Playdate

by Alex Dahl

  ‘Why did you go to prison?’ I ask.

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ he says, but I do. I stare out the window for a while, and the car drives up another long hill. When we reach the top, I can see a house in the valley far below, in the distance, smoke coming from its chimney.

  ‘You need to lie down,’ says the man.

  *

  I’ve been away for many days now. First the ski box. Then the van with the bedroom that was on a boat. Then the yellow house. After a day and a night there, with the TV and the shouting and Josie, the man took me away by myself. We drove for a very long time, all day and maybe all night. For three or maybe four days now, me and the man have been staying in another house. I never saw it from the outside because I was asleep when we got here, and when I woke up again, I was inside the house. I imagine it as the little house in the valley I saw from the car, the one with smoke drifting up above Arden’s big trees like purple ribbons.

  All the walls are slanted and made of wood like at my grandma and grandpa’s house. The room I wake up in is on the top floor and there’s a little attic window that can’t be opened. There’s a bathroom with a shower but no shower curtain on the same floor and you can only get up here by ladder. I don’t cry or scream because I will be killed if I do, the man said. He’s here somewhere in the house, I can hear him and other men, too, their voices booming up to the attic.

  The first day I stood by the attic window all day. It’s tiny, the same size as my face, and it looks out on a forest. All I could see was trees, trees, trees. I stood there all day until it got dark and the trees looked like thousands of people lined up, but even though I waved and knocked on the window, nobody came.

  At the end of the second day, when it was dark, the man came up the ladder. He said, ‘Sorry.’ I didn’t look at him. He left a bag from McDonald’s by the ladder and then he climbed back down. I didn’t want to eat it because the man must be the baddest man in the world, but I could smell the cheeseburgers and the fries, it filled the whole room, and in the end I ate it all. Over by the mattress underneath the window, someone had left a plastic bag with coloring books and pencils and lots of bags of candy. There was Gott & Blandat, Bilar, and salty licorice, my little brother’s favorite. I wished he could have seen all those sweets and, even more than that, I wished he was there with me. No, I wished that I was at home with him and we were watching NRK Super and eating all the candy. I cried a lot in the night, but very quietly, so I wouldn’t be killed.

  The third night I woke up and there was a man in the room, a new man. He had curly red hair and he wore white shorts and a white vest. He stood close to the bed, watching me, and he was laughing, but his laugh sounded like a dog barking: ‘Woof, woof, owww.’

  I started to scream but stopped because I was so afraid. I heard running and it was the other man, the man who took me from Josie’s house.

  ‘What the fuck! What the fuck! Get the fuck away from her, you fucking pig!’ he shouted. He shoved the red-haired man very hard and he fell backwards towards the ladder, and then he scrambled down it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the other man again, sitting down beside me, and his eyes weren’t scary then. ‘Do you need anything?’

  ‘I need Minky Mouse,’ I said, my throat closing as I spoke Minky’s name.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked and I explained that she’s my soft toy and I’m not so good without her, and he said, ‘But I bought you a new soft toy.’ I nodded, but tears fell from my eyes. He didn’t kill me even though I cried, but he patted my head very gently with his big hand and said, ‘I’m sorry,’ again.

  Now the man has gone back downstairs and I’m sitting on the mattress eating my way through the rest of the candy, even though it’s the middle of the night. I can hear men’s voices, sometimes loud and sometimes soft, as if they’re arguing. I wonder what will happen if there’s a big fight, with knives or guns maybe, and the red-haired man or one of the other men kill the man who brought me here. Then no one will know I’m here except the very bad man who laughs like a barking dog.

  I blink hard to stop myself from falling asleep and get up to look out at the outline of the trees, their tips jagged and black in the moonlight, like mountains. Suddenly, the big tooth at the back of my mouth falls out! I’ve been wiggling it for a few days and now it’s come out, stuck in the Gott & Blandat wine gum I was chewing. I pick it out of the sweet and hold it up against the light from the moon coming in through the window. It’s all bloody and it’s huge, with a long root on the end of it. My mouth is filling with blood. It’s disgusting and I spit lots of times, tears streaming down my face. I’m wishing so hard for Mamma’s arms to be hugging me, her hands smoothing down my hair, the sound of a proper kiss loud next to my ear. If I was at home, Mamma would fetch a glass of water and I would drop the tooth into it, watching it sink slowly through the water like a little white pebble. In the morning there’d be a twenty-kroner coin in its place.

  Now, there is no Mamma and no water glass, just a half-drunk plastic bottle of Coke the man brought me. I drop my tooth into the black liquid and watch it settle in one of the rounded grooves at the bottom of the bottle. I cry and cry and cry, stopping only to run my tongue across the bloody hole where my tooth was.

  When I wake up, I’m in the boot of a car.

  24

  Marcus

  Through all his years at Tollebu Prison he’s been accepting of his sentence, and he’s found some peace in that. It has also helped that he’s always been a man who finds meaning in books, in nature and in his own thoughts. As part of the rehabilitation measures for the non-violent prisoners, he’s allowed to work at the timber yard in the valley two days a week, Tuesdays and Fridays. Together with three other men from Tollebu and two guides in plainclothes, Marcus grinds and then sands long lengths of wood which then go to Riva, the furniture factory in Hamar. The money he earns is spent on Fanta, chocolates and newspapers from the prison shop. He is also a member of Tollebu’s chess club and volunteers one afternoon a week at the little prison library.

  Ever since he first read about the kidnap of Lucia Blix, a dark cloud has forced itself into Marcus’s monotonous life. He has struggled to sleep, tossing and turning at night, haunted by terrible imaginings of the poor girl. During the day, his head feels murky and drab, like he can’t quite grasp a thought; Lucia Blix is perpetually on his mind, like a backdrop all other thoughts must rest upon. The inmates have spoken at length about the case, and a current of fury courses through the prison whenever it’s brought up. They may have dealt drugs, messed up a few guys, carried weapons or stolen some cars, but taking an innocent seven-year-old from her parents is a whole different ballgame and wouldn’t they all like to get their hands on the likes of Mikko Eilaanen and his chums.

  Marcus suspects that many people in Norway have been similarly affected by the young girl’s plight. A case like this is unprecedented in this safe, trusting country that places so much value on allowing children their freedom.

  As Marcus walks to breakfast his heart sinks to see the Blix case dominating the newspaper headlines yet again, the little girl’s beautiful face plastered across the front pages. He steps out from the stream of men moving down the corridor towards the canteen and picks up a copy of Dagsposten. Its headline reads: ‘Woman at Mölleryd Identified as Silwia Truja!’

  He flicks to the second page and scans the article.

  Is the Investigation Turning Into a Murder Inquiry?

  By Selma Eriksen

  Police chief Hans Gundersen brought forth new information in the abduction case yesterday afternoon, revealing that the identity of the woman discovered at Mölleryd has been established as Ms Silwia Truja, the woman investigated as the initial abductor in the case.

  Marcus flicks to the next page, where there’s a picture of Elisa Blix getting into a police car, mouth set in a stern line, eyes covered by black sunglasses. ‘“It’s Not the Same Woman,” Insists Elisa Blix,’ reads the headline.

&nbs
p; Marcus closes the paper and goes straight back to his room. He lies down on the bed with his shoes on, thinking. The images in his mind are of the little girl’s mother. Elisa. He feels a need to get in touch with her that is so strong, it’s physical. It would be wrong. Terribly wrong. Impossible, too.

  There’s a soft knock at the door. He considers not answering but knows that’s not an option.

  ‘Hi, Pål,’ he says, opening it to reveal one of the newer guides standing outside.

  ‘Hey, Marcus. Uh, I noticed you didn’t come to breakfast and wondered if you are okay?’

  ‘I’m not feeling well, actually.’

  ‘Oh, right. Are you okay to go to work?’

  Marcus has forgotten it’s a Tuesday. It’s almost time to be bussed down to the timber yard. He looks forward to Tuesdays and Fridays – the manual work, the camaraderie between the men, the perceived equality between prisoner and free man, if only for a few hours.

  ‘I think I need to stay here today. Upset stomach.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll pop back with the sickness paperwork for you to sign.’

  Marcus nods, gives Pål a brief smile, then gently closes the door. He stands still for several long moments, wondering what to do next. Then he sits down at his desk, finds a blank sheet of paper, and begins to write.

  25

  Lucia

  The car isn’t moving and I wait and wait and cry a little bit. I tap very softly on the ceiling, which must be the door of the boot, but nothing happens. I tap the rhythm of Funky Lady, saying the words in my head, and still nothing happens. I feel like falling asleep again, when suddenly the boot opens a crack.

  ‘Hi there,’ says the man. ‘Sorry about the boot. You can come out now.’

  It’s dark outside and the car is parked in a big parking lot with no other cars. The moon is high and there’s a strange darkness behind the parking lot, but then I realize that it’s a high mountain and the parking lot is at its foot. The top of the mountain is white and next to it is another mountain. There’s a river somewhere near, below us – I can hear it.

  The man hands me a cardboard box that reads ‘Burger King’. I open it and inside is a huge burger, the kind adults get.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say and the man nods and lights a cigarette.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ he says.

  ‘Home?’

  He nods and I look around again. It does look like Norway again, with the snowy mountains. But Sandefjord doesn’t have any mountains, it has rocky cliffs and nice beaches and forests with lots of blueberries. There are forests here too, so maybe we’ll just drive through them and then we’ll see the sea and Sandefjord.

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’ The man opens the door to the back seat. ‘Lie down or you get in the boot,’ he says.

  ‘How much further is it to go home?’

  ‘A few hours.’

  I lie down and stare at the ceiling. At first I feel sick because the car is turning a lot. Then, it begins to drive faster and faster and the road isn’t bumpy anymore – we must have left the forest. For many hours I just lie here, staring at patterns in the fabric padding the inside of the car. I try not to think about my mamma and my pappa and my little brother because I don’t believe the man when he says he is taking me home, but then I think about them anyway and it makes me so sad I have to hold my breath so I don’t start to scream. I also try not to think about the red-haired man with the barking laugh who stood by my bed. Instead, I say the names of all the children in my class in my head. Leah, Nazanin, Ella, Sofia, Olivia, Mathilde, Ylva, Mille-Theodora, Konstanse, Josie… I’m about to start on the boys, but I begin to feel sleepy again – it’s strange how tired I am even though I’ve been lying down for so long.

  I wake with a start and it still feels like the middle of the night. It’s raining hard and noisily. The car has stopped. I sit up but there’s no one in the car. I can make out the blurry shape of a house right in front of the car, but it looks different from any house I’ve seen before. All the lights are on and there are leaves covering the whole front wall as if it was made from plants. The windows have little doors and there are two sets of chimneys. The enormous double-door is a nice purple and so wide you could drive a car through it. Then, while I’m staring at it, it opens.

  26

  Elisa

  More days, more nothing. I spend most of my time alone, praying, which is something I’d never thought I would ever do. And yet I find myself turning to the prayers that were drilled into me throughout my childhood. ‘Please… Please…’ I whisper, staring up at a bleak sky, clasping my hands tight, and for the first time in my life, prayer brings me a sliver of comfort. Deep down, I’m afraid of God and the idea that such a force of divine justice might exist. What if my parents were right and the fires of hell blaze eternally for those who don’t live by His word?

  I think about my father. I miss him. So much. One of the things that made my childhood experiences with religion so difficult was reconciling my kind and gentle father with the words he’d speak – of damnation, of judgment, of the unquestionable importance of a devout life. My father was an intelligent man who believed in the inherent goodness of humans and their necessary subordination to God. I grew to resent that God, because he’d always choose Him over me. Maybe that isn’t true, but it’s how it felt. Could I recover some of that faith that was drilled into me in my early life? ‘Dear God,’ I try again. ‘Please…’ But the silence is deafening.

  Other times, for comfort, I draw, though I’m no good. I sketch images of Lucia cartwheeling, her face always animated, with carefully colored-in red cheeks. I write letters, which I feed to the flames in the wood-burning oven. Some I write to my father, apologizing for what happened between us. Others I write to my mother, who would tear my letters to shreds were she ever to receive them. I wonder if she knows about any of the things that have happened to me. Whether she cares. I want to write to Lucia, but every time I try, it’s as if I freeze; my heart starts pounding and my hands shake. I’m not ready yet.

  Today is blustery and almost dark throughout the day. I sit by the window, cradling one mug of tea after another, watching the raindrops dent the surface of a big puddle on the street outside. It’s easy to lose track of time like this, lost in my own mind. I allow my daughter to come to me, dancing through time. I let myself hold her close, lingering on the way her fine hair feels brushing against my cheek. Hours pass like this, and I only snap out of my reverie at the sound of an engine. I open my eyes and watch the red and yellow post van maneuver down the flooded street.

  In the letterbox are three bills and a thick cream envelope addressed to me, my name and address printed on a plain white sticker. It was posted in Lillehammer and for a moment I wonder whether it could be from my mother. It isn’t.

  *

  It’s dark outside by the time I stop crying, though it’s only just four o’clock. I crush the letter in my hand. I smooth it back out. I crush it again, and place it into the fireplace, then hold a match to it and watch it burst into flames. My thoughts roam from Lucia to Fredrik to the letter, to my father, to my mother.

  A while ago, I told Fredrik that my mother and siblings still haven’t been in touch. He said, ‘We’ve been over this so many times, Elisa. You know what it’s like when you leave the church.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re my family,’ I said.

  ‘Not anymore.’

  Maybe it’s the letter, maybe it’s the effect of having allowed all these thoughts of my family and the religion I left back into my mind, but I decide to stop waiting for my mother to forgive me. I decide to take matters into my own hands.

  I stand up and glance around the room for my phone. It’s over on the kitchen counter, dark and silent. I pick it up and dial the number that remains the same as when I was a young girl. She picks up on the first ring, as though she’d been sitting on the little stool in the hallway waiting for my call.

  ‘Hello, Mother,’ I say. A sharp intake of breath, followed by a
long, exaggerated sigh.

  ‘Elisa.’

  ‘I…’ I haven’t planned this, and at the sound of her curt, cold voice, the whole disastrous state of our relationship crashes back down over me. I consider putting the phone back down, but am surprised by an onset of stinging tears. I guess we’re always children with our mothers. ‘I wanted to speak with you,’ I say, and realize that this is true. I wanted you to have been in touch, I could add. I wanted you to care. To choose me, for once.

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘You must have heard… About Lucia.’

  ‘Yes, well, I can’t say I was surprised.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How can you be surprised that this has happened after what you did to your father?’

  ‘How can you even say that? I loved my father.’

  My mother snorts loudly. ‘You killed him, and you know it. You might not have believed in the power of God before, but I imagine you do now. You deserve this.’

  ‘Mother,’ I whisper, my voice thick and almost inaudible through the sobs I can no longer control, but the line has gone dead.

  27

  Lucia

  Maybe it’s the noise of a car door slamming that wakes me. I look around. It’s light and I’m in a big, airy room. There are two very tall windows with no curtains and I get out of the bed and walk across the room to the closest one. The floor is made of wood and is cool beneath my feet. I’m wearing a thin white nightdress that I haven’t seen before.

  I look out of the window at a milky sky. I see white hilly fields and a forest, its trees yellow and bright orange and some almost bluey-green. Beyond the fields are some white pointy clouds, or at least that’s what I think at first, but then I realize they are huge mountains with snow on their tops.

  I remember last night now; eating the burger in the parking lot with the river nearby, its sound like thunder, the man’s smoke going up my nose while I ate. ‘We’re going home,’ he said. I knew he was a liar.