The Whisperer

by Karin Fossum

  She thought that she should ring Naper, her GP, to get some sleeping tablets. Finally, at six, she got up again. She put her feet down on the cold floor, put on some clothes and then went out and switched on the light in the kitchen.

  Three days later, she sat on the bus on the way into town and planned her modest plea. She did not like to beg, but Naper had never actually refused her anything. He had never questioned her, never been authoritarian or arrogant. Quite the opposite, in fact, there was an air of melancholy about him that she identified with, that made her feel a connection. With his grave face and heavy jowls, and hands as big as bear paws, he reminded her more of an ageing lumberjack than a doctor. When she got there, she explained that she was not sleeping, and had not done so for some time. That the tiredness made her heavy and slow, and she could not shake it. She often had a headache when she got up and things flickered in front of her eyes. He wanted to know if anything had happened. If she was worried about something, or had experienced a loss. Or was she afraid of something. She looked uncomfortable, as one often does at the doctor’s, pale and apathetic, with her hands in her lap. She shook her head. Imagine bothering a busy doctor with trivialities like the letters in her mailbox, she would never do that.

  ‘I guess it’s part of getting older,’ she said, without looking at him.

  She was sitting quite close to him, dressed in her green Europris shop coat with her handbag on her lap. She whispered her request. He looked at the screen, scanned through her medical history over the years – plenty there, she was well over forty, after all.

  ‘I’ll give you something gentle,’ he said, ‘that’s non-addictive. But be careful all the same. It’s usual to have sleeping problems for periods of time, but they generally pass naturally. But you’re not one who’s prone to complaining, Ragna, you’re very patient.’

  He wrote out a prescription, and she heard the printer hum.

  ‘Do you have any good nights in between, when you sleep well?’ he asked.

  She was struck by how friendly he was, despite all the complaints he must have heard over the years, all the expectations and demands, sickness and death, all the people he could not save.

  She nodded. ‘I do have some good nights.’

  ‘Are you bothered by nightmares? Lots of people develop sleeping issues if they have bad dreams over a longer period of time. They dread falling asleep.’

  ‘I don’t dread it,’ she responded. ‘All I want to do is sleep. Sleep through the night. If that’s possible.’

  She had the prescription in her hand and noticed his signature, which was illegible.

  ‘And your son?’ he asked, all of a sudden. ‘He’ll be coming home for Christmas, I suppose? Or are you going to Berlin?’

  The question was so out of the blue that she started to stammer.

  ‘We’ve not decided yet.’

  He said nothing for a while. It was a sore point for her, he had seen it before.

  ‘Come and see me again,’ he encouraged her.

  She folded the prescription and put it in her handbag. Closed the door quietly behind her, and went out through the waiting room. There was something sad about the people sitting there, she thought. Perhaps none of them were sleeping either, maybe they all had aches and pains, maybe it was them she heard at night, complaining, breathing and wailing.

  She handed the prescription in at the chemist, and when she came out again, she opened the box and pulled out the tray of tiny pills. They were no bigger than a grain of rice. It was hard to believe that something so small could really help her sleep. She had no idea what they contained, as she had not asked. One summer, a long time ago, she was on holiday in the Algarve with her parents, and in one of the villages they saw a man sitting on the pavement selling grains of rice. He claimed that the whole of the Lord’s Prayer was engraved on each grain. They were in glass pendants on leather thongs, and people bought them and wore them around their necks, believing that they carried a prayer, that they would be protected. She had not bought the grain of rice. She did not believe in what she could not see. She held the packet of pills tight in her hand, noticed the red warning triangle. She liked the triangle, it must mean they were effective. But as she did not drive or operate any heavy machinery, it did not apply to her. Now she had a defence. A switch. She could turn it on and off, sleep or not sleep; it was a choice, some form of control over the night. Wake up when the chemicals had left her body. Choose the day, and then choose sleep. Keep the demons at bay.

  The pills were protection against intruders, her equivalent to Gunnhild’s pepper spray that she had bought on the Internet and always kept with her.

  She wandered aimlessly through the city centre, window-shopping. Popped into Magasinet and had a quick look in the cafe, in case Walther might be sitting at one of the tables, watching her. She decided to have a look in the pet shop, as she sometimes did, because she liked the smells and sounds. They had aquarium fish and parrots, hamsters, guinea pigs and rabbits. There was a macaw called Papa Doc that had been in the shop for years, and she never tired of admiring him. His cage was always open, so he could go in and out as he pleased; in other words, he had a standing offer of freedom which he chose not to take. Maybe he thought there were too many people out there, too much noise, too many staring eyes and pestering fingers. So he sat there on his perch where he felt safe. Ragna stood quietly and watched the bird. He stared back at her with bright eyes, tried to gauge what sort of person she was, if she had good intentions. She whispered some words of affection and he sidled closer. She wanted to touch him, stroke his feathers. But a sign said that Papa Doc should not be touched, and it was clear that he could bite off your finger. His red feathers had a moisture to them, and his eyes had a twinkle. She knew that he could talk, but today he had nothing to say. She leaned closer, tried to tempt him. ‘Beautiful boy,’ she whispered. ‘Beautiful boy.’ But he was not going to be fooled into imitating her. Another bird in another cage started to whistle in a seductive manner, which raised her spirits. When she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was a real stunner walking down the street, with people clamouring all around. As she was leaving, without having bought anything, she passed a display of postcards and stickers and other bits and pieces, all with pictures of animals. But it was something else that caught her attention. On the wall above the display was a metal sign. It was A4-size and had on it a picture of a snarling Rottweiler with a studded collar. A hole had been drilled in each corner, for screws. And under the picture it said in big letters: ‘BEWARE THE DOG!’

  Ragna’s eyes widened. She had never seen a dog like that, nor canine teeth like that – it certainly was not like Dolly. This was a predator, trained to attack. She rose up onto her toes and took down the sign to look at the terrifying beast more closely. The sign was meant to be hung on a wall, or a fence, or a gate, and it was solid and heavy. She went over to the counter and opened her purse with rare determination. Someone had sentenced her to death. Now she had protection.

  ‘Do you have one?’ the assistant wanted to know. He put the Rottweiler in a bag and watched her tap in her pin code.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘But I need one.’

  He was taken aback by the fact that she whispered, but thought that it was maybe her way of flirting. She had lowered her voice to make herself more mysterious, and he was charmed.

  ‘With that on your wall, you won’t need an alarm,’ he said.

  She thanked him and left, hurried down the street to the square, with the sleeping pills in her bag and the Rottweiler in a plastic carrier. Once she was sitting on the bus, in the third row on the left, she took the sign out of the bag. It weighed a lot. She could not stop staring at the snarling dog. She could hang it the wall of the house with those nails she had lying in one of the kitchen drawers.

  As soon as she got home she put her plan into action. She hammered hard and furiously with all her might and continued long after the nails were embedded in the wood, one in each corner.
The hammering was a warning to the whole neighbourhood, Ragna thought, as she stood there banging away. The woman who lived here knew how to defend herself. When the sign was in place, to the left of the front door, she stepped back and admired the dog from a distance. Then she went down the steps and onto the gravel driveway. It looked like the dog was following her with his eyes, no matter where she stood in relation to the door. She moved sideways to the right, then to the left, to the bottom of the steps, all the way down to the road, keeping eye contact with the dog all the time. She saw the red wetness of the dog’s mouth, the yellowish teeth that could pull and tear.

  The real Rottweiler, the one she did not have, that she might have called Attila or Saddam, that weighed more than seventy kilos, was right inside the door; the one that she wanted visitors to imagine, when they had seen the sign, would attack given the short whispered order ‘Attila, go’ – especially if that person had ill intentions.

  But what about the children, she thought, the ones who came to sell raffle tickets, small and hopeful with rosy cheeks and frozen fingers? They would also lose their nerve, and they did not have much before. They would turn on their heels and run as fast as they could, raffle tickets in one hand and some cold coins in a plastic bag in the other. Ah well, she shrugged, swings and roundabouts. She went inside again, locked the door and put on the security chain.

  There was a raw chill to the dark November days. When she went to throw out the rubbish, with no coat on, the snow whipped round her and pinched her cheeks in the short distance down to the road. She did it as quickly as she could, then shuffled back to the house, bent double like an old lady. The cold was evil and chilled her to the bone, she felt that it was out to get her, that it was significant in some way. She decided to buy a pair of sheepskin mittens. The cheap, synthetic mittens were not good enough, nor were the boots. She had no fat on her body, so she was easy prey. When will I learn? she asked herself. I’ve lived in this country all my life. The Eskimos, they knew how to dress. For them, the cold was a given, something they lived with, constantly. The frost killed any bacteria, so the food kept longer, everything was clean and sparkling white. She associated Eskimos with something pure, fresh.

  But it was warm on the bus, and her favourite place was empty. She spared a thought for the driver, who sat there bouncing in his seat, and was bombarded by a cold gust from the street every time the door slid open with a wheeze. She was nearly home. What should I eat tonight? she wondered. Maybe some of Irfan’s flatbreads with ham and a hot sauce. She felt her face lighting up every time they passed a street light, even when she closed her eyes. It was snowing, but the snowplough had not been out yet. She trudged along the road in her thin boots. There were salt marks on the leather and her toes were numb. She felt something was amiss. But it was the cold, she was walking with her head bowed, did not look up. She quickly crossed the road, then stood there, at a loss, looking around. It was darker than normal, quieter, colder; something essential was missing from the street, as though it had lost its pulse and was dying. She walked faster, no one was following. When she finally got to Irfan’s shop, she saw that the light was not on. That was strange. She stared at the dark window in surprise, then noticed the sign.

  CLOSED. HAVE MOVED.

  The notice, which he had made himself, on a piece of cardboard with uneven writing, had been taped to the door.

  Ragna clutched her handbag to her chest. In it was her purse, and the money she was going to use to buy flatbreads. She felt like a little girl with a coin in her hand who had come to the sweet shop too late. Irfan Baris had moved. Without telling her, without preparing her or any explanation, without thanking her for all the years she had been a loyal customer. And there was nothing on the sign to say where he had moved to. For all she knew, it might be somewhere south of the river, where she seldom went. Or even worse, he might have moved to another town. It was almost like losing a lover. Irfan was a handsome man, with eyes as brown as chestnuts. He always listened to what she had to say, and sometimes surprised her with thoughtful comments, like she should get herself a reflector. And what about all the praise and enthusiasm she had showered on his shop? The interest she had shown in his well-being, his family, how they celebrated Christmas, and more? All the money she had contributed to his business over the years – she shopped there all the time – did it mean nothing? Was it not even worth him telling her that he was going to move?

  Without thinking, she looked around for Olaf, he would know. She peered up the road and down, looked back at the dark windows, the empty shelves. How could this have happened? And so fast, it took time to move. There must have been more of them, she thought, maybe they worked all night. While she lay sleeping, they had packed everything into boxes and loaded them into a van. She was overwhelmed by a sudden sorrow, felt worthless, forgotten, ignored. Standing there alone and freezing in the dark, as though she had been robbed. Well, there would be no flatbreads and ham, as she had planned. No longer could she wander around in her living room looking over at the lights in his windows, lights that had become a part of her life, and the street. No doubt someone else would open a shop there, the place could not be used for anything else. But right now, there was nothing, no wonderful smell of exotic spices, no fruit that he was selling cheap because it had been there too long. She tried to remember what she had in the fridge and it was not much. He could have said something. He could have prepared her. She pushed the door hard several times, to relieve her anger. She swore in the dark, a whisper that no one heard, something mean about foreigners who had no manners, had no understanding of common courtesy. She turned her back on the shop and stormed across the road.

  There was nothing in her mailbox.

  Every time she looked out of the window she was filled with an indefinable fear. The whole street had changed, she thought, the lighting outside was different, it was intruding into her living room. She found herself going over to the window again and again in the hope that she was mistaken, that suddenly the lights would be on in Irfan’s shop as though nothing had happened. Long before he came to Norway with his family there had been a newsagent’s there called Sweet News, and before that there had been a small hairdresser’s with only one chair. Her father went there occasionally, though generally he let his hair grow. But she remembered the nice smell of shampoo and hair tonic. And the scent of leather from the chair her father sat in, which could be lowered and raised and swivelled round. Sometimes, if she asked nicely, she was allowed to sit in the chair herself. The hairdresser pretended that they were at the fair and swung her this way and that, before her father had his hair cut. And now, black windows. The miserable sign was scarcely visible, no more than a pale square on the locked door.

  Then suddenly she noticed a man. She did not know where he had come from or how long he had been standing there, she had been so focused on the closed shop. He was standing under the street light at the bottom of her drive. The first thing she noticed was that he was standing absolutely still. He was dressed in something long and dark, but as far as she could see had nothing on his head. And he was staring at her house. His head was big and round, and his body was long and thin. Because he was standing under the light, she could see him quite clearly even though it was dark. She stepped back into the room. It was just someone out for a wander, who happened to admire her house as she looked out, because the warm light streaming from the windows made it welcoming. If she went and looked again now, he would be gone, perhaps on his way up towards the church. But that was not the case, he was still standing there. And his arms, those long arms, were not hanging loosely by his side, but were pressed against his body as though he were carved in stone. Perhaps she should close the curtains and turn off all the lights? Instead she collapsed into the armchair, sat there for some time and watched the clock on the wall as time ticked by. She could hear the small click each time the minute hand moved. Felt with her whole being that he was standing there, felt his eyes.

  She had to ge
t up and check again. He had not moved. It was cold and he was unsuitably dressed, no hat or gloves. He seemed oblivious to the dark and the snow. His posture was defiant, like he was making a demand, or waiting for something, only she had no idea what. She stepped to the side of the window, hid behind the curtain. But he had of course seen her silhouette through the glass. What if she waved to him – would he wave back? Would her hand act as a signal to set something in motion, something over which she had no control? She huddled up behind the curtain, held the thick fabric tight in her hand. A car drove slowly by, the white headlights dipping, but the man did not move. She tried frantically to find a way to deal with it, she could not simply ignore him, he was standing in her drive, he was staring at her house. She should probably walk those forty-eight steps down to the road and ask what he wanted, if he was waiting for someone or something, if he was looking for an address. But he might then answer, nothing, and I’ll stand here as long as I like. I’m within my rights. Which was true. So she tried to ignore him, did not dare go out, but hit the wall with her fist to vent her anger. She would not do much more than produce vapour in the cold air, and words he could not hear. And if he was suddenly gone, did that mean he had come up to the house and was standing on the top step right now, laughing at the Rottweiler, because he realised she did not have a dog, or, even worse, he knew, because he had been watching her for a long time? Instead, she turned on the television and sat down in the armchair, stared at the flickering screen without taking anything in. She resisted the temptation to close the curtains. Then he would probably think that she had seen him and was frightened, and she did not want to give him the pleasure, if it was the thrill he was after. Ragna thought she could hear him, standing there by the lamp post, growling. She could hear him over the sound of the television, as though he was right outside the window. Or was it Olaf using some electrical equipment in his house, a drill perhaps? She decided to wait for half an hour, and if he was still there she would ring the police. It was definitely time to get someone else involved. The clock on the wall ticked by, she could hear clearly. So she turned up the volume on the television, but she could still hear him. When those long thirty minutes had finally passed, she peeped quickly out through the window – he was still there. So she gave him another half-hour. Tiptoed out into the kitchen, made sure always to keep her back to the window. She brewed a cup of tea, and stirred in the sugar. Snuck back into the living room, bent over so she was under the radar, and watched the minutes pass on the wall clock. He was still there.