by Karin Fossum
The Nurse from Hell.
‘Congratulations,’ said the big Russian.
‘Well I never,’ said Margareth. And Janson slapped me on the shoulder. Randers had sent me a lingering look as if to say, we’re not finished with one another yet, you and I. But we were. And from the moment my cell door slammed shut, I began to serve my time. I gobbled up the days like a famished dog, consumed time with every bit of my energy and ingenuity. I made my own calendar, and immediately began a countdown. Now that I’d been given a release date, time passed more quickly. Time had become like a road stretching towards a promised starting post, and this post marked the beginning of a new and honourable life. Janson admired the calendar I’d made. It had 270 small squares, one of which had to be crossed off each evening when the day was over. In the margin I’d done tiny illustrations for each month. A leafless tree for November, a heart for December, a six-pointed snow crystal for January.
‘You can draw,’ he concluded. ‘You really can. I’ll get you some things, so you can keep working at it.’
And so I began to draw. Each day after dinner: a hidden talent I never knew I had. Once I’d started I was unstoppable. I drew the familiar sanatorium, and the six-metre-high prison wall with its nests of barbed wire. I drew in the exercise yard: the bench, the fence, and the facade of the building with its many windows. I drew Janson as he leant against the wall with his muscular arms folded. I drew my hand, my foot, my diminutive cell, the bed and the desk. The strokes got more deft and rapid with each passing day, they emanated from somewhere deep within me, were transmitted through my arm to my hand, and flew lightly, even lovingly over the paper. I liked the smell of graphite when I sharpened the pencil. I lost myself in my drawings. I made up my mind to be a model prisoner, a good example to the other inmates, and called on all my reserves of generosity and discipline. I spoke to the priest, even though I’m not a believer; it was a matter of making the most of every new impression. I sat in the library and read. Even this was an exercise of sorts, sitting still, concentrating, absorbing. A fortnight after I’d received my sentence, Ebba came to visit. She seated herself comfortably on the chair and immediately took out her crocheting, presumably because I’d asked her to bring it along. I enjoyed watching her peaceful occupation.
Her needle moved like lightning. I sat and watched it for a long time.
‘Nelly Friis’ murder remains unsolved,’ I said.
She gave me a quick look. Her curls were crisp and newly done, her hair sat like a well-fitting cap.
‘That’s a problem for the police. They’ll work it out all right.’
I asked about little Miranda’s progress.
‘They go to the Dixie,’ Ebba said, ‘she and her mother. With their coffee and Coke. Almost every day. What a blessing it is, everything that’s happened. She’s walking almost normally, but it’s taken a long time. When she’s wearing baggy trousers you simply don’t know the braces are there. But she can’t run, of course. She’ll have to plod her way slowly through life. And perhaps that’s no bad thing, you get more out of it that way.’
She held her crocheting up to the light and examined her work, while I admired the complicated pattern, stars within borders, and the minuscule, barely visible stitches.
‘You’ve adapted,’ she noted. ‘You’re flexible. That’s good. What are you going to do when you’re released? It’ll be midsummer. You’ll need a job.’
‘They help with that,’ I explained. ‘We’ve got a kind of support service here in prison. But I’m not working with people any more. It just exasperates me. I can’t take people who plead. I can’t take people who whine and complain. So I’ll have to keep away from them.’
‘There’s good in everyone,’ Ebba maintained.
I didn’t try to deny it. I presented her with a drawing of the sanatorium, in which every one of its windows was an eye looking out on the world. For a brief moment I toyed with the idea of telling her about Margareth, but decided not to. Secrets are my strong point, I wanted to keep it to myself. Our relationship was a bastion for the future, and I added to it, stone by stone, with diligence and care. Margareth knew nothing about it, she didn’t know what I was working up to and hoping for, didn’t know about the dream that I was determined to turn into reality. But one day she would see it, she would see the lovely palace and clap her hands in delight.
And so the days and weeks passed. I conformed, I waited. I’d get out and find a job, then I’d woo Margareth as a free man. With an income and good prospects. With an exemplary record, and my eyes firmly fixed on a new and respectable path. That was the plan.
Humility. Patience. Contrition.
Margareth’s assistant passed away.
I dropped my knife in the sink when she told me, and almost whooped for joy. I’d never have believed a dead kitchen assistant would have given me so much pleasure. I could have leapt and danced with delight, I could have sprayed a bottle of champagne. Thank you, O Lord, her assistant is dead! But I stopped myself. After several months in prison I’d developed a certain amount of tact and propriety. They were the things I needed to conquer Margareth.
When the time was ripe.
Winter arrived and held everything in its icy grip, and the mercury sank towards minus twenty. I feared that the pipes in my house would freeze, and later burst, causing leaks in the spring and then damp problems, as well as bills I wouldn’t be able to pay. So I was given leave to go and switch on the heating. Of course, I thought of Arnfinn lying under his rhododendron bush. Everything was covered in a blanket of snow, even that chapter of my life. I considered that the long year I had to spend alone in my cell would be sufficient punishment for it all. Of course I wasn’t perfect. But I felt that I’d have paid for my sins at last.
The asylum seeker from Somalia had become pals with the big Russian, and they made quite a pair as they sat together in the common room. Two great hunks of brawn and sinew. Now, at least, he’d found his niche, and no longer had to spend his days playing table tennis. Instead, he went to the gym and got even bigger and stronger, if that was possible. His physique was so muscular that he seemed about to explode. He didn’t recognise me. We’d bump into one another occasionally, in the corridor or in the common room, but he looked right through me, his expression vacant. And then, very cautiously, I began to flirt with Margareth. I had to, because time was running out; if I wanted to win her, I’d have to act. Soon she’d understand my motives, and realise they were good. All through the winter they were good.
Chapter 36
NOW THINGS ARE gathering pace.
My release is getting nearer, and the time is ticking towards a new life. To date, Nelly Friis’ murder remains unsolved, and I search my mind for a possible explanation. For who’s responsible for making a fool of me. For who has committed a crime and then conveniently framed me for it. Because that’s clearly what’s happened. But perhaps this isn’t even a murder. Perhaps the prosecution service is wrong and she died of natural causes, with nothing more than a sigh, and then it was all over.
Blindly and painfully over.
There are various reasons why people can have blood leakage in an eye; I, who stuck a cannula into one, know that only too well. It’s no proof of suffocation as the doctor maintains.
I think a lot about Sister Anna, my delightful swan, Anna. And whether she’s hoodwinking us. What if her good nature is a camouflage for something else, something that has been going on for years, maybe several patients at Løkka have been dispatched. I’m not stupid. If I’ve pulled the wool over other people’s eyes, they can do the same to me. I know that Nelly had money. Property, shares and personal wealth. What if one of the grandchildren, a nephew, a son or daughter, got tired of waiting for the big prize? The final word has not yet been spoken in Nelly’s case. But I know it will be one day. The truth is an unstoppable force, it will out.
I’m promoted to block monitor.
On account of my exemplary behaviour, because now I’ve learnt.
I wash the floor of the corridor in front of the cells and hand out the post. Keep the noticeboard announcements tidy. Pass on messages and take care of small repairs, help shelve books in the library, go on errands from cell to cell, liaise between the prisoners and the prison staff. In short, I’m useful. All day long I help others. I work in the kitchen. I bind Margareth to me with every ounce of zeal and intensity I possess, and I really think she is predisposed towards me. Wasn’t opening up about that brother who dived to his death a vote of confidence? Intimate, almost affectionate, that’s the way I choose to view it. A green light, so I can advance; perhaps she’s waiting even now. She wouldn’t have told just anyone, she chose me. There’s no doubt in my soul. Margareth is within reach, and I’m as excited as a child, when I think of all that’s in store. All that will be mine.
Just as soon as this winter, this long winter, is over.
Just as soon as I’ve made amends.
The snow melts and runs away.
It gurgles grey and dirty down the drains, taking with it leaves and mud, and scouring the roads clean and smooth, and now everything is easier.
January, February and March come and go.
And so the months pass slowly by.
Easter arrives, the place on my calendar where I’ve sketched a chick in the margin. The spring months with all their trickling water, early summer with its shoots. Thus I atone for the hurt and injury I’ve done the patients at Løkka, I pay the price for my frustrated nature. My lack of control. But I don’t complain. Never once have I complained during the long, cold winter. Eventually the snow melts. Summer comes at last, and I’m going to be free again. During the whole of this never-ending year I’ve been consummate in all my behaviour, and he who has paid the price has surely regained his credit. At least, that’s my opinion.
I thank Janson for his encouragement, and Ebba for the many good times. I walk quietly out of my cell, look over my shoulder at the sanatorium.
I take my clumsy farewells.
The Russian wishes me luck. Margareth doesn’t seem particularly affected, but I know her well enough to guess the reason. She’s just shy. I manage to stammer something about wanting to stay in contact. She doesn’t react to this either, but thanks me for my help throughout the year, thanks me in her dour, bashful way. Janson, too, wishes me luck. ‘Watch yourself, now,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to see you in here again. Get a drawing pad and pencil, get a proper life!’ I present him with all my drawings, a thick wad of them. I walk slowly out through the prison gate. Down the road and over to the bus stop, I don’t turn to look back, because now I’m free. I take a seat in the bus and lean my head against the window. I can feel the engine’s vibration through the glass, a droning at my temple, it reminds me of swarming insects. Familiar, but new all the same, I’m used to my teeming head, I’m sensitive by nature. Now the day has arrived, and the hour, when I’m to begin a new chapter, and I ought to succeed. I enjoy the long bus ride through the streets, the driver’s solid presence, the reassuring hum of the engine, and a scattering of raindrops on the window, like mournful tears.
I get off the bus at the Dixie Café, I want to do the last bit on foot. I hesitate as I pass the door of the café, with its two plastic palms in blue pots, a pathetic sight all things considered, why doesn’t someone mention that the decor in front of the premises is cheap and ridiculous? I have a sudden whim and give in to it. I go up to the door, open it and peer inside. And there they are, the two of them, in the far corner. Miranda and Lill Anita, each with a Coke. Miranda’s hair is loose, it reaches to her shoulders. No hairbands, no brightly coloured plastic clips. She’s got older. She’s wearing trousers with roomy legs, you can’t see the leg braces, but I sense their presence, because I know they’re there. Her legs are stretched out under the table. I retreat before they catch sight of me, and I stroll on. I return to my house. I stand for a moment in the drive taking everything in, the cherished and the familiar, all that’s mine. I hear my neighbour’s children shouting and screeching, they’re on the trampoline. Then I take a quick look round the back of the house to see the grave. The rhododendron bush has grown enormous. It’s benefitted from the sun and rain and is really impressive now. I regard it as a good omen. But one thing troubles me. A narrow path has been trodden from the front steps and round to the grave, as if someone has been walking to and fro, checking the terrain. I can’t understand it. Perhaps fate is playing a trick on me. Perhaps there’s a badger about, or a feral cat. But the path is obvious. A telltale little track from the steps to the grave. A narrow, paler outline in the grass. I dragged a corpse along here. It was heavy. But now that’s behind me for ever. I let myself in, walk to the window and look out on the road. I switch the coffee machine on, see the small red lamp illuminate, hear the water grumble as it heats up, smell the aroma of newly filtered coffee. I have a large cupful and phone the owner of the Shell service station, where the prison has found me work. He’s terse and brusque and rather sullen, but I don’t have to like him, I like hardly anyone, except Margareth. And Janson. And Anna Otterlei, even though she lured me into a trap. I tell him that I can start whenever he wants, I’m as free as a bird. We agree on the following Monday. He knows something of my history, but was chiefly concerned that my sentence didn’t have anything to do with a financial misdemeanour. Once reassured on that point, he felt satisfied and offered me a job on the till at the service station. I’m perfectly happy about this. I’ll have to deal with people all day long, but only on a superficial level, only ‘yes please’ and ‘there you are’ and ‘see you again’. No whingeing and whining, no cares and carping and complaint. Just fleeting nods and quick smiles across the counter. I’ll be serving freshly baked items plus hot dogs, and taking the money for newspapers and petrol. Now I can only think about one thing. My first payday. As soon as it arrives I’ll ring up the prison and ask for Margareth. I’ll finally find the courage to ask her out.
Three days of freedom.
Reading the death notices in the paper, I see that Barbro Zanussi has finally died. It says that she passed away peacefully, but I have my doubts on that score. No one talks about the unpleasant aspects. The rattling and gasping, the disgusting metallic smell from deep within the lungs as they empty for the last time. But at least now she’s at peace, the pain and despair are over, I almost feel relieved for her.
Poor, unfortunate Barbro. A myriad of emotions well up, and for a brief moment I’m filled with compassion. It’s dreadful that things can turn out so badly, that life can be so unbearable.
I like reading death notices. I relish them like I would a sweet. And Barbro’s relatives have chosen a moving poem.
All is bestowed on mankind
Merely as a loan.
All that’s mine is owed, soon to be withdrawn again.
For everything is subject to reclaim:
The trees, the clouds, the earth on which I pace.
And then I’ll wander lonely, without trace.
*
I start my new job, and manage really well. I’m not especially friendly, but then I don’t have to be. I do my job and no one complains. People come in and out; it’s a busy place. One day, Eddie and Janne come into the shop, hand in hand, as if conjoined like Siamese twins. Inseparable from the waist down. They look just as happy as ever, and this surprises me greatly. Because I’d imagined that, like Romeo and Juliet, they’d suffer some terrible death in each other’s arms. I’d thought that Janne would find another man sooner or later, better-looking, stronger. And that Eddie would kill her with his bare hands. Throttle her with a vice-like grip, and crush her larynx. Only to take his own miserable life afterwards, because things like that do happen. But I seem to have been wrong. They’re still together, and they buy a bag of buns, before wandering out into the sunshine again, ensconced in their bubble of contentment.
It really worries me the way things are going so well for them. Because I can’t understand what they’ve found, that I’ve never found. But I�
��m working on it, and I’m moving in the right direction. I count the days just as I did when I was inside, I’m counting down to payday. August is glorious in all its verdant beauty. One day I go to the park by Lake Mester. An unknown woman has taken my bench, and for an instant I’m indignant. She obviously doesn’t know the rules, and she makes no attempt to move when I arrive. She sits rocking a pram. She’s about my own age, probably a grandmother, I think, and find another seat. I perch on the bench that Arnfinn always used. It’s good to sit here again, by the fountain, I sit for an hour listening to the tinkling water. The dolphins are so familiar, so smooth and lithe and wet. On my way home I stop by Woman Weeping. I place my hand on one of the rounded breasts, and think about Margareth. Margareth occupies my thoughts entirely, everything else is blotted out by these dreams, and the castle I’ve built in my mind. I go back to the house. I potter about, gradually adjusting to my new existence as a free man, working for Shell with a regular wage and pleasant workmates. They know nothing about why I was in prison. In fact, they don’t seem interested in me very much anyway, and I feel relieved about that. I can hardly expect everyone to see what’s unusual about me.
To realise that I’m wholly exceptional.
At last it’s silent in my bedroom at night.
There’s no chugging diesel engine, no one whispering from the corners of the room.
*
Ten days of freedom.
Free in the morning, free at midday, and still free in the evening.
One day I make the trip to the cemetery.
I imagine that Anna’s brother is likely to be buried here, by Jordahl church, but as I begin to work my way through the headstones, I realise it’s going to be hard to find him. The cemetery is large. I wander amongst the gravestones, reading the odd inscription, halting occasionally to look about me. I catch sight of a man. Presumably he’s a cemetery worker, he’s clipping away at a hedge. The clean snap of his shears, with its even and persistent rhythm, is carried on the still air. I hesitate, but decide to approach him. He starts when I enter his field of vision; he must have been immersed in his own thoughts. He’s wearing a blue cap with a visor and a Honda logo on it.