Don't Wake Me

by Martin Krüger

  At last, she reached the attic and climbed in. It was dark and the boxes stacked under the eaves cast shadows in the blue light from her mobile phone display. It felt like the lair of a large animal. Maybe a monstrous spider.

  ‘Paul?’ Jasmin suddenly realised how nervous she sounded. Oh Jesus, what are you doing up here? Why would he want to come up here when it’s so dark?

  Something rustled at her feet under the shadow cast by two large boxes. Jasmin leapt to one side as a rat scurried past and disappeared through a vent at the other end of the attic.

  Behind her, an object fell to the floor with a quiet rattle and rolled towards her across the wooden floorboards.

  Jasmin stared down at it, holding her breath. The object gave a red gleam in the light from her mobile phone – it was a Christmas tree bauble.

  ‘What on earth—?’

  ‘Boo!’ The lid of the box beside her fell to the floor and Paul leapt out. Jasmin took a step backwards and gave a low cry. Yet when she realised what Paul was wearing on his head, she couldn’t help but laugh.

  It was a red-and-white striped Santa hat.

  ‘You cheeky little . . .’

  He jumped out of the box and dashed past her. Jasmin lunged for his arm, but she couldn’t quite catch him. He quickly disappeared down the ladder.

  ‘We’ll talk about this later, young man!’ she called after him. ‘You can count on it!’

  Jasmin raised her phone a little higher and looked for the light switch. There! A small light bulb illuminated the room, revealing the neatly stacked secrets hidden in the shadows: the boxes filled with old holiday decorations, the Christmas tree ornaments, the wreaths. She and Jørgen had once spent the festive season on Minsøy. It felt like an eternity ago.

  ‘And I expect we’ll never come back here again,’ she said to herself softly. For a moment, she thought she saw a gift wrapped in colourful paper that had been left up here on top of a dusty box, but it was just torn-up fragments of wrapping paper.

  Torn up. Seems apt.

  In the far corner, she saw a tall object covered by a grey cloth. It was rectangular, about the height of a man. Was that there the last time I came up here?

  No, definitely not. What is it? Maybe a big mirror?

  Jasmin threw the cover aside to reveal an oil painting. Under the wan, yellow glow of the light bulb, she saw a large burning building that looked like a manor house. Thick clouds of smoke were rising above it and orange flames were shooting from the windows. A crowd of people had gathered in front of the main entrance and were waving their arms at the conflagration, but none of them seemed to be trying to do anything about it.

  She instantly recognised the signature: Yrsen, it said. Like on the painting in the Sandviks’ grocery shop, she thought. Gabriela Yrsen – the artist you met yesterday.

  Her mind went to the torn-out sketchbook page with the message encouraging her to come and visit, if she felt like it.

  That’ll never happen.

  All the same, what was this picture doing up here?

  As if fated to do so, Jasmin lifted the heavy painting from the wooden stand it was resting on and turned it over. There was a slim booklet tucked into the back of the frame.

  Jasmin pulled it out, opened it and began to read. Yrsen’s handwriting was clear and precise, but the more she wrote – the text filled five of the small pages – the shakier and more hesitant her hand became. The paper was covered with stains; Yrsen might have been crying as she wrote it.

  They come.

  Time and again, they ask for my help.

  They come and demand things I can’t deliver. It’s like a wildfire burning out of control, and I can’t stop it.

  They say I can help them, but isn’t what I’m trying to do against nature?

  I talk to them. I let them give me their hands. And occasionally, nothing happens. They’re disappointed then; some of them swear at me and call me a liar before they leave.

  But that’s rare. Usually it works.

  I can’t explain how, but there’s something there. Second sight? Visions that run through my mind like fragments of memory, at night, when I’m struggling to sleep. When my easel and paints are the only things that stop me from losing my mind.

  Second sight. Yes, that’s what they call it.

  And they ask questions.

  Questions I can’t answer.

  But I can create images for them. Thoughts set down in oil on canvas for all eternity. I can do that.

  And they understand. By God, they seem to really understand what I create, even though I often don’t understand it myself.

  Because these are their pictures, not mine. They’re meant only for others, not for myself.

  It isn’t a gift. It’s a curse.

  If that’s what it is – if that’s how I have to spend my life

  The words broke off at this point. Jasmin flicked on to the end of the booklet, but aside from a large ink blot there was nothing else to be seen.

  ‘Second sight,’ she said to herself quietly. ‘Yrsen had clients who asked her for answers as if she were a – a clairvoyant. Except she gave them her answers in her paintings . . .’ Jasmin gently ran her index finger down the old, worn leather binding of the small book. ‘Is that possible? And if it is, can she still do it?’

  She looked at the painting again. The fire, the onlookers. Was this also a work Yrsen had created for one of her visitors? Was this painting meant to reveal something to someone? A truth, from the past or the future, meant only for them?

  Memories.

  A way to break through, to reveal her secret.

  Come and see me, if you dare.

  Come and see me, once you’ve found your courage again.

  Jasmin knew what she would do next.

  Chapter 10

  ‘OK, Paul,’ she called as she climbed down the ladder and shut the hatch. ‘You and I are going to talk now. Frightening me like that . . .’

  Paul had retreated to his bed with his games console. He didn’t look up when she sat down beside him.

  ‘Paul?’

  ‘You don’t want him to come here. It’s true, isn’t it? You don’t want Daddy to live here.’

  For a moment, Jasmin was speechless. ‘What? What makes you say that?’

  ‘You only ever think of yourself!’

  ‘Paul—’ She didn’t get any further, as the sound of the doorbell interrupted her.

  Paul had tears in his eyes.

  ‘You know that isn’t true,’ she replied gently. ‘If you’d rather he was here, I’ll tell him to come.’

  Paul wiped his cheek and nodded. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you up there, Mummy. I just saw the hatch and . . .’

  ‘You wanted to try it out.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he answered, drawing the word out defiantly. ‘And?’

  ‘Less of that attitude. You knew perfectly well you weren’t allowed in the attic. You don’t know how rotten the floorboards are up there. Nobody does. You could have fallen through, and God only knows what might have happened.’ Jasmin held out her hand. ‘Give me that thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No computer games for a day.’

  ‘Because of the stupid attic? That’s so unfair!’ Paul shoved the Nintendo into her hand and stormed off.

  ‘Oh, man,’ said Jasmin quietly. ‘I only wanted to—’ Then the bell rang again and she went down to the front door, her anxiety and unease suddenly returning. She opened the door, but left the security chain done up.

  Better safe than sorry, she thought. ‘This island is a stony garden,’ Karl Sandvik had said, ‘and only the strongest can make it grow.’

  ‘Ms Hansen?’ The man peering at her through the gap in the door was wearing a checked blazer under an unbuttoned Barbour jacket, a pair of jeans and dark-green wellington boots. He had silver-grey hair that was dishevelled from the breeze outside, and his eyes were equally grey and bright. Jasmin guessed he was in his early fifties.

  ‘Yes?�
��

  ‘Am I in the right place?’ He ran his hand through his wet hair, making it stand up even more wildly from his head, and looked a little uncertain – no, not uncertain, she corrected herself instantly, but a little distracted.

  ‘What do you mean by the right place?’ she replied.

  ‘I mean, at Jasmin Hansen’s house. The caretaker told me you were living out here—’

  ‘I’m Jasmin Hansen,’ she cut him off. ‘But I can’t help but wonder,’ she added in a brief moment of pluck, ‘why he would tell you who was living here. That’s – well, it’s private.’

  At that, the stranger smiled and began fumbling through his coat pockets. ‘Where did I—? Ah, yes.’

  Jasmin found herself looking at a form of ID that she had only ever seen twice before in her life – once in theatre, after she and Sven Birkeland had stitched up a badly injured bank robber, and the second time after her own accident, while she was still lying in her hospital bed.

  It was a police warrant card.

  Henriksen, Hendrik, it said. Detective Inspector.

  Jasmin felt her courage dissipate as if scattered by the wind. Her stomach sank to her knees. ‘The police?’ she asked hoarsely, before clearing her throat. She felt utterly foolish and certain that she was coming across as suspicious.

  You’re the worst actor in the world. You couldn’t even lie to save your own life. Though maybe you’re about to find out if that’s really true.

  ‘That’s right, the police.’ Henriksen put his pass away after she’d spent a few moments staring at it – though in truth, she’d barely taken anything in. The panic that filled her mind suppressed all rational thought. ‘Can I come in? It’s rotten weather. Don’t worry, this won’t take long. We’re interviewing all the homeowners in the area in relation to a certain unpleasant matter.’ He shivered as if he was cold and ran his hand through his hair again. Is he really distracted? she thought to herself. Or is he pulling a kind of Columbo act to lull you into a false sense of security?

  Is he actually watching you very carefully? Studying your tiniest reactions? Every gesture, every revealing look? And fuck – did you remember to clean up? Did you put your dirty boots away?

  ‘Sure,’ she heard herself say. ‘Of course. Come on. In, I mean, come on in.’

  ‘Great. Those were the exact words I was hoping to hear in this weather.’ Jasmin stood to one side as he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. ‘That’s what you call a storm. Absolutely horrendous. The ferry from the mainland—’

  ‘You’ve come from the mainland?’

  Henriksen nodded as he took off his coat. ‘Indeed I have. They asked me to come over first thing this morning. I suppose somebody’s got to do it, right?’ He looked around. ‘Could you . . . ?’

  Jasmin went to take his coat before realising she was still holding Paul’s games console in her hand. She placed it on the sideboard near the front door where Jørgen had always kept all the keys and notepads.

  ‘I suppose that’s one way of passing the time while it’s raining,’ said the detective, pointing at the Nintendo 3DS.

  Jasmin hung up his coat. ‘It belongs to my son, Paul.’

  ‘I see. Yes, the caretaker told me you didn’t come here on your own.’

  ‘We also have a dog . . .’

  As if on cue, Bonnie came hurtling down the stairs and started barking at Henriksen.

  The detective took a step back while Jasmin grabbed Bonnie by the collar. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘Off upstairs with you!’ she called, pointing at the staircase. Bonnie obeyed, but she turned around again halfway up the steps and growled.

  Jasmin led Henriksen into the kitchen and made some tea.

  ‘I won’t beat about the bush, Ms Hansen. A man was found dead on the beach this morning.’ The officer sat down and accepted his tea with a nod, but didn’t touch it. ‘His body was discovered by a walker who reported it to the police station on the island. Constable Boeckermann went through the standard procedures before notifying my colleagues on the mainland, and – well, here I am.’

  ‘Here you are.’ Jasmin had remained standing, her fingers wrapped around her mug, which was almost burning her hands. She glanced at the long carving knife gleaming on the counter. ‘A dead body . . . That sounds awful. It is awful, I mean.’ She cleared her throat again and cursed herself for her untrustworthy voice. ‘Did he drown?’

  Henriksen raised his eyebrows. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You said he was on the beach,’ Jasmin retorted. You don’t get me that easily.

  ‘Of course.’ Once again, Henriksen gave a glimpse of his gentle smile, but he still didn’t touch his cup. ‘The man hasn’t been identified yet, but we’re working on the assumption that he drowned and was subsequently washed ashore.’

  Jasmin tried not to give anything away, even though this information surprised and shocked her every bit as much as if Henriksen had told her he was placing her under arrest right there and then.

  The tracks have all been washed away, she thought. He can’t possibly know. And even if he does, you haven’t done anything wrong.

  Unless . . .

  Suddenly, the bright lights of the Jeep from that disastrous night reappeared in front of her, blazing harshly, dazzling her. Jasmin shook her head and sighed. ‘And you’ve come to see me because . . . ?’

  ‘Because we’re hoping one of the neighbours might perhaps have noticed something.’ Henriksen looked around the room. ‘You have a first floor and an attic, I assume?’

  ‘Yes.’ But there’s nothing up there, she added inwardly. Just a sulky five-year-old and a strange picture in the loft. And a bizarre notebook that you might not want to look at.

  ‘Can you see the sea from up there?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jasmin repeated, feeling like a talking doll. ‘You can, and I understand what you’re getting at there too, but no, I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. There was no boat. Nothing anyone could have shoved the body into the water from.’

  ‘You know that for a fact, do you?’

  ‘Paul had trouble sleeping. I read to him and then I stood for a while by the window in his room. It looks out to the south, towards the beach.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Henriksen, though he looked as though he didn’t understand a thing. Yet Jasmin felt sure by now that this was an act. He knew exactly what he was driving at – which direction he needed to steer the conversation in.

  And there was barely anything she could do about it without calling herself into suspicion.

  Just tell him. Say you saw the body and recognised it. That it reminded you of a homeless man. No, not reminded – that a homeless man you ran over a long way away has suddenly, unthinkably, turned up here on Minsøy.

  ‘It’s possible it wasn’t a ship. We’re looking at what currents might have driven the body to precisely this spot, but that’ll take time.’ He reached for his tea, but once again he didn’t take a sip. Instead, he pensively turned the cup back and forth between his hands. ‘And time is something I don’t have. The most important evidence will disappear over the first twenty hours.’

  ‘Sounds like you have a stressful day ahead of you. I don’t want to keep you from your work.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t.’ Henriksen pushed the mug across the table. ‘Have you left the house at all today?’

  ‘No,’ Jasmin replied. ‘You know what the weather’s been like.’

  ‘And yet there’s one thing that doesn’t make sense to me. The dead man – he was dressed like a vagrant. What I don’t understand is . . .’ His grey eyes fixed on her own and Jasmin had the feeling he knew more than he was letting on. ‘You weren’t down on the beach last night?’

  Jasmin took a deep breath. ‘Why would I have been down there?’

  ‘Perhaps because you saw something that shouldn’t have been there.’ Henriksen pulled the cup back towards him and finally took a sip. ‘This is very good tea,’ he declared, before putti
ng the mug back down on the table. ‘You know, Ms Hansen, when my ferry arrived this morning, Constable Boeckermann wanted to take me straight to the place where the body was found, but first I asked him to take me on a small . . . detour, let’s say. Arne Boeckermann took me to the village grocery shop, where I bought a bite to eat. But you know what? The owner, a certain Karl Sandvik, already seemed to know what had happened. Now, I’m sure you’ll tell me news travels fast in places like this, and that in a close-knit village it’s hardly unusual that the owner of the local shop would have already heard about the incident. But then Sandvik mentioned a person who I only had time to call in on after I’d visited the beach.’

  ‘After you’d . . . ?’ Jasmin furrowed her brow. ‘I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘You. He mentioned you. Sandvik knew the area where the body was found and he mentioned that the nearby house had recently been reoccupied. He mentioned a certain Jasmin Hansen, a stranger, an outsider, who happened to have arrived here shortly before the incident was reported. And now here I am.’

  Jasmin had to compose herself. ‘What are you insinuating? Yes, it’s true that I’ve only recently arrived on the island, but I’m just as shocked as anyone that there’s a . . .’ She fell silent. Had she given herself away with her response?

  ‘You were down there on the beach, weren’t you? The rain has washed away a lot of evidence, but Boeckermann is positive he saw a figure on the edge of the woods early this morning. If I were to look at your shoes or boots, would they be clean?’

  Jasmin felt nauseous; her throat had closed up. ‘I – I thought . . .’ She turned around, rushed into the hallway, opened the cabinet and pulled out her wellington boots.

  ‘Here,’ she said, throwing them onto the floor at Henriksen’s feet. ‘My boots. Nobody would go outside wearing any other shoes in this weather. They’re clean. Will that do?’ She tried not to show how heavily her heart was pounding – how treacherously it was beating.

  Henriksen smiled again. ‘Yes, that’ll do.’ He got to his feet. ‘If you remember anything at all—’