Only Human

by Kristine Naess

  I do not make a sound, and then I am aware of him. His presence, the faint sound of his breathing. It cannot be anyone else. Lars Erik Berg would never resort to this to get in touch. He would have introduced himself. Remember me, he would have asked, would you like to meet, have a coffee?

  You know what? I say. I am going to kill you. And if I don’t, I’ll get someone else to do it. Cut your prick off. You’re nothing, you hear me? You’re a piece of shit.

  He is still there. But I do not say anything more. About a minute goes by. Then I hear a child call out. Not right in the telephone, a little way off. In the same room. Not a small child. An older one, like Emilie. Is it no she cries out, or I, or maybe help, or some other words I cannot make out?

  Hello, I shout, Emilie, hello, are you there, it’s me, Bea Britt, I’m coming. But he has hung up. She could not have heard me shouting into someone else’s ear anyway. If it was her. I cannot be sure. I know nothing about him. I do not understand this. The road to violence.

  I try to dress as quickly as I can, but my fingers are shaking too much. When I finally get hold of the right end of my knickers I am so worked up I rip the material along the seam, leaving the elastic on my hip. I have not dried off properly either, and both my knickers and trousers are damp at the crotch, I roar in anger.

  What have I done, I think, what have I done, exactly what I was not supposed to, done exactly as everyone else, precisely what he was waiting for. I have not understood the fifth commandment: Thou shalt not kill.

  You should not threaten to kill either, because that sort of thing activates violence, brings it to life.

  Violence is alive but Emilie is not.

  It cannot have been Emilie I heard because Emilie is already dead, and that is through no fault of mine. He has fooled me, fooled me twice over, he has already killed her and he was manipulating children’s voices, my emotions, this is what he wanted, my attention, my distress, my dependence.

  I grab the mobile to ring Eriksen but it slips from my grasp, falls to the floor, popping the cover off and sending the battery sliding across the tiles. I cannot believe it. I wail, I cry, I curse and have to talk myself around. Okay, right, I say, okay, okay, it’s fine, it’s fine, don’t buy it, no, no, he’s fooled you, okay, okay.

  That must be what it is. A hoax. It was not Emilie calling out.

  The battery is smooth and my hands are shaking, but the sound of my own voice fills my head, and that helps, my fingers relax, I put the battery in place, click the cover back on and tap in the PIN code.

  Eriksen does not pick up. He must be going out of his mind. Why is he not listening out for his phone to ring? I call three times without getting through.

  Bloody idiot, I shout out, while pressing one digit after another as hard as I can, bloody arrogant police fucker.

  I sit down on the side of the bed. I could just as well lie down and sleep. It would not change anything. It is all out of my hands. The police will sort it out. They are on top of things, know what they are going to do, they know best. They told me to stay put. I do not need to lift a finger. And nor do I have the energy. My feet are ice cold. But I am safe here, everything is being taken care of.

  Snot is running from my nose down into my mouth. I consider getting up to fetch some toilet paper. Wiping my face. Ringing. I remove it with the duvet cover instead. The things in the room do not know what is happening. The bed, fridge, desk. Nothing of the outside exists in here.

  Everything will pass, disappear, if I just stay here long enough.

  And she got to her feet, I think, she got to her feet, picked up the mobile and, fingers moving frantically, typed in the emergency number.

  At the same time as thinking this I am doing it. My heart is beating erratically or too quickly.

  Something dramatic occurred in her life, I think, while waiting for them to pick up, and she was forced to take matters into her own hands.

  I could not remember afterwards if it was a man or woman I spoke to, I got the feeling it was both, that they were two.

  They asked me to lower my voice. Take a calm, deep breath. Is anyone injured? they asked. Does this concern a fatality or a life-threatening situation? They said the same things many times, asked me to repeat my name and where I was calling from. I calmed down, managed to explain.

  Okay, they said, all the details have been taken down. Take it easy, we’ll look after this. Stay where you are.

  I remain sitting on the edge of the bed. My body suddenly feels tired, the mobile heavy in my hand. A few minutes pass. I cannot recall ever having been so sleepy. I wonder if I am actually asleep. A strange buzzing in my head. I realise I need to shake myself loose. Raise my arm.

  I raise my arm, move my fingers. Tap in the number for Lars Erik, but hesitate to press OK. I can still let it be.

  I let it be. The display goes dark after a few seconds, but lights up again right before an incoming message makes a beeping sound. It is an MMS, a picture, sent from an unknown number. It takes a few moments before I understand what I am looking at. Just white, and something red. A sheet or tablecloth, with a large bloodstain that has soaked into the material, dark red, uneven round the edges.

  Sinking in. It took such a long time to understand. That it was not about me. What I think or who I am. The man in the cap does what he does. He could be prompted by impulse or following a plan, either way he is at work, and action will follow action.

  Nausea. How can I know he will not harm Tuva or Georg, or that he has not already? I do not know. I do not know if it is their blood, if it is Emilie’s, or Beate’s, his own, if it is real or just an image he found on the Net.

  My God, I do not understand when it really matters. I am not there when I am really needed, I arrive too late, let go too soon, do not think my actions matter. Otherwise I would have taken better care of my children. All these years and now I am going to let something happen to them?

  I forward the MMS to Eriksen and tap in Tuva’s number as fast as I can, but suddenly cannot recall the last two digits and have to go back and scroll through my list of contacts.

  Why am I so dense? Why did I not think of the children first?

  No, I have been thinking of myself, just myself, as though this was a matter between the man in the cap and me, between him, Emilie and me. It has been a square and I am inside, trapped, but also one of the corners. The man in the cap, Emilie, me and Lars Erik. I am within the square. Lars Erik, I have been thinking, he is the one who will save me, he is the way out, yes, but of what exactly?

  I still have time.

  I ask Tuva to make sure that Georg goes to her place. He needs to take a taxi over, I say, and then the two of you need to stay in the apartment. Don’t go out and don’t answer the intercom if anyone buzzes.

  Mum, honestly, Tuva says, is this really necessary? You can’t even be sure it’s the guy in the cap, maybe he’s just a common-or-garden nutcase. Can’t we just head up to Dad’s instead? It’s so boring here, and I’ve hardly any food.

  No, I say, your father’s house isn’t safe. It’s too easy to break into. Think of all the cellar windows, and the shoddy lock on the veranda door. You have neighbours all round at your place.

  Beate does not take her phone so I am obliged to ring Anita even though I do not want to.

  Okay, she says, okay, her voice a few notches deeper than usual, like a man’s, I would never have recognised it as hers. Then she calls out to Ståle. I hear him say something or other in response before I am cut off.

  She did not say anything to me, did not ask about Tuva or Georg, did not say goodbye, had nothing to give. No, she was not my friend any more, she was looking after herself, she was anti-solidarity.

  I get up to fetch a glass of water from the bathroom, but stop and remain standing in front of the mirror by the door. This reflection makes people smaller, I think, I am not so little and thin in reality.

  Damn Anita. I want to hear Beate’s voice with my own ears. I try her number again bu
t she does not answer. I move closer to the mirror while keeping the phone pressed to my ear. My complexion looks soft and smooth, it is due to the dim light, in reality my skin is wrinkled and rough.

  The photo he sent might have been Photoshopped, I suddenly think, opening the message anew to check if there was something I missed, anything that can tell me who or what I am looking at. I still think it looks like blood on a sheet but the picture is slightly grainy, I cannot tell for sure. And is the stain really as large as it seems? Perhaps the camera has zoomed in on a tiny area, I have no way of knowing as there are no other objects in the frame to compare it with, everything apart from the stain is white.

  My mobile vibrates in my hand, rings, giving me a start, making me think it is him, since I am standing looking at the photograph he sent. But it is Beate. Ståle has already managed to collect her from Observatorie Terrasse and she is now sitting in the passenger seat beside him, surrounded by the warm hum of the car engine, with low music coming from the speakers. I picture the windscreen wipers, calmly sweeping aside the raindrops and strips of water that blur the lights of the oncoming cars, the traffic lights shifting from red to green.

  Beate’s voice is clear and free of concern. She has a father and he likes cars, he earns money, he is strong. Ståle, Beate and Anita, a model Norwegian family. They are as they should be, make use of material wealth but do not splurge, at least not very often. They are well-intentioned, decent and humane. It is true they drive the latest model Volvo XC 60, with large alloy wheels, black and polluting, seated high up, shielded, encased in a metal cocoon of safety. But why not. Life is short and a body needs pleasure, a body does not last for long, so why not buy security if you can, I believe you should, I think, and picture Beate when she is studying, when she is sitting at my kitchen table reading, crying and falling into a darkness she cannot control, at the thought, at the mere thought of the violence, the unjust treatment of the children she is reading about, Beate, who almost goes under at the hint of rejection, does not know what to do when the chill wells up in her, the chill from out of nowhere, when pain appears without any reason. What shame. What shame Beate feels then. Safe, unhappy and ashamed. Beate, a child of affluence. But nothing lasts for ever, Beate my girl.

  There is an incessant beeping on the line, someone trying to get through, and I hope it is Eriksen.

  I have to hang up, I say, take good care of yourself.

  It is Eriksen. He sounds like he usually does, calm. But what he says indicates otherwise.

  You mustn’t go anywhere, don’t leave the room at all, I’m on my way.

  There has been a clear change in circumstances, I am no longer a suspect, but more of a witness, I am a possible victim, I need protection.

  Innocent and vulnerable, I notice that corresponds better to how I feel, and my thoughts soon turn to Lars Erik, I get a tingling in my stomach.

  Eriksen is probably no different from anyone else, I think, his knowledge comes from personal experience. What difference does it make what I say, if he has not first thought it himself, if it does not fit with the rest of it. What the rest of it is, I do not know, he keeps it well hidden, the police give nothing away. Perhaps there is no coherent rest, just a patchwork of bureaucratic routines, investigative theory and tactics, people on duty at different times, reports and sick leave.

  I call Tuva once more to hear if Georg has arrived. When she picks up the phone I hear his voice in the background and a dog barking. Whose dog is that? I ask. It’s Georg’s, Tuva says laughing, he got it from the dogs’ home, and who do you think is going to end up looking after it?

  Sudden rage.

  Jesus, how braindead are you, I scream. We can’t sit here talking about dogs now, don’t you get that?

  Yeah, no shit, Tuva says angrily, and hangs up.

  This is all Anita’s fault, bloody traitor, if it had not been for the telephone call with her I would not have screamed at Tuva.

  Anita the cunt, I yell, fucking selfish cunt, you’re not the only one with a daughter.

  Neither am I.

  Selfish cunt.

  Eriksen rings from reception. I hear Annika’s mellow hej first, followed by the terse, macho tone of Eriksen’s voice, no doubt attractive to some, it depends on who is listening, but I am unresponsive, everything within me is oriented towards Lars Erik, in his voice lies the Promised Land.

  I’m coming up, okay?

  Oh, he is handsome, I can see that, a powerful cranium and a broad chest, hairy hands, but it is mostly in the way he moves, calmly and self-assured: here comes a man with his strengths in check, he has control and it makes my knickers wet, even though he is not my cup of tea.

  Old and frightened.

  We’re searching for him at several potential sites. Eriksen is standing in the middle of the room, examining my mobile while he speaks.

  There are psychiatric issues, you see.

  Yes, I say. I told you as much.

  True, true, Eriksen replies, you did. But at that stage we were already aware of him. He has been regarded as a person of interest in our investigation for some time.

  I reckon he’s in the woods, I say.

  Could be, Eriksen answers, but, like I say, there are several possibilities.

  He pockets my mobile. I’m going to hang on to this, in case he tries to get in touch again, he says. If there is anything, you can ring me from the phone in this room.

  He takes a sheet of stationery from the hotel welcome pack and writes down two mobile numbers. You can call either of these, or the emergency number if you can’t get through. But it’s very unlikely you’ll have any need to, as long as you stay here. He is dangerous, you know.

  Eriksen smells good, I do not know if it is aftershave or deodorant but I take a step closer to him.

  Can you give me a hug? I ask.

  Eriksen does not budge.

  We can arrange for you to see a psychologist if you’d like, he says, I can request a patrol car to take you to A&E.

  No, I say, no. It’s just, I don’t know, a bit of a strain.

  Well, imagine what it’s like for her parents, Eriksen says, just imagine.

  I hear my mobile ring as he goes out the door, but it is no longer my concern, I think that I put up with too much, just to avoid responsibility, and that Eriksen is a cheeky bastard.

  I lift the receiver of the room telephone, tap zero for an outside line, followed by Lars Erik’s number. When he answers I am no longer nervous.

  Hi, I say. It’s the writer.

  It takes a moment before he says anything and I do not know what to make of that, whether he is nervous, surprised or does not like the sudden intrusion, the unexpected sound of my voice in his ear. I cannot quite decipher the tone of his voice when he does say hello. It might be pleasure or scepticism, or it might not denote anything in particular. Perhaps he is with his lover, perhaps she, or he, is looking at him with an expectant expression while he is talking.

  He must not hear that I need him.

  You have to be able to take care of yourself. I have never been able to take care of myself. What can I say so as not to give that away? That I have never really stood on my own two feet, I do not know why.

  Yes, sorry for calling, I say, but I just wanted to, well, I don’t know, this is maybe slightly abrupt, but, I don’t mean to be pushy.

  But but but, every time I said but I was giving myself away, revealing false humility, excuse me for existing, letting slip an inability to keep desire restrained, not managing to hold back, because I so want, I want so desperately to be close to Lars Erik. To look at his body. His collarbone. Those angular shoulders beneath his shirt. His penis beneath the material of his trousers, flaccid in the darkness. How can I arrest that urge? The train is moving and I am on it, thundering forward. I am the train. What is this desire, why does it exist, what am I supposed to do with it? Keep myself alive? Hardly. The children keep me alive because I need to keep them alive. That is the cornerstone of the pyramid, t
he bottom level, the base, the foundation. The question of hope shows up on the next level: is there any hope, can something soon break through, blow up, pulverise the wall closing out paradise to such an extent that I do not know what paradise holds, but it is not fruit trees and tropical heat.

  So what is love? Caring in perfect equilibrium, to hold and be held? No, that is too small, too vague, an indifferent statement with no rejoinder in the world of the corporeal. Arms sweeping glasses and pots off a kitchen worktop in rage, flinging plates through the air, humiliation ticking and pounding, people throwing themselves on the floor in despair, screaming the most terrible things, and still that does not qualify as hate. It is merely insufficient love. But when is it enough? Is it when I am enthralled by another person, want to take in every centimetre of them with my gaze and love every bone in their body?

  I ask and ask, but bang against a barrier in my mind, no answer appears, I come no further, blurry images of village squares and arid fields appear, a church, a graveyard, stone walls, sheep grazing. Either they are irrelevant or incomprehensible, apart from showing limited areas. Does that imply that love operates in sectors? One for a child. One for a dog. One for a friend. One for mother and father and sister and brother. For lover and grandmother. For God.

  Yes, because some say that love is for God and from God, a pervasion of spirit, that spirituality makes you love the world and all in the world as yourself, and the world spirit is the highest. Or God, in other words. I have no sense of that. Have no sense of God. No sense of anything. Oh, why can I not access the spiritual too, why has my hope of all-encompassing love taken form in this one body, this man, this person, this wonderful being? As the only possible key to, yes, to what? I do not know, but it is a paradise.

  I tell Lars Erik about the police and the hotel. The man in the baseball cap. The photograph on the mobile.

  It doesn’t sound good, he says, and I nod at the sound of his voice. What is it I hear? A deeper tone of voice or is he holding the telephone closer to his mouth? Is it empathy?

  Something reminiscent of Mum’s bookshelves on clear, white winter days.