by Karin Fossum
He grasps the bundle of money on the bedside table and walks slowly across the room. It feels as if his arm is hanging like a club from his shoulder and even his gait has altered. His walk is lopsided and bowlegged like an ape’s. There is something the matter with his knees; they don’t feel right. He stops suddenly and shudders. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears like an angry drumming. He freezes in that attitude and draws breath. In the stillness, he hears a note increasing in volume. He covers his ears and is afraid that everything that’s going on inside his head may cause his skull to burst like some overripe fruit. He starts wondering if his brain might short-circuit if it has too much to do. Because she’s dead and he’s guilty. He thinks about all the electric impulses and imagines the sparks in his skull. Quite involuntarily, his knees give way, and he almost loses his balance. He saves himself in the nick of time, propping his body against the wall. He clutches the roll of notes. Turns toward the bed again and lets himself fall onto the sheets. Grabs despairingly for the duvet. Sleep now, must sleep, he thinks. Must get away from all this horror. She was so angry! He wasn’t prepared for her assault; he was naive. The first day is the worst, he thinks. The feeling will wear off, and it’ll become a habit. He hears the sound of his own breathing and imagines it’s coming from another man, a man lying next to him and breathing in his ear. The feeling is unpleasant, as if there’s someone else in the room. Someone who sees and listens and knows.
He creeps toward the wall. He lies there tossing and turning, remembering that no one has seen him, that he’s an insignificant person. He’s left no clues. He hasn’t, has he? He digests this first little sprouting of hope. He’s the one who’ll get away with it; not everyone gets caught. Slowly he gives the thought a chance. It’s fragile and he’s frightened of losing it. He concentrates hard, opens his eyes again, gazes at the wallpaper. Lilies, stripes. He puts the money to his nose and sniffs. Never has the smell of dry paper given him such blissful happiness.
He sits up slowly, perches on the edge of the bed, and pulls the curtains aside and looks out. He needs some everyday object to rest his eyes on, some assurance that the street out there is the same as ever. It has stopped snowing at last, and a line of cars is parked along the pavement. He looks closely at the cars. His face tenses with the strain: a Mercedes, an Opel, a Ford. I’d better keep tabs on the cars outside, he decides, in case they’re watching me. Why should they watch me? No one knows I was in Harriet’s house. Once again he plants his feet on the floor, then summons all his willpower and walks slowly across the room. It’s only a few steps to the bathroom. He’ll seek shelter in there, under the hot water. Thaw his frozen body, become soft and supple once more. He drops the money on the kitchen table. Then everything closes down inside him again and he glances over his shoulder. Nobody is sitting in the living room looking back at him. He pulls off his pajama bottoms a little more clumsily than usual. He keeps losing his balance. He thinks: Relax now, get into the shower, Charlo. There’s no cause for panic. She certainly won’t have been found yet. People have lives to lead in Fredboesgate. They go to work as usual, the ones that have work to go to. The ones that aren’t in the same sort of mess as I am.
Of course she’s been found, a voice within him says.
No, it’s much too soon. It’s only nine o’clock.
Someone could have come to her door early. Presumably all hell has broken loose.
Don’t get me worked up; it’ll happen soon enough. I’m trying to keep calm.
You don’t deserve to be calm. You’re never going to feel calm again as long as you live. This is going to torture and trouble you every minute of the day, and when the time comes for you to die, you won’t dare to let go because you’ll be headed straight for hell.
He pushes the voices away. He moves in front of the mirror, unwilling and curious at the same time. Perhaps his pupils are round again; perhaps it was just his imagination. He leans forward and stares. No, in his opinion they’re still elongated. He turns on the tap and stands under the hot water for a long time. Just shower now, he thinks. Relax, forget. He moves toward the wall and feels the water running. He wants to become completely clean. It feels as if he could stand there until nightfall, washing everything away. Everything that’s been, everything that’s to come.
He glances down at himself. It’s the same body as always: the stomach, the fairly sturdy thighs, the skin white from lack of sun. His chest is powerful with a slight suggestion of breasts. Suddenly he feels very giddy and has to steady himself against the wall. He leans against the wet tiles and places a hand on his heart. He thinks there’s a flickering in front of his eyes. Is it really possible that I went out there, he thinks, or is it just an evil dream? The collision leaves him in no doubt. The big crunch and the jolt through his body. He must tear himself free, get into the rut again and not ask questions. It’s too late now, it’s happened. He’s got to think ahead and not dwell on the past. With his back to the mirror, he dries himself. He guides the towel distractedly over his body, and his spirit flounders. It’s like treading water; he’s afraid he’ll drown in his own despair, his own fear.
He gets out clean clothes. Carefully buttons his shirt, does up his belt, and goes to the mirror again. He’s keeping himself under observation, as if searching for cracks. He thinks his face looks flat and immobile. Will he remember who he was? Will he remember his facial expressions? Can he find them when he needs them, so that people will recognize him, his smile, his laugh? When he does occasionally laugh.
He goes to the desk and dials Bjørnar Lind’s number. Hopping from one foot to the other, he is bursting with the good news that he can pay his debt. But no one answers. He bites his lip, phones the local radio station where Bjørnar works, and finally gets through to a woman there. No, he’s traveling on business; he’ll be away for a while. She gives him a mobile number, and he hangs up and then frantically taps in the digits. The person you’re dialing is not available. Full of frustration, he retreats to the kitchen. He takes the coffee tin out of the cupboard, fills the jug with water, flicks the switch, the light glows red.
Afterward he sits by the kitchen window, slowly drinking his coffee. Halfway through the cup he has to fetch some sugar. This need for sugar irritates him; he never usually takes it. But it’s only a trifle, he thinks. Would anybody ask, is there something up with Charlo? Is something troubling him because he’s suddenly putting sugar in his coffee? He steals a sidelong glance at the radio. He wants to switch it on but hesitates. He doesn’t know if he dares. What kind of words will they use? No, I’ll do it later, he thinks. Perhaps Harriet hasn’t even been found yet; she doesn’t get many visitors, and it’s early in the day.
He looks around the kitchen. He’s lived in this house for a long time, and yet in a strange way, he feels like a guest. This is day one. He needs to get acquainted all over again. The objects around him—the furniture, the ceiling light—all seem familiar, but they’re not his anymore. It feels as if someone has cut his moorings, and that he’s drifting in the room like a sorry shipwreck. He thinks, I’ll never come home again. He stares out into the street, his gaze watchful. Just then a large, dark car appears. It looks like an Audi. He follows it with his eyes, gripping his coffee cup. He wonders why it’s moving so slowly, as if the driver’s looking for something. For him, perhaps. There’s a momentary catch in his breast. It doesn’t belong to any of his neighbors, as he knows all the vehicles in the street. Erlandson drives an Opel, and Gram directly opposite has a Mazda. There, it’s stopping. His heart pounds. Are they after him already? The courtesy light comes on, and a man sits there leafing through something, a map maybe, or a book. Charlo stares with aching eyes.
He gets up and goes into the hallway. Takes out an old quilted jacket. He bends down and ties up his bootlaces, glancing occasionally at the door. Retrieves the bag of bloody clothes from the cupboard. For a long time, he stands there psyching himself up. He’s going outdoors, and it’s important to seem natural, relaxed, to s
troll along. Move around, insignificant and gray, just as he’s always done. He opens the door a crack. He wouldn’t be able to face any of the neighbors, but the street is quiet. He walks the few steps to his car and notices the dent in the front fender. It makes him shudder. He unlocks the door with trembling fingers and throws in the bag. Oh, how that dent haunts him! He backs out into the street and changes into first gear. He wishes he had another car, a gray car. He feels that the Honda is giving off something, an angry red revealing glow.
4
SURELY IT’S NOT possible that she’s survived?
That she’s crawled all the way into her living room on her elbows, and then phoned for help? That she’s already reported and described him in the minutest detail? No, he says to himself, marshaling some common sense. That can’t have happened!
He drives slowly down Blomsgate. In his head, he’s conducting an imaginary conversation with Lind, when he does finally answer his mobile.
Hi, there. This is Charlo. Long time no see.
Silence at the other end. Then irritated grunts and presumably rising suspicion.
What the hell are you ringing me for? You don’t think I’ll give you some more, do you? You’ve got some cheek!
That familiar grouchy voice. Cold and reluctant.
Calm down, Bjørnar, this could be to your advantage.
Silence again. Lind is waiting. Charlo savors the moment, milks it. Perhaps he stands there with the roll of money in his hand, tapping the tabletop with it.
Well then, let’s hear it. I haven’t got all day.
Two hundred thousand in nice, clean crispies are here waiting for you. Come and get them. By all means, bring your pruning shears if you don’t believe me.
Lind says nothing. The silence is charged with distrust.
And how have you managed that?
Charlo considers carefully.
Imagination, tenacity, and courage.
He returns to himself again and watches for traffic from his right. He recalls how he almost fainted in the bathroom; that’s never happened to him before. A sudden flickering in front of the eyes, a sensation of vanishing. Guilt. No, don’t think about guilt, think about nice things. About Julie, who’s young and healthy. He’d never have believed that Inga Lill could die of cancer. She was always so bright, so lively. Even now it’s incomprehensible to him. The day she got the diagnosis, it was as if they’d both been struck by lightning. The car’s a bit too hot, so he switches off the fan. He stares straight ahead at the snow-covered road. Don’t give your thoughts free rein. Collect them, take control of them, he thinks, trying to concentrate. It’s hard. Because Harriet Krohn is dead. He scratches his jaw and tries to think. It’s a hundred to one that she’s dead. She can’t turn him in.
There’s the brewery. Great stacks of red and yellow beer crates stand like high-rise buildings around the yard in front of the building, resembling oversized Lego blocks. To be a child again and be able to play with a clear conscience, protected by adults. He loses himself in childhood reminiscences and remembers a particular day when he was walking back from school. It was winter and icy cold. The snow creaked under his boots. Just then he caught sight of something in a pile of snow close to his front door. A cat that had been run over. The cat was virtually turned inside out; its intestines were partly splayed out on the snow. It made him almost ecstatic, and inquisitive. He knew that his mother could see him from the window, but he couldn’t help himself. He began prodding around the cat’s innards with a stick. It didn’t move, so he could prod as much as he liked. The cat was at peace. He was only seven, but he understood that much, and the stick worked frenetically among all the entrails. He couldn’t get enough of it. After a few minutes, his mother came out and wanted to know what he was doing. From her reaction, he concluded that what he’d been doing was inexcusable. But he didn’t think the cat was nasty. He was deeply fascinated. Pondering it now, he wonders if perhaps he’s different—if other, normal children would have run away in disgust. Where did he get the idea of picking at the dead animal’s remains? He thinks there’s a meaning to everything, so he analyzes past events and searches for a flaw. If, that is, he has a flaw. No, he can’t think of anything. He feels totally normal. Here’s old Charlo. I’m perfectly normal, but I’ve killed.
He drives along the main road and the houses get farther apart. That car behind me, he thinks as he looks in the mirror, has been there a long time. A Renault. There’s a man at the wheel. Is he after me? Charlo can’t get himself to relax. He feels exposed in the sharp winter light, feels the car is making more noise than usual. He thinks all manner of strange things. It feels almost as if his cheeks are on fire. Nevertheless it’s a relief to be out among people, to be a natural part of the flow. Here, among the crowd, both good and bad, he feels anonymous. Gradually the farms and apple orchards appear. He likes the landscape around here: the fields and spruce forests, the gently sloping wooded hills and the mountains. He likes the heavily pruned apple trees, decorative as Japanese letters in the bright snow. In May they will stand like buxom bridesmaids in white and pink. He glances at his watch, turns on the radio, and listens. Maybe Harriet has been found by now. Maybe someone has entered the house and a scream has pierced the stillness in the kitchen. He continually checks his mirror. He sees his own black pupils and thinks they’ve turned into slits now, like a goat’s. No, he’s imagining it; his imagination is playing tricks on him. He’s under stress, after all. It’s hardly surprising that he sees Japanese characters in the snow or hears his own voice in his head.
Do you realize what you’ve done?
He grips the little knob on the gearstick, sits leaning forward, and drives. Here’s the familiar fanfare that signals it’s time for the news, so he pulls off onto the shoulder and stops. Chechen rebels have been caught on the Russian border, a suicide bomber has struck in Israel, flu vaccine has arrived. Nothing about the murder of Harriet Krohn. He bangs the steering wheel and turns the car back onto the road. He’s frustrated almost to the point of despair. He wants to get it over with, the noise, the furor. Theoretically she could lie there for days. They won’t find anything, he thinks. I haven’t left any traces. I was quick and pretty single-minded, even though I was agitated. He dwells on all the people who’ll trample through her house—skilled, experienced people with limitless expertise. What sort of tiny fibers could he have carried in with him? Maybe one of his hairs fell out. Will they see his footprint in the blood and the pattern of his soles? He tries to breathe calmly. He’s feeling hungry so he begins to look for a kiosk or gas station where he can get something to eat.
Five minutes later, he halts at a Shell station. He sits in the car for a while, hardly daring to go in. He runs his fingers through his hair and squints furtively through the windshield; he can’t see anyone. But at the end of the building he spies a large, green container. A dumpster. He reaches down and picks up the bag of bloody clothes. Then he grits his teeth, leaves the car, and walks as coolly as he can to the dumpster, which has a lid. He looks over his shoulder, puts the bag in, covers it as best he can, and bangs the lid shut. Then he goes into the shop. He wanders across to the counter and sees some large hot dogs browning on an electric grill. He chooses one with bacon and squeezes plenty of mustard on top. The young man who’s serving watches him as he eats. He moves away, stops in front of the magazine rack, and reads all the headlines. The crisply cooked skin crunches between his teeth, and the mustard burns his tongue. He drinks half a bottle of Coke, says goodbye, and goes out again. The food does him good. Gradually he relaxes. He drives on, studying the road signs and the traffic in his rearview mirror. There’s a green Scorpio behind him. For all he knows, the car might have plainclothes police in it. He doesn’t seriously think it does. He’s only considering the possibility that they’re all over the place, that they’re looking for him, that they won’t give up.
After half an hour, he turns left at Møller’s Riding Center. He finds himself on a narrow, bumpy fores
t track and shifts down into second, trying to drive carefully to spare the Honda. Soon he catches sight of the paddocks. Several horses are grazing the damp, half-frozen grass. Small patches of snow are lying here and there; it’s still mild for November and the air is pleasant and clear. He sees low red-painted buildings, the riding ring, the stables, the parked cars and horseboxes. The place is idyllic, lying in a hollow in the landscape like so many toy blocks in a bowl, surrounded by gently undulating hills and forest. He glides into a free parking space. He needs to sit in the car for a bit first. It’s still early in the day. Only a couple of young girls are leading their horses for a ride across the fields. They’ll plow through the flecks of snow together, screaming with pleasure. Again he thinks of Julie. He thinks of her with longing and hope, and dreams of what the future may hold. The girls don’t even glance at him. He stays in the car. He watches the horses’ rumps and their flicking tails, and soon they’re out of sight. Diffidently he gets out of the car and stands for a while looking around. Now he’s there for all to see in his blue quilted jacket. But no one pays him any attention. He walks to the first stable. Opens the heavy door and stands there listening to the noises within. He breathes in the strong tang of the animals. He hears the soft sound of horses chewing, a rhythmic munching. He recognizes the heady scent of dry hay, leather, and horse muck. On his right is a bulletin board. He reads the messages and smiles.