Certain Signs that You are Dead

by Torkil Damhaug

  He raises the knife again; it was she who gave it to him. He presses it against his wrist, now with the blade towards the skin. The outer layer is penetrated, just as hers was, and when he sees the bleeding start, he knows that he will never be coming back again. A bell rings. The doorbell. It could be anyone at all outside; the neighbours, Finn Olav and Tonje, maybe they heard him shouting, because he may well have shouted, or it could be the same people as those who sent Ibro Hakanovic after him, come now to fetch him themselves. They released him from Evin prison, but followed him all the way, through the streets of Tehran, on the bus to Tabriz, followed him across the mountains, sat in a café in Ankara. And every day since he came to this country they’ve been keeping track of him, watching him. He cuts into the wrist now, it’s hard and sinewy, and this knife isn’t as sharp as the one that cut Marita. I’m sorry, he says, speaking to her, and to his father, who is now also within the ring, standing there silently rebuking him for everything he’s done. Someone is knocking, someone shouting outside. He seems to hear his name. And then a buzzing noise, like a drill. They had to find him in the end. He cuts deeper and feels the penetration, and the blood that comes out is no longer a thick and dark stream but a thin shower. He leans his head backwards; someone is holding it. These are her hands he can feel around his neck. She talks to him in a language he has never learnt and yet he is still able to understand her.

  The door has been forced open and someone is standing there, wearing a dark coverall. Several others behind him, weapons in their hands, but they cannot reach him in the place he is on his way to, not if he takes one more step and the gate closes behind him.

  This is our penultimate conversation.

  And you want me to talk about who I was and who I am.

  That is one possibility.

  You want to know if I am damaged in a way that confirms the image of the world you have. You would prefer to come to the conclusion that there is something wrong with me, that I lack empathy.

  I have never said that.

  You think it. That I am incapable of feeling the pain of others. But that is not the case, not at all, and if you understand yourself then you will understand that. After our first conversation, for the remainder of that day all I thought about was the man who fell into the rose bushes. I dreamt about him at night. He stood by my bedside and looked at me, not saying a word. He was bleeding from his torn cheeks.

  You felt for him, that time in the park.

  I am good at reading other people’s feelings. Not simply reading and understanding as a thought. I can enter into the feeling, no matter what it is, feel the grief in it, the pain, the fear. And then, when I wish, leave it again. As a child, I cried easily with a friend who hurt himself, or with those who were grieving over the loss of someone. But I was able to decide for myself when there had been enough sorrow, and then I would stop crying. I am still like that.

  You have control over your empathy.

  I feel sure you can do this too. In your thoughts you can decide to turn away when you have had enough. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to do the job you do. You would be swallowed up in the feelings of others.

  From the expert witness’s notes, 3 August 2014

  PART IV

  15–17 June 2014

  21

  Zoran served a pasta dish. It was simple, he assured her, just a few shellfish, olives, tomatoes and herbs.

  – You spoil me completely, Jennifer complained as he poured white wine into her glass.

  – Weren’t you spoilt long before you met me?

  She had to laugh. From the moment she had entered Zoran’s flat, she had felt as though a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She had next weekend off. They should go away somewhere together. Knut and Lydia had a place by the sea not more than a few hours’ drive away; they could borrow that. Just the two of them naked in the sun on a big flat rock by the water. He had never seen her this naked before, not outdoors, not in a light like that. She drank the wine, and just the thought of that nakedness made her want him. But this wanting was different from before. She could sit there and feel calm and enjoy the wait. It was almost thirteen years now since Sean. Sean could have done anything at all with her life and she wouldn’t have been able to lift a finger to stop him. If he’d asked her to leave home with him, leave the farm and the boys and the job, she would’ve done it. But Sean left without asking, without saying anything at all. It tore her into tiny pieces; the whole of the next year was spent trying to put them together again. It was only now that she was able to think about it without being torn apart again. If she’d gone to Dublin with Sean back then, she thought, she wouldn’t be sitting on Zoran’s little balcony, looking out over the lawn and the birch trees between the blocks, hearing the traffic in the distance, an ambulance approaching, sitting there waiting for the light night she would spend together with him.

  On the table, her phone vibrated and she picked it up.

  Sigurd, she noted, relieved it wasn’t somebody else.

  – Thanks for what you’re doing for Trym, she said before he could speak. – I hear you’re lending him the money and making sure his debts are paid off once and for all.

  Zoran stood up, picked up the plates and went inside.

  – What you’re doing for him, you’re doing for me too.

  – Isn’t it tomorrow he goes to see the shrink? Sigurd sounded a little ill at ease. – Since it’s the first time, I can go with him. Have lunch with him afterwards. He needs to get out.

  – With a brother like you, things have to work out for him—

  – That isn’t why I’m calling, Sigurd interrupted her. She heard an undertone in his voice that made her pull her jacket tighter around herself. Because what he was about to say had something to do with her, she was certain of it. Sooner or later it would all have to come out, all the things he could reproach her for.

  – How are you keeping? he asked, and it was like a confirmation; he would follow up his concern for her well-being with something she couldn’t bear to hear. Not this evening.

  – I’m working, she said quickly. – Not actually at this moment, I’ve finished for the evening. But you know.

  He couldn’t know. Not about crime-scene examinations, or corpses with their thumbs cut off, or encounters with next of kin filled with rage and despair.

  – I’m doing several jobs for the forensic department, she continued, still keeping the conversation at a safe level. – You know how it is, give them an inch. First this Swedish Bosnian who got butchered. And now there’s another case. Read about it in the papers, I can’t tell you any more.

  – What did you say?

  – I said, murders are being committed, and for reasons I will never understand, I chose the line of business I chose. I’m a peace-loving person by nature. I like what’s safe.

  – What did you say about the Bosnian?

  – What did I say?

  – Something about him being sliced up.

  If her intention had been to distract Sigurd from his real purpose in calling, she appeared to have succeeded. She wasn’t the best mother in the world, but she had done her best, she consoled herself. She had always loved him unconditionally. Admired him more and more as he grew up. As long as he needed her, he had been the most important person in her life. Him and Trym, she added in her thoughts. She had been unfaithful several times, and it wasn’t something she could regret; without it she would have withered away. But she hadn’t been unfaithful to the boys, and she had made sure this other life was kept secret from them. They didn’t even know about Sean, who had been completely unpredictable and had twice visited her at the farm. Maybe one day she would try to explain to them why she had made the choices she did in her life. But she needed this evening for something else.

  – That’s right. He was stabbed to death. It was a pretty nasty business.

  She felt she could reveal this much to Sigurd; he wasn’t the type to pass things on. And in only a few hours’ ti
me, the hospital authorities and the police would be holding their press conference. In the nick of time, too; a journalist on a local paper had already received a tip-off about what was coming.

  – What do you mean?

  She sipped her wine. It was her third glass. The second was always best, and she usually stopped there. But after a day like the one she’d just had, a third seemed called for. A harmless increase in the dosage.

  – Of course I’m not allowed to talk about this to anyone, Sigurd. But I know I can trust you.

  She had always enjoyed sharing secrets with him. From when he was a child, there were things that only the two of them knew. This shared intimacy connected them still, and would always do so, no matter what sort of complaints he had about her. And maybe she made too much of it. Maybe he didn’t reproach her for the way she’d never been able to share her life with his father. Not the most meaningful part of it.

  – This man, this Bosnian, was murdered here at the hospital. A few floors below the department where I work.

  – What the hell are you saying?

  – I’m saying he was practically delivered to my table, all ready for his autopsy.

  She knew it wasn’t funny, but she laughed a little at her own joke anyway.

  – But the man was seriously injured; it said something about him dying as a re-re-result of …

  She had not heard him stammer since his primary school days. Not often then either, only when he got so agitated he couldn’t handle it. She felt a strange warmth at the memory of it.

  – They’ve put a news blackout on the case. God knows why. I guess the hospital is worried about its reputation and all that, and the police want to be left to work in peace. The excuse is probably that the next of kin have to be informed first. And now something else has happened, so there’s going to be a media explosion.

  – But didn’t he d-d-die of the injuries he had when he was admitted?

  – Sigurd, you’re not to say a word about this to anyone.

  – Yeah, sure, I mean, of course I won’t.

  – The man was injured, as you say, that’s why he was admitted. But not seriously. Beaten, concussed. He died of something completely different. Someone obviously decided to follow him to hospital to finish the job.

  Silence.

  Then he said: – Are you completely sure of that?

  She laughed, feigning exasperation. – It’s my job to find out things like that. I’ve been doing it since before you were born. They’ve arrested a suspect. Now she felt she had said too much. – The online editions will have all this in a few hours’ time; you can read about it there. Why did you call me?

  – Nothing really. Just about Trym.

  She could tell from his voice that this wasn’t true. Relieved that he wasn’t going to bring up all the other stuff, she poured herself another half-glass of wine. She would make things right. Pay the debt she owed them. That was exactly how she phrased it to Zoran when he came back in with the espresso.

  – You go round with this idea that you owe some kind of debt you have to repay, he replied. – Not the kind of debt Trym had, but all the same. Maybe the two types of debt are connected.

  – Now you’re talking like Knut Reinertsen, she protested. – Maybe you’ve been spending too much time in his company recently.

  Zoran laughed. – Maybe so. I’m sure you remember what he said about parents and children last time he was here.

  – Don’t remind me.

  – The role of the first child is to live up to the father’s ambitions. The role of the second child is to live up to the mother’s emotions.

  – That man is a clown, she groaned. – And he’s never had any children of his own to raise. Thank goodness.

  – Now you’re going a bit too far. You don’t know him.

  She snorted. – Father’s ambitions. The man who was father to my boys never had any.

  Zoran shook his head. – Does it never occur to you that you’re a trifle unfair on him too?

  Of course she was unfair. Always had been. Had condemned Ivar for being who he was and not who she wanted him to be.

  – I’ll tell you a story, she said. – When Sigurd was in primary school, he often got into fights with other boys.

  – Hardly an unnatural propensity.

  – One of the boys in class used to terrorise the others. Most of them put up with it, but not Sigurd. One day he had had enough, and there was a fight.

  – I’m sure Sigurd handled himself well.

  – The other boy was a head taller than everyone else, but Sigurd gave him a thrashing. And I mean a real thrashing, lips, teeth, bruises. The bully was off school for several days afterwards.

  – You sound proud.

  She gestured with a hand. – I had always told the boys that they had to hit back if the situation ever arose. And now we had to sit through one of those conflict meetings and apologise for Sigurd’s violent tendencies. Everything had to be done the Norwegian way. Rather than deal with something themselves, children absolutely must go to the grown-ups and report it. And the grown-ups would then talk about it and work on changing attitudes. As though reporting something like that ever helped.

  – And you made this very clear to those at the meeting, I imagine.

  She nodded firmly. – Suddenly my patience just ran out. So we’re supposed to teach our children to be victims instead of looking after themselves. I can still remember the looks I got.

  – I can imagine the scene, Jenny.

  – Ivar didn’t often get angry with me, but he sure was after that meeting.

  Zoran poured out their espressos. – Decaff, he informed her. – Nothing must be allowed to disturb your sleep tonight.

  – Not even you?

  He sat beside her. – I heard you talking to Sigurd about the murder. Is that such a good idea?

  – He won’t say anything about it. And he’s very curious.

  – Everybody is.

  She snuggled into him. Again that thought of getting away. She’d mentioned it to him. Move to another country together. She’d suggested Germany, where his daughter lived. He rejected the idea, for some reason or other didn’t want to talk about her. But the US was a possibility. Or even Australia, if Jennifer wanted to go back. And Sigurd was part of the picture too. Australia was the country for people like him.

  – You’re still thinking about the Iranian, she said.

  He sipped his coffee, glanced down at her. – He has a name.

  – Of course he does. She felt a touch of shame at the way she was always trying to keep her distance. – You’re still thinking about Arash. It bothers you.

  – Doesn’t it bother you?

  – Of course.

  – Arash is no killer.

  – I never said he was. But sooner or later they would have arrested him. Best that it was sooner.

  Some swallows came towards them, cheeping, pulled away at the last instant in an arc and rose into the sky again.

  – You’re probably right there, Jenny.

  – I think it’s hard to imagine he’s killed anyone too. But he was at the scene of two murders, and then that thumb …

  – He’s in utter despair.

  Zoran picked up the wine bottle. She placed her hand across her glass, and he poured into his own. They heard the rescue helicopter starting up down on the landing bay, the air cut into slices that came scything towards them. Once it had taken off and disappeared, he said: – Being locked up is probably the worst thing that could happen to him.

  – The psychiatrists will keep an eye on him. They think he’s psychotic.

  – So would you and I be if we were exposed to the same things he was. Tortured every day for six months. Threats, electricity, punching, mock executions.

  She thought about this. – Might that be the reason this had happened?

  – Are you suggesting that he’s killed two people?

  – I suppose that’s what I’m asking myself.

  Zor
an looked up into the bright sky, followed a cloud with his gaze as it slowly unfolded and assumed another shape.

  – I’d very much like to have spoken to him myself.

  She stroked his powerful forearm, left her hand there. – He won’t be allowed mail or visitors.

  – Might you be allowed to talk to him?

  She felt as if her whole face frowned. – Why should I talk to him?

  Zoran shrugged. – To see how he is. Let him know that someone out here is thinking of him all the time. I’m afraid this might end very badly for him.

  Jennifer stood up, leaned against the balcony.

  – I doubt if they’d let me. She bent down and pressed her cheek against his. Nothing calmed her down like the smell of him. – But I can try.

  22

  Sigurd drifted through the streets on the June evening. When he looked round, he was in Frogner Park. He carried on through the graveyard, crossed the ring road and headed up the hill. Only then did he begin to run. In his thoughts he repeated what Jenny had said. He was stabbed to death. Are you sure? He was stabbed to death. But what about the injuries he had when he was admitted? He was stabbed to death. They followed him to the hospital and stabbed him to death. Are you one hundred per cent sure? He was stabbed to death. It’s my job to find out things like that. He left the road and headed into the forest. A thin veil of rain, grey and warm; he hardly registered it. Suddenly he stopped and shouted into the trees. He was stabbed to death. They followed him to the hospital. He squatted down, tipped over and landed face first in the damp grass, inhaled the smell of the earth it grew in.