The Boy at the Door

by Alex Dahl

  ‘Where did he go?’ he whispered.

  ‘Well, he had met another woman and he went to live with her. It was very difficult for me. I just couldn’t understand how anyone could ever leave their child. But now that I’m grown-up, I’ve come to understand that sometimes people do terrible things when they are in difficult circumstances. I’ve been so afraid to admit that, Tobias, that people really can do some very bad things without necessarily being bad people. Do you understand?’

  Tobias glanced back out at the sea, then towards the girls now running fast towards us, then at me. He nodded briefly. ‘Did you never see your father again?’

  ‘I did. When I was grown-up.’

  ‘Are you friends now?’

  My eyes were filling with tears and I turned quickly away from him, to the sea, wishing it would rain, so it wouldn’t be so obvious that I was crying. ‘Yes. Kind of.’ A couple of tears escaped and rolled down my cheeks, and I wiped at them fast, about to stand up to go back inside – it was bone-chillingly cold outside and the wind seemed to rush about in circles, easing for a moment, looping and then slamming back into us full-force, but Tobias placed a hand on my shoulder and then leaned into me, putting his thin arms around me in a hug. I was so stunned I didn’t immediately know what to do, but I managed to place my hands gingerly on his back and patted him gently. I looked up and saw Johan looking out at us from the window, and there was something in his expression that frightened me; it was as though he was happy and very sad at the same time, and also like he was thinking very hard about something.

  *

  I wake again just before nine, and Johan has taken all the children to school in the car; it’s raining too hard for them to walk. For a long moment I stare at the bleak sky outside, consumed by the uncomfortable feeling that I’ve forgotten something important, and then this morning suddenly returns to me; Johan by the side of the bed, the impossible news of the murdered woman, the terrible images of her etched on my mind. I sit up fast and look around the room as though I have never seen it before. Already I can feel a void open up inside me, like a black hole that sucks in any constructive thought, any sliver of sanity. How did she end up like that, dead, in the water? I can’t stop the vile images of her, bloated and lifeless... I scramble around in the bedside table for my pills and swallow them dry. Four little pills, but will they be enough today?

  In less than an hour, I am meeting with an estate agent about a property I’m styling next week for a property magazine. I’m supposed to coherently explain my ideas for the color theme, and present a budget and timeline. How will I be able to string a single sentence together?

  Then, at two o’clock I have a meeting with Laila Engebretsen at Sandefjord County social services. Needless to say, I’m feeling rather stressed about this, mostly because if anybody sees me there, they will surely think that there are problems in the Wilborg family, though there most certainly aren’t. Rumors travel fast in this town and I certainly don’t want a reputation as some kind of child neglecter; we’re just not that kind of family. I suppose people have already heard that we are hosting the small, unclaimed boy, and – who knows? – perhaps this will all end up boosting my social profile. It is, after all, a very charitable thing to do. But then again, we’re that kind of couple, Johan and I. The thing that worries me the most about looking after Tobias in the short term is that his presence could trigger those very unwelcome memories from the past; he could make me come completely undone, that little boy, and I just have to stop it from happening. I take another two pills; I’ll probably feel drowsy for much of the day, but whatever it takes, right? I’ll obviously leave the car when I go to meet with Laila, anyway – my bronze-colored Range Rover is quite a recognizable vehicle, and I just know what the women in Sandefjord are like: You’ll never guess what... I saw Cecilia Wilborg at social services today, and not for the first time either... Not so flawless after all, apparently, hahahaha...

  Is it every woman’s misfortune to feel so judged by other mothers? In Norway we have so much freedom, it’s almost restrictive. You can have it all; you can work, you can have children, you can be equal to your partner, but you’d better make sure you’re doing all of those things – and doing them perfectly – or you’re not good enough. Just don’t be too completely perfect, because then we’ll take you down. It’s endlessly drilled into you that you can be anything you want, anything at all, but what is really being said is: You can be anything you want to be, as long as you want to be just like us. I’ve heard of mothers who were reported to social services because their child’s packed lunch stood out – a chocolate chip cookie instead of the approved liver paté and the authorities come knocking. In this country, there is a formula for child-rearing, and you follow it, or else. I wonder if my own mother felt these pressures. I’ve never asked her.

  I stand up but feel so woozy I have to sit back down on the bed for a moment. I close my eyes and take several deep breaths, but it is as though the airflow meets a wall of resistance at the top of my lungs, and it takes me several attempts to manage to breathe deeper into my stomach like Dr Friele taught me. Allow yourself to be well, Cecilia, she always says. But there she is again, in my mind; bloated, floating, staring into opaque, cold water... Stop, I tell myself. Stop it. I don’t have to let her into my mind. Allow yourself to be well. But she won’t go away. I see her ugly face, those brown, crumbling teeth exposed as she smiles menacingly at me, the greasy, limp hair creeping down her back like coils of wet rope. Stop it. Raw, thin fingers stained yellow by her roll-ups, held out in front of her, reaching into the black harbor water, no – reaching for me. Her scratchy voice chanting, Cecilia, Cecilia, Cecilia, got you now, Cecilia. Did a part of me always know she’d end up like this? God knows I’ve wished for it, but I’ve also always known that sometimes one disaster will bring an even bigger disaster, and I have never been able to figure out if she was more dangerous dead or alive. I still don’t know if her death is cause for celebration or black panic. A sound breaks through my rushing thoughts and it takes me a while to realize it’s my phone, ringing. I pick up, still trying to find a comfortable breathing pattern.

  ‘Cecilia? Are you okay? This is Laila Engebretsen.’

  ‘Oh, hi, Laila. We’re, uh, still on for two o’clock presumably?’

  ‘Actually, I’m calling to ask if we could move the meeting to the police station instead.’

  ‘Uh, yes... Sure... Is there any more news?’

  ‘Well, I can’t really say over the telephone, but Inspector Ellefsen is ready to brief you at the station. How soon can you be there?’

  I hang up and walk into the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror and have to immediately look away; I look like somebody else. My eyes are haunted and wild, my hair sticks straight up in the front and my mouth is dragging at the sides in an ugly grimace.

  I call the estate agent and say we’re going to have to rearrange our meeting. I can tell he’s annoyed – it’s not like this is the first work assignment I’ve canceled or done half-heartedly in the last month. If I’m not careful, I’ll lose all my clients, but maybe that would be a good thing – I am exhausted and stressed beyond imagining.

  I splash water on my face over and over, and try to bring forth any thoughts other than the ugly, impossible ones. Johan and me, at the beginning, when everything was okay. When nobody had done terrible things. When there were no disastrous secrets. Walking away from the train station that day, finally, after having watched the train turn the bend in disbelief, holding hands and laughing, going nowhere and everywhere. We sat down at a pizzeria in the village and just kept laughing, holding hands over the table, getting drunk on Calvados and cheap white wine. Yes. These memories do calm me, because they remind me of what it is that I have to preserve in the midst of all this craziness. I go back into the bedroom and rifle through the drawers on Johan’s side of the bed – I know he keeps a pen and paper in there. I write down my name, Tobias’s and Anni’s, trying to see connections or
solutions, but after twenty minutes of staring at the paper, the only thing that is completely clear to me is that I need to know whether or not Tobias believes he’s Anni’s child.

  *

  Johan is waiting for me in the parking lot of the police station. He looks old, suddenly; his handsome face drawn and pale, new wrinkles carved on his forehead. He keeps running a hand through his hair, which I realize has thinned substantially over the last year, and I take his hand away and hold it in my own as we walk inside. We are met by Laila Engebretsen, Thor Ellefsen and a female officer introduced as Camilla Stensland. This Camilla character looks at me in the strangest of ways, and I’m not sure whether this is because she’s very obviously a lesbian with her short hair and masculine air, or whether she has some kind of reason to suspect me of something. What, I can’t imagine, but her gaze makes me uncomfortable.

  ‘We had the identity of the dead woman confirmed this morning. She’s Annika Lucasson, previously known to the police for some drug offenses, as well as a few break-ins over the past six months.’

  I nod gravely, keeping my face completely blank, as though I were listening to the weather report.

  ‘Are you at all familiar with this name?’ asks Camilla Stensland.

  ‘Annika Lucasson... No,’ says Johan. ‘I’ve never heard of her.’

  ‘Cecilia?’ Stensland’s small blue eyes, trained on me again.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No. I’ve never heard that name before either. Is she from Sandefjord?’

  ‘No, she’s originally Swedish, but she’s been here for the past six months or so. She’s received methadone here in Sandefjord since Easter, so we do have some records of her.’

  ‘I see,’ I say, keeping my eyes on Ellefsen’s chubby fingers held together in a tight clasp, his wedding ring snug in swollen flesh like a string tied hard around the middle of a sausage.

  ‘Did she drown?’ asks Johan.

  ‘While she was found in water, we are unable to divulge the cause of death at this time, but I will say the deceased bore some signs of violence. We have not yet found any possible murder weapon.’

  I try to take a deep breath, but again, that wall of resistance seems to shut the air out from my lungs and I’m forced to take several noticeably short, strained breaths. Beady blue eyes staring. It might be even worse than I imagined – maybe she met a crazed stranger that dark night and was bludgeoned by a blunt object. Face cracked, bones glinting from underneath red and purple mangled flesh. I try to think if I’d ever imagined Anni’s death like that, but I can’t remember – I’ve imagined it in so many ways.

  ‘Excuse me, could you please explain what this unfortunate woman’s murder has to do with us, or Tobias?’ I ask.

  ‘We believe Annika Lucasson was Tobias’s mother.’

  ‘Why do you believe that?’ I ask.

  ‘There have been a couple of sightings of her with the boy in the last few days before Tobias was left at the pool,’ says Thor Ellefsen. ‘It is our theory that she may have hidden him during the time she spent in Norway.’

  ‘But why would she do that?’ asks Johan.

  ‘She may have been hiding from a violent ex-partner, or been afraid that social services would take the child due to her drug addiction.’

  ‘Which you would have done, and rightfully so,’ Johan says. Laila Engebretsen nods. ‘But why would anyone want to kill her?’

  ‘Well, that’s what we need to find out. Annika was believed to be in a relationship with a Polish man named Krysztof Mazur, also well known to the police for several counts of theft as well as drug-dealing offenses.’

  ‘And have you arrested him?’ I ask.

  ‘It would seem that Mr Mazur left the country from Larvik on the Denmark-bound ferry on October twenty-first, four days after Tobias was left at the pool,’ says Camilla Stensland. ‘We’ve found CCTV footage showing his car. We do not believe that’s a coincidence.’

  ‘For... for how long has Annika Lucasson been dead?’ I ask, my voice shaking now.

  ‘We believe she has been dead and in the water for several days, judging by the state of her body when she was found last night.’

  ‘So...’

  ‘So, Krysztof Mazur may have dumped her there, and then left the country. Or he might have worked with an accomplice who placed her in the water after Mazur fled,’ says Camilla Stensland. Beady blue eyes, hard on me.

  ‘Which leads us to why it was so important that we could speak with you two as soon as possible,’ says Laila Engebretsen, smiling her sad, pedagogical smile again. I want to hit her, and run out of this stuffy room, out into the fine drizzle sweeping across Sandefjord like a cool curtain of ash. ‘From our conversations in the last week, it seems that Tobias is doing as well as can be expected and has settled well into your family, which is a most reassuring thing. Before the new developments with Annika Lucasson, it was our intention to just leave him be as much as possible, while we work behind the scenes, trying to uncover what his circumstances actually are, but now we will of course have to assist the police investigation, and that will mean speaking with Tobias.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Johan.

  ‘You know what? I just don’t think that is a good idea,’ I blurt out, and everyone turns to look at me. ‘I mean... sure, eventually. But right away? This child is severely traumatized, barely speaks a word to Johan or me, and I just don’t think that he should be subjected to intensive questioning at this time...’

  Camilla Stensland interrupts me gently. ‘We appreciate your concern for Tobias, but you can rest assured that any conversation with the child will be conducted with a child psychiatrist and a representative from social services present.’

  ‘Strangers.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Strangers to Tobias.’

  ‘Tobias is the only person who can give us some information about Annika Lucasson and Krysztof Mazur. He would know who they know, and give us invaluable information about what has happened here,’ continues Stensland. Johan nods, and takes my hand beneath the table. I remove it.

  ‘First of all, we need to establish whether the child really is related to Lucasson. Today, after school, we need you to take Tobias to the doctor. He will take a blood sample so that we can run a DNA profile, as well as give him a general examination, something we would have scheduled for him anyway,’ says Laila Engebretsen.

  ‘What if he isn’t Lucasson’s child?’ I ask.

  ‘We are, due to a couple of very reliable sources, fairly certain he is.’

  ‘But if he isn’t?’ Laila Engebretsen and Camilla Stensland exchange a fleeting glance here.

  ‘There is, of course, the possibility that Tobias was in the care of Annika Lucasson without being biologically related to her,’ says Thor Ellefsen, running a large finger across his russet mustache. ‘He could have been snatched by her and Mazur. Or they could have been looking after him for someone, for whatever reason.’

  ‘But who would leave their child in the care of a couple of criminal heroin addicts?’ asks Johan, the telltale red splotches of indignation flaring up on his neck and face.

  ‘Exactly,’ says Stensland. We all sit in silence for a moment, pondering the implications of Anni’s death and her possible connection to Tobias.

  ‘Fuck,’ says Johan, and everyone nods seriously. Finally we stand when Ellefsen stands, and make final arrangements for a doctor’s visit this afternoon, and a meeting with Laila Engebretsen tomorrow afternoon, followed by police and the child psychiatrist. We walk back outside to the parking lot, and the drizzle has momentarily let up, exposing a small section of pale blue sky among bulbous, fast-moving black clouds. I look at Johan, who wears the stunned expression of someone who has just been woken up in the middle of the night. He shakes his head slowly, running a hand through his hair again, and this time I can’t be bothered to stop him.

  ‘Fuck,’ he whispers, twice.

  6

  Some people have only ever lived in one house. What�
�s your house like? The biggest one, Nicoline, asked me the day after I came here. Which one? I asked, and only when both she and Hermine looked up from their iPads to stare did I realize that they thought it was strange that I have lived in many different houses. But only one is home. It’s in the middle of a very big forest, I said, and when I started talking, I could see my home inside my head because I know it better than anywhere else in the world. It has a big lake full of fish and a field with two brown ponies in it. It is painted red but the paint peels off a bit when it gets hot in the summers. It has a shiny black roof. It has many windows, their sills painted white. The windows are like eyes and at night, when they’re all lit, the house looks like a person. I have a big room on the first floor with a handmade carved wood bed. Next to it is a smaller replica of my bed, and on it sleeps Baby. Baby is a dog, but she can talk, and...

  Shut up, said the big sister. You’re a liar, said the little one.

  My room here is small and blue, with a slanted ceiling. Underneath the lowest part of the ceiling stands a too-big bed, and sometimes when I wake in the night, I sit up too fast and then I bang my head on the ceiling. I wake often. It’s so quiet here. I like to switch on the lights in the night, the way I have done my whole life, and sit on the floor and draw. The man gave me some drawing pencils and some paper, but a couple of days after I came here to stay, the very tall woman who smiles like she is going to cry soon came to talk to me, and when she left, she took away all the drawings I’d made. Without asking me. I’ll take these, she said, and the man who lives here didn’t say anything. So now I have to draw everything again.