Fireraiser

by Torkil Damhaug

  He tested each step of the staircase up to the first floor. Checked to see if the same steps still made a noise. Two of the doors upstairs were ajar. He guessed that the journalist and his wife slept in the largest room, because that was where Tord and Gunnhild used to sleep. He stood at the top of the staircase. Closing his eyes, it was as though he could hear them again, talking in the room below. He knows that he’s not supposed to hear what they’re saying – We’ve got to tell him – but he goes on standing there, listening, the voices washing towards his ears like breaking waves. He’s still so little. Can’t we wait?

  It’s the evening when Tord has painted the floor in the hallway, and now there’s that smell of thinner again, almost as real as it was back then – We’ve got to tell him – and he knows without thinking about it that something is going to happen in this house. Something that once and for all will put an end to the smell of thinner and stop the voices below from ever bothering him again.

  He pushed one of the doors open a little wider. Heard the sounds of the two people sleeping in there, the journalist and his wife. And just at that moment it came back to him that he’d gone into Tord and Gunnhild’s bedroom after they’d gone to bed that night. With lighter fluid and matches. Stood beside their bed and looked at them. Didn’t do anything, because it was enough to know what he could’ve done.

  The room that used to be his was on the right. That was where he was headed. He turned the handle; it moved smoothly. As though the room has been waiting for me, it struck him as he slipped inside. It had a musty smell, stale sweat. He carried on over to the window, opened it slightly. Tord always used to march straight in here and throw it wide open, airing the place, changing the temperature, regulating. Regardless of the time of year, he was in charge of the air that was to be breathed.

  By the light of the street lamps that seeped into the room, he looked around. The room still had its pinewood walls, flat planking punctured by knots. At night he used to lie there and trace the patterns made by the dark markings, as if something was written there in a language he must learn to understand.

  The wardrobe was full of clothes: jackets and coats, a suit. He pushed them to one side and shone his torch on the inside short wall. A board was leant up there, at an angle. He crept in, shoving aside the shoes and boots, coaxed it off, shone his torch inside. It smelt like it always had, wood, cardboard, and glass wool that had powdered down from the gaps between the roof beams. This room was still secret, he decided. Neither the Pentecostal nor his wife nor anyone else who had lived there had found it. He shone the torch on to the beam where he used to carve things. The words were still there, ringed around by the burn marks. He had to struggle not to laugh out loud. Had to replace the board, back out of the hole, sit down on the sofa by the long wall, lean his head back and breathe in the night air streaming in through the window. Not a sound in the house, not a sound outside. He sat there and felt himself laughing soundlessly out into the dark, went on sitting there with his eyes closed until the bubbling feeling in his chest eased down.

  There was a computer on the desk up against the other wall. It hadn’t been turned off, just left in hibernation. He got up and opened it. The desktop was covered with folders. Some of them looked like they contained journalism; one of them was named ‘Furutunet’. He realised that the journalist had sat here at this desk and written about the fires, written about him. He found something he’d read in the local paper only that morning. Another document was new, created earlier that evening at about ten o’clock. A detective inspector had made a statement. They’d allocated considerable resources. They were working on certain leads. He sneered. Clicked on a link that was copied there; it opened an article on VG’s online edition: Killer fire claims second victim.

  The article had been posted late in the afternoon but he hadn’t had time to check the online editions since the meeting at Sæter’s.

  The 48-year-old employee rescued from the fire at Furutunet remand home in Nannestad last Wednesday night died of his injuries earlier this evening.

  He read the words over and over again. They had nothing, they understood nothing. He could see them, they couldn’t see him. Neither the detective inspector nor Sergeant Horvath with the corny moustache and the girlfriend getting laid by another man, and not the journalist sleeping in Tord’s old bed. Abruptly he jumped to his feet, crossed to the wall, pressed his ear against it. At first he heard nothing, then a grunt, then silence again.

  Once he’d calmed down, he sat in front of the computer again. In the bottom corner of the screen was a document entitled ‘Miscellaneous thoughts’. It contained a sort of journal, with dated entries. He checked its details: the document had last been changed at 22.50; that was less than three hours ago.

  Rakel asked: Is Uncle Scrooge God? Sara appalled: What are we teaching our children? I had to laugh, she took it so seriously. It was the same last time she was pregnant, she took everything so seriously. I try to get her to laugh more.

  God, how much I have to be grateful to you for. Most of all that I feel gratitude. Every day, every evening.

  Suddenly a noise behind him, out in the corridor, a door opening. The door to the other bedroom, the smallest one, that was never used when he lived here. It’s going to happen again. The thought flashed through him. I’m going to hurt somebody. He turned around. There was a child standing in the doorway. An infant. Hardly more than a year or two old. He held his clenched fist behind his back, forced it to stay there, forced it to keep still. Don’t scream now, he prayed, please don’t scream.

  – Dwink, said the child.

  By the light from the screen he could just make out the long blond hair, recalled the name Rakel on a sign on the door.

  – I’ll get you some water, he whispered. – Wait here.

  He tiptoed down the stairs, could’ve sneaked out, be gone. He listened. No adults awake. He could allow himself to do anything he liked in this house; they would never catch him. He found a glass on the draining board, turned on the tap, rinsed the glass and filled it half full. Took it out into the hallway again, saw the child still standing there, up at the head of the staircase. Slowly made his way up, listening, ready to turn, get out of there, but there was not a sound to suggest that he was about to be disturbed in the middle of his good deed.

  – There we are, Rakel, he whispered as he handed the glass to the child. He stayed where he was, listening to the sound as the little girl drank. It wasn’t the thought of this family that caused him to change his mind, not the thought of the pregnant wife and still less of the journalist who used his room as an office and sat there writing about his gratitude to God. None of this that caused the weight to slide back so that the people who had moved into this house would wake in the morning without knowing what had been about to happen. If there was an explanation for the postponement, then it was probably to be found somewhere in the frail sound coming from that little girl’s throat as she swallowed the water.

  – Now go back to bed, he whispered. – Go to sleep.

  He turned and went back down the stairs again, out into the hallway, filled with an agitation he had no idea how to quell. With a laugh too quiet to be heard by anyone else, he picked up the bag of rubbish, let himself out and threw it into the correct container outside the gate.

  He had to take a walk through the deserted streets of the town. Couldn’t get rid of that laughter. The night watch was dead. Had never regained consciousness. Or had he, and had he told them what he’d seen before he passed away? Hardly possible. But he wanted to know, even though he didn’t need to. It had become a game now. He’d seen their cards, knew what they were up to; he was keeping tabs on them and they hadn’t a clue.

  In the middle of the square he stopped. The moon had settled on the rooftop of the house where she lived, a sharp, curving edge that carved thin slices off the surrounding clouds. He sent a text. Any chance of a visit? Didn’t expect an answer, but within a minute the display glowed, and another minute aft
er that, he was standing in her hallway. She didn’t seem to be wearing make-up; she had on a vest but her lower half was naked. She smelt of sleep. He liked that.

  – I would’ve brought you some flowers, he sniggered. – But the shop was shut.

  She glanced at him in the mirror above the chest of drawers. – Are you on something?

  He laughed. – How about fresh air and love?

  She opened the kitchen door. – You want some coffee?

  He studied the way the muscles of her buttocks tensed when she stood on tiptoes to get the cups down from the cupboard.

  – Give me a couple of minutes. I’m not properly awake yet, she said, and drifted into the bathroom.

  There was a key cabinet beside the mirror. He found a bunch of car keys, and another one that looked like a spare set of house keys. He opened the front door and checked the lock, then stuck them in his jacket pocket. The thought that he could let himself in any time he felt like it turned him on even more.

  When she came out again, she was wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms.

  – That’s bad luck, she said. – I just got my period.

  Age-old excuse for not having sex. He stood up, grabbed his jacket, mostly to see how she would react.

  – Can’t you stay anyway?

  He shrugged his shoulders. – What about your policeman?

  – He’s not my policeman. Anyhow, he’s away.

  – Thought he was out catching pyromaniacs. Can’t just go away like that.

  – He’s been working round the clock for the last two weeks. They gave him this weekend off.

  He sat down at the kitchen table. – I see the bloke from Furutunet died.

  – Yeah, that’s right.

  He waited for more, but she yawned and was obviously thinking about something completely different.

  – Maybe it was him started the fire up there, he suggested.

  – And then knocked himself out and dragged himself into the basement?

  She shook her head, looked sort of exasperated.

  – Did they get anything out of him before he died?

  – How should I know?

  – I thought your sergeant told you everything.

  She gave a quick smile. – Anyone would think he was the one you came here to see.

  He laughed. She had no idea how right she was. He could’ve told her that he knew more about them than they would ever know about him. Horvath, her policeman’s name, was a Hungarian name. He lived on Rælingsveien, and his income before tax was about three hundred thousand. A couple of days ago he’d been standing outside her bathroom door, but then turned away with his tail between his legs.

  – So you think I’m more interested in what the police get up to than I am in you?

  – Are you interested in me?

  He pulled her down into his lap. It felt strange – couples did stuff like that – but she relaxed and leant up against him.

  He stroked her throat with a finger.

  – Did they get to question him? he repeated.

  – What do I get for telling you?

  He grinned into her ear. – Whatever you want.

  – Whatever I want? She rubbed her cheek against his. – I can tell you’re not very smart.

  – Well I’m not. But now you have to tell me.

  – He died without regaining consciousness. They didn’t get anything out of him.

  18

  Dan-Levi grabbed for the mobile on the bedside table, tried to turn off the alarm before it could wake Sara. She needed all the sleep she could get. He put his glasses on and glanced over at her; she was lying there with her eyes closed, but as he crept towards the door with his underwear and slippers in one hand she murmured:

  – Will you take care of Rakel? Can’t face getting up.

  He walked back to the bed, pressed his lips against her forehead.

  – Of course. You just sleep on.

  She grunted her thanks, and he sneaked a hand under the duvet and stroked her stomach. This time it was going to be a boy, she thought. It was up to God what it would be. Dan-Levi had always wanted a daughter, and he’d got one. It wasn’t good to think like that; it wasn’t up to him to prefer one to the other.

  He switched on the landing light, and at the same time saw Rakel. She was half sitting and half lying on the top step. Dan-Levi grabbed her up and held her tight. Her body was cold and lifeless, and it seemed to him that her lips were blue. He gave a great shout and ran into the bedroom with her. Sara sat up with a start.

  – She was lying out on the landing, he managed to say as he laid Rakel in the bed.

  At that moment their daughter opened her eyes and looked at them in surprise.

  – Thank God, shouted Dan-Levi. – Thank God on high.

  Sara switched on the light. – Have you gone out of your mind?

  He stroked Rakel’s hair. She smiled sleepily and cuddled up beside her mother.

  – I found her on the stairs. She must have got out of bed and sat down there.

  Sara felt the girl’s chest with her hand. – She’s cold.

  Dan-Levi leant over her. – What were you doing out on the landing?

  Rakel looked up at him with big wide-open eyes. Once before she’d managed to climb over the bars of her cot; they’d spoken about securing it in some way or other, but Dan-Levi hadn’t got round to it yet.

  – Dwink, she said.

  Now he jumped to his feet, as though this request finally told him that his daughter was all right.

  – You can have milk, as much as you want.

  He hurried out of the room. At the top of the staircase, where he’d found her, stood a glass with a little water left in it. He took it into the bedroom.

  – Did you get up and give Rakel a drink of water?

  Sara had slid back down into the bed; she peered out through the tiny gap between her eyelids.

  – Been lying here the whole night, far as I know.

  Again Dan-Levi bent over his daughter. – Did you get up and get yourself something to drink?

  Rakel had started to speak early; she often woke up in the night and was always thirsty. But that she should have made her way down to the kitchen and helped herself to a glass of water was pretty well unthinkable.

  – The man, she replied with a coy smile.

  – The man? What man?

  – The man bring water.

  – Leave her alone, Sara interrupted. – She’s tired, I’m tired and I’m feeling sick.

  – Water Man, Rakel insisted.

  Dan-Levi went downstairs, fetched a glass of milk. When he came up again, he exclaimed: – I don’t understand this at all. There was no chair by the sink. Can she have put it back again?

  – Water Man, Rakel repeated as she slurped milk from the glass.

  Sara managed a smile. – Can’t you hear what she’s saying? The drinks man with the water was here. You’re just going to have to make do with that, Dan.

  She fitted the duvet around Rakel and turned her back on Dan-Levi. He sat on the side of the bed and said his morning prayers. Ended by giving thanks for having such a lovely daughter. And such a lovely wife. He valued them more than anything else he could think of.

  It was mild out. It was the Friday before Palm Sunday, and the last of the snow hung like a dripping tongue over the eaves. Dan-Levi had planned to knock it down where it was thickest, but now it was disappearing by itself. He locked the door behind him, only now able to laugh at the way his daughter had wanted a dwink in the night and the Water Man had come to her rescue.

  As he was about to go down the steps, he remembered that he’d put the rubbish ready to go out in the hall. He’d been so tired the previous evening he’d fallen asleep on the sofa, too worn out to make the eight metres down to the front gate. He stuck his head inside, couldn’t find the bag, was about to call to Sara, but the thought of the two of them sleeping up there in the bed, Rakel curled up next to her living tummy, made him change his mind.


  Out on the steps once more he saw Karsten Clausen come ambling towards him across the frozen flagstones. His bicycle was leant up against the open gate.

  – Bit early in the year for a spin, isn’t it, he joked.

  Karsten shrugged his shoulders. – Imagine what the world would be like if everyone drove a car.

  Despite the jocular tone, Dan-Levi felt a twinge of conscience. He used his car too much. He only needed it for work occasionally.

  – You off to your cabin in the mountains for Easter? he wanted to know.

  – Mum and Dad are leaving this afternoon, Karsten replied. – Think I’ll stay at home. Haven’t made up my mind yet.

  – Chess club on Tuesday for those who can make it, Dan-Levi informed him. – I’ll give you a game, if you dare.

  Karsten had been a member of the chess club since he was nine. In the early days their games had been pretty much even, but it was years now since Dan-Levi had had even the faintest glimmer of a chance against him.

  – I probably won’t be able to make it. Got quite a bit on my mind at the moment.

  Dan-Levi had the feeling Karsten wanted to say more, and stood there, looking round and waiting. Next to the nearest flagstone was half a cigarette. He picked it up. Three matches of the kind you got at hotels were fastened to it with a rubber band. None of their recent visitors were smokers, so the cigarette must have been lying there a while. But on the other hand, it wasn’t frozen to the ground.

  – Is it you who’s been making matchstick men?

  He held the little figure up.

  – Is that some kind of toy? Karsten peered at it.

  – You should know. No one else could have dropped it here.

  Karsten shook his head. He looked troubled.

  – Don’t give me that, Dan-Levi persisted. – This is your footprint, isn’t it?