beneath the rug. Julie rides for two hours, until her bangs are damp and the horse is sweating.
10
IT’S MORNING, AND he’s up early.
The kitchen table has become his observation post. He sits by the window, eating and keeping an eye on the passing cars. He sees a Ford and shortly afterward a Volkswagen Beetle. He puts two spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee and marvels at this new habit acquired so late in life, but it does him good. A taxi for hire drives past. The bread is stale, so he leaves the crusts. They’re hard and hurt his gums. Buying bread for one is impossible, he thinks. Inga Lill was always so clever about that. She’d cut up the entire loaf and then pack the individual slices in a container. The container went in the freezer. She’d thaw them in the toaster, and then she always had fresh bread. Dear Inga Lill. It isn’t easy. But things are going better now. I’m in a different place. I’ll do the right things from now on, I promise. I want Julie to feel proud. I want her to point me out to others and say, that’s my father. Cool, isn’t he?
He clears up after his modest meal. Afterward he poses in front of the mirror. He relaxes his shoulders, sticks his chin out, and notices that he’s lost three or four kilos. His face is sharper and it suits him. It was from his father that he inherited his wide jaw and his long, straight nose. His blue and gray shirt matches his eyes. One thing at a time, he thinks. Live for the moment. Do all the little things that decent people do. Life is made up of details. Have a proper breakfast and choose something to go on the bread. Gouda and marmalade are his favorites. Shower and shave, get out clean clothes. Run a comb through his thinning hair. Go out and get things done. He puts on his quilted jacket and goes to the car. He avoids looking at the dent, because each time he does he’s filled with a huge despair.
He drives down Blomsgate and then takes the bridge over to the east side of town. He parks outside the Job Center. This district is a planning nightmare: lovely old timber houses have been annihilated by new commercial buildings without any plan or any system at all. But this is his neighborhood, where he grew up. Its untidy character is close to his heart.
He puts twenty kroner into a parking meter, enters the building, and takes a ticket. Number fifty-eight. Forty-nine is being attended to at the counter. He glances at the people who are ahead of him. You can see it right away. These men are unemployed. They’re on Social Security. They’ve lost their self-respect; there’s no hope in their eyes. They read brochures listlessly and avoid looking at one another. This is going to end now, Charlo thinks. I don’t want to be one of them. I want to be part of society. I’m a young man with strong arms and sense enough. It’s important to him now to do things right.
He finds a vacant chair and straightens his back. Here am I, he thinks, Charles Olav Torp, covered in my own crime, clothed from head to foot in that terrible deed. It’s so strange that they can’t see it—that it doesn’t stink or shine out. Can he atone for his misdemeanor by behaving well for the rest of his life? Not as regards the justice system, but in terms of the great eternal reckoning? If there is such a thing. Sometimes he does sense something larger. As he did in Harriet’s kitchen, when he felt someone else take control. He’d assumed a role that was intended for him. He waits half an hour. A tall, lanky man is being served. He’s never killed anyone, Charlo thinks. There’s something natural about the way he leans on the counter, a spontaneity he himself has lost. Just as guilt is manifest in people’s faces, so innocence is visible as a kind of unpretentiousness.
He rolls the ticket in his hand and thinks about Harriet Krohn. A picture immediately springs to his mind. There she is, still lying on her kitchen floor with her face in a pool of blood. Even though the rational part of his brain tells him that, obviously, she’s been taken away. People will have arranged a grave, he thinks. Her beneficiaries. An idea takes shape in his head. At last, number fifty-eight comes up on the display above the counter. He goes over and leans forward. The woman is about his own age, thin and short-haired and with a small, pointed chin. Her glasses are modern, without frames, and have very small lenses. Behind the spectacles, he sees a pair of turquoise-colored eyes. They regard him without enthusiasm.
“I’ve just come to sort things out a bit,” Charlo says, his voice loud and clear. If the others can hear what he’s saying, that’s fine by him. He’s an example they’d do well to follow. “The point is that I’m in receipt of unemployment benefits. Have been for two years.”
She waits for him to continue. Her pupils are completely round, he notices, and life hasn’t been kind to her. Her irises are flecked. He believes in such things. That life’s pain and despair leave their stain in the eyes. Only children have completely clear eyes without any marks or discoloration.
“But now I’ve found a job. At a riding center. As a handyman. It’s not much, not to start with. I’ll have to show them what I can do and make myself indispensable, and then perhaps there’ll be more work in time. That’s the plan, anyway. What do you think?” he says, smiling at her.
“Yes,” she replies, “that sounds like a good tactic.” She smiles back, a quick smile. Asks him for his name and ID number.
She’s the type who needs thawing out; it’s unmistakable. Certain people won’t open up unless you work on them a bit, and he’s good at that. Used to be good. He props his elbows on the counter, rests his chin in his hands, and makes eye contact.
“But it’s only a small job,” he says. “I can’t live off it. I assume you’ll reduce my benefit, but I can’t say exactly what I’ll earn. Not yet. Because I’ve only just begun. Or rather, I’m actually starting today.”
“Then we’ll have to see how things develop,” she says, and searches her screen.
It’s not easy to hide from the authorities: one keystroke and she has all his personal details. Born 1963, address: Blomsgate 20.
“Have you any idea about your pay?”
“There’s talk of a part-time job. But we haven’t discussed an hourly rate.”
She taps away, peering through her glasses.
“You’ll have to inform the Social Security office. The only thing I can suggest is that you bring your wage slips in here,” she says, looking at him.
“I could send them by mail.”
“That’ll do fine.”
She makes the necessary notes. Charlo waits patiently.
“I thought I ought to say something,” he says. “I don’t want problems later on. With the authorities. For fiddling and so forth.”
“I quite agree. We find out about all that anyway. Plenty of people try it on.”
“Don’t know how they dare,” he says calmly, holding her turquoise gaze.
Then he walks tall through the Job Center and out the door.
Now, with his golden mission accomplished, he sets out for a drive. Randomly at first, around the streets. He looks at people and buildings, wanting to make the time pass. So that it will be afternoon, so that he can fetch Julie. He looks at the town’s glitter, enjoying all the lights and the reflections in the river. The headlights coming toward him, white, yellow, or bluish. A Freia chocolate advertisement, a clock on a wall. It’s half past nine. He ends up in Elvegata and follows it into the tunnel and out onto the E134. He follows the road without thinking. Finally it clicks. He’s driving toward Hamsund. The river is on his left, black and cold and swift. Its restless power troubles him. It flows on, unstoppable, the way his life is plowing on to the moment he fears most. The unavoidable moment of truth. There’s so much to be frightened of. Young people have such quick minds. Their sight and hearing are good. They pick up everything, every detail. Like the young girl in the florist’s, so trim and slender in her red sweater. He can’t forget her, and maybe she can’t forget him, either. His silence, his reluctance, his old green parka. He dismisses the thoughts and glances up at the sky. It’s a fine day. He’s finally on an even keel, behaving respectably now. Nobody will be able to
pin anything on him—not murder, not Social Security fraud.
He drives to Hamsund church. The graveyard lies quiet and deserted, picturesquely covered in snow and with a special, frosty beauty. He parks and stands for a while, looking around and drawing the fresh air into his lungs. The milky sunshine makes everything glitter like diamonds. Slowly he starts walking among the graves. It’s possible that she only has a wooden cross, he thinks, because it takes time to choose the right stone. It takes time to get it ready; it must be carved and polished and engraved. He looks over his shoulder continually, but he can’t see anyone. It’s too early in the day. He searches around for a long time. Now and then he stops to admire the white medieval church. Recently restored, it’s perhaps the finest in the county. He hunts systematically, reading all the names and pondering all the destinies. Occasionally he finds a young person’s grave. Then he stops and muses, saddened by the thought of the short life. Four years old, thirteen years old. It makes him think of Julie and what it would be like to lose her. It’s beyond his imagination. Julie is so healthy and vital that nothing can touch her.
He’s been looking for half an hour when suddenly he finds himself in front of her grave. Harriet Asta Krohn is lying here, right below his feet. I could have brought some flowers, he thinks. It would have been the decent thing to do, another mark in the reckoning. But I didn’t think that far. I only considered the new image I could take away with me. An old woman in a beautiful coffin, her hands clasped on her breast. Not the horrible one from the kitchen that has tortured me for weeks: that twisted, ravaged body and the unattractive green dress. He tries to corner his emotions. That her life ended in such a manner and how it was all his doing. He can’t quite link the images that flash through his head. Of the revolver butt in her skull, of her collapsing and turning into this wooden cross. Is it really true?
He stands before her grave a long time, standing straight, thinking the whole thing through. Trying to put a defense together. You got in my way; you scared me with all your screeching. And it didn’t take much, either. You were old, brittle as a reed. Afterward I was in shock. This has marked me for life, you know. It’s not just something I can forget. But the fact is, I have a daughter, and I have to be there for her for the rest of my life. So I can’t dwell on this tragedy. It mustn’t be allowed to destroy me; it’s bad enough as it is. Things are still fragile between Julie and me. We’ve a long way to go. So if it were up to me, Harriet, I would stifle the memory of you from now on. I can see that everything here is nice. It’s neat and tidy, and presumably you’ll soon be getting a handsome headstone. Harriet Asta Krohn. A fine name with a good ring to it. I’m working out your age—you were almost seventy-six. A respectable age. I probably won’t live that long. Maybe it’s of little comfort, but you reached your average life expectancy.
He bows his head and feels at peace, standing with clasped hands and enjoying the sensation of calm that finally settles on him. He can put this calamity behind him now and move on. At last he really is moving on. Suddenly he’s aware of a noise behind him, a sort of crackling.
“Wasn’t it terrible?”
He starts at the sound of the voice and turns and finds himself staring at a woman. His mouth opens in surprise. She’s standing on the path behind him with a shopping bag in her hand. Brown coat, black booties, and a small crocheted cap that resembles an old tea cozy. He glimpses some snow-white curls beneath the cap.
He mumbles a flustered reply, something unintelligible.
“I’ll never rest easy unless they’re caught. I live in the house next to hers, number 6 Fredboesgate. Are you a relative, by any chance?”
She moves closer. “I don’t remember you from the funeral. But that’s hardly surprising. I wasn’t at all myself that day.”
She falls silent now and examines him closely. Charlo is dumbstruck. His first impulse is to flee, but something holds him back. He must keep cool, so he listens to what she’s saying and clenches his fists in his pockets.
“Mosse Maier,” she says, stretching out a brown-gloved hand. He takes it automatically, squeezing it carefully. “I was the one who found her. I noticed the lights on in her house at three in the morning, and that frightened me. So I got up and looked through the window. At first I wanted to phone and find out if everything was all right, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’ve thought since how cowardly that was. But I’m elderly and live alone; I hadn’t the courage.”
Charlo listens and nods. Her outpouring holds him there. He can’t bring himself to leave.
“But when I got up at seven, the lights were still on. That was really strange, too, because Harriet never got up before nine. She had arthritis, you know. Lots of aches and pains. I hung back for as long as I could, but eventually I went over. Her front door was open, and then I found her in the kitchen. And that was a sight I shall never forget, I can tell you. They hadn’t just hit her—they’d beaten her to a pulp.”
The shopping bag crackles in her hand again, and he suspects she has a plant in it.
“I didn’t know her,” he puts in, turning toward the grave once more. “I was just passing.”
“Ah, I see. I thought you were her nephew. She’s got a nephew who lives abroad and she used to talk about him a lot. But it’s terrible, isn’t it?”
He nods again, searching for some escape route. But she hasn’t finished yet; she holds him there. Fragile she may be, but her eyes are blue and intense.
“The worst thing is that one gets so scared.”
She walks the final few steps to the grave and scrambles around in her bag. Her hand emerges with a small green wreath. “Everything’s been ruined. I don’t sleep well at night anymore. For some reason, it’s good to come here. It calms me down. Now at least she’s at peace.”
She bends with some difficulty and places the wreath in front of the cross. “And the police have been a great comfort. They call and ask how things are going. And drop in now and again. I can tell you one thing; they won’t give up on this case. Those responsible will be found.”
“Were there several of them?” he asks, looking at her intently.
“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that. But the way her house looked, it wouldn’t surprise me. The strange thing is that she seems to have opened the door herself. Harriet uses a door chain, and she’s most particular about it. But they probably spun some good story. In any case, she let them into her house. I’d like to know how it was done. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all this, it’s that you can’t trust anybody.”
He nods again and takes a couple of steps. He wants to go off and get away.
“Oh, I’m sorry to have burdened you with all this. But I thought you were a relative, as I said.”
“I was just passing by,” he says, “but I remember the case; of course I do. It was in all the papers. This is a beautiful spot, by the way. This church and churchyard. One of the loveliest I’ve seen.”
He talks away but his cheeks are burning red and he can’t stop them. He runs his hand through his hair and finally stammers something about the weather, that it’s delightful walking in the churchyard.
“Yes,” she says, “this is where we’ll end up. It’s like coming home. But life is too difficult to comprehend sometimes. How things like this can happen.”
“There’s a reason for everything,” Charlo says, and glances down at the wreath.
She shakes her white head. “Not for this. This is pure madness.”
He’s filled with an uncontrollable desire to explain to her. That he’s most definitely not mad, that he’s as much a human being as she is. It’s almost bursting out of him. There’s a rushing inside his head. But her eyes have become searching, as if she can see him clearly now. Her blue gaze is acute enough—it’s obvious she’s coming to her own conclusions. The meeting disturbs him just as the collision did. He gives her a curt nod and disappears as fast as he can. He hurries back to his car and sits inside, worrying. It troubles him deepl
y that she discovered him there, by the grave.
There she is!
Julie’s running toward him. He sees her right away, because her red hair stands out in the crowd of youngsters. There’s a new spring in her step. She chucks her bag in the back seat and jumps in, and the car rocks on its suspension. She’s hot and breathless. Now he’s able to relax again. He’s concentrating on Julie. He’s still uncertain about his new role, and whether now, at last, he can be Dad again. Does she really want to spend time with him? She fastens her seat belt and glances at him from the side. Her voice is lively and cheerful.
“Did you remember the carrots for Crazy?”
He smiles and says yes, he has remembered the carrots.
Charlo puts the car in gear and thinks, Here we are, my daughter and I, driving together. We’re friends. This is what I’ve always yearned for. I took drastic measures, but I got to where I wanted to be. Again he corrects himself. This is not where he wanted to be, he only wanted Julie. Have I got her now? he wonders. Will she remain with me forever?
“What are you thinking about?” Julie asks.
Charlo considers. He wants to be honest. Build up a good relationship without any deceit or illusion.
“I’m think about the things I’m frightened of,” he says. “What I’m most frightened of at the moment.”
“And that is?” she asks. Her smile is lurking just below the surface. There isn’t a cloud in her sky, so she doesn’t want to be serious.
He blurts out the answer. “My health.”
“Oh?” She looks at him in surprise. “But you’re always in good health.”
“Yes,” he says quickly, “but I’m a smoker. We don’t live as long as other people, you know.”
He gives way to a car on his right.
“Each and every cigarette harms me,” he announces dramatically.
She laughs her trilling laugh again and it fills the car. She gets out a scrunchie and gathers her hair at the nape of her neck. He looks at her slender throat and the graceful way she holds her head. The bridge of her nose is beautifully arched. This is his own flesh and blood, something he has a right to, hasn’t he? He was willing to kill for this. No, he wasn’t willing. It was just that there was no other way. What about the old woman in the churchyard? What’s she thinking now? What the hell’s wrong with my knees? No, he doesn’t want to start thinking about that. There are enough things troubling him, plaguing him. His thoughts run in circles while his hands rest on the steering wheel, while his heart pumps blood. He has turned his own destiny around, and his crime strikes him as daring and cowardly in equal measure. That he was prepared to go so far for another human being, that he could no longer stomach being a victim.
