by Karin Fossum
Alvar sat still listening to her. Her bright, light voice filled his ears. Now, when she was sitting with the cat on her lap she reminded him mostly of a lost little girl. Impossible to handle, but very sweet in the pink sweater with the puffy sleeves.
CHAPTER 24
He saw less of her in July and August.
The thought had crossed his mind that everything would feel strange and empty if she vanished altogether. He was slowly beginning to enjoy her chatting to him from the sofa. The way she stroked the cat, her laughter, so silvery and bright. He also liked it when she lay quietly sleeping. Then he would sit down in his armchair with his newspaper or a good book. Or he would treat himself to an evening sherry, which he would enjoy slowly. Then he would watch her and be filled with a kind of serenity. The cat would often lie at her feet, a grey, curled-up fur ball. The two of them, he thought, are all I have in the world. But it's enough, it's more than enough. Yet a new worry had entered his life. There was hardly any money left in his savings account. It had trickled away in a steady stream and the inevitable moment was approaching. The day he would have to say, I don't have any more money, it's over, we've spent it all. Her eyes, her ice-blue eyes, would darken and fill with hatred. Some nights he could hardly sleep. In dreams he lived this moment over and over, her disbelief, her rage, his despair. Then he would awaken with a gasp. He kept pushing the reality aside. The severed bridge still hung in the gallery. How naive he had been to think that he would ever own it. It puzzled him that no one else had bought it, that no one else had fallen for the drama of the great painting. Now it served as a reminder of his own weakness, his capricious nature, and he could no longer bear to admire it, delight in it or pine for it. He scowled at it, like at forbidden fruit.
She turned up again in the middle of September and from then on her visits became more frequent. She was sometimes gentle and chatty, but more often she was silent and grumpy; and then she would throw herself on the sofa and turn her back on him. He said nothing. He tiptoed around, terrified of upsetting her. After all, she had so much to deal with, and he wanted to be considerate.
Autumn arrived; October was dark and dense and rainy, November was freezing cold, windswept and sombre. On the eighteenth day of the month she returned to his flat. On this day she was in very bad shape, she was unable even to unlock the door on her own, she just leaned on the doorbell until he came out to let her in. He found her slumped against the wall, her knees trembling. She was pale and damp and her pupils filled her irises.
'Where have you been!' she screamed hysterically.
Alvar was alarmed. He glimpsed his own pallid reflection in the mirror above the chest of drawers, he held his breath as his thoughts raced around his head.
'I was waiting for you yesterday, on the sofa, I waited for hours! I needed a fix and I was broke!'
Alvar opened his mouth. His voice was feeble. 'I went to a late movie,' he explained, 'the movie finished at ten past one. I went to see The Exorcism of Emily Rose.'
She was trying to focus on his face, a little saliva trickled from the corner of her mouth.
'You went to the movies,' she said accusingly, 'and I was scared shitless because I thought you had gone away. To bloody Värmland or somewhere even worse. And I wouldn't be able to get any money and so I wouldn't be able to get a fix!'
She paused to catch her breath.
'You could have left me a note telling me when you would be back, Alvar! You can't do this to me! You're always here. You have to be here all the time!'
She collapsed again, she clung to the door frame. Alvar felt torn apart by distress.
'I feel bloody awful,' she gasped. 'Haven't had a fix for three days. I'm completely broke.'
He held the door open for her, but she did not move from the wall. His trip to the cinema seemed like a mortal sin and his knees felt weak.
'I can't walk,' she groaned. 'I can't stop shaking.'
Alvar was unaccustomed to physical contact with other human beings. He could barely remember the last time he had touched someone, he had never even escorted an old lady across the street. Now he held out an arm to support her as she came in. She staggered across the floor on her high heels and collapsed onto the sofa. The cat jumped up next to her, but she seemed unaware of it. Her eyes were watering and she kept curling up in a foetal position as if she was in pain.
'I've got no one but you!' she screamed. 'You can't just go out and not tell me!'
'I'm so sorry,' Alvar stuttered. 'I've always been on my own and I'm not used to thinking of other people. I'm so, so sorry!'
She stood up and swayed dangerously; it seemed as if she wanted to go to the bathroom. He had never seen her so wasted. She was slurring her words, wobbling, her arms were flailing as though she was pushing aside dense vegetation. Her body began to seize as though in the grip of fever, a sea of pain and discomfort he could not begin to imagine, but it took his breath away. Finally she closed the door behind her and Alvar stood horrified in the middle of the floor, his mind racing. Withdrawal, he thought, petrified. The poison was leaving her body, and now every cell was screaming out for more heroin. The true horror of the situation finally dawned on him. She could not be saved; she was heading for the abyss. His first impulse was to get her more drugs, he could not bear to see her like this, it hurt him too, and he was not used to feeling anyone else's pain. As soon as he had this thought a new fear overcame him. He started pacing the floor, while anxiously listening out for noises from the bathroom. What was she doing in there? It had gone very quiet. Finally he heard the sound of water running. She came out shortly afterwards, her fringe was wet and her mascara was smeared pathetically all down her cheeks. On her way back to the sofa she tripped over her own feet and fell flat on her face; she remained prostrate on the floor, struggling between the coffee table and the sofa.
'Oh God,' she slurred, 'oh God, oh God, I feel like shit!' Alvar rushed over. Again he was reluctant to touch her, but his heart was beating so fast, and he felt so distraught that he had to do something. He stuck his hands under her armpits and lifted her up. He dragged her over to the sofa and laid her down. She curled up in pain instantly. Then she started to shake again, the fits came and went.
'Can I get you a drink of water?' he asked anxiously. She did not reply, she just lay there shivering. A strange sound was coming from her mouth and he realised that her teeth were chattering. He quickly went into his bedroom and found a blanket. He returned and tucked her in, but she did not seem to notice and it made no difference either. He had never seen another human being in such distress and the sight of her terrified him. He collapsed into an armchair. There he remained while his heart pounded as he watched her being ripped apart. Soon she started sweating profusely, tiny beads formed on her upper lip and on her forehead. Suddenly she gagged violently, but nothing came up. She fell back onto the sofa and clasped her hand over her mouth.
'Why don't we go to see the doctor?' Alvar asked.
She still did not reply.
'I've taken out one thousand kroner, are you able to walk down to Bragernes Square?'
He was shocked at his own words, that he could even think along these lines. But seeing her like this was torture for him, so much so that he seriously contemplated going there himself, finding her dealer, buying her a hit and giving it to her so that she could get some relief. So that her hysterical body could calm down. Because he was feeling so distressed, he went out into the kitchen and poured her a glass of water which he placed in front of her. She took no notice of that either. She was shivering. She was shaking. She groaned, she wiped snot and tears away, she wiped away the sweat.
'A small sherry, perhaps?' he suggested out of sheer desperation.
He received no reply. Then he jumped up again and went out into the bathroom. Found a clean face cloth, dipped it in warm water, wrung it and returned.
'Look here,' he was practically pleading, 'you can wipe your face with this.' She did not take it. Then he pushed aside all his
shyness, leaned forward and started cleaning her cheeks with the wet, warm cloth. She said nothing, she closed her eyes and Alvar let the cloth glide over her forehead, her nose and her chin, very lightly as though she was made of glass. He thought she began to relax a little. He stayed like this, bent over the sofa with the cloth in his hand, and he was filled by a strange sensation, it was something he had never experienced before. The satisfaction of easing another person's pain. Reaching out a hand and seeing how her features softened. If only she could fall asleep and sleep through it all, he thought, but she was unable to fall asleep. She started shivering and shaking again, it came in vicious fits. Suddenly she spoke in a laboured voice.
'My heart,' she said weakly.
Alvar pricked up his ears. 'Yes,' he said breathlessly, 'what about your heart?'
She groaned again, pressed both hands against her chest. 'It's going to burst out, I've got to keep it in place!'
He shook his head. 'No, it's not going to burst out,' he said quickly. 'It's not!'
'It feels that way,' she said hoarsely. 'I've got to keep it in place, it's going to explode. I can feel it oozing out between my ribs.'
'Do you want some paracetamol?' he asked helplessly.
She laughed a bitter laugh at his suggestion. 'Is that all you can offer me? Paracetamol?'
Her voice was brimming with pain and disdain.
He wrung his hands in desperation.
'What are we going to do?' he asked sheepishly. 'You can't lie here like this.'
She brushed her damp hair away from her face.
'I can't do this any more,' she said weakly. 'I haven't got the energy to live this life any longer.'
Alvar tore himself away and went over to the window. He stared down at the light-bulb factory and at the dome, which glowed. It competed with the grey November light.
'There's got to be someone who can help you,' he said.
'There are not enough places,' she replied from the sofa. 'I've tried lots of times. Not enough places, I don't get methadone, or subutex. Nothing. I haven't been using long enough.'
Alvar closed his eyes. Then she had another seizure and she howled into the sofa to cope with the pain. Every single fibre in Alvar's body tensed up.
'No one should have to feel like this!' he screamed into the glass. 'It's not right!'
He looked over at her thin body.
'Do you want me to go down to Bragernes Square?' he asked. 'Do you want me to try to get something for you?'
She was silent for a long time. Her breathing was irregular, he thought, her whole body fighting a huge battle.
'Do you think you could get me a fix?' she whispered. 'I'm shaking so badly that I don't think I can manage to go myself.'
Get her a fix? Was she asking him to inject her? He gasped at the thought.
'It's easy,' she whispered. 'I'll tell you what to do.'
He instinctively shook his head. There was no way he would inject drugs into another human being. Especially not a tiny girl, no matter how ill she might be. She had another fit, her voice was close to breaking point.
'Go find Roger,' she asked him, 'he usually hangs out by the quay at Skutebrygga. Long hair, green parka. Go now, please, Alvar, please! I'm begging you!'
Alvar clenched his fists. He felt a sudden urge to slap his own cheeks; he seemed unable to think straight. He ran out into the hall, driven by a mixture of desperation and determination. Put on his coat, snatched his keys from the key cupboard and left. Started the Mazda, drove down the hill and into Engene. Turned left at the fire station and then took another left so he had the river on his right. Pulled into a car park, locked the car and ran out. His eyes flashed in all directions, but there was no one on the quay, no dealer in a green parka. He checked the cars and the people in town, kids, old people, the cooing pigeons. The taxis lined up on Bragernes Square. But he could not see any drug dealers; it was as if they had all gone with the autumn wind. Helplessly he stood there looking around. He became aware that others were watching him. He probably had a look of panic in his eyes, a madness clear for all to see and everyone was wondering about him.
He began walking across the cobbled square, all the way to St Hallvard's fountain. There were some benches there; they were empty. He stared down the side streets, to see if there were any dealers there. But today, the eighteenth of November, only respectable people were out and about, the town's down-and-outs were nowhere to be seen. Exhausted, he let himself fall down on a bench. He rested his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands, hunched up to avoid the freezing wind. He had never in all his life felt as lost as he did now. He could see no way out of this mess, he could not return to her without something that would relieve her pain. Then he heard low voices. Someone had approached the bench, he was being watched.
'Having a bad day, mate?' a rusty male voice asked him. Alvar looked up. He saw a group of three people. Two men and a woman, dressed a little shabbily, were watching him.
'Are you Roger?' Alvar asked him hopefully, looking at the gangly man, who had long hair and was wearing a green parka.
'Who wants to know?' he replied, giving Alvar a doubtful look.
'Philippa needs heroin. She needs it now!'
They looked at him doubtfully, exchanged glances.
'We don't know anyone called Philippa.'
'She's blonde,' he said, touching his own bald head. 'She's very thin, her hair's almost white, she's ill, she's lying on my sofa and it's awful!'
They continued looking at him in a doubtful way.
'You mean Blondie?'
'Yes,' Alvar said swiftly. Of course she would tell them her name was Blondie, he was sure of that.
'I don't have any heroin,' the man said, 'but I've got something else.'
Alvar's heart sank.
'Will it help?' he asked anxiously.
The three people started to giggle as they sent each other telling glances. Roger dug his hand down into the parka's pocket.
'This works for everything,' he said, nodding. 'You got any money?'
Alvar fumbled to get his wallet out and showed them his money.
'All right,' Roger said. 'Come on, we're going down under the bridge.'
Together they walked across Bragernes Square. Alvar felt strange in such scruffy company; he trailed behind them like a little lost child, eyes fixed on the street, hands deep in his pockets. They gathered under the bridge, there was a walkway there, it was covered with syringes and other rubbish. A small sachet was shoved in Alvar's hand, he paid and thanked them. How easy it is, he thought, how easy it is to throw your life away if that's what you want. He put the small sachet in his pocket, followed the group with his eyes as they disappeared across the walkway. He ran back to the car park, all the time checking that the small sachet was safe in his pocket. He started the car and drove back to his flat. He had only one thing on his mind: getting her to a place of peace. He let himself in and went over to the sofa. She opened her eyes and looked at him.
'Find my gear,' she ordered him, 'it's in my pocket.'
Alvar bent over her and rummaged through the pockets of her grey jacket. In a leather purse he found a syringe and a rubber tube. Then he opened the small sachet and made a discovery. It contained a handful of tiny white pills. He put them on the table. She got up on her elbow and stared at them in surprise.
'What did he give you?'
'I don't know,' he cried, 'they didn't have anything else, but they said these work for everything. Perhaps you can take two?'
She shook her head in disbelief, sent him a wounded look and picked up the pills with trembling fingers. He thought he could hear her bones rattle, he thought he could see the red muscle of her heart force its way through her ribs. Before he had time to do anything, she had tipped all the pills into her mouth and was reaching for the glass of water.