Punishment

by Holt, Anne

  He poured some water from a bottle without a top and put a paper cup down in front of her.

  ‘You were thirsty,’ he reminded her. ‘Drink. Do you really mean that?’

  ‘Mean what?’

  She spilt some water and noticed that she was shaking. The cold water trickled from the corner of her mouth down over her chin and into the hollow of her neck. She tugged at the neck of her sweater.

  ‘That it doesn’t concern you.’

  The telephone rang. The sound was shrill and insistent. Adam Stubo grabbed the receiver. His Adam’s apple made three obvious jumps, as if the man was about to throw up. He said nothing. A minute passed. A quiet yes, not much more than an incomprehensible grunt, came from his lips. Another minute passed. Then he put the phone down. He slowly angled for the cigar holder in his breast pocket. His fingers tickled the brushed metal. Still he said nothing. Suddenly he pushed the cigar back into place and tightened his tie. Wrapped up in a plastic bag. The murderer had left a note. Now you’ve got what you deserved.’

  Johanne pulled off her glasses. She didn’t want to see. She didn’t want to hear either. Instead she stood up blindly and put out her hand in the direction of the door.

  ‘That’s what the note said,’ said Adam Stubo. ‘“You’ve got what you deserved.” Do you still think this is none of your business?’

  ‘Let me go. Let me out of here.’

  She shuffled towards the door and fumbled for the handle, with her glasses still in her left hand.

  ‘Of course,’ she heard in the distance. ‘I’ll get Oscar to drive you home. Thank you for coming.’

  XI

  Emilie couldn’t understand why Kim had been allowed to go. It was unfair. She had come first, so she should be the first one to go. And Kim had got a Coke whereas she had to drink tepid milk and water that tasted of metal. Everything tasted of metal. The food. Her mouth. She chewed and sucked her own tongue. It tasted like money, coins that had been in someone’s pocket for a long time. A long, long time. Long before she had come here. Too long. Daddy wasn’t looking for her any more. Daddy must have given up. And Mummy wasn’t in Heaven, she was ashes and dust in an urn and didn’t exist any more. It was so bright. Emilie rubbed her eyes and tried to shut out the sharp glare from the strip light. She could sleep. She slept nearly all the time. It was best that way. Then she could dream. And in any case, she had nearly stopped eating. Her stomach had shrunk and there wasn’t even room for tomato soup any more. The man got angry when he collected the still full bowls. Not really angry, just irritated.

  Kim had been allowed to go home.

  That was unfair and Emilie couldn’t understand why.

  XII

  Adam Stubo had to pull himself together not to touch the naked body. His hand was reaching out towards the boy’s calf. He wanted to stroke the smooth skin. He wanted to make sure that there was no life left in the boy. The way the boy was lying – on his back with closed eyes, his head to one side, his arms alongside his body, one hand slightly closed and the other open with the palm facing up, as if he was waiting for something, a gift, some sweets – the child could so easily have been alive. The section from the autopsy, which went across his breastbone and down to just above his small penis in the shape of a T, had been carefully closed. The paleness of his face was due to the time of year; winter was just over and summer had not yet begun. The boy’s mouth was half open. Stubo realised that he wanted to kiss the child. He wanted to breathe life into the boy. He wanted to ask for forgiveness.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, choking, into his hand. ‘Shit, shit.’

  The pathologist looked at him over the rims of his glasses.

  ‘You never get used to it, do you?’

  Adam Stubo didn’t answer. His knuckles were white and he sniffed gently.

  ‘I’m done,’ said the pathologist, pulling off his latex gloves. ‘A lovely little child. Five years old. You may well say shit. But it won’t help much.’

  Stubo wanted to look away, but couldn’t. He carefully lowered his right hand to the boy’s face. It was as if the child was smiling. Stubo let his index finger touch the face, lightly, running it from the corner of the eye to the chin. The skin was already waxy to touch; it felt like an ice-cold shock to his fingertip.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You lot didn’t find him in time,’ said the pathologist drily. ‘Strictly speaking, that’s what happened.’

  He covered the body with a white sheet. It seemed even smaller when covered. The body was so small, it seemed to shrink under the stiff paper. The steel worktop was too big. It was designed for an adult, someone who was responsible for him or herself, who died of a heart attack, perhaps – fatty food and too many cigarettes, modern life and unhealthy pleasures. It wasn’t meant for children.

  ‘Can we just drop the gags?’ said Stubo quietly. ‘We’re both affected by this. By . . .’

  He kept quiet while the pathologist washed his hands thoroughly. It was a ceremony for him, as if he was trying to rid himself of death with soap and water.

  ‘You’re right,’ mumbled the doctor. ‘Sorry. Let’s get out of here.’

  His office was beside the autopsy room.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Adam Stubo, dropping down into a tired two-seater sofa. ‘I want all the details.’

  The pathologist, a thin man of around sixty-five, remained standing by his chair with an absent-minded, slightly surprised look on his face. For a moment, it was as if he couldn’t remember what he was doing. Then he ran his hand over his scalp and sat down.

  ‘There aren’t any.’

  The office had no windows. But the air was fresh, nearly cold, and surprisingly free of smells. The quiet buzz of the ventilation system was drowned out by a distant ambulance siren. Stubo felt closed in. There was nothing to give him his bearings. No daylight, no shadows or shifting clouds to tell him where he was.

  ‘The subject was a five-year-old identified boy,’ the pathologist reeled off, as if reading from an invisible report. ‘Healthy. Normal height, normal weight. No illnesses were reported by his family, no illnesses were identified during the autopsy. Inner organs healthy and intact. There is no damage to the skeleton or connective tissue. Nor are there any marks or signs of violence or inflicted injuries. The skin is unbroken, with the exception of a graze on the right knee that is obviously from an earlier date. At least a week old and therefore inflicted before he disappeared.’

  Stubo rubbed his face. The room was spinning. He needed something to drink.

  ‘Teeth are intact and healthy. A full set of milk teeth, with the exception of the front tooth in the upper gum, which must have fallen out a matter of hours before death . . .’

  He hesitated and then rephrased it:

  ‘Before little Kim died,’ he finished quietly. ‘In other words . . . mors subita.’

  ‘No known reason for death,’ said Adam Stubo.

  ‘Exactly. Though he did . . .’

  The pathologist was red-eyed. His thin face reminded Stubo of an old goat, especially as the man had a goatee that made his face even longer.

  ‘He did have some diazepam in his urine. Not much, but . . .’

  ‘As in . . . Valium? Was he poisoned?’

  Stubo straightened his back and laid his arm along the back of the sofa. He needed to hold on to something.

  ‘No, not at all.’

  The pathologist scratched his little beard with his index finger.

  ‘He was not poisoned. I am of the opinion, however, that a healthy boy of five years should absolutely not be taking medicine that contains diazepam, but all the same, there’s no question of poisoning. Of course, it’s impossible to say what kind of dose he was originally given, but at the time of death, there were only traces left. In no way . . .’

  He stroked his chin and squinted at Stubo.

  ‘. . . enough to harm him. The body had got rid of most of it already, unless he was only given a ridiculously small amount. And I can’t imagine
what that would be good for.’

  ‘Valium,’ said Adam Stubo slowly, as if the word itself held the secret, the explanation as to why a boy of five could just die, for no apparent reason.

  ‘Valium,’ the pathologist repeated, equally slowly. ‘Or something else with the same substance.’

  ‘But what is it used for?’

  ‘Used for? You mean: what is diazepam used for?’

  For the first time, the pathologist got a slightly irritated look just above his eyes and he glanced over at the clock, openly.

  ‘Surely you know that. Nerves. It’s widely used in hospitals for pre-op purposes. Makes the patient drowsy. Calms them down. Relaxes them. It’s also given to patients with epilepsy. To prevent severe convulsions. Both children and adults. Kim didn’t suffer from anything like that.’

  ‘So why would anyone give a five-year-old . . .’

  ‘I’ll have to stop there for today, Stubo. I’ve actually been working for eleven hours. You’ll get a preliminary report in the morning. The final report won’t be ready for a few weeks. Have to wait for all the results before I can finish it. But, broadly speaking . . .’

  He smiled. Had it not been for the expression in his small, close eyes, Stubo might have suspected him of enjoying all this.

  ‘You’ve got a major problem. The boy simply died, just like that. For no apparent reason. And that’s it for today.’

  He looked at the clock again, before taking off his white lab coat and putting on a parka that had seen better days. When they were both through the door, he locked it with two keys and then put a friendly hand on Stubo’s shoulder.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said drily. ‘You need it.’

  As they passed the autopsy room on the way out, Adam Stubo turned away. Fortunately it was pouring with rain outside. He wanted to walk home, even though it would take him well over an hour. It was 16 May. And past six o’clock. In the distance he could hear a school band practising the national anthem, out of time and out of tune.

  XIII

  Something had happened. The room seemed lighter. The oppressive feeling of an old-fashioned sickroom was gone. The metal bed had been pushed against the wall and covered with a bright blanket and lots of colourful cushions. Someone had carried in a wing chair. And in it sat a well-dressed Alvhild Sofienberg with her feet on a footstool. Her slippers were just peeking out from underneath a blanket. Someone had managed to breathe something that resembled life into her grey wispy hair; a soft curl fell on to her forehead.

  ‘You look so much younger,’ exclaimed Johanne Vik. ‘Alvhild, you look so well, sitting there.’

  The window was wide open. Spring had finally come. The National Day celebrations had left behind an early summer feel that had lasted for a couple of days now. The smell of old onions was not noticeable. Instead, Johanne breathed in the smell of damp earth from the garden outside. An old man had raised his hand to his cloth hat as she crossed the yard. A good neighbour, explained Alvhild Sofienberg. Gardening was his hobby. He couldn’t bear seeing the garden going to seed when she was ill. Her smile was softer at the edges now.

  ‘To tell you the truth, I hadn’t expected to see you again,’ she said, drily. ‘You didn’t seem very comfortable when you were here last. But I can understand why. I really wasn’t well. In fact, to be honest, I was very ill.’

  She tossed her head, a gesture that she immediately rectified.

  ‘I am still seriously ill. Don’t be fooled. The strange thing is that I feel as if death has been standing over there by the wardrobe waiting for several weeks, but now has suddenly gone for a wander and disappeared. Maybe he’s busy with other people at the moment. I’m sure he’ll be back soon. Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please. Black. I can get it myself, only . . .’

  Johanne started to get up. Alvhild’s look made her sit down again.

  ‘I’m not dead yet,’ she said tersely. ‘Here.’

  She poured some coffee from a thermos on the table beside her and handed the cup to Johanne. The porcelain was beautiful, nearly transparent. The coffee was pretty thin too.

  ‘Sorry about the coffee,’ said Alvhild. ‘It’s my stomach. It’s not up to much. And to what do I owe the honour?’

  It was incredible. When Johanne had decided to go and visit the old lady once more, she hadn’t been certain whether she would find her alive.

  ‘I’ve found Aksel Seier,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, you have?’

  Alvhild Sofienberg lifted her cup to her mouth, as if she wanted to hide her curiosity. The movement irritated Johanne, in a way she couldn’t quite explain. ‘Yes. I haven’t found him in person, if you see what I mean, but I know where he is. Where he lives. Well, that is to say, it wasn’t actually me that found him, but my . . . Well, Aksel Seier lives in the USA.’

  ‘The USA?’

  Alvhild put her cup down again, without having touched the contents.

  ‘How . . . what is he doing there?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea!’

  Alvhild put her hand to her mouth, as if she was frightened to show her teeth. Johanne sipped the light-brown liquid in the blue porcelain.

  ‘At first when I found out, I was surprised that anyone with a record would be given an entry visa to the US,’ she continued. ‘They are incredibly strict about things like that. Then it dawned on me that perhaps the rules were different at the end of the sixties, when he went over. But they weren’t. Aksel Seier is in fact an American citizen.’

  ‘That wasn’t mentioned at all when . . .’

  ‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t. But that’s not so strange. He was born in the USA, on a trip his parents made in connection with a short-lived and disastrous attempt to emigrate. He kept his American citizenship, though he was of course Norwegian as well. There was no reason whatsoever to make a point of this during his trial. Or subsequent appeal. He was presumably only asked in summary if he was Norwegian. And he was. Or rather, is.’

  Alvhild Sofienberg was astounded. There was a sudden quiet in the room and Johanne jumped when the door opened and the man in the hat popped his head round.

  ‘That’s it for today,’ he grumbled. ‘What a mess. Don’t know that I’ll be able to train those roses. And the rhododendrons have seen their best days, Mrs Sofienberg. Well, good afternoon.’

  He withdrew without waiting for an answer. It was cooler in the room. The open window started to rattle and Alvhild Sofienberg looked as if she was about to fall asleep. Johanne went over to close the window.

  ‘I was thinking about going to see him,’ she said lightly.

  ‘Do you think he’d like that? Do you think he’d welcome a visitor? A complete stranger, an academic from the old country?’

  ‘Difficult to say. But it is an interesting case. In terms of my project, it is the clearest, most . . . To get Aksel Seier to talk would be so important for my research.’

  ‘I see,’ said the old lady. ‘I don’t quite . . . quite understand exactly what it is you are doing. With your research.’

  When Johanne was first contacted by Alvhild Sofienberg, through a colleague who knew Alvhild’s daughter personally, she had got the impression that the old lady had only a superficial knowledge of what she was doing. Alvhild had never asked. Had never shown any interest in the project. She was living on borrowed time and had used her failing energy to get Johanne interested in her case, the story of Aksel Seier. Everything else was superfluous. She would soon be seventy and did not want to waste time showing false interest in other people’s work.

  There was fresh colour in her cheeks, she didn’t look ill at all and certainly not tired. Johanne pulled her chair closer.

  ‘My starting point is ten murder cases from the period 1950 to 1960,’ she said, stirring the thin coffee for no reason. ‘All the defendants claimed they were innocent. None of them changed their plea while serving their sentence. As far as they were concerned, they were innocent. My aim is not to find out whether they were telling the truth or no
t, but rather to compare and contrast the fate of these people while they were serving their sentence and in relation to any appeals, retrials and subsequent release. In brief, my aim is to establish the extent to which external interest is important to how the legal system deals with such cases. As you know, Fredrik Fasting Torgersen, for example, was . . .’

  Johanne smiled bashfully. Alvhild Sofienberg was an adult when the Torgersen case was heard. Johanne was not even born.

  ‘Sentenced to life for the murder of a young woman. He has persistently pleaded innocent for over forty years. To this day, other people, who initially at least were complete strangers to him, have continued to fight tirelessly for him. Jens Bjørneboe, for example, and . . .’

  Again she blushed and held back.

  ‘But of course, you know all of this,’ she said quietly.

  Alvhild nodded and smiled. She said nothing.

  ‘I guess I want to try to say something about two things,’ continued Johanne. ‘First, do cases that get a lot of attention have any particular common features? Are they particularly weak, in terms of proof? Or is it the defendant’s – subsequently the convict’s – personality that makes the case more interesting to others? What sort of role does media coverage play in terms of the investigation and legal proceedings? In other words, is it purely arbitrary whether a case falls from public view the moment the judgment is made, or if it continues to attract interest, year after year?’

  She noticed that she had raised her voice.

  ‘Then,’ she continued, in a quieter voice, ‘I want to look at the consequences of a case being kept alive in the public interest. To be cynical and in purely legal terms, Torgersen, for example, has hardly reaped much joy from all the support he has had. Of course, I understand . . .’

  Johanne noticed the intense interest in Alvhild’s face. It was as if the old woman had galvanised all her energy, her back was straight as a courtier’s, and she barely blinked. Johanne went on:

  ‘Of course, I understand that on a personal, human level, it must be of great importance to know that someone out there actually believes you . . .’