Don't Wake Me

by Martin Krüger

  Squealing tyres. The figure in the headlights, close, far too close. The driving rain that obscured her view, the drumming of the water on the windscreen.

  Water like blood flowing over the ground. Blood mingling with the rain and soaking the soil.

  Her own scream reverberating in her ears.

  Then the impact.

  ‘Mummy?’

  Jasmin gave a start.

  Paul was standing in front of her. ‘I’ve found the vacuum cleaner,’ he explained, looking at her with wide eyes. ‘It’s red and enormous.’

  ‘You’ve . . .’ It took her a few seconds to gather herself, to organise her thoughts. Breathe, she told herself. ‘Thanks, honey.’ She glanced over at the window again, at the tops of the birch trees swaying back and forth. ‘Do you want to have a look at the back garden with Bonnie? But don’t go any further than the trees at the bottom so I can see you, OK?’ She opened the door to the veranda, and Paul and Bonnie bounded through it.

  Her son’s gleeful laughter rang back to her as she watched him go. You have to be there for him. It’s the only thing that matters. Trying to recover your memories here, to remember everything you’ve forgotten – all that is important, no doubt, but it’s not the priority.

  The priority is to get back to your old self.

  That’s the only way you can be there for Paul in the way he deserves.

  And once you’ve managed it . . .

  No. She didn’t want to think about Jørgen now.

  She found the vacuum cleaner where she remembered leaving it, inside a storage cupboard next to the kitchen. A fat spider crawled out of the nozzle as she dragged it towards the hallway, but it still worked just fine. An hour later the ground floor looked presentable, and Jasmin went back and forth several times from the car to the house as she unloaded their bags and suitcases. Bonnie sat at the bottom of the stairs and watched her, while Paul had found a stick in the garden and was duelling with an invisible foe by the front door.

  She brought in her bag of documents last of all, before climbing the steep staircase and casting a glance into the bedroom. The curtain was slightly open, as if somebody had been standing there a few seconds ago and looking out of the window.

  It’ll be all right.

  It has to be.

  The tap in the bathroom produced a thick, gurgling flow of reddish-brown liquid. The pressure was good, but that was all. She left it running for a few minutes until the rust was flushed out of the pipes, leaving nothing but clear water that stubbornly refused to warm up.

  ‘Would you do me a favour and unpack your bag? Your things are in here.’ The room Paul would be sleeping in was south-facing, overlooking the garden, and lay directly opposite her own. ‘I’m going to pop down to the cellar to look at the heating.’

  And hopefully not at the spiders, she thought.

  The plank door to the cellar gave a squeak as she lifted the simple metal hook that kept it locked from the hallway. Jasmin groped for the light switch, but when she found it, the bulb momentarily flooded the room with light before going out again. The cellar stairs fell steeply away before her – and down at the bottom . . .

  For a moment, she felt certain she’d seen something looking up at her during that fraction of a second. Something scuttling over the floor on all fours. But not an animal.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ she whispered. In the kitchen, she found a box of matches and candles – always a good idea to keep that sort of thing on hand out here, she heard Jørgen’s voice echo through her mind – and a sharp knife.

  The staircase creaked as she descended. It sounded like the rattle of a dying man. Houses this close to the water shouldn’t have a cellar, one of the neighbours had told her – but nobody cared about that on the island.

  In this place, you just have to get by. Nature doesn’t care about you. It merely exists.

  There were shovels, spades, a pickaxe, all leaning against the wall. A green gun cabinet gave a rusty squeak when Jasmin put her hand on the door. Inside it lay an old hunting gun – a pump-action shotgun. Her heart was pounding. The hot water tank loomed out of the darkness like an oversized magician’s top hat – a magician who had been playing some very odd tricks down here.

  Beside it, she found the boiler. The large switch controlling the power supply to the gas burner was turned off.

  Of course it is. Jørgen always remembered things like that. Or was it the caretaker?

  Jasmin flicked it to the ‘On’ position and the burner rumbled back to life. So much for that. On a shelf covered in cobwebs, she found a handful of fuses for the box in the hall, as well as a torch with no batteries.

  She would have to head into the village first thing in the morning to pick up the other supplies. That was no bad thing, since it would bring her among other people. Exactly what you need.

  Right?

  Right?

  Jasmin swung her candle around. A draught caused the flame to flicker. She had never liked this dank, mouldy old cellar. In the corner she saw a rowing boat propped upright against the wall, its red hull gleaming in the candlelight like fresh blood. Somewhere in the darkness, she could hear the rustle and crackle of leaves that must have been blown in by the wind.

  The door in the far corner was slightly ajar.

  That never happened.

  That door had always been kept locked – she’d insisted on it.

  Jasmin felt her pulse quicken and a shiver ran up her back, as if the temperature had suddenly dropped by several degrees.

  She took a few steps backwards.

  Through the gap in the door, she saw an eye peering in. Silver-edged, with a pupil that held a red gleam.

  She blinked: it was gone.

  Jasmin whirled around and sprinted up the stairs. She slammed the wooden door shut behind her and threaded the metal hook through the catch, before dragging a cabinet from its usual spot against the wall and pushing it in front of the door. The shoes stored inside it clunked around noisily.

  Her hands were trembling.

  There wasn’t anything down there. It was just your imagination mixing things up, after everything you’ve been through.

  ‘I’ve found it,’ said Paul behind her. Jasmin gave a low cry and spun around to face him. ‘Upstairs . . . there’s a broken window,’ he explained with a somewhat guilty expression.

  Jasmin blinked. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘It’s a fox.’ Paul pouted. ‘Well, actually Bonnie found it, not me.’

  The animal was lying inside a wardrobe at the end of the upstairs corridor. The floorboards here were creaky and the outline of the watermark left by a leak in the roof some time ago was still visible on the wallpaper. Jørgen had fixed the roof, Jasmin recalled, and had almost fallen off at one point, but he’d laughed it away. He always faced every difficulty with a smile and a shrug. For a moment, she found herself yearning for him – wishing he was here to take her in his arms.

  Then she suppressed the thought.

  You need to do this alone.

  He doesn’t believe you.

  Nobody does.

  But can you blame them?

  The fox couldn’t have been dead for very long – perhaps a day or two. The smell emanating from it was unpleasant, but nowhere near as strong as when she’d first entered the house. The stench was gone from the rest of the rooms, the wind having driven the stale air out through the open windows. Jasmin fetched her work gloves from the storage room and carried the corpse outdoors.

  The tall grass in the back garden brushed against her legs and whispered quietly in the breeze. ‘We have to bury him,’ said Paul, who had followed her outside. Bonnie was lying on the veranda watching them; her dark, floppy ears pivoted attentively in their direction so she could keep track of what her humans were up to.

  Bury him.

  Jasmin glanced at Paul. He’d brought a small shovel with him and was yawning with all the weariness of a five-year-old after a tiring day like today. She stroked the top of his head.
‘Let me do it,’ she replied. ‘Later on.’

  ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘Of course. Scout’s honour.’

  Paul reached into the pocket of his blue raincoat and showed her a small figure of an animal made of folded paper. It looked like a fox. Ever since her sister had taught him about origami, Paul had been quite a fan of it; his guidebook and the heavy paper that folded so well were the first things Jasmin had packed. ‘I made this. For him. I think we should give it to him as a present.’

  ‘Is that from your book? I didn’t know . . .’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Paul shook his head. ‘I made it up myself.’

  ‘It’s very beautiful, honey.’

  ‘So he isn’t so alone, you know? I don’t think he should be alone.’

  ‘No,’ she replied quietly, swallowing to clear the lump in her throat. ‘He shouldn’t.’

  Jasmin spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the house, clearing the cobwebs from the corners, dusting the curtains and the furniture, making the beds and lighting a fire in the stove.

  She and Paul had a light dinner while Bonnie ate her favourite dry food from her bowl. Then Paul tested out the television in the living room to see if it still worked.

  As it turned out, it did. With her little boy snuggled up beside her, Jasmin was able to relax somewhat for the first time since leaving home. They watched a quiz show, and the quiet hum of the washing machine at the other end of the hall made her drowsy. After an hour, Paul began muttering softly in his sleep, and she carried him gently upstairs and tucked him into bed.

  ‘Sleep well, champ.’

  ‘Will you read me something?’ He blinked up at her through his half-closed eyes and Jasmin couldn’t help but smile. The box of books she’d brought with her was still out in the corridor. ‘You can barely keep your eyes open as it is. Just go to sleep.’

  ‘Night, Mummy.’

  ‘Good night, little bear.’

  Jasmin left the corridor light on and went back downstairs, where she peered through the windows and turned the key again in the front door. The bolt gave a convincingly metallic clunk, which reassured her a little.

  Was that the staircase she could hear creaking? Was there something coming up from the cellar? Pushing at the door, rattling it against the cabinet? She blinked and rubbed her eyes. Clearly she was overtired.

  Jasmin’s thoughts turned to what had happened down there. She’d never forgotten it – had never been able to forget. The man who’d presented the property to them had given them a tour, showing them the garden, the path down to the beach, the whole house from the cellar up to the attic – and then, while they were sitting together over a cup of good, freshly brewed coffee, he’d told them the story. ‘I can’t sell it to you,’ he began, ‘without mentioning it, as it wouldn’t be right otherwise.’

  Jasmin had glanced across at Jørgen, who’d responded with a smile, as if to say: here come the ghost stories, but whatever he tells us, the two of us have already fallen deeply in love with this little old house. Yet what the man said next wiped the smiles from both their faces.

  ‘Somebody died here. It was suicide, downstairs, in the back room of the cellar – that was where they found him hanging from one of the beams running along the ceiling, his face all—’

  Jasmin had rushed out of the room, her hand pressed to her stomach, which was clenched tight beneath her cardigan. ‘We don’t have to buy it,’ Jørgen had said as they drove off afterwards. Jasmin had looked over her shoulder. The old captain’s house had gleamed in the light of the setting sun.

  Come back, it seemed to be calling to her.

  Now you’ve stepped over my threshold, I’ll never let you go.

  Somebody died there, she’d thought. But that’s all. You’ve never been superstitious or sensitive to vibrations, like your mother. The house is gorgeous and so close to the water – it’d take us a long time to find anything better.

  And so she’d pushed all doubts aside.

  All the same, she had never set foot in the back room of the cellar again.

  Chapter 3

  The night was clear and the stars glittered like ice crystals woven into a soft blanket of blue-black velvet as Jasmin dug a grave for the fox in the back garden. The wind whispered through the dry leaves of the poplars and birches as if it were trying to tell a long-forgotten story. She worked first with her spade, then the shovel, digging a good two feet into the earth. Carefully, she lowered the fox into the hole and placed Paul’s origami figure beside it.

  So he isn’t so alone.

  The things Paul comes up with.

  In the nearby forest, a branch cracked. Like a heavy boot treading on it, she thought. Jasmin’s eyes scanned the darkness anxiously, but she couldn’t see anything beyond the inky, formless void that the world had vanished into tonight. A bush waved in the wind, its branches like the outstretched arms of a stranger.

  Jasmin threw the spade and shovel over her shoulder and went back to the house, leaving small clumps of soil behind her on the steps.

  Clear evidence, she thought. Guilty as charged, Ms Hansen, with the sentence to follow.

  Her shoulders and arms protested painfully, but it had been good, honest work, as her mother always used to say, and it seemed right to her not to simply throw the cadaver into the forest. Quite apart from the fact that Bonnie might have found it again and – God forbid – dragged it into the house, which would have left Paul deeply disappointed in Jasmin.

  And that was the last thing she wanted.

  Jasmin looked at herself in the mirror of the small, eggshell-coloured bathroom. You’re tired. And you’re still a long way from your usual self.

  The accident.

  It’s in every muscle, every bone in your body, burned deep into your soul.

  And nobody believes you.

  That was the worst part of it. Jasmin undressed. The pale scar left by her stitches stood out against her skin. It had only been a few months ago but the scar already looked much, much older. The impact had driven part of the dashboard into her side – it had been close, very close.

  But you’re alive.

  You’re alive – while that man . . .

  She suppressed the thought, pushing it aside like an ugly, heavy box that blocked her path, and got into the shower. The water was hot and the pressure strong, a blessing after her tiring day. She closed her eyes and listened to the quiet patter of the water and the gurgle of the plughole, which mingled with the soft rustling of the wind outside. A shutter clattered noisily against the side of the house as the spray massaged her tense shoulders.

  The light had taken on a blood-red colour, as if to reflect how she felt. It was as though her left side was filled with hot coals – a pain that radiated up to her temples and down to her calves. They had told her afterwards she’d kept shouting for her husband and son every time she woke up, panicking, terrified – and that hadn’t been the only thing she’d yelled either. ‘Out of the way, get out of the way!’ she’d cried, as if trying to warn somebody.

  The man she saw leaning over her when she woke up, his familiar face emerging from the blurred, foggy darkness of her unconsciousness, was not Jørgen. She was looking not at her husband, but at the Nordic blue eyes of Sven Birkeland; at the cool, appraising gaze of the specialist registrar at the Oslo University Hospital, Ullevål – the man at whose side she normally stood every day in the operating theatre.

  Jasmin opened her mouth and felt the dried-out skin on the corners of her lips crack painfully. She was thirsty; her throat was parched, as if she’d just walked through a desert. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Easy, Jasmin. Take it easy.’ He touched her hand and looked at her half-affectionately, half-worriedly. His concern alarmed her more than the pain – but not as much as the blank space in her memory. And this dull ache, where did it come from?

  ‘What happened?’ Jasmin cleared her throat, sending a new wave of pain coursing through her body. Somebody must have sawn
your head open and jabbed shards of glass behind your forehead – there’s no other way to explain this agony. ‘It – it hurts so much.’

  Sven glanced to one side and Jasmin noticed the drip attached to her arm. The rest of her body was hidden under a white blanket. She could smell the astringent odour of disinfectant. It felt as familiar to her as Jørgen’s touch.

  You’re in Ullevål. But you’re not at work. You . . .

  ‘Jasmin, you’ve had an accident. We’re looking after you. Everything is OK, you’ll be back on your feet soon enough.’

  Jasmin grasped at his fingers. ‘Tell me the truth!’

  ‘It was a car accident. You hit an animal.’

  ‘What? An animal?’ This doesn’t make sense, an inner voice told her. Something doesn’t add up here . . .

  ‘That’s right, sweetheart. A deer, and a pretty big one at that. You’re hurt, but it’s nothing we can’t fix. You know what we always tell our patients . . .’ He smiled, and the gesture consoled her somewhat.

  ‘We do this all the time,’ she said, finishing his sentence.

  ‘Look at it this way: now you get to experience all the advantages of this hospital from a different point of view. Isn’t that great?’

  Jasmin awkwardly lifted her hand and pointed at the drip and the morphine pump below it. ‘Give me more. Everything hurts.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘What about Paul? And Jørgen?’

  ‘They’re fine.’ Sven hesitated, though it was such a brief, barely perceptible pause that Jasmin didn’t quite register it in her hazy state of mind. ‘They’ve been waiting outside the whole time. But I think you should try and get some more sleep now, don’t you?’

  Jasmin closed her eyes. Even this short conversation had cost her an unbelievable effort. She felt an irresistible urge to drift off to sleep, the pain that radiated from her side gradually dwindling into a dull, insignificant background buzz with each passing second.

  ‘That sounds good. Tell Jørgen I’ll . . . I’ll be back on my feet soon.’

  ‘That’s right, Jasmin. You definitely will be.’