Certain Signs that You are Dead

by Torkil Damhaug

  Zoran carefully raised her head, prised himself free, stood up. – I don’t recall you telling me that.

  – About a cat that didn’t die in a car crash? Jennifer sat up, pushed her hair back behind her ears, tried to hold it there. – I heard him wrong. It was his accent. I thought he was talking about a cat, but he was talking about Katja.

  – Has she been in a car crash?

  – I’ve no idea.

  – You think this is important?

  She followed him out into the kitchen, rested her head against his chest, exhausted but unable to calm herself.

  – I don’t trust her. Not for one second. She knows more than she’s telling Sigurd.

  The glow from the liquor she had been drinking was gone now, and she felt cold again.

  – We’ll get to the bottom of this, Jenny.

  She closed her eyes, raised her hand and found the heartbeat beneath his shirt, strong and steady. A clock that must never run down.

  38

  She wasn’t there.

  Sigurd noticed as soon as he opened the door to their hotel room. Her things, the open suitcase, the dress draped over the lid, one cup of a black bra sticking out from beneath a chair. He looked in the bathroom. Looked under the bed and in the wardrobe. Searched for a message on the table, on the floor, in the drawer of the bedside table, under the pillow, in the pile of bedclothes.

  He grabbed his phone, got straight through to her voicemail.

  – Katja, for Chrissake, where are you?

  He stood there fiddling with the screen. Crossed to the window, opened it to the sounds of the city. No one in sight on the street below. A car came round the corner.

  – Oslo police.

  Without thinking, he had hit the emergency number. The voice repeated that he was through to the police.

  – I’ve got something to report, he muttered finally.

  – I can’t hear you. Speak louder.

  Then he caught sight of her. Walking up the pavement on the other side. He hung up, was about to shout down to her, caught himself in time.

  A minute later, she was in the doorway. He forced himself to remain sitting on the edge of the bed.

  – Where have you been?

  She didn’t answer, pulled off her thin jacket, put something down in her suitcase; it looked like a bag from the chemist’s.

  – Fucking hell, Katja.

  – Don’t speak to me like that, she retorted.

  He could hear she was on something. Her voice was lighter. She smiled to herself, not from happiness but from a sick energy. He had seen her like this a couple of times before.

  – Is this a good time to be getting high?

  – Shut up, she growled.

  Then he was standing over her. – What the hell do you think you’re doing? he bellowed into her face.

  – Not going to hit me?

  She looked him in the eye. Hers were big and wide open.

  He dropped his hand, sank down beside her.

  – You are hopeless, he muttered.

  – Am I? She turned to him. – Am I the one who’s hopeless? All you can do is run off to talk to Mummy. I’m the one who’s left to sort this shit out.

  He looked at her in surprise. Sensed her reaction had something to do with Jenny.

  – In the first place, this is your shit.

  – What did you say?

  – Your shit, he repeated.

  She slapped him; he felt a stinging from his chin up along his hairline and back across the top of his skull. The pain got him back on his feet.

  – You never do anything, she hissed. – All you can do is talk.

  He was on the edge. One more step and he would hit back. And then anything could happen. Suddenly he saw Trym, alone in the barn loft. Still with his back to that rickety door, blocking it with his body.

  He backed away from her, leaned against the wall, suddenly relieved, as though he had passed a test. Now it was possible to say what had to be said. And then leave her. If he’d hit her, he would be trapped.

  – Ibro Hakanovic, he said, quite calmly. It was somewhere to begin. – He was the type that does things. Drug smuggling and murder. Doesn’t matter what it is, as long as you do something.

  – And what do you know about Ibro?

  Sigurd pulled the chair out into the room, sat on his fists to keep them under control.

  – You get everything on a plate, she said. – Mummy and Daddy take care of it all. You have no idea what other people have been through. You know nothing about Ibro, so please shut up about him.

  He laughed, his laughter too cold, too high pitched.

  – I’m not particularly interested in the guy.

  She stood up, looked out on to the street.

  – Don’t show yourself at the window.

  With a quick jerk she closed the curtain. – Can you imagine what it’s like to be held prisoner in a camp? Your mother and your sister raped. Over and over again. You’re twelve years old and you’re forced to watch. You know what that twelve year old thinks?

  This wasn’t what Sigurd wanted to talk about.

  – He thinks it’s his fault, she answered herself. – That he should have protected them. That was what Ibro did for the rest of his life, do you understand? He protected people. You are so fucking full of contempt for people you don’t know anything about.

  She went into the toilet, busy in there for a while, flushed.

  Sigurd tried to hold on to what he had made up his mind to say. Tell her. Then take her with him to the police. Leave it to them to look after her, send her somewhere where no one knew who she was. New name, new appearance.

  By the time she returned, he still wasn’t ready to say what had to be said.

  – And how do you know it’s true? he asked.

  – What?

  – This about Ibro.

  She took off her dress, lay down naked on the bed.

  – He had documentation.

  – What kind of documentation?

  – Diaries, court papers, newspaper cuttings. I’ve seen some of it. He carried it about with him everywhere.

  – But the people who raped and stuff like that were caught, Sigurd objected. – There were court cases for years afterwards. The war criminals were brought to justice.

  She gave an overbearing smile.

  – The really bad ones always get away. The ones who were supposed to punish the criminals ended up hiding them. That was what Ibro wanted to do with his life. Make sure those fucking killers got what they deserved.

  So that’s why he started smuggling drugs? Sigurd thought of asking but didn’t.

  – Ibro was afraid. He believed what happened back then could happen again, at any time. That the people who killed his family could come after him. That’s what happens to you when you get damaged as a child.

  – Okay, I understand all that.

  – So that’s why he hid things. Only showed them to people he trusted. Talked to me about it. I managed to persuade him to get a hold of himself when it got to be too much.

  Suddenly a sound out in the corridor, footsteps on the carpet, stopping outside. Sigurd jumped to his feet.

  – What is it?

  He hushed her, padded across the floor, put his ear to the door. In that same instant, someone knocked, thunder pealing through his head.

  – Get your clothes on, he whispered.

  She looked at him in fright, grabbed her nightgown from the chair and covered herself with it.

  He switched off the light, crossed to the window, opened it. They were two floors up, above a little patch of lawn next to the wall. Four cars parked on the far side of the road. He couldn’t see anyone inside them. There was another knock, louder this time, and he thought he could hear a voice outside.

  He sprang back to the door again. Indicated to Katja that she should get ready to jump out the window.

  – Who is it?

  A male voice said something or other. Sigurd got his phone from
the bedside table, tapped in the emergency number, held it ready.

  – I’ve called the police, he said into the crack. – They’ll be here in thirty seconds.

  – Sigurd, he heard. – I have to talk to you.

  A few moments passed before it dawned on him who it was.

  He pulled his shirt over his wounds. Waited until Katja had her nightgown on.

  – You’re getting us really worried, said Zoran when Sigurd opened the door slightly.

  – What do you want? he asked, even though he already knew.

  – Jenny … Zoran began.

  – Did she say where I was?

  – She didn’t tell anyone else. She’s sick with worry.

  Sigurd put his head out into the corridor, checked there was no one else there. – So she sends you.

  – So she sends me, nodded Zoran. – Can I come in for a few minutes?

  Sigurd let him. – And you’re not being followed by anyone?

  – CIA. That’s all.

  – Sit down, growled Sigurd, not laughing. He pointed to the chair by the desk.

  – Hi, Katja, said Zoran, moving the clothes lying on it.

  She took them from him, tossed them into her suitcase.

  – How did you get into the hotel? Sigurd wanted to know.

  – I booked in.

  – Your own room?

  Zoran fished something from his jacket pocket, waved a keycard. – The next floor. It was the only way to get in touch with you without causing a lot of unnecessary bother.

  Sigurd didn’t know if he liked Zoran, but there was something about his manner that was calming. Looking across at Katja on the bed, he could see that she reacted the same way.

  – Mother’s emissary, he said acidly. – An honourable posting.

  – I’m not too concerned about honour, answered Zoran. – I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you. Check that wound, for instance. He said it in a completely matter-of-fact way, as though offering to change a punctured tyre.

  – And what else can you do for us?

  Zoran scratched his unshaven chin. – Listen to what you have to say. Maybe give you some advice. If not, then I’ll keep my mouth shut.

  – What has Jenny told you?

  – She tells me most things. It pains me when she’s afraid. He pointed to his chest. – That’s the way we are.

  He nodded towards the bathroom. – Let’s look at that stab wound first.

  The gashes opened up again as Sigurd pulled off the bandage.

  – Sit down on the toilet.

  Zoran bent over him, examined the cut closely.

  – When did this happen?

  Sigurd glanced at his watch. – Seventeen or eighteen hours ago.

  – It can still be stitched, but we’ll have to wait a couple of days. You’ll need a tetanus jab, and you must be careful to keep it clean and moist.

  – If not?

  – Then you’ll be walking round with a scar like a war hero.

  – Fine, as long as I don’t have to go to A and E now. That’s not an option.

  Katja came in with a packet in one hand containing plasters and dressings, and some disinfectant in the other. Sigurd noted that the agitated look was gone from her eyes.

  – Great, Zoran said to her. – You could have been a surgical nurse.

  For an instant or two he seemed to be looking at the scratches on her cheeks.

  – Is that what you were doing in town? Sigurd asked quickly. – Going to the chemist’s?

  She gave him a small smile. – I care about you. Haven’t you realised that yet, Sigurd Woods?

  After changing the bandages, Zoran washed his hands in the sink. Back in the room, he said: – I’ll write you a prescription for antibiotics. But you’re going to have to tell the police what you know soon.

  He glanced at Katja. – What both of you know, he corrected himself. – If you don’t, Jenny’s going to talk to them.

  – Christ, she’s my mother.

  Zoran nodded. – That’s why.

  – We know what you mean, said Katja. She was sitting with her legs drawn up underneath her, wearing nothing but the flimsy nightdress. – We’re happy you want to help us, she said, not taking her eyes off him.

  Zoran appeared to be thinking.

  – Have you ever been in a car crash? he asked suddenly.

  Katja stretched her legs out in front of her. – Why do you ask?

  – Something Ibro Hakanovic said at the hospital. That he had to talk to you about a car accident. That you weren’t dead after all.

  Her eyebrows arched. – Did Ibro say that? She got up, crossed again to the window.

  – What did he mean? asked Zoran.

  She turned and looked at him, suddenly more distant again, as though she were moving between memories. – Don’t know, she said finally. – But you’re right. We have to get this sorted out. We just need a few hours, then it will all be over.

  – The police?

  – I’ll go to the police later today. Or Sigurd will.

  Zoran looked at her for a long moment.

  – You two know what you’re doing?

  Sigurd didn’t answer.

  – We know what we’re doing, Katja said.

  As Zoran was opening the door, Sigurd stopped him.

  – Can I ask you something?

  Zoran turned, half a head taller than him. – You know you can.

  – We’ve got a voicemail message Ibro left for Katja. We can hear him being killed. Do you understand Bosnian?

  – Bosnian and Serbian are the same language.

  – Can you listen to it for us?

  Sigurd held his hand out to Katja. She hesitated a few seconds before she picked up her phone, tapped in the code and handed it to him, left it to Sigurd to navigate to the message. He found it and passed the phone on to Zoran.

  Zoran stood by the bathroom door, a thin strip of light from within crossing the cropped grey hair. It moved as he listened. Something changed in his face too. Starting at the forehead and spreading down his cheeks.

  – I don’t understand …

  He tapped the screen, held the phone to his ear again. A different reaction this time; he nodded a couple of times, as though it were he Ibro Hakanovic was talking to.

  – Can I take this with me? He looked at Sigurd.

  – Don’t see why not. At least the SIM card.

  – No he can’t, said Katja.

  Sigurd stood in front of her. – Well, you’ve got the other phone.

  – Mind your own business.

  She pushed him aside, walked over to Zoran, took the phone from him.

  – I have to look after it.

  Look after Ibro’s voice, thought Sigurd. A tiny shrine where she can visit him.

  – Has anyone else heard this? Zoran wanted to know.

  – Why?

  – What he’s saying, I need to hear it again. He held out his hand.

  Katja seemed to think about it, then gave the phone back to him. Zoran took a card from his pocket, a ballpoint pen. Clamped the phone between his ear and his shoulder and took notes as he listened for a third time.

  – Then you’ll be staying here.

  It sounded more like a decision than a question.

  – For the time being.

  He turned, his hand on the doorknob.

  – Jenny or I will call you at regular intervals, Sigurd. And you must answer. If not, the police will be here within three minutes. I’m serious.

  Sigurd thought about it, half reluctant, part relieved. He picked up the bloodstained bandage, rolled it up and tossed it into the waste basket.

  – I’ll answer, he said. – Thank you for taking the trouble, he added.

  Zoran nodded briefly and went out.

  Afterwards, they sat beside each other below the window, half-naked bodies in the light from the night sky. Her breathing came more easily now, a deep sound he could feel through the hand that was touching her back. It o
ccurred to him that it was he who kept her breath going. If he let go of her, she wouldn’t be able to go on.

  – Why did you ask him to listen to the voicemail? she asked suddenly.

  He hesitated before answering. – Just a thought. In case what happened to Ibro had nothing to do with the gun or the gangs in Malmö.

  She snuggled up to him, her cheek against his.

  – Do you care about me, Sigurd?

  Time to say it. No bullshit about still being friends. Do what had to be done, make sure she was somewhere safe. Then separate ways. Never meet again.

  – Sure.

  He pulled free. Something in her eyes, something that was always there during the early days.

  – Pack your things, he said. – We’ll go to another hotel.

  – Why?

  – Someone knows we’re here. He stood up. – You’ve been out. So have I.

  – Wouldn’t they have been here long ago?

  – We’re leaving, he decided. He went into the toilet, emptied his bladder even though there wasn’t much there. Washed himself with a cloth, cleaned away the pus that had seeped through the bandage. Tossed the cloth into the bin. Caught sight of the tip of something lying there. He lifted the paper that was obscuring the rest of it.

  A small white stick at the bottom of the waste bin.

  He picked it up between thumb and index finger. Knew at once what it was. It resembled a pen, but with a small window. Inside this light blue window, clearly visible, a plus sign.

  Still holding it between the tips of his fingers, his hand out from his body, he went back into the room. Dropped it on the bed, right in front of her face. He couldn’t say a word.

  She sat bolt upright, wrapped her arms around her knees. – I won’t do it.

  With her face buried between her legs, she began to rock back and forth.

  – You hear what I say? There’s no way I’ll get rid of it. No way.

  He slipped down the wall until he was sitting on the floor; it made the pain in his side worse. He needed that pain now.

  39

  Arash hears water running. He crawls out of the hole below the boulders. As he emerges, it turns into a grave chamber. Someone moaning; the moaning spreads, as though the sound is flooding from the trees. He heads into the forest. She’s still lying there by the stream. He bends over it; a face comes floating up through the liquid mirror.