A Private Haunting

by Tom McCulloch

  Mary stood up quickly and banged her head on a shelf, sending a tin of screws and a box of paintbrushes crashing to the floor. Then she fell over in the garden and decided to walk and not run back to the house. When she got upstairs there was no one in Andrea’s room.

  For a while she lay on the bed then crossed to the window. The two men with cameras round their necks were back again, standing under a lamp post on the other side of the street, just where she’d first seen them, that morning, just after her husband went to work.

  She knew how Jonas must feel. She thought about him as she sat in the living room scrolling through her husband’s Mega Satellite Package. But when the Norwegian’s face appeared in a dramatic ITV trailer for Morton Meets... she knew she couldn’t do this anymore.

  Forty-one

  Jonas was relieved. The assistant could have leaned across the counter, picked up the poster and ripped it up. She could have spat a big gob of phlegm right in his eyes. But the universe winked, she didn’t know who he was. She just looked down at the poster and said a friendly no problem, I’ll do it later. And only the vaguest of frowns when Jonas asked her to do it right away.

  ‘It’s Friday already. I need to get the word out fast so I’d really appreciate it if you could – ’

  ‘Of course!’

  She stepped round the back of the till and pinned the poster on the small ads wall facing the window. Those ridiculous purple letters. Big bold stand-outs. At least people would notice.

  Party at Jonas’s! All invited. Come on round. 7.30. Saturday 22nd.

  Again, the presumption nagged him. Jonas. The Man Who Needed No Surname. He sat on the bench outside the Post Office and checked his phone. Still no Mary. He left a gabbled message about the famous presenter-journo, the TV interview and please say that you’ll come.

  The next forty minutes were spent hurrying round the streets with a stapler and attaching posters to telephone poles. Laminated posters and not just any telephone pole, selected telephone poles, strategically placed telephone poles that he’d marked on an A3 map of the village on the kitchen table. He put another poster in each of the four parish council notice-boards.

  He was watched by a roving skulk of journalists and staring locals. Three people shouted at him, his only reaction an invitation to the party. He’d learned the hard way in Christinegård, rushing out of the door in his dressing gown, shouting at the kids who’d been throwing stones at his windows. And then the second Verdens Gang photo, page four the next day.

  Abuse and shouts, all would pass; Li Po brushing the steps in front of the little temple.

  Carlsberg and cherry schnapps would have to do, no time for the off-licence to order akevitt or Ringnes. Denmark and Germany, not too bad, not too far away. But this just met with a blank look. From Norway I mean. The assistant had already turned to another customer and no there wasn’t a trolley to borrow, even though Jonas could see an empty one behind the counter in the store room. So he had to carry the booze home in three loads.

  The food would be easier. He headed to the supermarket to pick up smorgasbord supplies, stopping at the newsagent across from the green to put up a poster. That was when the police appeared. An anxious tinkle from the doorbell that alerted the shopkeeper to school-kids (only two allowed at a time…) and there were two uniforms and the sad-eyed detective.

  They had a few more questions. ‘Would you be so kind as to come with us, Mr Mortensen?’

  ‘Well, I am busy.’

  ‘It won’t take long.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘Jonas handed the poster to the shopkeeper, who reached out dumbly, taking it without a word. It was still in his hand as he stood in the door and watched Jonas get into the police car.

  His mother never had to put up with this when planning Jonsok parties. He sat beside a uniform, fidgeting with the posters. The purple ink was annoying him again, the handwritten letters amateurish. He should have printed them. His mother would have been more organised. Failing to prepare is preparing to fail, little Jonas. She sure did love an irritating homily.

  He nudged the uniform and told him he really didn’t have time for this, had things to do, needed to buy a new shirt for the TV cameras, I’m thinking white, maybe blue, what do you think?

  The uniform ignored him and Sad Eyes sniffed in the passenger seat. The detective had a cold, something else Jonas could do without. He asked if they could open the window but still no response. When the driver’s eyes caught his in the rear-view mirror Jonas was suddenly shouting, open the damn window, then rising in his seat, sweat on his forehead and his neck itching, probably rogue hairs from his haircut and now a strong arm shoving him back down.

  He breathed deeply when he left the police station. Stood on the steps in the sunshine and closed his eyes. To cartoon colours. Tom and Jerry and the theme from Looney Tunes. Here it finally was. That big cartoon snowball, rolling down the hill towards the police station, right at him.

  The police said an allegation had been made by a friend of Lacey’s. They asked other questions.

  The snowball was huge and close. Jonas could run but there was no point, there never was, the snowball would outpace him, it always did, bigger and bigger behind him until he was finally caught, rolling and rolling and coming to a stop with arms and legs poking out.

  That’s all folks!

  As he walked down the steps he remembered that he hadn’t apologised for his behaviour in the police car and hurried back up to the reception. The desk sergeant looked at him closely, maybe even a flicker of amusement and amusement was always better than contempt.

  ‘I will certainly pass on your apology... sir.’

  The sarcasm rung in his ears all the way to the village hall. Friday. Another Hub night. Another attempt by Mark to reassert normality. But every week that passed was another tick of that very particular clock which started running the night Lacey disappeared. Two weeks now. You had to wonder how long the clock would run, or when people would realise they’d lost count.

  In by the back entrance and no hanging around. Long enough to hand out a few invitations and make sure Mary was coming. He hoped to find her in the kitchen but she wasn’t there, just a giggling Wendy and Greg, over by the cupboards, Wendy slapping Greg’s hand away and not here, Greg, looking round warily, a pink face becoming red when she noticed Jonas.

  There was no sign of Mary in the hall either, where everyone turned to look at him, as if choreographed. One of the girls, Sally, burst out crying, then Danny was running towards him and Mark holding him back as Danny shouted get the hell out of here. Jonas backed away, left a few flyers at the kitchen hatch and remember you’re all invited, 7.30 tomorrow!

  * * *

  It rained all day Saturday. Third time in a week, summer on the quick-wane, the next swing of the year. Big Haakon loved the turns, season to season. When he remembered he would do a solstice ceremony: water of autumn, sweeping in from the west, putting out the fires in the south.

  Behind Jonas water steamed into the bath, fogging the bathroom. He opened the window. Below him in the next garden the two children were screeching again, over-excited despite the rain. They marched round and round in a muddy circle, stamping their yellow Wellington boots, red and blue waterproofs covering their hands, hanging almost down to the knees.

  One of them looked up and pointed. Jonas waved back and the other sprinted towards the house. The child looking up pushed her hood back and waved, uncertainly, making him think of time and great distances, how the most fleeting of moments can be the most touching.

  He lay back in the water. A long listen to the patter on the window. A little tinny, like too much treble on his Marantz amplifier. Take it down, increase the bass and harmonise, the sound now rich and deep, a squall galloping across the Skagerrak, rain on the wheelhouse glass.

  The tap dripped, Jonas sneezed. Someone, dozens of people, might be lying in other baths, listening to the gust of rain-wind that had ju
st passed his window and was now reaching theirs. So many parallel lives. He took a deep breath and sank under the now cold water.

  Both arms floated free. No bubbles from the mouth. A detective would think it the classic bath suicide pose, the lips slightly parted, hair drifting like seaweed. He would bring in a police photographer to record the scene. They would speculate, words punctuated by the flash of the camera, sudden brightness, how he just couldn’t take it anymore. Too much pressure.

  Jonas reached 130. The pain in the chest was beginning, a hot swelling and a voice that hadn’t yet reached panic but was insisting that he should sit up. Sit up, Jonas. Sit up now!

  Now the closing, peripheral vision shutting down. Sporadic colours flashed, orange-yellow and green, sight constricting to a fish-eye view, like looking into a child’s kaleidoscope, the colours becoming shifting Escher symmetries and was it even possible to drown yourself in a bath? When would the detective and photographer realise that in the absence of compulsion the will to live is stronger than the will to die. If no one was holding him down, sir, why didn’t he just sit up? Why not indeed, Baker? Someone else was involved, we’re looking at foul play. The game’s afoot! Whodunnit? Maybe one of the people now crowding the bath: Big Haakon peering down, Axel beside him with his gawky moon face and the pressure suddenly increasing in Jonas’s chest, a few bubbles of precious air escaping and a spasm in the arm, rippling the water and dissolving Haakon and Axel, settling again to reveal Eva and Anya, Mary just behind them but none of them panicked in any way, more puzzled, slowly fading into a deeper dark and Jonas recognising one last face in the gloom, a smirk he had come to know and those hands about to reach out and hold him under.

  Water tsunamied as he sat up, slopping from bath to floor. Fire in his chest, a ringing in his ears and shaking hands. Vision still dark on the periphery, probable and permanent brain damage. 150. Two minutes thirty seconds, a new record. And still the ringing, maybe his phone.

  He clambered out of the bath and felt his legs buckle but when he picked up the mobile from his pile of clothes the screen was blank. No missed call. No Mary but still the ringing.

  He went down the stairs, rubber legs giving way once or twice. In the kitchen he found an off-licence bag and swigged schnapps straight from the bottle, chasing it with a Carlsberg and wandering through to the living room. Li Po had a look of concern. Jonas raised the bottle and took another drink, spluttering it all down himself when his mobile buzzed.

  He dropped the phone twice before he read the message. Mary. I won’t be there, Jonas. Good luck.

  The crush of disappointment was as pressing as his sudden uncertainty. He switched off the light and put on a record, a coal-dark living room with the curtains closed, Lou Reed singing and the bottle sinking lower. Venus in Furs then Pale Blue Eyes, Jonas mouthing along because he didn’t want his voice to ruin that heart-breaking waver, just silently singing unto oblivion.

  He woke to the same black. The ancient universe must have been like this. That first Being, alone in the ever-nothing. Black that didn’t know it was black because light had yet to be born. And maybe a slow background fuss, fuss, fuss, the sound of a spinning record after the final track, amplified from the great Marantz at the end of the universe, no one else there to listen.

  * * *

  The TV crew arrived at six. Signalled in advance by a rising buzz from the crowd outside the front door as people parted, made way, craned to see the famed presenter. Then the doorbell.

  Morton led the way. A stride to straddle the ocean of truth and a dazzling smile, sweeping round like a lighthouse beam. Jonas waited to see who else would follow presenter and crew into the house. Not one person. A couple of bouncers stood at the closed door.

  ‘Got to keep the tabloids out,’ the presenter said. ‘You’re big news. Have to guard the exclusive.’

  Morton and Jonas sat at the kitchen table, the make-up woman dabbing and the presenter babbling. He went on about Jonas’s blue shirt, blue, are you sure, you might sweat in the lights, patches under the armpits and that’s bad, have you got a white shirt, what do you think, Kate?

  Two tall stand-up lights had been set up in the living room. They moved furniture around without asking him. They took Li Po off the wall for some reason. They told him to sit on the couch.

  ‘How many viewers are you expecting?’

  ‘2.5 million most weeks. This could get five plus.’ The presenter raised his eyebrows, emphasising both the point and his popularity. They moved the easy chair, the judge’s chair, 90 degrees to the couch. Morton could lean in, profile to the camera, show off that chiselled jawline.

  At five minutes to air the stand-up lights flicked on. Morton was doing mouth exercises. Showtime! Mikke came to Jonas’s mind, erstwhile director of the annual show at Skillebekk High.

  Mikke might be sitting back home in Åsane, trawling the international channels, stumbling on this one, a spoonful of cereal frozen at the mouth, Mikke was always eating cereal, three boxes at any time in the staff room. And there’s Jonas, Jonas whom he completely ignored when he got out of prison, Jonas he sometimes wondered about and no way, it’s him, blinking in British TV lights and what had Mortensen done, what had Mortensen done now? No sympathy there and none from Sunny, shaking his head, sat on the Dakar beach with a portable TV. Or Dimitri, screaming at him, drunk in some Kiev bar. What is this, Jonas, you gotta keep head down and why you never learn, why you never learn, man?

  They all drifted and faded, into nothingness. Like the people who came to his Jonsok party, no sign of any of them.

  It was the presenter’s first question.

  ‘Jonas. Many thanks for having us. But tell me, why are our crew the only guests at your party?’

  Jonas laughed, lightly, not too nervous, then told him about the challenge of belonging.

  ‘You seem to have thought about this a lot.’

  ‘No more than anyone else,’ he said to the presenter. ‘I just float. Everyone floats.’

  ‘Everyone floats?’

  ‘We tell ourselves that we swim when in fact we’re just getting carried on the current.’

  ‘Some people must drown.’

  ‘I suppose they do.’

  ‘Are you drowning, Jonas?’

  ‘I’ve been in deep water.’

  ‘You mean killing your wife and daughter?’

  Jonas flinched. He saw those drinks in his hand. He saw his daughter, so peaceful on the back floor of the Saab, as if she was sleeping. ‘I rewind every night. Sometimes in the morning, when I’m not sure if I’m awake or still asleep, I hear my wife saying everything will be ok.’

  ‘Can you forgive yourself?’

  ‘That is a stupid question.’

  ‘Our viewers will be asking it.’

  ‘You should give your viewers more credit. Of course I can’t forgive myself. Let me tell you why…’

  And he took Morton on a long trip. Larvik to Bergen to the side-worlds of migrant Europe, the faces from past and present looming out with troubling judgement, whether they knew what Jonas had done or not, because something must have happened, that way he always held back, severing the deeper connections but only because he felt worthless beside Kiev Dimitri, Asamoah, Sunny, those with only dignified reasons for drifting the Euro shadows.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me, I am not seeking forgiveness.’

  ‘And Lacey Lewis?’

  Another flinch. The viewers would see it. A quick-wince of the eyes and then Jonas was crying.

  The director mouthed advert but Morton waved his hand, out of shot. ‘What was that mistake?’

  The make-up woman watching from behind the camera put a hand to her mouth.‘What happened?’

  Jonas blinked.

  ‘What happened, Jonas?’

  ‘There’s always something that goes wrong, Mr Morton. Always something you can’t quite believe. Something happened. Something happened in this village and it’s happening again.’

  ‘Jonas Mortense
n. A nation waits.’ The presenter turned slowly, a grave look directly into the camera and then a pointing finger. ‘And we ask you to wait. We’ll be right back after this break.’

  The director said all clear and the presenter leapt up from the chair. ‘Sensational. Sensational.’

  He squeezed Jonas’s arm and then, as if it was a favourite pet, carefully patted his over-coiffed hair, hurrying over to down a schnapps, pick at Jonas’s smorgasbord and congratulate him on the fab-u-LOUS food. He said Twitter was going mad with #JonasandLacey and explained that when they came back from the break he would recap the story of the disappearance then over to you to bring... the... REVEAL. He asked again for a hint and Jonas again refused.

  ‘You’re a natural Jonas, you know tension. Let’s hope the ending doesn’t fall off a cliff, eh?’

  The adverts went on for five minutes, leaching from the sound-man’s headphones: cars, cosmetics, cleaning products, cold remedies... something different for each demographic.

  The John Hackett bombshell was the ultimate commodity, everyone wanted a piece of that.

  A brief internet search in the library told him what happened in the village in 1991. There was no vindictiveness here, Jonas wasn’t a malicious man. Just someone doing a public service for his community and no blame attached to that. He’d walk out into the crowd, hands clean, head high. There would be another story in The Sun but a different headline this time, another man’s picture on page two and they would thank him, slap him on the back and buy him a drink in The Black Lion and who knows, maybe even a syndicated story, taking it across the sea to Norway, to Verdens Gang and maybe Mikke would come across that too.