Broken

by Karin Fossum

  His neighbour, Green, had stopped talking to him; whenever they met, he would merely nod and disappear into his flat. They were probably wondering what on earth was going on, but Alvar did not have the energy to worry about it, and he could not cope with arguments or conflicts, so he nodded politely in return and pretended that everything was just fine.

  He had become very fond of his cat. The kitten had grown in record time and turned into a fine, handsome animal. Of course, he ought to have him neutered, but he could not find it in himself to call the veterinary surgery and have this brutal procedure carried out. He could not bear the thought of witnessing the operation. He just did not have the strength, it was that simple. As a result the cat often came back home with cuts and tears all over his body from fights with other cats in the neighbourhood. And he clearly had an inbuilt alarm clock because he always sat on the stairs waiting for Alvar when he came home from work. If he was not there it usually meant that Lindys or Rikke or whatever her name was had let herself into the flat and let the cat in at the same time.

  As he walked up the drive he could not see the cat. He waited for him on the bottom step for a while; he called out a few times to see if he would turn up. And then something grey and white stirred in the bushes. And the cat came towards him. He unlocked the door and went inside; the cat followed him. There was no one on his sofa. So she was probably not going to turn up today either; that would make it six days since he saw her last. The cat walked around the floor, sniffing. He followed him with his eyes, but when he went to lift him up, he hissed furiously at him. He was shocked. The cat had never hissed at him before. Perhaps he was hurt. He checked him for cuts and bruises, but he looked unharmed and healthy. He went out into the kitchen with the shopping he had just bought. Some bacon, a leek, a litre of milk, a loaf of bread. The cat followed him and went over to his bowl straight away and started to eat his pellets. Alvar diced the bacon with a sharp knife. He chopped up the leek and fetched eggs from the fridge; he wanted to cook himself a really delicious omelette. The cat ate until he was sated, then he returned to the living room where he was in the habit of settling down in an armchair or on the corner of the sofa. But today he did not do that. He stopped in the middle of the floor and started miaowing plaintively. Alvar followed and looked at him. He had a strong feeling that something was wrong, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was.

  'Why don't you want to go on the sofa, Goya?' he asked. The cat miaowed again. So he went back to finish his cooking. That was when he heard someone open and slam the front door shut. And there she was, dressed in a pink angora jumper and leggings so washed out they hardly had any colour. The same ankle boots with those ghastly heels.

  'Hi. What are you making?'

  He glanced at her sideways from the kitchen and nodded. She joined him immediately and asked for a glass of cold water.

  'I'm thirsty all the time,' she explained, leaning her head back as she drank. He nodded a second time. He did not really understand addicts, but suddenly it was rather nice that she had turned up. And she never stayed for long, he had to give her that. Most of the time she was simply sleeping on his sofa while he got on with his business. Also, she was not high and her ice-blue eyes were completely clear. How bright they are, he thought, as hard as jewels. Yet again he was struck by her transparency, her green veins, her pale cheeks, her skin stretched tightly across her bones. She put down her glass on the worktop and went into the living room. She settled down on her regular spot on the sofa. She called the cat immediately; her voice was soft and enticing. Alvar whisked eggs. He put the diced bacon and the leeks into a frying pan. The smell of bacon and leek began to fill the kitchen. Did she want anything to eat? No, she never wanted anything to eat. He did not believe that she ever ate. He would estimate that she weighed around forty kilos, a frail skeleton stripped of muscles. He peeked into the living room. She had got up again, and she walked across the floor to get the cat. He hissed aggressively at her. She straightened up, folded her arms and looked at Alvar, who had poked his head round the door.

  'So what have you gone and done now?' she asked.

  He had no idea what she meant. He rushed back to the stove to turn the heat down.

  'What have I done wrong now?' He gave her a baffled look.

  'The cat,' she said, looking at him and shaking her head at the same time.

  'Yes, he's a bit odd today,' Alvar said, watching the cat. He had jumped up onto the windowsill where he was trying to hide behind a potted plant.

  'Odd?' she said, exasperated. 'Is he odd?'

  'What I'm trying to say,' he replied, 'is that he's been behaving a little strangely today. I think he might have been in a fight. He won't let me pick him up.'

  Suddenly she walked up to him with long striding steps.

  'But dear God,' she said loudly, 'haven't you got eyes in your head?'

  'Yes,' Alvar hesitated. 'Of course I have.'

  'No, you bloody don't. Take a look at him, go on!'

  She pointed towards the windowsill, her finger quivering. Then she began to laugh out loud.

  'Just look at the cat!' she ordered him.

  'But what about the food,' he whimpered.

  She quickly moved the frying pan away from the heat and nudged him into the living room. Alvar felt confused. But he did as he was told; he went into the living room and over to the window where the cat was pressing itself against the pane. His eye teeth were bared, they were sharp as needles.

  'Is he pregnant?' he asked sheepishly.

  At that she threw back her head and laughed heartily.

  'Pregnant? Are you out of your mind? It's a torn, for God's sake!'

  'But, something's wrong,' he said perplexed, shaking his head, 'and I don't know what it is.'

  'It's not your cat,' she laughed.

  'Eh?'

  He let his hands drop and he wriggled his fingers nervously.

  'You've dragged someone else's cat into the flat.'

  'No,' he said quickly.

  'Yes! Surely you can see it's not Goya. Goya has a white chest and grey paws. This one has a grey chest and white paws. It's also smaller and it's frightened out of its wits because it doesn't know you. It wants to get out, but it can't find the way. Alvar, go and open the door. I bet you Goya is sitting out on the step wanting to get in.'

  Alvar stared at the strange cat, his arms still hanging limply. He felt like a complete idiot. She was still laughing. A silvery, playful laughter tinged with superiority.

  'You really are something else,' she hiccupped. Alvar wanted to laugh, but he could not manage it. He went out into the hall and opened the door. Goya shot in. The strange cat darted across the floor like an arrow and was gone in a flash. Alvar's cheeks flushed scarlet. That he could be so absent-minded, it was unbearable. Angrily he marched out into the kitchen and put the frying pan back on the heat; he heard the butter starting to sizzle again and added the eggs. He frantically began talking about other things. How much he needed a holiday and how he was thinking about maybe going away for a few days. He peered furtively at her to see how she would react.

  'I can look after your flat for you,' she suggested enthusiastically. 'And water your plants. Can I stay overnight? It's so comfy. I won't bring anyone here, I promise.'

  He didn't reply, but he thought about what she was saying.

  'And I can clean the floors and collect your post.'

  He folded the omelette and eased it out of the frying pan with a spatula.

  'But do you think you could leave me some money before you go away?'

  He sighed. Found cutlery and poured himself a glass of milk, placed everything on a tray and carried it into the living room. She followed him.

  'And I can feed the cat. You can't just leave him, you know, he needs his food.'

  'I could put him in a home,' he argued.

  'Oh, but that's so expensive,' she replied.

  'You won't lose the key, will you?' he asked. 'I'm scared that it might fall into the wro
ng hands.'

  'I'll take good care of the key,' she said. 'Look. It's around my neck on a piece of string.

  She stuck her hand down the pink angora sweater and pulled out a blue string and there was the key.

  'I won't let anyone else in, I won't talk to your neighbours and I won't tell anyone that you've gone away; I'm not stupid, Alvar.'

  He believed her. In spite of everything there was a part of her that wanted to be honest.

  'Where will you go?' she asked, flopping onto the sofa.

  He pulled his chair closer to the dining table and started eating.

  'Well, not far. Only a few days. A short break, to Copenhagen possibly. Or maybe Sweden, where they have all these hostels.' As he said it he realised that the idea of sharing accommodation with a group of total strangers did not appeal to him in the least. 'Or I might find a cheap hotel,' he said. 'I might drive around in the Mazda for a bit and see the countryside. Varmland, for example, is said to be very pretty, and a change is as good as a rest.'

  'Yes, it is, isn't it?' she replied warmly. 'I fancy a change as well. I hate this town,' she went on, 'all those people staring at you, young guys fighting the whole time, I'm fed up with it. And it's so bloody cold in the winter, there's a wind from the river, it's like someone pinching your cheeks with icy fingers. Have you ever felt it, Alvar?'

  Yes, he had. All the same one of his favourite things about the town was the river running through it. The bridge, the boats. The promenade where he liked to go for walks on Sundays.

  'You're so good at managing on your own,' she said abruptly.

  He looked up.

  'You cook proper food. And it's always so neat and tidy in here, and so clean. Your plants thrive, all lovely and green.'

  He shook his head, slightly embarrassed by her praise.

  'I mean, single men are usually so messy.'

  'Really?'

  'I know a lot about that,' she said, 'I've visited a lot of them.'

  I don't doubt that, Alvar thought, drinking his cold milk.

  'Don't you have any vices at all?' she asked.

  He considered this. 'I drink sherry,' he said, 'in moderate quantities.'

  'Then it's not a vice,' she stated. 'Merely a harmless habit. It doesn't mean that you are genetically disposed towards dependency.'

  'There is such a gene?' he asked.

  'I swear on my life,' she said. 'In fact, addicts like me are innocent victims. You must realise that, Alvar.'

  'I'm not judging anyone,' he said, hurt.

  'I know,' she said softly. 'You're a sweetheart.'

  Alvar choked on his milk and was overcome by a violent coughing fit.

  'And you press your trousers,' she laughed. 'I don't know anyone else who does that.'

  Alvar ate the rest of his omelette in silence. From time to time he glanced up at her, there was something he was dying to ask her. She lit a cigarette; he went into the kitchen as he always did to fetch her a saucer. He returned and placed it on the coffee table.

  'What's your real name?' he asked, bending down.

  She threw her head back and laughed. 'It's Ella,' she said, 'Ella Margrethe Riis.'

  'And what will it be tomorrow?' he asked.

  'Well, let me see, Linda, perhaps. Or Britt. You can call me what you like.'

  'Heidi,' he suggested.

  She snorted. 'What? That's just so naff.'

  He pouted and pretended to look stern. 'You were the one who wanted to play name games so you'll just have to put up with it.'

  'All right, all right then,' she conceded. 'My name's Philippa.'

  'And I'm supposed to believe that?'

  She shrugged. 'I'm supposed to believe that your name's Alvar. Even though I think it's a weird name. What were your parents thinking when they gave you that name?'

  'How would I know?' he said. 'I imagine it's a family name of some sort,' he added. 'It might have been the name of my great-uncle or something, and I was named after him.'

  She inhaled her cigarette.

  'Do you have any family?' he wanted to know.

  She was quiet for a long time. 'Perhaps. But I never see them.'

  He frowned at her reply. 'Either you have family or you don't.'

  'Of course. That's what I was just saying. I might have some family, but I don't know what they're doing.'

  He sighed. 'You're not easy to get on with,' he said then.

  'Is that what it's all about?' she asked. 'Being easy to get on with? I think you have turned being nice into a full-time job. I bet you're nice even when you're on your own.'

  'Of course,' he said. 'Should I be nasty to myself?'

  'Some people are,' she said. 'Some people are at their worst when they're alone. They get plastered, they overeat, they cut themselves, they bang their head against the wall, they play their stereo at full blast and blow their eardrums, they stand by the window and howl at the moon.'

  'Do they?' he said, horrified. 'Why?'

  'To relieve their despair, obviously. You know about despair, don't you?'

  'No, not really. Not much,' he admitted. 'And surely raging against it won't make it any better?'

  'Yes, it will. It gets the adrenaline flowing,' she said, 'and that's a great rush. You ought to try it sometime.'

  'It's not in my nature,' he said.

  'You're just scared,' she claimed, 'you're scared of what you'll find and where it will take you.' She looked around the tidy living room.

  'If I were going to go mad in here, I would throw all those glass sports trophies at the wall. Oh, they would make a great sound and my ears would ring. Haven't you ever wanted to?'

  He looked at the sports trophies on the mantelpiece. 'No. And please don't go mad in here,' he said, horrified.

  She laughed again. 'No, no. Nothing will happen as long as you do what I say. That's my basic technique. It works on almost everyone.'

  'But not on Rikard?'

  She looked at him quickly. 'Who's Rikard?'

  'The man who sells you the drugs?'

  'Oh. You mean Roger. No, it doesn't work on him. Nothing works on him, he's a nasty piece of work.' She got up suddenly and lifted the cat onto her lap. She caressed his head.

  'Oh, you gorgeous Goya munchkin,' she said softly. 'You have no worries. If I get to live my life all over again I hope I'll come back as a beautiful cat. Who can curl up on someone's lap. Have you felt his heart?' she asked. 'It beats so swiftly and so lightly. His nose is cold, is it meant to be cold? And his paws, they're all pink. And so lovely to touch. Tiny, tiny strawberry-flavoured chewy sweets. I wish I had a cat.'