by Karin Fossum
Then he goes into the kitchen. He doesn’t look in Harriet’s direction; she’s just something dark in the corner of his eye. He’s searching for a door that might open into a bedroom. It’s at the back of the kitchen, hardly bigger than a storage area. On the bedside table is a jewelry case. He digs into it with his gloved hand and puts the contents into his bag: brooches, rings, a bracelet, and a string of pearls. And a large, heavy pocket watch that’s certainly gold. He tears open the drawer of the bedside table; it’s full of tablets, coins, and hair clips. He opens a wardrobe and yanks out the clothing. He has a hunch that this is where she hides her money. That she likes having it close by when she’s asleep. He finds a pink washing bag and opens the zipper. Pleasure floods through him, for there it is. A staggeringly fat wad of money. He stuffs it into the pocket of his parka, feeling tremendously elated.
He re-enters the kitchen. Harriet is lying like a slaughtered animal on the floor. She is so thin and her body is strangely twisted. He sees her gold bracelet but can’t bear touching her. He’s glad he can’t see her face because right now his life is hideous: all that’s been before, and what he’s done now. He is repulsive. His tongue feels the missing corner of his front tooth as a nasty, sharp edge. He shoves the revolver under his parka and takes a few paces to the side. Then he puts his foot in the wrong place. The heel of his boot goes into the puddle of blood and he slips. He flails wildly, trying to keep his balance. He stands for a few moments to allow his heart to calm down. Now he must go out among people again, so it’s important to be self-possessed. Relaxed, assured, and purposeful. He walks into the hallway, turns the lock, holds the door ajar, and stands listening. A shadow streaks across the floor, something black and noiseless. He starts. She’s got a cat, he realizes. It’s been waiting outside, and now it wants to come in to the warmth and light. He goes back in again to see what it will do. The cat stops and looks at the ruined body. It gives several long mews. Then it goes straight to its bowl to drink. He stands nonplussed, watching the cat. It raises its head and looks at him with half-closed yellow eyes. How extraordinary, he thinks, that the cat is behaving as normal. He leaves the kitchen again, and the cat follows. He can’t understand it. It sits on the steps watching him. He pulls the front door closed and goes down the steps, the cat keeping pace with him like a shadow. He begins to walk toward the gate. There’ll be no one around now, he thinks. I won’t meet a soul, and if I do, all they’ll see is a silhouette in the snowy night. The cat follows him for a few meters, and then it stops. Quickly he steps out onto the road.
He looks over his shoulder constantly as he wades through the slush. But he doesn’t see anyone. Not a single person is out in Fredboesgate this evening. He sees television screens flickering blue in living rooms and silhouettes behind curtains. Everyone is minding their own business. He reaches the hotel and makes his way around to the courtyard. He brushes the mushy snow off his car’s windshield. There are so many footprints everywhere. Surely it wasn’t like this when he arrived?
He gets into the car. Throws the bag with the silverware on the seat and drops the bloody revolver on the floor. His right arm is weak and he’s pulled his shoulder. He rubs the tender spot and pants, knowing that he must get away from Hamsund. But he sits there just the same. His heart is laboring, but he can’t get it to slow down. It’s pumping away at a terrific rate and he feels the heat rising to his head. He tries to breathe freely. Lays his head back, opens his mouth wide. Air down into my lungs, he thinks, air around my entire body. If he can only get out of Hamsund, if he can just get home, everything will be fine. My own home, he thinks despairingly. My own chair, my bed. The cool pillow against my face. The things that are mine, just as before. Can he do it? Can he manage to live with this? How could she carry on like that. She could have let him work away in peace and saved her own skin, couldn’t she? Deep down he knows that this is where he was headed. He’s known it all the time. It’s lain there like a blot on his consciousness.
He leans back against the headrest and reflects. He’s never quite fit the pattern. And when he’s looked at other people, he’s always felt that they’ve been attached to the world in a totally different way. He’s always had the feeling that he’s ambivalent, remote. What’s just occurred couldn’t have been avoided. This acknowledgment is so dismal that he feels like the victim of something he doesn’t understand. Something to do with fate. That the crime has lain in wait for him, trapped him like some pawn in a game. Plotted by God or the devil, he doesn’t know which. He shivers. He gets out his tobacco and rolls a cigarette, lights up, and inhales deeply. Then he puts the Honda in gear and drives off.
She didn’t survive that, he thinks. Such a frail person, fragile and brittle as plaster. Soon he’s passing the railway station. Thoughts whirl around his head, but his pulse is beginning to slow because he can’t see anyone. There’s a cozy glow coming from the windows of Hamsund. The snow is falling soft and still. People are busy with other things and he’s getting away. All at once, he’s aware of a shadow to his right, but he continues plowing on, driving carefully on the slippery surface. It’s his right of way. The shape is suddenly frighteningly close. In the next moment, there is a jolt, and he hears the noise of metal crunching against metal. The bang is loud in the silence. He is thrown against the steering wheel and feels a blow to his chest. Then everything goes quiet and the silence is unreal. Confused, he peers through the windshield and finds himself looking directly at another car. He is filled with cold terror. He remembers the revolver lying on the floor and what he’s just done, remembers it as if for the first time. Suddenly he’s wide awake. He’s fallen from the track he was moving along and into a tangled undergrowth of panic and fear. A young man is gazing at him from the other car, a pale face with frightened eyes and large, prominent ears. Charlo loses control. Without thinking, he gets out into the slush, crosses to the small white car, and tears open the door. His body is shaking ominously and he flies off the handle, exploding like a firecracker. Everything that’s pent up inside him spills out in a furious torrent. The boy seeks shelter from this storm, this vast stream of words. He holds on tight to his steering wheel and waits for things to settle down. But they don’t settle down because all the floodgates inside Charlo have opened, and his fury is pouring out.
“I’ve got a claim form,” the boy mumbles.
His arm moves toward the glove compartment, his thin hand trembling. Charlo panics at the thought of a claim form. Documents to fill out, his signature at the bottom. He will be placing himself in Hamsund on the night in question, November 7. He knows he can’t do that. He’s still leaning heavily on the doorframe and yelling into the car. His expletives become more personal; they erupt from him like white-hot lava. He stops to draw breath. He thought he was empty, but more emerges. It’s like vomit; he feels it in the pit of his stomach. Then his voice cracks and he begins to sob. He weeps over what he’s left behind him on the floor. He weeps over Julie who won’t see him. Then he’s appalled at his own reaction. Only a madman acts like this, he thinks with alarm, and slams the door shut. He rushes back to the Honda.
3
HE CAN SEE no stars. Only a thick darkness.
Out of that darkness, the snow drops quietly. This is the planet’s ultimate night. It will never be light again; no sun will rise in the morning. So grisly was his recent act. He bows his head in despair. If he’s being honest with himself, he thinks he’s dreaming. Soon he’ll wake up and groan with relief because it was only a nightmare. He switches on the courtesy light in the car and looks down at himself. His parka is bloody. The collision must have been the hand of God, a sudden intervention to halt him in his flight and make him face justice.
The lights are on in Erlandson’s house next door, and there, a shadow at the window. It’s almost eleven o’clock; his right arm is trembling. He sits in the car smoking, unable to tear himself away. Now and again he hears a hoarse groan, and it’s coming from him. He’s killed Harriet Krohn, but all he can th
ink about is the accident with the white car. He thinks it was a Toyota, a Yaris. The contretemps was inexcusable. His reaction unforgivable. Only a lunatic would have behaved like that. He takes a firm grip of himself and grabs hold of the bag of silverware and jewelry, the “Tina’s Flowers” bag, and the bloody revolver. He gets out of the car and locks it.
His knees are weak. He bends close to the fender: a dent and the remains of some white paint. If only it were a bad dream, if only the fender were smooth and undamaged. Damn this weather, he thinks. Damn this whole wretched existence that I can’t cope with. Once again, he feels the need to cry, and some miserable sobs escape from him. He throws another glance at Erlandson’s house, but there’s no one at the window now.
He goes into his own house, slams the door behind him, and drops the revolver and the bag on the floor. He throws off the parka and it falls in a heap. And there he remains, standing with eyes closed, leaning against the wall. He hears himself breathing and knows that he’s alive, that the world is moving on. Even though he’s sunk to the bottom, to the very depths of existence. There’s a thudding at his temples, and the skin of his cheeks is prickling. He opens his eyes, sees his furniture and possessions. There’s the photo of Inga Lill and Julie; he can’t meet their gaze. He doubles over and starts tearing his hair, yanking so hard that his scalp hurts and the tears come. He eases his shoulders, gets a firm grip of himself, and sits down in his chair. The familiar red chair. He lies back. Oh, he’s so tired, so tired. He tries to force his breathing into an even rhythm and succeeds. Just sit quietly now, breathe, rest.
Only after an eternity does he get up and cross the floor. He knows that he must meet himself in the mirror. Instead he looks down and sees splashes of blood at the bottom of his trouser legs. Aghast, he kicks them off. He goes into the bathroom to shower. He imagines it will help, that perhaps he’ll return to his old self. Can he ever be himself again? Didn’t the door just slam and shut him away from everything? He imagined he heard a boom. He is standing quite naked in the garishly lit room. But then there’s the mirror. Perhaps it’s all hopeless if his eyes give him away as a killer.
He approaches the mirror with lowered head, and again he closes his eyes. I know what I look like, he thinks. I don’t need to make a big thing about it. He opens them again and looks straight ahead. His eyes are strange. His look is so distant; it reaches him from far away. Meditative, a little defensive. Is this really me? Am I alive? He steadies himself on the washbasin. This is too much for me, he thinks. I must calm down now. Calm down, Charlo! He makes another attempt, lifting his head and looking at his reflection with a more forceful expression. That’s better. He looks more collected. But there are those gray eyes—there’s something about them. The irises seem metallic. He leans close to the mirror and looks at his own pupils. They’re not completely round. His brow wrinkles in concern. Is it possible? Aren’t all pupils round? He moves right up to the glass. They’re cloudy at the edges and elongated, like oval slits. But this is what I must look like, he thinks. I’ve never noticed it before. How strange, how horrible. It makes him start; then the goose pimples rise. He leans forward once more. No, they’re definitely not round. It worries him enormously and he turns his back on the mirror. He stands there, unmoving, his naked body winter pale and hairy. Again he stops, freezes up. He can’t budge. He tries talking sternly to himself, tries to tear free. He turns on the tap and stands under the jet of water. Then at last his mind moves on and the hot water streams down. She’s dead, he thinks, and it’s my fault. But I couldn’t help it. She was hysterical. She went for me like an angry terrier. I was caught off guard, I was frightened, I lost control. But I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t plan it; I’ve never been cold-blooded. Never. He wants the water to splash over him, warm and soothing. He stands there resting for a while. Steps out of the shower and puts on a dressing gown. Picks up the parka and retrieves the money from the pocket. His heart beats faster. There’s a lot of money, a lot more than he’d hoped for. He settles in his chair with the wad of notes in his lap and starts counting. It’s hard because his hands are shaking. His eyes grow large. The money is dry and smooth between his fingers, masses of thousand-krone notes. He counts them ten by ten, and places them on the table. Two hundred and twenty thousand.
He rushes across to the phone and stands with the roll of notes in his hand as he dials Bjørnar Lind’s number. It’s late, but he can’t wait. He clutches the money tightly as he hears the ring tone in his ear. One ring, two rings. It seems to go on ringing for an eternity. But nobody answers. As frustrated as a child, he has to put down the phone without doing what he wanted. He places the money in the desk drawer. He goes into the kitchen and makes coffee. He pulls out a chair from the kitchen table, sits down, and drinks the coffee with sugar in it. She’s dead and it’s my fault. She’s still lying there. It’s night now, and no one knows what’s happened. He can’t sit still; he’s got a lot to do. He tries to move around slowly. It’s important to maintain his composure. But he has no composure. His thoughts are working faster than his body.
Later he stands at the utility sink and starts scrubbing the revolver with a nailbrush. Lightly bloodstained water runs down the drain. He fetches the rubber mat from the car and cleans it thoroughly. Finally he gets some bleach, squirting it directly from the bottle. He imagines this will remove all traces. His clothes must be thrown away, or perhaps he can burn them in the oven. He rushes around the house tidying and hides the silverware and jewelry somewhere he thinks is safe. He bags up the bloody clothes and stuffs them into a cupboard together with the revolver. He wants to go to bed, but he’s scared that he’s forgotten something. He tramps from room to room, from the living room to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the bathroom, a lost creature with aching eyes. He speaks severely to himself, attempts to take himself in hand. Nobody witnessed the collision. Nobody saw him go to the house. Nobody saw him leave it. Nobody except the cat with the yellow eyes.
At last, he goes to bed. He takes the money from the desk drawer and places it on his bedside table. If Lind’s thugs come in the middle of the night, he has only to wave the cash and save his skin. Soon he’ll be a man with no debts. He consoles himself with the thought, as he lies on his back and breathes out into the darkness. Lies staring at the ceiling. Frightened of falling asleep, scared to lie awake. This is what it feels like, he thinks. Now I know what it feels like. I can live with this. I must live with it. My God, it’ll be tough. He turns over to face the wall and packs the duvet tightly around him. I’ve got to sleep now, he thinks. I’m so tired. Must move on to my next day of unemployment, move on to the rest of my life. All the time he’s listening in the dark. To make out if someone is at the door or if there are footsteps outside the window. However it’s the collision that troubles him, and his own crazed reaction. That sudden bang and the shock through his body revisit him all night long.
Suddenly he’s washed roughly ashore.
He feels the cool air on his face and he’s abruptly and inescapably awake. It’s like falling from a great height. The first thing he recalls is the accident. It hits him like a landslide, the thought of his own fury, and he moans as if in sudden pain. Remorselessly it all comes back to him, in glimpses and fragments. Her kitchen, the black cat. The actions and images parade before him in a line of rapid, fantastic tableaux. He lies quite still in bed while thoughts fly through his head. He wants to lie in the dark like this forever. He wants to expunge the preceding day.
He moves his fingers carefully—the nice, whole fingers with their two gold rings. The day hasn’t begun yet, he thinks. It won’t begin until I open my eyes; I can switch the world on or off. He must gather his thoughts, introduce them one by one, sort through them. He knows he can’t do it. Before him lies a mental storm, a blitz of ghastly images. The ugly green dress, the smashed skull. Eventually he opens his eyes. A little light is seeping in from behind the curtains. He stares at the lamp on the ceiling and follows the wire with his eyes. It’s
been routed along the wall and then down to the plug near the floor. He sees a little bit of a web in one corner and something dark that might be a spider.
I’m Charles Olav Torp, he thinks. It’s so strange waking up in this heavy body. There are sounds outside, but the people making them know nothing. They think that today is a perfectly normal day. No one has noticed the trembling, but soon the ripples will expand and reach every respectable person. He conjures up a crowd in his mind’s eye, and at that moment they turn to look at him accusingly. He raises his right hand tentatively and holds it in front of his face. It’s hairy and has thick nails. My hand, he thinks, and turns it, splays out his fingers, studies all the mechanics. He thinks of the power in it, unleashed as soon as it gets a message from the brain. Strike her, now. Strike! Without a command, the hand would have hung limp at the end of his arm and remained a good and loving hand. But he stood in Harriet’s kitchen and gave his hand that command. No, it shot up of its own volition. He can’t remember having shaped the thought that he should strike her. Did he do that? His hand took on a life of its own and hit out without his wanting it to. His heavy, flaccid hand. Isn’t it the same hand he’s always had? Isn’t it larger than his left one? He raises his other hand to compare them. It is larger, because he’s right-handed; that’s quite normal.
As he lies there staring at the spider, the minutes pass. He feels he’s behind the curve and that he should get up and start his day. Get up now, it’s over. Or is now the beginning? What awaits him in town? A continuous stream of people will observe him in the streets. What about the woman in the bakery where he usually buys his bread? Will she look at him with new eyes? He sits up slowly and places his feet on the floor. He’s become so conscious of his right arm, the one that raised the revolver, that he can’t ignore it. Is it really much heavier than the left? He rubs his fingers together. There’s a new and quite unbelievable sensitivity in his fingertips. He thinks he can feel the tiny grooves, the ones that form his fingerprint. He stands there with his heavy arm hanging, bent slightly forward, a bit limp. No, this is ridiculous, he thinks. Stop this nonsense.