The Girl With No Heart

by Marit Reiersgaard

  Marit Reiersgaard

  THE GIRL WITH NO HEART

  Translated from the Norwegian by Paul Norlen

  Gnp

  Gyldendal Norwegian Press

  Oslo

  First published in Norway as Jenta uten hjerte in 2014 by

  Gyldendal Norsk Forlag AS

  Copyright © 2019 by Gyldendal Norsk Forlag AS

  Translation copyright ©2019 by Paul Norlen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Gyldendal Norwegian Press is an imprint of

  Gyldendal Norsk Forlag AS,

  Sehesteds gate 4, N-0130 Oslo

  The greatest virtues are only brilliant sins.

  St. Augustine (354–430 A.D.)

  To my Dad

  The door opens. The sounds from the party are no longer a distant bass pounding from speakers; the music and the buzz of voices pour into the room. There are waves of laughter while they squeeze the truth over my head. The truth that I don’t fit in. That I’m not wanted.

  A pillow over my face. Soft. Dark. And then something cold against my stomach.

  What are you doing? No! Don’t do that!

  I am naked. They are taking my skin. They are taking everything that’s me. I disappear. And this constant laughter: haha, haha.

  I thought it would be nice. That this was the moment when everything would turn around. And it does turn. It turns. It turns. I thought Fredrik had locked the door. He said he locked it! He’s part of this. He’s involved. He snaps his fingers, and I’m out.

  I’m here by mistake. I don’t mean a thing. Might as well put a new sign on the front door: Nobody lives here.

  I have nobody, I am nobody.

  Nobody.

  I’m dead.

  Wednesday, November 26

  1

  The world had gotten dirty in the course of the day. On the roads there was a slushy, blackish-brown blanket of snow mixed with salt, and the snowplows had thrown the same slop far beyond what had once been a white shoulder. Now the sudden drop in temperature had frozen everything solid.

  Only a few sleepy people were on board the bus. The driver barely glanced up as Agnar placed a 100-kroner bill on the little tray where other people swiped their bus passes.

  How long had it been since he’d been on the bus, winding his way through the snow-covered apple orchards of Lier? It must be at least twenty years. He couldn’t recall; he could usually afford a taxi. The route had changed too, and he forgot to change buses in Lierbyen, so he was taken on an endlessly long detour, up along the west side of the valley, all the way to Sylling, before the bus finally set a course down the east side toward Tranby. The road was so narrow in places that there was barely room for two big vehicles. The bus slowed down, almost stopping as a trailer passed.

  I should’ve taken a sip, Agnar thought, taking the bottle out of his pocket. No. No. It’s supposed to be a present. Put it away nicely. Away nicely. There now, yes.

  He had spent over 200 kroner at the state liquor store for a bottle for his mother. As the bus passed the nursing home, in some mysterious way it was back in his hands. Just a quick one. It couldn’t hurt to take a little sip. He unscrewed the cork and put the bottle to his mouth, quickly, so the bus driver wouldn’t notice.

  He sat there with his hand outside his jacket pocket to be sure the bottle stayed there. A pleasant heat burned in his chest.

  «Well, well, if you Absolut-ly want out, then.»

  Agnar smiled at his own witticism and put the bottle to his mouth.

  The bus windows were covered with a filthy pattern that reminded him of the cracked gray linoleum flooring from the sixties in the kitchen at his mother’s house. Through the grime he saw scattered single-family houses with firewood stacked along the walls. A narrow ski trail across a field. He registered everything that passed by with sleepy inattention. Houses, fields, trees, forest, mailboxes, fence, houses, fields, trees. Then he let his eyes rest on the grimy pattern on the window and only vaguely perceived the outlines of the landscape behind it. Sleep threatened to take over, but he did not want to close his eyes. If he closed his eyes, she would show up.

  If he concentrated on staring at the dirty window, perhaps he could repress her a while longer. But it was still no use. It was as if the dirt on the window changed, and suddenly she was there, the same way that he could see animals and trolls in the clouds on a summer day. She stared back at him and twisted her lips, showed her decayed teeth. Welcome home, she said.

  Agnar focused on the landscape again and tried to figure out where he was. His heart sank when he realized they were approaching the sharp turn at the ravine. He had memories from a similar place. Memories that could not be erased, that would always lie there like an abyss inside him, deep and deadly. The creek that flowed down there at the bottom was frozen over and covered with snow, but he knew that the water still dripped and ran under the ice. It never stopped.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Like torture.

  Thursday, November 27

  2

  The phone on the nightstand was vibrating. Chief Inspector Verner Jacobsen swatted the cell phone as if it was an insect, quickly and precisely so as not to bother Ingrid. He squinted toward the display as he quietly slipped out of bed. The freshly ironed white shirt that was on a hanger on the row of hooks behind the door fell to the floor as he passed.

  «Hello,» he said hoarsely, as he fumbled to hang the shirt up again. In the semidarkness his hand grazed the dark suit that was also hanging, ironed and ready, and it felt like the room was closing in around him. He staggered into the hall, trying to hear what the voice on the other end wanted from him in the middle of the night.

  «Did I wake you?»

  Verner grunted in response, but Superintendent Thomas Lindstrand ignored him.

  «Can you go to Tranby? We have a suspicious death. A teenage girl. Found in a forested area.»

  Verner Jacobsen was wide awake in a flash. No more children, he thought. I can’t take any more dead children. And suddenly he felt a surge of anger. Didn’t Thomas Lindstrand know what he was going through?

  «Thomas, I...» he started, but the anger subsided as quickly as it had appeared.

  «I’ll go,» he continued, when he understood that it would be better to have something to engage with than to lie in bed sleepless and wait for morning.

  «Good,» Lindstrand said. «And can you get hold of Bitte Røed? She needs the experience. Besides, Roar is already on his way there. It might be useful for her to meet him.»

  Verner hung up. Lorca stuck his muzzle out of the kennel and looked expectantly at him.

  «Not now, Lorca,» he whispered. «We’ll go for a walk when I get back.»

  Verner Jacobsen called Bitte Røed from inside the bathroom. He suggested picking her up at home, since she had recently moved to Tranby. While he was talking, he poked around in the top drawer under the sink until he found a rubber band. He ended the call and gathered his hair into a ponytail while he avoided meeting his tired face in the mirror. Then he sneaked back into the bedroom, opened the wardrobe and took a pair of socks from the drawer, grabbed a sweater at random and the long underwear that Ingrid insisted he needed for cold w
alks with the dog. Ingrid turned over and let out a sleepy sigh.

  For a moment he stood there, looking at the clothes hanging behind the door: the white shirt like a pale ghost and the suit that merged with the darkness.

  3

  Agnar could not quite remember how he got to the house. He had gotten off the bus. It was dark in his head, dark all around him. He put one leg in front of the other, had a vague recollection that he stumbled and fell on his face in a snowbank. He had fought with some branches... or had he? His hands had small scratches and pricks like after an unkind encounter with sharp branches and spruce twigs. But he had remembered the way. Now he was here. Just should have had more to drink. He needed a quick one and patted himself on the chest, but the bottle he’d had in his pocket was gone. He supported himself against the railing and leaned his whole body against the door.

  «Open up your heart, and let the sunshine in...»

  The door was unlocked and glided open.

  «Phew!»

  He had imagined that in the worst case he might have to break into the house if she didn’t answer. Relieved, he closed the door behind him and turned the lock out of old habit. He sneaked in, but stumbled over his mother’s slippers, which were in the middle of the hall, and lurched toward the wall. A picture fell to the floor and shattered.

  «Shhhhh!»

  He put a finger to his lips and smiled at a young, much nicer-looking version of himself behind the shattered glass.

  «Are you there, kid...?»

  The smile turned into a grimace. He got down on his knees and started picking up the shards of glass. He cut himself on his index finger and thumb, but felt no pain. He sat there and watched, almost fascinated, as the blood ran down his fingers. A sound, someone panting, made him look up.

  «Lilly! Well now, here’s Lilly girl...»

  The dog stood in the doorway. Her nose quivered, her tail was hanging. She growled quietly.

  «Come on now, pooch, don’t you remember your boy, Agnar? I know you were a little puppy last time, but damn it, come on now!»

  He used his sweetest voice to lure the dog to him.

  «Lilly pup, come, come, come.»

  The dog approached, her back arched. He took hold of her around the neck when she was close enough and pulled her next to him.

  «See now, Lilly, I’m not dangerous. Don’t be scared. I’ve never done anything to you.»

  That triggered something in him. Something deep inside. The dog was sitting quietly now, whining, but let him pet her.

  «Hush! Don’t wake Mama. Do you know if there’s anything to drink? I just need a quick one. They refused me more over at that restaurant. Refused! On my great day of freedom. And no one was standing in the door either, with bottle ready and the cork out.»

  He was crying. The dog licked him on the face. He got up. Damned if he was going to sit here blubbering like some brat. Maybe Mama had a bottle of homemade currant wine in the cellar? He swayed as he stood on the threshold and supported himself on the handrail as he made his way down the steps. Even so he slipped halfway down and slid the rest of the way on his back. He moaned, struggled to get up, and crawled the last bit into the storeroom. He smiled when he caught sight of the old freezer with a padlock.

  «No one is stealing your groceries, Mama.»

  He inched further and fumbled up to the shelves on the back wall.

  «But you’re not so careful about the bottles anymore. Hell and damnation. Cognac!»

  He unscrewed the cork and put the bottle to his mouth. Oh, holy night! His throat burned. He got on his feet and swayed up the steps again. Lilly was nowhere to be seen. The door to his mother’s bedroom was closed. Thank God she was a sound sleeper. He considered going into the kitchen to have a bite to eat, but dropped the thought. Now that he had cognac, he didn’t need anything else. He sat down in the living room. Should have had a smoke. He searched in his pockets and found a butt, hummed quietly while he lit it.

  «Ohhhh, holy night, the stars are brightly shining...»

  He got four puffs out of the half-smoked cigarette before the ember reached the filter.

  «... oh hear the angel voices.»

  Agnar stood up. The walls were spinning. Just one more quick one before bed, Agnar thought, trying to remember where he had put the bottle.

  «But there you are! Standing alone on the coffee table and not saying anything.»

  Agnar took the bottle, went on tiptoe past his mother’s bedroom, but stopped for a moment and whispered into the keyhole.

  «Thanks for the drink, Mama.»

  Then he went upstairs to the second floor. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and as the contents of the bottle disappeared, the darkness closed around him.

  4

  Two shelters and a sign that said «Taxi» revealed that the place where Verner Jacobsen turned was a bus stop and not a major turnaround. Tall pine trees towered in the median. With no birch trees in sight, the place did not quite live up to the name Bjørkesvingen. Verner Jacobsen let the car idle while he waited for Bitte Røed. The low townhouses from the seventies stood in a row, like gray barracks, and with the Siberian cold that had held Eastern Norway in an iron grip the past twenty-four hours, he was reminded of the darkest days of the Soviet Union. In front of one of the apartments someone had tried to liven up the landscape by wrapping a blinking set of red, green,,and blue Christmas lights around an overgrown arborvitae. Just then the car door was pulled open.

  «My God, it’s so cold!»

  Bitte Røed threw herself onto the seat, patting her arms.

  «How do we get there?» Verner Jacobsen asked, slowly driving toward the main road.

  «To the right here, and then left at the next intersection. I don’t know my way around here too well yet, but there should be a road through the forest preserve right after the intersection.»

  The car spun on the ice-covered asphalt as it turned out from the bus stop.

  «Are you okay?» Bitte Røed asked.

  Verner felt his face tighten. He was unable to respond.

  «Do you want me to come to the funeral?»

  Did he want that? Of course he would like her to be there.

  «No, it’s fine,» he said curtly.

  The silence settled between them. He pretended to be occupied with finding the turnoff.

  «There it is,» Bitte Røed said, pointing. «You’ll probably need to give it some gas, it’s pretty steep to start with.»

  The road was narrow and went through dense forest. The darkness crept up to the car from both sides. They passed a small farm with a dilapidated barn, and a little later two houses close to each other with a shared playhouse in the yard. A small house with fiber-cement siding and a fenced-in dog run stood by itself a little further in. A simple lightbulb hung on a metal arm over the entryway. Otherwise the area was completely wooded.

  «Remind me to mention in the crime-scene report that there aren’t any lights or visible activity in any of the nearby houses,» Verner said.

  «It’s probably a bit on the early side for most people,» Bitte Røed said with a yawn, noting the time: 05:38.

  «It’s important that we see the scene while it’s still warm,» Verner mumbled, as he parked the car next to the snowbank.

  «How warm can it be? Do you know that the thermometer at home showed minus 18?»

  Bitte Røed shivered.

  «It’s a teenager,» Verner said as they approached the first barricade tape. At a distance they could see the beams of a couple of flashlights fluttering in the darkness, in what was probably the center of the crime scene.

  «A girl,» he continued. «Thomas Lindstrand says there is reason to believe we’re looking at a suspicious death.»

  Normally his body was filled with adrenaline at such news. But not this time. The restlessness that sparked around the questions that first came to him—was it an accident, suicide, or murder?—was replaced by a kind of sadness. The dark suit behind the door in the bedroom had put him i
n a trance-like state where emotions were put on the back burner.

  Two crime scene investigators dressed in white were already busy at the scene. They resembled ghosts hovering in the landscape. A camera lit up the area in quick flashes and a laser sensor cut a blue streak through the night. Two uniformed constables were standing by the barricade. Verner Jacobsen and Bitte Røed were entered in the log and each given a paper coverall and plastic socks to put over their boots. They walked along the path to avoid destroying any evidence. Verner Jacobsen felt like a space traveler, as if he was moving in a space drained of air. He could not see if it was snowing, but felt an uncomfortable pricking on his face.

  «Darn it!» Bitte Røed exclaimed, following in his tracks behind him.

  Verner turned around and aimed the flashlight at her.

  «Something on the path?»

  Bitte raised one leg and shook it. Verner immediately thought of Lorca, who would raise his back leg to make yellow holes in the snow.

  «I put on my low boots. And forgot my leggings. I’m going to freeze to death.»

  Verner didn’t say anything, but assumed that his face had tightened, because her mouth suddenly shut again.

  5

  Thursday, November 27. Night

  Evil diary

  Yes. That’s what I’ll call you now.

  And no one will ever find out what happened tonight. It can’t be rewritten, but it’s as if I have to write it out of me. Words are pain relievers. Words are drugs. You, diary, are the only one I have now. The only one I can talk to, about what can’t be talked about. What can’t be whispered about, can’t be thought about. I’m so scared. More scared than I thought was possible. Never would have thought that I would... And Fredrik... I really believed... I didn’t think you could... No, stop! Don’t write any more. Not a word.

  And if you see this, if you’re reading this right now! If you’ve read this far... then it’s time to put this book down, otherwise...