Certain Signs that You are Dead

by Torkil Damhaug

  He carried on writing; it flowed along by itself. Some he could use in the lecture, the rest he would cut. Newlife offered the world products that prevented cells from ageing, that gave their lives a restart, constantly renewing the genetic material and keeping the bitter face of old age at bay. It was a unique combination of the dream of financial independence and the dream of eternal youth. Who could say no to that?

  Around ten, he heard the bedroom door open. He carried on writing about how to triumph over everything that gets in the way of reaching your goals. Bare feet across the floor. Carried on writing about the dream thieves. Hands on his shoulders, lightly caressing. Carried on writing.

  – Hi.

  Her voice full of anticipation. As though he were the one she had been lying there thinking about.

  He turned. She was naked, smelled of sleep and yesterday’s perfume. He looked up, struck once again by her eyes, as if he had forgotten how dark they were.

  – Hi, she said again, and slipped down into his lap. – I want you, Sigurd Woods. Do you understand?

  Wearing nothing but the orange blouse, she sat at the table. He stood in the bathroom door, watching her. Thought of the evening they had first met. How she had turned away, with a smile no one else noticed. He could’ve made a different choice that night. Not followed after her. When this is over, I’ll be stronger, he thought. The kind of thought he should have written down.

  She sent a text message, a long one, then pushed the plate with the half-eaten slice of bread to one side, put her mobile phone down, drained her espresso, refilled it. A pling from the phone; she picked it up, read. Is that Ibro Hakanovic you’re exchanging messages with? he thought, and was about to walk over and ask her. But that wasn’t the way it would end. Not with an ordinary quarrel. That might make her think he was jealous.

  He sat down in the chair next to her. Looked at her in the late morning light, the olive skin against the orange material, naked from the waist down. He placed his hands on her knees, pressed them apart.

  – Vanessa? he asked.

  – What about Vanessa?

  – The one you send all the messages to?

  She looked at him for a moment. A new message arrived; she crossed one leg over the other.

  – I have to go to Malmö.

  He felt his face crumple and collapse.

  – Now?

  She read on, put the phone down again, leaned over and kissed him quickly, stood up and crossed to the window.

  – As soon as I can.

  – Has something happened?

  – It’s my cousin. She needs help.

  He didn’t ask what kind of help that might be. He didn’t ask who this cousin was. If indeed she even existed at all. She’d spoken of a cousin before, maybe the same one, though never of anyone else in the family.

  – Something only you can help her with, he said. Not as a question; it was an observation, a reminder to himself of where he was and where he was going.

  – What do you mean?

  He stood up and crossed over to her. Even in the summer light her eyes were darker than any others he had ever seen. He pulled her close. This is the last time, he thought, and felt relief.

  But then it was on him again.

  – I’ll come with you.

  – Where?

  – To Malmö.

  She pulled away, tensed. – That would be cool. But this time I have to go alone.

  He didn’t say anything more, just let her carry on digging herself into it, all on her own.

  – It’s sort of private. She doesn’t want …

  He smiled now, and maybe she could hear herself how feeble it sounded.

  – I’ll explain. When I get back home.

  So home was here, his place, his flat.

  – Okay, he said, and had to smile again. – I’ll give you a lift to the bus.

  She looked away. – No need, Sigurd. You’ve got so much else to do. She nodded towards the computer.

  – I can take a half-hour break.

  She shook her head firmly, turned and went into the bedroom. He heard the sound of a suitcase being placed on the floor, the zip being opened. She won’t be coming back, he thought suddenly. As though the zip had told him.

  Her mobile phone was on the kitchen table. He sat looking at it for a while before picking it up. Felt like opening the window and throwing it out. Instead he stood up, put it in his pocket, walked once round the table, was about to take it out again, put it back. Then she was standing in the doorway. Wearing pale yellow trousers, a blouse the same colour, suitcase in her hand.

  He forced a smile. – So this is goodbye.

  She wrinkled her eyebrows. – Back Sunday.

  – Sunday, he nodded slowly.

  She looked around, glanced over at the clock. Went back into the bedroom. He could put it back now, not on the kitchen table because she’d just looked there. On the windowsill, he thought, half hidden behind the curtain.

  – Sigurd.

  He stood there, pushed a hand into his pocket, put his fingers round it, found the mute button and pressed it with his thumb.

  She came back in again. – Have you seen my phone?

  He shook his head, parodied exasperation. – What you need is a servant to look after your things for you.

  She ignored him, bent down and looked under the table, glanced around the room. He sat at the computer, not watching her, monitoring her mounting frustration.

  – Have you checked the bathroom? Where you usually leave it?

  She hurried back into the room, rummaging about, swearing out loud now.

  – Can’t you help me instead of just sitting there laughing?

  – I’m not laughing.

  – Call the number.

  He walked into the bedroom, picked up his own phone from the bedside table, hid hers under the mattress. Back in the living room, he scrolled down to her name. It occurred to him as he did so that maybe it would still vibrate, even though the sound was turned off. He didn’t make the call, just to be on the safe side.

  She went back into the bathroom, back into the kitchen, even looked inside the fridge. He might at least have laughed at that, but didn’t.

  – Either it’s on mute, or the battery’s flat, or you’ve left it somewhere else.

  – I was just using it, she groaned.

  – Where?

  – Here. At the table. She turned and studied him. – You haven’t by any chance …

  He strode across the floor until he was standing right up close to her.

  – What are you trying to say?

  – One of us must have put it somewhere.

  He narrowed his eyes, but not too much. – Are you suggesting I might have stolen your mobile phone?

  She scratched her neck. – Not stolen it.

  – Then what?

  She was looking directly at him now. Her eyes changed all the time in the sharp light, layer upon layer of dark shadow.

  – Bloody hell, Sigurd, I’m in a hurry. I can’t go without my phone.

  Heard something in her voice he’d not heard before. Helplessness, a confusion on the verge of panic.

  Then you’ll have to stay here, he thought. Stay here until it turns up again.

  She didn’t stay. After another round of successively less systematic searches she suddenly grabbed up her suitcase and was gone, slamming the door behind her. He was on the point of running after her, giving her the phone, but it was too late; she wouldn’t believe him if he claimed he’d just found it.

  He slumped down in front of the computer again, but all hope of work was gone now. She was the one who was the thief. Had stripped the flat of thoughts and willpower. Not thoughts. He was full of them. Of the kind he didn’t need. He should have called Trym. Had promised to, promised they’d do something together. Had promised Jenny that he’d take his big brother out. As if he was a fucking care worker. Trym who should have been bigger than him, stronger, who should have been able to beat him u
p and run off with all the best-looking girls, who should have finished his education a long time ago, who should have travelled the world, climbed in the Himalayas, gone diving in the Caribbean, gone parachuting. He sat there at home on the farm. Not even waiting for something. Other than a win on the online casino. For someone to come driving up to the house with a truckload of money and dump it outside his front door. And what would he do with all that money? Keep on gambling.

  He called him. His brother’s sleepy voice. Sigurd felt his anger rise.

  – Fucking hell, are you still sleeping?

  – A bit late getting to bed.

  – Well what do you expect if you sit up on the internet half the night?

  Pause. Then Trym’s voice, hesitant.

  – Has something happened?

  – Yeah, something’s happened, something’s happening all the time, but you’ve shut yourself away on a fucking farm in deepest Sørum, in Norway, closed off from the world, and you sit there and sit there while your life rots away from the inside.

  – For fuck’s sake, Sigurd, I don’t have to put up with this.

  – Great, then don’t. Get up and fight back.

  Trym hung up. Sigurd was left standing bent forward and staring at the table. Of all the idiotic things he might have thought of now, it turned out to be the barn loft that came into his mind. Why did he climb up on to that crate and look out? Because Trym had called to him. Trym had come home from school before him. Now he was standing half hidden behind the barn bridge, calling to him in a low voice and beckoning him.

  Don’t go in.

  Course I will.

  Come here.

  Trym takes hold of his arm, drags him into the barn, over to the steps.

  Come up with me.

  Tell me what for.

  Not until you’re up in the loft.

  Trym climbs up after him. Closes the door behind them. This is their room, their hideaway. Neither of their parents ever comes up here.

  Look outside.

  Sigurd positions the crate on its end below the wall vent and hops up on to it. There’s a car parked by the shed. A blue Renault Mégane. Nice name, crap car. He can see the number plate, repeats the number in his head a couple of times, not easy to know what one ought to remember.

  Whose car is that then?

  Dunno.

  Why is it parked there?

  Dunno.

  The thought hits like a bolt of lightning: Is it a burglar?

  Trym shakes his head.

  How do you know?

  Mum’s home.

  A new thought, even worse: Mum alone in the house with the thief.

  We’ve got to help her.

  He hops down from the crate, takes a screwdriver from the shelf, drops it, picks up the hammer instead.

  Trym blocks his way.

  You better stay here.

  No bloody way. Let me out.

  He pulls at the door. Trym wraps his arms around him, holds him firmly. He’s two years older and weighs ten kilos more. Sigurd has to give up. He kicks out at the crate and it hits the far wall with a loud crash. Trym slides down in front of the door, blocking it, as if it’s the entrance to the world’s most dangerous room.

  Mum has a visitor. You get my meaning?

  He doesn’t, but he sits down too.

  Well then, never mind whether you understand or not. You’re staying here. Until that car has gone.

  Sigurd looked out. A fine drizzle had settled on the window, but he couldn’t see any clouds. When he called his brother back, Trym didn’t answer. He tried again, left a message. Apologised for his bad mood, didn’t mean to be a shit, suggested the cinema.

  He would leave all this behind. That was what it was about. Break away, move on. Australia. He was half Australian. Eighty per cent Australian, as Jenny used to say. He’d never been there; all the same, he knew it was the place for him. But first he was going to make it here, not go out there like some loser on the run.

  His phone rang, a jazz ringtone he’d downloaded the week before. He looked at the display: number not recognised. It was her.

  – Sorry, Sigurd.

  – For what?

  – I was so pissed off about that phone. And then I blame you.

  – You got yourself a new one? he grunted.

  – Well I had to.

  – Are you in Malmö already?

  – Nearly.

  He couldn’t hear any background noises. It was though she was sitting in a quiet room. At any rate, not on a bus.

  – I care about you, she said.

  – Well that’s something.

  Short pause.

  – Can you accept me the way I am?

  He didn’t know. Was still sitting there thinking about what that might involve when his phone rang again.

  – Got some stuff for you, said Kent.

  – Stuff?

  Sniggering at the other end.

  – What you asked for. And a bit more. People always get more than they ask for.

  He pulled into a parking bay along Ullevålsveien. Kent wearing a suit jacket in this warm weather, sunglasses and an attaché case. Jumped in.

  – Drive on.

  Sigurd was a little too quick on the accelerator pedal, nearly knocked down a cyclist.

  As they passed Bislett Stadium, Kent opened the case, took out an envelope, looked round like someone pretending these were state secrets changing hands. Sigurd knew him from secondary school. He had dropped out in his final year. Tried his hand at this and that but mostly lived off social security. Had a couple of conditional discharges, Sigurd knew, and spent a summer doing community service for taking hundreds of photos of mostly underage girls who believed him when he told them he could get them jobs as models. He was still trying his hand at this and that.

  – I think we can call this hitting the jackpot.

  Sigurd didn’t respond.

  – What you need is in this envelope. Ten to twelve snapshots. Most of them taken at a villa in Nittedal. The address is on the accompanying paperwork. And a map. And everything we’ve got on this guy. From Malmö. Bosnian, it looks like.

  Sigurd heard Kent’s snigger and felt like putting a fist straight through it. Got a hold of himself, swung into a street behind Sankthanshaugen, opened the glove compartment, took out the envelope with the thousand-kroner notes.

  – Eight, he said, – if you want to count.

  – Eleven for this job, said Kent.

  Sigurd glared at him. – We agreed on eight.

  – There’s more there. More than the deal.

  – You want three thousand for a map you’ve downloaded from Google?

  – Okay, okay. Kent backed down. – Let’s say eight. Special price for a friend.

  He’d studied the map until he had it memorised. Knew there was a Shell station right after the turn-off, pulled in there, parked in the customer car park, in a vacant spot behind the station, next to a container. Not that she’d immediately think of him if she saw a BMW that was like his. If she was thinking about him at all. He allowed himself to dwell on the question: did she forget all about him when she was with Ibro Hakanovic? She wasn’t the type to indulge feelings of guilt. Part of what made her who she was, that she didn’t respond like other people, didn’t say what others said, didn’t feel like others. As though she were always somewhere different from where he expected to find her.

  It was five past nine. He pressed the screen washer, started the wipers, turned them off. Tried to list his alternatives. One was to go home. Sit down in the living room. Wait for her. He wasn’t the type to wait. He took the envelope out again. Indistinct photos on cheap paper, but clear enough. The black Audi. Katja getting into it. The guy with the neck like a bull in the driving seat. Both of them at the entrance to a brown detached house. Picture of the house from a distance, a wood in the background. Close-up of someone behind a window, two silhouettes that didn’t need further identification.

  He jogged up the road. It
swung through a stand of trees, then across a farmyard and up towards a residential area closer to the edge of the wood. He took a short cut across a field. There was no sign of the Audi in the housing area. All the houses had garages and he couldn’t open every single one of them.

  Further up the road was a house standing on its own. Not until he was about two hundred metres from it did he recognise it from the photo. Brown detached house, large lawn out front, trampoline in the garden. He walked on through the bright evening light, knew that he was visible from the windows, knew she could be standing in one of them and catch sight of him. Again he began to run, sprinted past the house without looking in that direction.

  A little further on, the road was blocked by a barrier. On the other side it continued on up towards the wood and disappeared among the trees. He turned round and studied the brown house. No sign of light in any of the windows. They’d probably already gone to bed. Lying there in the half-dark.

  The garage door was open, but the car wasn’t there. It was time to turn and go back. Then he saw it. The rear end sticking out beyond the far wall of the house. He went as close as he could to make sure it was the same car. It was getting darker, but evening light still penetrated the clouds. He was easily visible as he stood there and studied the number plate. She could have spotted him ages ago. Still he stood there. As though giving her a chance to come out, to go with him. It was nine thirty.

  He sent a message to her new number. All okay in Malmö? Was startled to get an immediate reply.

  Better now.

  He squeezed his phone, raised his hand suddenly as though to hurl it against the garage wall. Took a hold of himself. For another minute he stood there, watching the first-floor windows, before crossing the yard.

  The door was locked. He walked around the house. Took out his phone again to call her. Stand by the garage and peer up towards what could be the bedroom, hear her voice, get her to lie about where she was, what she was doing.