The Last Fix

by K. O. Dahl

  Afterwards she dozed off. Her body ached when she woke up; her right leg felt bloodless and numb. That's the first time I've slept in a car since I was little, she thought. It was colder now. Henning was emitting low snoring sounds. She loosened her arms from around his neck and sat up straight. In the mirror she saw that her hair had become tangled. She looked like a woman waking up in the arms of a man in a car in the middle of the night. My leg has gone to sleep, she thought, and began to massage her calf and thigh. And I am cold. Outside there were still stars in the sky. The tiny crescent moon that had hung over the water had moved further south, and the sky, above the treetops on the other side, was lighter, had a bluer tinge. 'Fancy that,' she said in a husky voice. Henning was mumbling in his sleep. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was past two o'clock.

  She shivered, put on her thin blouse and straightened her skirt. She examined her face in the car mirror and wished she had a comb. The inside of the car windows had steamed up. She was hungry. And she needed a wash. She searched the glove compartment for cigarettes, but it was empty apart from the log book and a few paper napkins. She dried the condensation on one of the side windows. Outside it was dark behind the spruces. She rolled down the window. The air was wonderful, fresh, but light and cool to the face. Her upper arms began to get gooseflesh. She grabbed the gear lever, eased her leg across to find the clutch pedal. At last she got the car into neutral and manoeuvred her hand around the steering wheel without waking Henning. Then she turned on the ignition. The car started, and she put on the fan heater. The white cone of the headlamps picked out a tree trunk and a mass of green vegetation. Henning was still fast asleep. She thought about going for a wash in the water. It would be wonderful to rinse away the taste of smoke from her mouth. But there didn't seem to be an obvious path. The area between the road and the lake was a murky jumble of trees, bilberry bushes and sharp ends of bare branches. She shuddered. She thought of snakes, horrible coiled snakes slithering between the dead leaves on the ground; she thought of spiders and huge anthills, crawling with millions of ants, and she shuddered again.

  In the end she opened the car door and staggered out on stiff legs. She hopped around until the blood slowly returned to her sleeping leg. Ants in the blood. It hurt and she bit her lower lip. She brought her heel down on a sharp stone. It hurt so much she screamed 'Ow', then began to walk. She stumbled around the car like an electric doll with stiff legs and limbs. Barefoot, she walked over the cold, sharp stones and soon felt her circulation returning.

  All of a sudden she heard a sound and stopped to listen. She stood quite motionless and a chill crept up her spine. She stood like this for a long time, listening, but didn't hear the sound again. At the same time she scanned her surroundings to see what could have caused it. The night was grey, not pitch black, and in the light from the moon and the stars she saw her shadow on the ground. The only sound to be heard was the low rumble of the idling car engine. What was truly black were the trees and the surface of the water struggling in vain to reflect the stars.

  When, at last, she was sure that she had imagined the sound, she decided to go down to the lakeside. She walked down the road with care, looking for a path. And caught sight of a wonderful flat stone she could stand on at the water's edge. A cool gust of air blew against her ankles and legs as she approached. She stopped, bent down, put her hand in the water and felt the temperature. Lukewarm. In the dark she found the stone and went down on her knees. She scooped up water and threw it into her face; it was not cold at all. She stood up, peeled off her panties, kicked off her shoes and stepped into the lake bare-legged. Her feet sank down to her ankles in the mud which felt like cool, lumpy cream. It was unpleasant, but it didn't matter. It was only for two seconds. She raised her skirt to her waist, faced land, squatted down and washed herself.

  What was that?

  She sprang to her feet and listened.

  A sound. But what kind of sound?

  She stood quite still listening. But now the silence was total, not even the sound of Henning's car was audible. Just the sound of insects fluttering their wings against the water broke the frozen silence. She suddenly became aware that her skirt was bunched up around her waist, and she let go.

  Something had changed. There was something strange about the silence. She tried to work out what was different. She could not, but she didn't like standing there, alone and exposed in the water. The deep gloom and the unbearable silence caused her to feel a clammy sense of fear spreading outwards from the small of her back, a fear which numbed her fingers, which drained her arms of strength, which dried out her mouth and which stopped her breathing. As the darkness was a summer darkness, she could make out the contours of rocks and branches protruding into the air. A clump of black, impenetrable spruce trees blocked her view of the road. It was not possible to see through the wall of spruce foliage.

  Walk, she told herself, wade to the shore and go back to the car. But for some reason she did not want to make any noise. Because, she thought, because… it would drown the other sounds. Which sounds? She stood quite still concentrating, but she couldn't hear a single thing.

  Shout, she thought. Shout for Henning But she couldn't make herself do that, either. Instead she waded to the shore. She tripped and almost fell, but managed to regain balance and scrambled on to the shore. She tried to force her wet feet into the shoes. It was difficult; her feet refused to go into her shoes of their own accord.

  Once she was ready, she stood with her body tensed, listening. Not a sound to be heard, not even insects. Her eyes seemed to be drawn to the thick wall of spruce on the right. There were spruce needles and tiny pebbles in her shoes. It was unpleasant, but she repressed the feeling. She was focused on the air and the dark wall of spruce. There. There was that sound again. And it came from somewhere behind the spruce trees.

  She was breathing through her open mouth. Panicky breathing which she had to keep in check. She closed her mouth and held her breath. She stared intently at the clump of trees. There it was again. The rustling noise. She closed her eyes.

  'Henning?' she whispered. Her voice didn't carry.

  The rustling stopped. She cleared her throat to regain her speech.

  'Henning?' she shouted and listened. A twig cracked. Other twigs stirred. 'Is that you, Henning?'

  A silhouette detached itself from the clump of trees, a white silhouette. A silhouette that had been there all the time, but she had not seen it until now, when it started moving. It was in human form. White human form. With no clothes on.

  * * *

  PART 2

  THE LITTLE GOLD RING

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  Kalfatrus

  Police Inspector Gunnarstranda observed the shape of his face in the glass bowl. The reflection distorted his appearance and made it pear-shaped. The mouth with the white, artificial, porcelain teeth resembled a strange, long pod full of white beans. His nostrils flared into two huge tunnels and around his face there was the suggestion of a grey shadow, no Sunday shave as yet. He searched for words to say to the goldfish. He was standing in front of the book shelf on which the goldfish bowl was placed, looking at the fish and himself in the glass. Behind his pear-face, the reflection caught everything in the flat: the book shelves and the table with the pile of newspapers. 'Are you lonely?' he asked. The question was ridiculous. He re-phrased it: 'Do you feel lonely?' And, as usual, he put words into the mouth of the red and orange fringetail swimming around in the bowl with an air of leisure. 'Of course you feel lonely; I'm lonely, too.' Saying the words gave the policeman a pang of conscience. He ought to have bought more fish to give the fat red and orange goldfish some friends, to create a fish community in the bowl. However, at the same time he feared that buying more fish would mean he would lose contact with this one. It looked at him with its strange eyes, its beautiful tail flapping in slow motion. 'Yes indeed, we're both lonely,' he concluded, straightening up and ambling into the kitchen to brew
up some coffee in the machine. Four spoonfuls of Evergood, five if it was a different brand. That's how it is; with some brands of coffee you need to put more spoonfuls in the filter. Not something you can discuss. It's a question of taste. He hooked his braces over the shoulders of his vest. 'Do you know what the worst thing about it is?' he said to the fish. 'It's that you can't be alone with your loneliness any more. Now it's fashionable to be lonely, now they have programmes about loneliness and everyone talks about it, and they broadcast programmes for the lonely.'

  He switched on the coffee machine and leaned against the door frame. There was a portrait of Edel hanging over the fishbowl. What expression would she have on her face and in her eyes now? But why? Was it because he spent his time conversing with a fish? Perhaps she's jealous, he thought, jealous because I don't talk to her? But he did talk to her, in his head. The fish was different; the fish was like a dog. 'Yes,' he heard Edel chide him. 'But dogs have names,' she said.

  Exactly, thought Gunnarstranda, trudging back to the bowl. He took the yellow packet of fish food, opened it and tapped a bit out with his forefinger. Tiny flakes floated on the surface of the water. Giddy with happiness the fish about-turned, swam to the top and nibbled at the food. 'Would you like a name?' he asked the fish and considered the three wise men in the Bible. The name of one of the wise men might suit the fish. If the Hindus' theories were right, if the fish had high negative karma, it might indeed have been one of them. But Gunnarstranda could not remember the names of the wise men. Yes, he did, one of them: Melchior. Rotten name for a fish. One was called Balthasar. That was better, but not very original. He kept thinking. 'You could be called… you could be called…' This was not his strong suit. He had a sudden inspiration. 'Kalfatrus,' he said aloud and straightened up with satisfaction. 'Good name. Kalfatrus.'

  The moment the word was spoken the telephone rang.

  Gunnarstranda checked his watch and met Kalfatrus's eyes. 'I don't think we'll be seeing each other so often in the future,' he said to the goldfish and turned towards the telephone. He padded across. 'It's Sunday morning,' he continued. 'I haven't shaved, and, in fact, I had a few plans for today. If the phone rings at moments like these it can mean only one thing.'

  He placed a hand on the telephone, which continued to ring furiously. The two of them looked at each other across the room for two brief seconds. A policeman and a goldfish exchanging glances. Inspector Gunnarstranda cleared his voice, snatched at the receiver and barked: 'Please be brief.'

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  Vinterhagen

  Neither of them had much appetite after the autopsy. They stood outside in the car park, gazing pensively into the air. It had stopped raining, Frank Frølich confirmed. The wind was making the trees sway and dispersing the clouds; the hot sun was beginning to dry the tarmac. He considered what they had found out and wondered how to tackle the case, or to be more precise: how Gunnarstranda thought the case should be tackled. In the end, the latter broke the silence: 'Did you see the news last night?'

  'Missed it,' answered Frank Frølich.

  'Quite a big deal. Pictures of a helicopter and the whole shebang. But they had a pretty good portrait, a facial composite. I suppose that gave them the lead.'

  'Sure,' Frølich said, uninterested. The problem was matching them, matching the lifeless flesh on the table with a name, with a living woman. 'Katrine,' he said with a cough. 'Wasn't that the name?'

  Gunnarstranda repeated the name as though tasting it on his tongue. 'Lots of women called Katrine Bratterud. Unusual tattoo on the stomach, so it looks as if we've got something to go on. But having something to go on is not enough.' Gunnarstranda studied his notes and pointed to the car. 'To Sørkedalen.'

  They drove in silence with Frølich behind the wheel. Gunnarstranda sat crouched in the front seat with his light summer coat pulled tight around him, mute. Frølich was still searching for music he liked on the radio. Every time the voices in the speakers turned out to be commercials he changed channel. He kept clicking until he found music he liked. Gunnarstranda looked down with annoyance at the finger pressing the search button. He said: 'I've heard that voice three times now. If you click on that station again, I'm going to demand to know what she's talking about.'

  Frølich didn't answer. There was no point. He continued to search until the husky voice of Tom Waits emerged through the speakers.

  They passed Vestre cemetery and drove from Smestad up Sorkedalsveien past camouflaged houses and protected conservation areas. For a while they were driving side by side with a train on the Шsterеs Metro line. Two small children in the front carriage were banging their hands on the window and waving to them. The radio was playing quiet blues music as they passed Roa; they went on to Sørkedalen through a June-green cornfield caressed by the gentle breeze and glistening like velvet in the sun. Frølich switched off the radio when the commercials returned. 'This is Oslo,' he said, opening his palms with passion. 'Five minutes by car and you're in the country.' The road had a few tight bends, and on reaching the top of the hill, they could see blue water between two green mountain tops, large-crowned deciduous trees growing along a winding, invisible stream and in the background the fringe of the massive Oslomarka forest. Frølich slowed down. 'Should be somewhere round here,' he mumbled, hunched over the steering wheel.

  'The white arrow over there,' Gunnarstranda said.

  The arrow was a sign pointing to Vinterhagen. Frølich turned into a gravel car park. There were big holes in the gravel after the heavy torrents of rain. The car bumped along and pulled up in front of a green thicket. They got out. The air was fresh and a little chilly. The holes in the gravel were still full of rainwater. Frølich peered up. The sky seemed unsettled. Right now the sun was shining and was very hot, but all around clouds were gathering for what might be a sudden downpour, perhaps accompanied by thunder. Frølich stood next to the car for a moment before taking off his jacket and hanging it casually over his shoulder. They walked down a narrow pathway with a greyish-black covering of compressed quarry aggregate and past a greenhouse with a door open at one end. Someone had painted Vinterhagen on the glass in big, fuzzy, yellow letters. A woman in her mid-twenties, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, watched them through bored eyes.

  'I suppose this must have been a folk high school at one time,' said Frølich as they strolled between a large, yellow building and a piece of ground that had been cleared for an allotment. There were attractive vegetable patches with tidy rows of new shoots.

  'Idyllic,' intoned Gunnarstranda, looking around. 'Idyllic.'

  'And this looks like an accommodation building,' Frølich said with what seemed to be genuine interest, causing his partner to frown with suspicion. Climbing roses attached to a trellis ran along the wall. Frank pointed to an official-looking redbrick house. 'I suppose the offices must be over there.' They walked on towards a group of young people standing around an old, red tractor. 'A red devil,' Frølich exclaimed with enthusiasm. 'An old Massey-Ferguson.' At that moment something soft smacked on to the ground. They stopped. Then another tomato spattered against one of the windows in the yellow building, right behind them. The tomato disintegrated, leaving behind a wet, reddish stain on the dark glass. Frølich ducked, but not quite fast enough to avoid being hit in the face.

  Inspector Gunnarstranda turned and regarded the woman who had been following them from the greenhouse. She had another tomato at the ready. When Frølich started running towards her, she dropped the tomatoes she was holding and sprinted like a gazelle across the vegetable plot and jumped with consummate ease over a fence. Frølich lumbered like a wounded ox. His massive upper torso rocked from side to side and the flab bounced up and down. His white shirt detached itself from his trousers and his tie fluttered over his shoulder. After a few metres he came to a halt, gasping for breath.

  A hint of a smile could just be discerned around Gunnarstranda's thin lips. The crew around the tractor were roaring with laughter. Frølich waved his f
ist after the receding tomato-thrower, turned and plodded back, rummaging through his pockets for a handkerchief. 'Now and again I ask myself whether we're in a real profession,' he sighed, wiping tomato juice off his hair and beard.

  'What would you have done if you had caught her?'

  Frølich glanced at his boss, but didn't reply.

  Gunnarstranda patted the corner of his mouth. 'Here,' he said. 'Tomato seeds.' Frølich wiped his mouth and glared at the youths by the tractor who were still amused by the incident. 'I don't understand them,' he said. 'Why does anyone who has been on drugs hate the police so much?'

  'Perhaps because the police have a tendency to run after them,' suggested Gunnarstranda succinctly.

  'Reflex action,' Frølich said.

  'You run, they flee. The game is that stupid. Look at them.' Gunnarstranda pointed at the group around the tractor. They were making pig-like snorting noises. He took a roll-up out of his pouch, lit it and headed for the office building with Frølich trailing after him. Frølich shook his jacket which had fallen on the ground. They stopped when Gunnarstranda had a coughing fit.

  Frølich looked back at the kids around the tractor.

  'They remind me of the time when Eva-Britt had two kittens. She had been given them by a farmer who brought them in a wicker basket. But they had had very little contact with people and had gone feral. They hid under the sofa in her living room, came out some time during the night, ate the food she had put out and shat and pissed all over the furniture. I was staying there and went to pick one up. Christ, that cat was wild. It clawed my hand and tore my shirt.'