by Karin Fossum
He heard the water boiling in the kitchen.
‘I mean,’ he said softly, ‘some lose their children for good. Have you thought about that?’
He knew he shouldn’t speak these words, but he couldn’t help himself. Because Margrete lay in Lily’s lap, and she was healthy and fine and lovely. Lily looked up quickly. She made a strange sound, the kind an injured cat makes when it snarls. The kettle whistled and he stood. But when he reached the kitchen, he left the kettle and opened the fridge instead. He returned with a bottle of beer in his hand. Lily looked at him wide-eyed.
‘You’re going to have a beer now?’
He put the bottle to his lips. He felt very gloomy.
‘What if you have to drive?’ she snapped.
He drained half the bottle before putting it down with a bang. ‘Why would I have to drive?’
‘If something happens,’ she said, rocking Margrete.
‘What would happen now?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s four in the morning.’
She pulled the blanket tighter around her, as if to demonstrate her vulnerability. ‘Anything can happen,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you realised that yet?’
He finished his beer. She’s spooked out of her wits, he thought. And I’m angry. She’s sulking like a child, and I’m growling like a dog. This can’t be happening. We’ve got to sleep. We’ve got to put Margrete to bed. We’ve got to move on. There are so many things we want to do.
‘If you don’t start sleeping soon, maybe we can get our hands on some sleeping pills.’
‘Sleeping pills?’ She rolled her eyes at this offensive suggestion. ‘Then I couldn’t be alert.’
‘But I’m right beside you. I’ll wake at even the faintest sound. I’ll take care of you two.’
‘He came while we were eating,’ she reminded him, ‘and we didn’t hear a thing.’
Karsten leaned across the table and looked at her. ‘Yes, Lily. He did. But he’s not coming back. Can’t we agree on that? Come, let’s go back to bed. I know you’re suffering. You’re probably in shock. But you need to pull yourself together.’
Finally she pushed the blanket away and got up. He turned off the lamp and followed her into the bedroom. She put Margrete between them in the bed, and did so with a glance that thwarted any protest. Then she flicked on the lamp that was on her side of the bed.
‘I’m going to read for a bit,’ she said, ‘but you can go to sleep. If you’re so tired.’
She seemed to imply that he should be ashamed of himself. Because he was so tired. Karsten felt the urge to lash out at what had happened to them. What had happened to Margrete was certainly terrible — he was the first to say it. What he’d seen when he came out to the garden, Lily on the ground screaming, the child under the blanket, bloody as slaughter, he would never forget it, never. But what about the rest of our lives? he thought. We’ve got to find some kind of order. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the light bothered him. And each time she flipped a page the riffling of paper was like a clap of thunder to him. The sound rumbled through his head. Maybe we’ll end up raving mad, he thought. Maybe that was what he wanted, the one who’d come from the forest.
Gunilla Mørk had celebrated her seventieth birthday with her children and friends and neighbours, and now she was glad it was over. The platter she’d ordered from the cafe was quite excellent, so too the cake table to which she had contributed a delicious marzipan ring. Will I make it to eighty? she wondered, looking out of the kitchen window. Many don’t live that long, and it’s not a given that I will either. As active, agile and clear-headed as I am.
The sky was bright blue, and the sun was rising. God has given us another gorgeous day, she thought. I must make the most of it. It is our duty as human beings: we must appreciate the good things. And if we don’t, we’d better have a good reason. This was Gunilla Mørk’s philosophy of life. But because she’d turned seventy, she had also begun thinking of death. It hung over her like a dark cloud, and wouldn’t give her peace. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, this darkness came to her and disturbed her thoughts. She pulled the curtains aside and looked at the lawn. As she thought about death, she saw her own hand — it was no longer young and smooth, but dry and wrinkled. For a few moments, the sight terrified her. She raised her hand and examined it carefully, brought it close to her cheek. Of course it was warm and able, as always. So why these silly thoughts? Sometimes it seemed as though the moment cracked open and let in a dose of hard reality.
I don’t have much time left.
It was early morning. She heard a little thump out front, the sound of her local newspaper being dropped into her mailbox. The postman had already moved on to the next house. He rode a bicycle with a small trailer hitched to it, and with strength she was no longer capable of mustering, he pedalled up the hill in his red uniform. Out in the garden she turned her face towards the sky and felt the sunlight. It glows the same way it did when I was sixteen, she thought, just as rich and golden. Just as invigorating. The wind is mild and the grass is overwhelmingly green and lush. I could get on my knees and eat it, just like cows do. She headed to the mailbox and fetched her paper. On the first page she saw a picture of a man with his arms around a sheep, and she read the headline. THE MYTH OF THE NORWEGIAN SHEEP FARMER
She went inside and set the newspaper on the kitchen table. She would certainly read that article, because she had her opinions about sheep farmers. But first she wanted to brew coffee and butter a piece of bread. Everything had to be done just so, and at the right pace. Why should she hurry? After all, there was only one direction. Now I’m complaining too much, thought Gunilla Mørk, but God expects no more of a person than is given him. The food tasted good. The jam was made from berries grown in her garden, and she hadn’t ruined it with too much sugar.
She started reading about the sheep farmer.
The myth of the Norwegian sheep farmer and the love he feels towards his animals lives on, but it is overblown. The image of the devastated farmer kneeling by the body of one of his sheep following a bear attack is not about grief; rather, it’s about economic impact. When they want to get on the good side of public opinion, when they want to obtain larger subsidies from the state, they become first-rate actors.
This claim was made by a professor she had never heard of.
The man in the photograph, a man called Sverre Skarning, claimed that he loved all his sheep, even the black ones. She studied the farmer and the sheep. She tried to form an opinion, but didn’t know what to think. They probably are fond of their sheep, she thought. And she liked the photograph. A man and a sheep in close contact put her in quite a good mood. She flipped to the next page. In between she drank her coffee, which energised her, strong and hot as it was. I’ll get some things done today, she thought. Maybe I’ll stain the garden furniture; it’s got terribly dry during the summer. She concentrated her reading on the ongoing tragedies unfolding in the poorer parts of the world — cyclones, earthquakes, war and more war — then raised her head and looked out at the quiet garden, at the flowers and trees, and thought it marvellous that she of all people had been granted this peaceful spot on earth where nothing bad ever happened.
She came to the obituaries.
These she always read carefully, because sometimes she knew someone. She also made a note of the year of their birth, recognising that her own was drawing near with alarming haste; those who’d now used up their allotted time had been born around 1930. Gunilla, she thought, you’ve got to stop. You’re sitting here in the kitchen, and you are alive and well. Sunlight falls through the window, the coffee is strong. At that very moment she gasped in shock, staring directly at her own name. Gunilla Mørk, she read, was dead; she had died in her sleep. She let go of the newspaper and put a hand to her heart. She could hardly breathe. No, it was a mistake. If it wasn’t a mistake, there must be others called Gunilla Mørk. She glanced around the kitchen to reassure herself that everything was in order — that she wasn’t cau
ght in some form of madness. But all she saw was the good old kitchen, with cups and bowls. She reread the notice. Everything was correct, the birth date, the year.
OUR KIND AND CARING MOTHER, MOTHER-IN-LAW AND SISTER, GUNILLA MØRK, BORN 17 JULY 1939, PASSED AWAY QUIETLY IN HER SLEEP TODAY, 25 JULY. IT’S GOOD TO RESTWHEN YOUR STRENGTH FAILS YOUAFTER YEARS OF TOIL AND STRUGGLEAT SOME POINTTHE HOLY NIGHT COMESAND THE MUSES OF ETERNITYCHANGE THE BITTEREST SORROWYOU’VE HAD TO A HUNDRED FIDDLES
ERIK AND ELLINOR, FRIENDS AND OTHER RELATIVES. FUNERAL SERVICE TO BE HELD AT EASTERN CREMATORIUM, SMALL CHAPEL, 1 AUGUST, 10.30 A.M.
Gunilla Mørk put her head down on the table.
She knocked over her coffee cup.
The newspaper said she was dead.
Erik and Ellinor — her children. And that stupid poem. Erik and Ellinor would never have chosen something so pompous, something so ridiculous and distasteful. And Eastern Crematorium, good Lord. What did it mean? Who had done this inexplicable thing? Could the newspaper have made a mistake? Of course they couldn’t have; if they had, the world had become unhinged. She shot up from the chair and paced around the room. Stood in front of the mirror over the sink. An old woman stared back at her with a face she had never seen. It was unsettling. Everyone I know will read the announcement, she thought. I have to call them. I have to call Erik and Ellinor. She returned to the chair and slumped in it, gripping the edge of the table. Maybe I nodded off and dreamed it, she thought, but that was obviously silly. Again she read her own obituary. She sat motionless, growing cold all over, because someone had picked her out. From the mass of people they had found her and hatched their hideous plans. She wanted to grab the telephone; she wanted to dial her son Erik’s number at once. Then she would know what had happened. But it took some time for her to get up. And when she was finally on her feet, the phone in her hand, she began to cry.
Johnny Beskow sneaked into the hallway.
Because it was important to be prepared, he stood there listening. Apparently, his mother was not at the stove. There was no smell of food, just the familiar stench of coats, dust and mould. She must be on the sofa, he thought, and looked at the clock. It was eleven in the morning, and it wasn’t uncommon for her to be drunk at this hour. Once he’d found her at seven in the morning, drinking vodka in big gulps while clinging to the armrest with her free hand. She’d done this for an hour before going off to lie down, under the duvet. In this manner she moved from the chair to the bed, to the sofa, and to the chair again. And to the grave, he thought, can’t you move to the grave? I’ll dig the hole. Then you can just roll over the edge. He slipped into the lounge to see. Yep, she was lying on the sofa under a blanket. So he shuffled off to his room and closed the door. He lifted Bleeding Heart from the cage and fell on the bed with the guinea pig at his neck. People believe what I tell them, he thought with satisfaction. I can call whoever I want and claim whatever I want, or demand whatever I want, and people do what I say. They are polite and friendly, and they are happy to help. It’s pure magic. The possibilities are endless. I can disrupt an entire community, it occurred to him, an entire city. All I have to do is pick up the phone or write a letter. I hold this power. He could feel the power in his head, the power rushing through his veins, and it made him warm and strong, even though he was, strictly speaking, a weakling. Or as they’d called him at school: the wimp from Askeland.
After a while he put the guinea pig back in the cage. The cage was filled with woodchips and cotton rags, some colourful plastic toys. He’d got the money to buy it from his grandfather, same as the moped — it had been a gift for his confirmation, which hadn’t amounted to anything. His mother couldn’t stay sober long enough to plan a party, and anyway there was no one to invite.
Hungry, he went to the kitchen. There was nothing on the hob, so he looked for milk in the fridge. Sat at the kitchen table and ate cereal while staring out the window. Because she was drunk, his mother wouldn’t stir until evening. Then she’d scuttle to the bathroom, drag a brush through her hair, wobble back to the lounge and suddenly see him sitting in front of the television. From that point until he went to bed, she would play her role as parent. She’d ask where he had been and what he had done. What he had eaten. Whether he was going to get a job, something to bring more money to the household. Then she would complain about her headache, say it had been a little worse today so she had needed to lie down. It’s actually a little better now, she would say. To justify that she’d been in a drunken stupor half the day.
He finished eating. He rinsed his plate and returned to the lounge, fell into a chair. His mother was flat on her back with a blanket under her chin; her skin seemed clammy, as if she had a fever; her eyelids had glided halfway up. I wish you were dead, he thought, I wish you would stop breathing right now. When you die I will clap my hands in joy, and in the middle of your funeral service I will sing and dance. And when you’re finally in the ground, I’ll visit you every night to piss on your grave.
He sent his thoughts to her in a steady, wicked stream. He liked to imagine they reached her somehow. That the hate he felt for her quietly broke her down, like a slow-working poison. He touched the army knife which hung on his belt, felt the warm metal in his hands. I will slice your eyeballs, he thought, and your eardrums. I’ll hoist you into a wheelbarrow and haul you to the woods so the foxes find you. And the badgers, and the cats.
He stood up and returned to the kitchen; he had something to take care of. Looked in the drawers and cupboards. After searching for a while, he found an old pizza box under the worktop, and a pair of scissors and a marker in a drawer. With these simple tools he shuffled back to his bedroom to make a sign.
Chapter 11
Erik and Ellinor went to the police station together, on behalf of their mother, Gunilla. Erik Mørk was the elder of the two, already grey at the temples; his fair-haired sister was a good deal younger. You could tell there was a bond between them, a connection that had grown tight during their lives. And now that this awful thing had happened, they appeared as one furious entity. They had brought the local newspaper with their mother’s obituary.
Sejer read it.
‘She’s seventy,’ Erik Mørk said. ‘She just turned seventy, and she’s always been quite healthy. Now she’s very upset. You’ve got to find out what the hell is going on, right now, because this is offensive, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
He had worked himself up quite a bit.
‘I do agree,’ Sejer said. He reread Gunilla Mørk’s obituary, then looked hard at the two siblings. ‘If you think about her friends and acquaintances, or the rest of the family, is there anyone you would suspect? Someone who feels slighted and wants to be noticed?’
Ellinor shook her head decisively. ‘We don’t know anyone like that,’ she said. ‘Nor will you find any among her neighbours. Only decent people.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘In Kirkeby,’ Erik Mørk said. ‘At Konvalveien. She’s a widow, and she’s been alone for many years. She’s never been the nervous type, but at this point she’s tied in knots. She doesn’t know what to make of it, this thing that’s happened to her. I mean, what do they want?’
‘The only way to reassure her is to find the person responsible,’ Ellinor Mørk added, ‘so we can get an explanation of why they did this to her. Because that’s what she doesn’t understand. We don’t either. She keeps to herself, and she doesn’t draw attention to herself. She goes to the shop every day, works in her garden. That type of thing.’
‘Have you contacted the newspaper?’ Sejer asked. ‘The obituary department?’
‘No,’ Erik Mørk said. ‘I assumed you would do that.’
Sejer began to trace the edges of something unpleasant. A carefully designed plan, a soundless form of terror.
‘I’ll talk to her,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to her today. First I’ll stop by the newspaper. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.’
Erik Mørk put his finger on the obitu
ary. ‘Have you ever heard of this happening before?’
‘No,’ Sejer said. ‘This is really a new and very serious kind of prank. I’ve never seen anything like it. What about the little poem?’ he asked. ‘Does it sound familiar?’
Ellinor Mørk rolled her eyes. ‘That poem is unbelievably ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Our mother has never been ill. This is insane. Our phone is ringing off the hook. People are so shocked when they read that she’s dead. When we tell them it’s just a prank, they’re even more confused. It’s what he wants. Assuming it’s a man. Do you think he wants us to be confused?’
‘What should we say to Mother?’ Erik asked. ‘Somehow we’ve got to calm her down.’
Sejer thought about it for a minute. ‘Tell her she was selected at random for a practical joke which has neither meaning nor purpose. Tell her it’s a game.’
‘So that’s what you believe it is? A game?’
‘Not necessarily. But that’s what you should tell your mother.’
He found Jacob Skarre.
He looked quizzically at his younger colleague. ‘If you saw your own obituary in the paper, how would you react?’
Skarre had already heard about the fake obituary. He opened his mouth to respond, but, because he needed to think it through, changed his mind and kept quiet. What would he have thought if he’d seen these words in the paper some morning while eating breakfast? Our dear Jacob Skarre passed from us today, thirty-nine years old. Or a variation, like this: Our dear Jacob Skarre was suddenly taken from us today. Or: Jacob Skarre died today, after a long illness.
‘I’d have reacted with horror, dread and bewilderment,’ he said. ‘I probably would have laughed hysterically for a while. Then I would have thought about everyone I know who also would’ve read the notice and thought it was true.’ He turned to the inspector. ‘I presume it’s the Wolverine that’s been on the prowl?’
