When the Devil Holds the Candle

by Karin Fossum

  I passed the optician's and the bicycle specialist. Thought I heard footsteps behind me, but didn't turn to look. If someone was there, panic would seize hold of me. It wasn't a long walk home. In a few minutes it would all be over. In my mind I pictured the house, my own house with its green paintwork, and the outdoor light that I had remembered to leave on, welcoming me home. I still thought I could hear something. Footsteps. Light, not tapping like my own. I couldn't resist a look. And then I saw them! Two young men. I admonished myself. There were people on the streets, they were going in the same direction, it was as simple as that. Yet it seemed as if they were staring at me, studying me as a possible target, but we women are always hysterical. We always imagine the worst, we know what it's like to grow up in a world of men. I started to walk faster. Turned around again to double-check. They were still there. I went all the way over to the shop windows, feeling safe for a moment in their light. Then I was in the dark again. When I turned around for the third time, one of them was gone. I sighed with relief; that was a good sign. He was already home! But I didn't slow my pace. I thought about everything that could happen. No, I wasn't afraid of dying. And I didn't pray to God. There were worse things that could happen to me than death. I thought it all through and knew that I couldn't allow that to happen to me. But that's how we think sometimes, and then it happens all the same. Like that time when I was ill and had to stay in hospital, with other people taking care of me.

  I walked up the steep hill and thought about the hospital and everything that had happened then. A nightmare that almost overshadowed the present. And that helped.

  All the time I could hear footsteps. What frightened me was the fact that he didn't overtake me. A young man with long legs, he should have gone past long ago. Now I could see the roof of my house. I heard my own heart pounding, my legs hurt, and I was sweating inside the tight vest. I deliberately slammed the gate, as if someone in the empty house might be listening for it and get up from his chair. There were only a few more paces. The five steps up to the front door. I realised that I didn't have my key ready, I had to rummage in my handbag, in the little compartment. I stood under the light like a human bulls-eye. Then I found the key and stuck it in the lock. The door swung open. I could feel sobs rise in my throat out of sheer relief. That young man was going home to bed. Pull yourself together, Irma! I peered into the dark kitchen. Then I gasped out loud. A red eye shone in the dark. The coffee maker was on. It was half full of coffee. I had left the house with the coffee machine on, I could have burned down this lovely house, which is all I own. I switched it off. The kitchen smelled like a coffee shop. I turned on the light and lifted the pot from the hotplate. Had to lean on the counter for support. It had all been too much for me. The theatre, the crowd, the walk through the dark town at night, the strange man and the coffee maker on, in the old house. I straightened up. It would, I vowed, be a long time before I did that again. Then I went into the bathroom. Stood with my back to the mirror and dropped my dress to the floor. Pulled the tight vest over my head and then stuck my arms into a dressing gown. It's white; yes, out of sheer defiance it is white. I never stay over at anyone's house, so it doesn't matter. I stood in the doorway and peered into the kitchen, at the striped rug. Maybe a little pick-me-up would be in order. I had wine in the cellar, so I rolled back the rug from the trap door. I took the ring and pulled it open.

  That's when something happened. I heard a sound; it came from the hallway. I hadn't locked the door! In my horror over the glowing coffee machine, I had forgotten to secure the latch properly. I had run to the kitchen with only one thought, to prevent a catastrophe. I stood there, frozen to the spot, staring, unable to believe my eyes. A man came walking into the kitchen with a knife in his hand. His eyes, which were all I could see under the peak of his cap, shone with determination. He had a scarf wrapped around his face, and he was looking at my handbag, which lay on the counter. There were 200 kroner inside. But I had jewellery and silverware and more cash in the safe in Henry's study. For a few seconds there was utter silence. He seemed to be sniffing at the room, as if the smell of burned coffee surprised him. Then he looked at me. He wavered a bit, the knife shook. I took a step back, but he came after me, pressed me against the counter, stuck the tip of the blade under my chin and snarled.

  "Your cash. And fucking be quick about it!"

  My knees started to shake. And that's when the accident happened, I couldn't help it. I felt a warmth sliding down my thighs, but he didn't notice, he was much too preoccupied with the knife, which was trembling, betraying his own fear. Just as scared as I was. I cast a glance towards Henry's study. I wanted to open the safe, but my legs wouldn't hold me. He got annoyed, waved the knife at me, shoved me aside with his fist. Not hard, but I flinched. His shouts were muffled by the scarf. "Hurry it up, you old bag! Hurry it up!"

  I was just an old bag. And he was just a young kid. I could hear it in his voice. I hadn't moved. He pushed me again, and finally I managed to drag my feet across the room and into the study. I stood in front of the safe, staring at the dial, trying to remember the combination. My fingers shook uncontrollably, but my mind was a blank. I wanted to throw up, I wanted to run away. I was willing to give him everything I had, there wasn't really much inside, anyway, maybe 5,000 kroner. But I couldn't remember the combination. Now he really started to get nervous. Instinctively I thought that I had to keep him calm, tried to explain about the combination, that I had written it down. "In the teapot," I gasped, "it's in the teapot in the kitchen!" He screamed that he didn't have time for this. He seized hold of my dressing gown, up near the collar. I immediately pulled it tight because I was afraid, and he could see that this was for me the worst. I didn't want him to see me the way I was. With one hand he tugged at the belt and held it taut, then he raised the knife and cut my belt in two. The heavy white towelling fell away. I covered myself with my hands, but it was too late. He stared in disbelief, lurched back with a strange expression, not exactly disgust, but he couldn't comprehend what he saw. Just shook his head. He had forgotten what he came for. But the seconds kept ticking away, and eventually he understood. It was my intestine he was looking at. It sticks out through the skin of my abdomen and ends in a colostomy bag. It was almost full, and also split open. The knife blade had sliced it in two. The contents were running down my legs. I couldn't look at his face, I turned around and rushed out of the study, but he came after me. Stopped in front of me with his knife raised.

  "I don't give a damn about . . . that! I want money!"

  I felt it running down, it was thin, not fully digested, and the smell was starting to spread, and I'm so fastidious about things like that. Behind him, the cellar trap-door was open. He didn't notice it, he was jumping around, but I could see that he had reached breaking point. I thought he might end up stabbing me if he didn't get what he wanted. And so I pushed him. I heard a gasp as he fell backwards down the steep staircase. There was a crashing and thumping and thundering on the stairs. I heard a disgusting, dull thud as he hit the cement. A faint rattling sound that lasted a few seconds. Then silence.

  Zipp was waiting in the dark. He heard sounds from inside: a woman screaming, footsteps crossing a floor. He stared and stared through the window, but he could see only the ceiling and the top of a painting. An eternity passed. Why didn't Andreas come out again? He looked for something to stand on. In the garden there was a small gazebo with several chairs inside. He crept over to it, picked up a chair and carried it to the window, shoving it down hard into a rosebed. He could feel the prick of the thorns through his trousers. He climbed on to the chair and peered over the windowsill. He saw a kitchen table and chairs and a striped rug. Nothing else, and nobody in sight. All was quiet. Confused, he stayed on the chair and waited. He couldn't imagine what had happened to them. Had this whole caper gone to hell? Had the worst possible thing happened? Were the police on the way? Damn it! He jumped down, but at that moment he heard a faint sound. Relieved, he spun round and stared
at the corner of the house, but no-one appeared. Was Andreas playing games with him? Had he robbed the old lady and then run off with the cash? Was he standing down on the road counting the money, grinning and laughing at the thought of Zipp, still waiting in the dark? He climbed up on the chair again. Stood there for an eternity until his neck started to ache. Suddenly he caught sight of the woman in the house. She came through a door, wearing only a nightdress, and sank onto a chair at the table. She looked unharmed, which was a relief. He decided to stay where he was until she did something. Was she going to call the police? Had she called them already? Zipp jumped down, ran round the side of the house and stood at the corner, partially hidden. No-one came. He ran back to take one more look. She was still sitting there. He listened for sirens in the distance, but heard nothing. Just a faint hum from the town below. He was tired and bewildered after everything that had happened on this unreal day. He fumbled for a cigarette, inhaled deeply and watched the tip glow bright red in the dark. He badly needed to cough but managed to suppress the urge. He smoked the whole cigarette and then got back on the chair. She was still sitting there, for God's sake, in exactly the same position. The woman was clearly in shock, that much he could see. But he couldn't very well stay there all night. He was going to have to leave. Leave the dark garden all alone. He couldn't do that! But the clock was ticking. He had waited long enough. Without a sound, he slipped out through the gate, but the question kept churning through his mind: Where the hell was Andreas?

  The pounding as he crashed down the stairs, the horrible sound of his head hitting the concrete floor, I can't describe it! The impact settled in my own body as a needle-like pain. I thought to myself: surely he must have died in a fall like that! That fragile body against the hard-as-rock floor. I closed the trap door. At least he wouldn't be able to come up and threaten me again. Of course, I would have to call somebody, surely someone would help me. Maybe Runi, or Ingemar. No, Lord knows, not Ingemar! And the way I looked! I tottered out to the bathroom. Changed the bag. It was difficult to get the new one closed because my hands were shaking so much. I thought about what he had seen, what no-one was ever supposed to see. Or hear about, know about; well, only if necessary, if it was unavoidable. But see it? NO! The expression on his face, utter disbelief. Maybe he didn't realise what it was, maybe he thought I was some kind of deformed monster, a freak. A gleaming pink intestine on my stomach, that looks rather like . . . well, you have to forgive me, but it's so hard for me to talk about this. But it looks rather like a penis. And I'm a woman, after all.

  I put on a clean nightdress. Sat at the kitchen table. I don't know how long I sat there. I felt encapsulated, with no room for any thoughts, not even despair. Then I raised my head, and my eyes automatically looked at the window. For a wild moment I thought I saw a face against the pane. I stared and stared, but it didn't reappear. I don't know how much time must have passed before I finally asked myself the question: What should I do now? When I reached that stage, the feeling of paralysis left me. And with the return of reality came the emotions. They nearly knocked me unconscious. I recalled his eyes. They were shining with fright and determination. To come here and force his way in had been important for him. How can money be that important? I was sitting a pace from the cellar door. If I opened it, the light from the kitchen would make it possible for me to see him. I had to get up and take a look, through the trap door. And then I remembered that I should call someone soon. Explain everything. There was so much that had to be done. Reluctantly, I got to my feet. Opened the trap door. I didn't dare to look. But I couldn't pretend that nothing had happened. If I went into another room and sat there until morning, he would still be lying in the same position. I stood with my back turned and counted to ten, to 20. He wasn't going anywhere. He had fallen to his death. Thirty, forty. Cautiously I turned. Why didn't he scream? I squatted down. The first step came into focus, then the rest. The light was slanting down over the stairs. The first thing I saw was his feet. They were lying on the second step from the bottom. His body was twisted into an impossibly contorted position. One arm was stretched out to the side, I couldn't see the other one, maybe he was lying on it. His forehead was a white patch in the darkness of the cellar, his cap was gone. No-one could lie like that and still be alive. The angle of his head gave me a terrible clue. I stood there as long as I could, staring at him. Listening for any sounds, but it was as quiet as the grave. I straightened up. Realised that the worst had happened. He was dead.

  The thought came to me with absolute calm, as something important but not dramatic. What would I have done if he were still alive? I should call for an ambulance. But the mere idea of having to explain everything was unthinkable. Strangers stomping into Irma's house? I put the trap door back in place. Laid the rug on top. It was simple. No-one knew that he had come into my house. I tried to think. It was a matter of making some important decisions. I took a deep breath, in and out, then another, in and out. I decided to stay at home the next day. I hardly ever missed work, so no-one would think it odd. I could say I was coming down with the flu. And then I felt it, the strange sensation that I had been in this selfsame situation before. I couldn't understand it. Fear must be playing tricks on me. But I had always believed that one day something terrible would happen. Whenever I sat in the red chair near the window I let my thoughts wander. In my mind I'd been through almost all the possibilities. The nightmare that would befall me. And now, here it was. Something that I'd been waiting for. When I realised the connection, I grew calmer. The worst imaginable thing had occurred; in other words, something was finally over. The problem was out in the open and could now be resolved. It was time for action. I told myself that first I needed to get some sleep. I felt worn out. Later, I would get rid of all traces. Had he left any traces? I looked around, went into the study. What about his knife? Was it down in the cellar? I was talking to myself in a low voice. "There's a dead man in the cellar. He came here to attack me. It was an accident. Nobody knows that he's here, and hardly anyone ever comes here. There must be a way out of this. There must be a way out!" I turned off all the lights except in the bathroom. Then I went to bed. Pulled the duvet over me and stared into the dim light of the room. I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn't. They just kept running and running.

  Zipp was perched on the top of a woodpile behind the house where Andreas lived. There was a faint light visible behind the curtains. The window was closed. He seemed to remember that Andreas always slept with the window open. He thought to himself: Here I am again, standing like a Peeping Tom. The bed was neatly made. He could see the black-and-white bedspread lying nice and smooth. And the poster of The Doors. On the desk stood an empty Coke bottle. No Andreas. Zipp had been convinced that Andreas would be at home in his own bed. But he wasn't.

  Zipp jumped down. He would have to go home. Where the hell else could he go? Should he wait until morning and call? His concern turned to anger. And then he trudged off, past the church and the graves, walking fast with his hands in his pockets. Up and along the streets, feeling so damned alone. He had only to make it through this night. With daylight the explanation would emerge, something stupid. Andreas always had an explanation. He unlocked the door and went in. Ran downstairs. Pulled off his tight jeans. His skin felt clammy and stripes from the double seams ran down his thighs. He lay on the sofa with a blanket over him and stared into the darkness. Andreas had done everything, and he only stood there and watched. No-one had anything on him. A tiny feeling of relief began trickling through him. Just before the darkness swallowed him, he remembered the chair. He had left it standing under her window. What would she think? What had the two of them been thinking of? They hadn't thought, they had just charged ahead. Suddenly he pictured the pram striking the rocks, and the baby's tiny mouth with the toothless gums; the foaming sea; the angry cries. What we were ends here, he thought.

  I lay in bed for a long time, shaking as if I had a fever. I felt neither good or bad, I was just a body living its
own muddled life, without coherence. I dreamed that my intestine was growing, that it wriggled out, slowly but surely, until it was dragging along the ground. I had to gather it up and carry it in my hands for everyone to see. An enormous tangle of intestines. Look here! Then I woke up. I hadn't forgotten about the horror in the cellar. I had only pushed it aside for a while, like a mean-spirited dog some distance off, which couldn't get at me because it was chained up. But now it was growling. I opened my eyes and stared dead ahead at the flowered wallpaper. It growled again, this time louder. At the same time I was quite sure that I wasn't crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm perfectly sane, I'm describing everything exactly as it was, down to the last detail. Are you still reading this?

  Then it was quiet again. Maybe the sound was the relics of a dream. Then it started howling. At first a long, drawn-out, faint howl, then it got louder. I've never heard such a sad howl before, it was coming from a creature in dire need, in the utmost pain. An insane thought occurred to me, but I pushed it away. It wasn't possible. The world couldn't be that evil! Things were bad enough already. But the sound was indeed coming from the cellar. A muffled cry, as if he didn't have much strength, and it had cost him everything to scream. I sat up in bed, shaking with terror now, and stuffed a corner of the pillow in my mouth. The man was alive! He was lying there in the cold cellar and screaming for help! I threw myself on to my stomach and pressed the pillow over my head. I couldn't bear to hear those screams, as if they came from a wounded animal. He was calling to me. Maybe other people would hear him. The neighbours? People passing on the street? They would stop and listen, make a note of my address. Maybe they would think I was hurting someone. I was going to be sick. What business had he coming here in the first place? If only he would shut up! Finally I got up and tip-toed across the room. I didn't want him to hear my footsteps overhead. Obviously he was in terrible pain. And he was only a boy. Imagine that he could scream like that. I've never heard anyone scream so horribly, with so much fear. A young boy. All alone in the dark down there, lying on the ice-cold floor.