by Karin Fossum
Following this long sequence of thoughts, she came to herself again. She wondered if she had heard something out in the kitchen. The sound reminded her of the scratching up in the loft at night, when the mice were scurrying about. If only he could lie still out there, she had no more energy. But she hauled herself up and limped into the kitchen. She took hold of one of the corners of the tarpaulin and lifted it to one side. The Agent’s eyes were open. He was staring at something in the distance that she could not see. She was sure that it was the Thousand Year Reign, that he finally had a place as one of the chosen few, and that was what he had wanted. But if that was the case, if he was staring into the Thousand Year Reign, it was not a beautiful place. The Agent looked horrified, disappointed, terrified. She put the tarpaulin back with care, waved to the camera again to show them she was still waiting, and pointed towards the hall to indicate that the door was unlocked. Then she returned to the sofa and rested for a while. She could feel that her body needed food and water, but she could not face it. She was floating, rising up to the ceiling, was light as a feather. They could come and lift her up, carry her away, lock her up, if only they could find her son and let him know. At regular intervals, she tottered out into the hall to make sure the door was still unlocked, opening it and looking down to the road, and then closing it again. There was another message on her mobile phone from Gunnhild. This time she could not bear to answer. She no longer checked the time, only noticed the light fading, then it was dark, then it got light again, then it was dark, as the days passed. It must be Wednesday now, or Thursday. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth and everything, not just her knee, ached now. There was a flickering in front of her eyes, like a fluorescent tube just before it breaks. She struggled out to the bathroom to get some paracetamol, but all she found was the box of Apodorm. What did it matter if she was asleep when they came? They just had to wrap her up and carry her out. And she so desperately wanted to be carried. She pressed the tablets through the foil, took out another tray and continued until she had a handful.
She was lying at the bottom of a boat, she could feel the movement of the sea, and it was stormy. She rolled back and forth on the long, heavy waves, her body knocking against the sides, sometimes soft, sometimes hard. No, it was something else. Someone was shouting and shaking her, she wanted to answer but her mouth was dry and she could not form the words. All feeling had run out of her in the same way that the blood had run out of the Agent. She just wanted to be left in peace on the rocking boat. But whoever was calling would not give up, the voice was right next to her ear, she could feel the breath, it was warm.
‘Ragna! Wake up!’
She wanted to open her eyes, but they were dry too. Wake, awake, there was something familiar about the words. She had heard them before, read it somewhere. Gradually her sight returned, but all she could see was her hand, which she lifted shaking to her face.
‘I’ve hurt my knee,’ she managed to whisper.
‘Did you faint?’
It was Gunnhild.
Ragna realised she was lying on the floor and was wearing only the nightgown.
‘He’s lying in the kitchen,’ she said.
‘What did you say? Maybe we should call a doctor.’
‘No, he’s dead.’
There was a short silence.
‘Not Rikard?’ Gunnhild asked. ‘Has something happened to Rikard? Has someone called from Berlin?’
Ragna would have given her arm to be able to scream. To scream from the bottom of her lungs, the depths of her life, a scream that would shatter windows. But she could do nothing but repeat herself in a whisper.
‘I think he’s dead. Can you not smell it?’
Gunnhild went reluctantly out into the kitchen and stayed there for a long time. Ragna crawled across the floor to the sofa and hauled herself up. When Gunnhild came back in again, she stood there with her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
‘Who did that?’ she asked.
‘Me.’
‘No,’ Gunnhild said, petrified.
‘Yes,’ Ragna said. ‘I had to.’
‘Have you killed him?’
‘I think so.’
Gunnhild collapsed into Ragna’s favourite armchair.
‘But why?’
She did not get an answer. She went to the telephone to ring. She did not say much, she had to give her name, that she was at Kirkelina 7 and it was in connection with a death. She opened the veranda door and let in the freezing air, then stood by the window, staring down towards the road.
Ragna propped herself up on her elbow.
‘Did they believe you?’ she whispered.
‘Who?’
‘The police.’
‘Of course they believed me.’ Gunnhild looked bewildered. ‘Why would they not believe me? Who is he?’
Ragna sat up straight on the sofa, leaned back against the cushion.
‘Don’t know him at all.’
‘But,’ Gunnhild stammered, ‘why did he come here?’
‘He’s been pestering me all autumn.’
‘Pestering you? Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
Gunnhild glanced down at the road again.
‘Did he come here to get you?’
‘I think so,’ Ragna said. ‘Will they be here soon?’
‘It won’t take them more than ten minutes,’ Gunnhild said, ‘they’re just across the river. We mustn’t touch anything,’ she added. ‘Have you touched anything?’
‘I live here. Of course I’ve touched things.’
Gunnhild went over to the sofa, found a blanket, and laid it gently over Ragna’s knees.
‘But why didn’t you ring anyone?’
‘I’ve tried several times, but no one comes. You don’t know what it’s like.’
Gunnhild went back to the window, watching just as Ragna had done all autumn.
‘I can’t get hold of Rikard,’ Ragna said.
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t find anyone. Everyone just disappears.’
‘Not everyone, surely?’
‘Walther,’ she whispered. ‘Mummy and Daddy. Rikard Josef. William. And Irfan.’
‘Irfan?’
Ragna pointed at the window.
‘He had the shop over the road. I went there every day.’
‘Have you taken anything?’ Gunnhild asked. ‘Pills? Why do you have that picture of the dog by the door? You’ve never had a dog.’
‘You’re asking too many questions,’ Ragna complained. And then she wept. Time had started up again – she noticed that the second hand on the wall clock was ticking.
Chapter 28
‘Do you believe there’s an afterwards?’ Ragna whispered.
‘After death? There’s nothing after death,’ Sejer said.
‘Yes, but if. Only if. What would you want it to be?’
‘I don’t want anything after death.’
His words were followed by a smile, which Ragna reciprocated.
‘There’s someone you miss,’ she said, and looked up at the photograph of Elise.
‘Yes, there is. I will never see them again.’
‘But if you saw them,’ she insisted. ‘Would you not be happy?’
‘I’ve never been that bothered about happiness,’ Sejer said.
‘You’re so stubborn,’ Ragna exclaimed.
‘So are you.’
‘What are you interested in then?’
‘Right now, I’m interested in you.’
They smiled at each other again. They had made a secret connection. Sejer was like a mountain, an unconquered rock face. But she saw something else as well, she saw it every time he glanced over at Frank by the window. She saw the devotion shared by the long grey man and the small fat dog.
‘Are you particularly fond of Frank because he can’t talk?’
‘Perhaps,’ Sejer had to admit. ‘I have to use all my senses to know what he wants and what he needs. When he’s gone, it’s his eyes
I’ll remember, and the smell of him. But when people we know die, it’s their voice that stays with us.’
‘People talk too much,’ Ragna said. ‘Too much importance is put on words.’
‘That’s how we solve our problems,’ Sejer said.
This reminded her of something she had once seen when she was out walking.
‘It was shortly after the fateful operation,’ she explained. ‘I was looking for a way to come to terms with what had happened. So I went for a walk, but being alone in town on a grey day only amplified my feelings of grief. For everything that I had lost forever. I walked for hours, and gradually there were fewer and fewer houses. Eventually I was out on a country road with hardly any traffic. I passed a paddock with two horses, one brown and one black. Just then, as I stood there looking at them, it started to rain. It was not a fine summer rain, but one of those sudden showers that turned into a downpour. I huddled up by the electric fence. It was raining so hard that it was pummelling my shoulders. I had nothing with me, no raincoat, no umbrella, and there was no shelter anywhere nearby. So I stood still and thought, ah well, I’ll get wet. I continued to watch the horses, because something had happened. First they lifted their heads to the rain. Then they moved slowly towards each other and the brown horse put its heavy head on the back of the black horse. And they stood together in the rain, as close as two steaming big animals can. There was something so simple and heart-warming about it, something so natural. Yes, I thought, there’s far too much talk in the world. It’s better to do, to take action. I turned round and walked home again and was really quite happy.’
‘And what are your thoughts on what comes after?’ Sejer asked.
‘I have so many thoughts about death. Some people think of death as a personal insult.’
She smiled briefly as she remembered an article she had read somewhere.
‘If one fine day, after a long and arduous life, I find myself weightless and suspended in space, without knowing what’s up and what’s down, without seeing or hearing, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be there, and can’t understand why I’m hanging there and no longer know who I am, well, then I’m dead. And because I’m dead, I’m free. But if, after a few years, or maybe a few thousand years, some patronising creator comes and picks my free soul out of eternity and forces it into another body of flesh and blood, I don’t know that I could face that.’
They were allies again. The acknowledgement passed from him to her and then back again.
‘What about the squirrel?’ he asked.
‘The squirrel, yes,’ she whispered. ‘It’s a lovely story. The kind that a father should always tell his children. What do the newspapers say about me?’ she asked, out of the blue. ‘Has the case been given a name? Most big cases usually get a nickname. I want to know what mine is.’
Sejer shook his head.
‘The Riegel case?’ she suggested.
‘No.’
‘Is it something with Jehovah perhaps,’ she said. ‘The Jehovah case, or the Jehovah killing?’
‘You’ll be spending a lot of time on your own in the years ahead,’ Sejer said. ‘And you’ll get access to newspapers and the news soon enough. Now, I want to ask an important question. You’ll be asked the same thing in court when you get there. Think carefully before you answer.’
‘Okay.’
‘When Bennet came into your kitchen and sat down at your table, and told you why he was there, did you feel your life was in danger?’
She thought carefully about this, exactly as he had said she should.
‘I just wanted the torment to stop.’
‘Did you feel your life was in danger? Yes or no?’
‘I wasn’t sure what would happen.’
‘So you wanted to beat him to it?’
‘I wanted to be on the safe side, to be sure.’
‘Is that what you will tell the judge? That you killed Bennet to be on the safe side?’
‘I’m answering your question as best I can!’ she stammered. ‘It was foolish of him to come alone. Jehovah’s Witnesses never come alone.’
‘The other person couldn’t make it,’ Sejer told her. ‘And Bennet was a conscientious young man.’
‘He could have said that,’ she mumbled. ‘He just came into my kitchen and said I was going to die.’
‘And when you stopped him from carrying out his mission, whatever you thought that might be, how did you think then?’
‘I thought about you,’ she said.
‘Us? The police?’
‘I saw what was on the floor, and knew that finally you would have to come.’
Chapter 29
Dear Rikard Josef,
Have you ever thought about how difficult it can be to know the truth about things? The definitive, most detailed version of an event? Or how difficult it is to answer questions properly, or to be sure of anything at all? Is it possible to be entirely truthful? Of course not. As soon as a thought takes form in the brain, it sparks into action and sends out a signal that turns into words, which are shaped by the journey from thought to speech, coloured by fear and assumptions, and the desire to be seen in a good light, when you have been eclipsed. Sometimes I think that everything that has happened to me over the years has taken place underwater. Whenever I think about people I have known, their faces are like pale anemones floating on the currents of the sea. Perhaps I am still underwater. Everything seems to unfold so slowly. Reality is only visible in glimpses, like the flickering of the sun on the surface of the water.
Sejer asks me questions and I answer as best I can. It was like this, I say, these were my thoughts and fears – I have to formulate and express them, and it feels right. Then, when I am back in my cell at the desk by the window, I think I should have given a different answer. More truthful. Better. Is that really how it was, how much of it was my imagination, my pathetic attempt to share the blame? But try to see the truth, Rikard. Do you think we would recognise it if we were to find it, in the same way that we recognise lies? Lies sound like nails falling into a tin. But the truth is more of a rushing sound, I think, like waves breaking on the shore. The truth takes us to an enormous door, and when we confess everything, when we assume responsibility and lay all our cards on the table without flinching, the door opens and we can pass through into the sparkling light. And once we have passed through, once we have confessed everything, no one can touch us. We are naked perhaps, but also unassailable and pure. What did you say when they asked you about all the money you had embezzled? Did you talk for a long time about how difficult everything had been? That you felt you had to get away from Kirkelina because you had great dreams, that you got to Berlin and suddenly you were alone in an unknown world, that you fell for temptation and could not resist because you were damaged, perhaps by drugs or gambling? Even good people, those with high morals, dream of the chance to change their lives, and perhaps those who never find that chance are the lucky ones. Did you tell them that you had become a slave to something, that you had to serve a mighty lord, or did you simply say that you discovered what you would describe as a golden opportunity? I was greedy, maybe that was your answer, I am a thief, plain and simple. Perhaps you did not say that at all. Your defence lawyer told you what to say, he advised you on the details and you listened to him. I have chosen not to have a defence. We will sort out all the formalities, of course, there is a lot of information, but I have made it clear from the start that I am guilty. That I am not at all interested in being acquitted, or getting as short a sentence as possible. I just want to be understood. I want the court to follow my journey step by step, so they can understand that there was no other way. My lawyer says, of course, that he feels almost redundant. I may not have a voice, but I have managed alone for all these years. I’m like a dog, I can look at people, and the sensitive ones pick up on my signals straight away. The inspector always does. And one person is enough, Rikard. If there is one person who is willing to listen, just one who is able to understan
d without judging, I see it as a privilege that very few experience. I chose the inspector. When the day and time come for me to go to court, and I have to give my statement, which practically no one will be able to hear, so everything will have to be repeated over a loudspeaker, I will be brief and accept what I am given. This cell is eight metres square, and I can watch the sky, the odd cloud drifting by, or the migrating birds. I would love to be part of a flock like that, third place on the left, following a strong leader to warmer climes. And the rain, Rikard, let it rain, and remember that every drop that falls is a beautiful snow crystal a few kilometres up, where it is always cold.
Once, many years ago, before you were born, Mummy and I went to London. Daddy was in hospital that spring, and Mummy was tired. When he was in other people’s care, she could rest and relax because she knew he was in good hands. And she was like a girl again. We walked and walked and explored the city and watched the people, arm in arm, as if we were best friends. We went to the theatre and to the market and to the wax museum, and I could have walked the streets of London forever. We had no worries, and we took everything that fell from heaven with a smile. It rained every day. But instead of huddling up and looking for shelter, we lifted our faces to the raindrops and enjoyed all there was to enjoy. On the day we left, we took the train out to Heathrow, and were standing in security fumbling with our bags and cases when suddenly two security guards asked us to step to one side, out of the queue, and to go through a scanner. We both giggled nervously, Mummy and I, but we did not have even a sugar lump more than we should, only cheap things that we had bought at Camden Market, plastic jewellery and glass and some second-hand clothes. So we went through the machine, one after the other, turned round with our arms out straight, head high and legs apart, and I remember seeing a peculiar image of myself on the screen, a shining, orange figure, an alien version of my body, naked and transparent. It was oddly liberating that someone could see all there was to see. It felt good to stand there, I had nothing illegal to hide, no secrets. When Mummy and I had gone through the scanner, we walked arm in arm to the gate, laughing like two hysterical teenagers. We were both euphoric. I will never forget that moment, it taught me that the truth is bright, honesty casts its own light. People can see through us to our bones, and it feels good. Nothing frightens us humans more, but nothing feels better than letting it happen. Now, I am in that scanner again. I twist and turn so that everything can be seen, everything I have collected through the autumn. Everything that has happened in our house in Kirkelina is being revealed.
