by Karin Fossum
‘For the last few days that Elise was alive,’ he said, ‘I had a bed beside her in hospital. I didn’t sleep much, I just lay there listening to her breathing. She slept a lot. Then would open her eyes to check that I was still there, and doze off again, slipping in and out of consciousness. There were only a few centimetres between our beds, and even though the room was bare, with no sound or smell, just machines and tubes and stands, that is what we shared in those final hours. I heard her breathing, nothing more. In the last hour, she only inhaled once a minute. Her heart stopped, and started again, stopped and started, and that went on for quite a while. Then I heard nothing more. And I know it’s a strange thing to say, but I was so surprised, almost annoyed that she disappeared like that, and I couldn’t reach her any more. I somehow felt betrayed.’
‘But you remember that final breath?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what have you forgotten? What should you have remembered?’
‘The first night alone. I don’t remember it.’
‘But perhaps that’s because you slept,’ Ragna said. ‘And didn’t dream.’
‘I can’t forgive myself for that,’ he confessed. ‘That I slept. That I slept so heavily.’
‘But you were exhausted,’ she said. ‘Of course you slept. But then you woke up the next morning. And I’m sure you remember that morning.’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘I was the one who had betrayed her. I let her go too easily. While she lay in the morgue, I slept like a baby under a feather duvet.’
‘And you’re ashamed that you slept. So after that night, you didn’t sleep. You didn’t want to show such weakness again?’
‘You’re right.’
‘Do you sleep now?’
‘Yes, I do. And you?’
She nodded.
‘Yes, at last. For the first time in ages.’
She opened her arms and hands as though she had finally been set free and could breathe properly.
He told her that he visited Elise’s grave every Friday after work, and that he always had a candle with him.
‘A grave candle burns for a few hours,’ he said. ‘I keep an eye on the time. And when I go to bed at midnight, I know that it will burn out while I’m asleep. I don’t like to think about it going out.’
He changed the topic abruptly.
‘How do you foresee your future?’
‘I don’t think about the future,’ she replied. ‘The only people watching me now are the guards. And they’re very nice.’
‘And what you did,’ he said gravely. ‘Does it scare you?’
‘It was like falling over the edge,’ she whispered. ‘A natural and unavoidable consequence of a long series of events.’
‘But the moment it happened is a thing of the past,’ Sejer said, ‘and you’re in a completely different place? Are you still not horrified by what happened? Do you feel sorry for what you’ve done, do you wish you could undo it?’
‘I don’t think you understand,’ she whispered. ‘What happened had to happen. And now I’m here. Now, finally, I’m protected.’
Chapter 13
She had never been able to decide about her parents’ grave, whether the plot they had been given was well positioned or not. They were buried behind the church, close to the wall, so they were protected from the wind and weather, and the damp that rose up from the river. At the same time they were out of sight and always in the shade. Also, the car park was behind the church and there was a fair amount of traffic, so the exhaust fumes had discoloured the wall; it was no longer red, more a dirty grey. If they had been buried in front of the church, overlooking the square, they would be bathed in sun on a fine day. But on stormy autumn nights, like now, the rain and wind would lash the grave without mercy.
Today Ragna thought the grave was protected, and well looked after. The heavy, imposing church bore the brunt of the angry winds that blew off the river. But she was soaked by the rain within minutes, and her hands were freezing. She had a grave candle with her in a bag. Her lighter was running out of fuel and she struggled to light it, but eventually managed and put on the mesh top. When she saw the small flame flickering in front of her parents’ names, she felt a peace descend.
Hans and Signe Riegel.
Greatest of all is love.
Not once had she heard them say a mean word to each other, not as a child, a teenager or an adult. She stood for a while, as one does by a grave. She wanted to leave something behind, not just the candle – a kind of energy, a feeling of gratitude. She stood completely still, deep in concentration, thinking of her parents with all the warmth left in her frozen body. She hoped her thoughts would reach them like jets of warm air far down in the ground, that they would lie there glowing. That all her thoughts over the years, her longing and loss, would penetrate the wood of the coffins. There was no more she could do. Every time, it hurt as much to leave them, the connection she had felt for a short while was torn by the present, and when she emerged onto the street, the cars whizzed by and the wet gusts of wind whipped her face. With considerable force, the wind blew her back to reality, to the living. It was mid-afternoon and already dark. Frozen souls scurried across the square with bent heads hidden by umbrellas and hoods. She had to wait for a bus to Kirkelina, so she braced herself and went into Magasinet, and found herself a table in the warm cafe. It was self-service, so she was able to help herself to a Danish pastry and a cup of coffee from the machine and pay without saying a word. She sat for a while with her hands around the cup to warm them, and looked at the other customers. The cafe was full, because of the weather. Perhaps there were several of them waiting for the bus. There were certainly quite a few people with plastic bags on the floor beside them. No one looked in her direction, but she was used to that. She was used to being invisible, and had worked hard to achieve it. But she still checked swiftly to see if anyone was watching her. That was what he had written, in his third message. Perhaps he was sitting here, right now, in the warm cafe, perhaps he had followed her through town, perhaps he had waited among the gravestones, she would not have noticed him.
The coffee had been standing too long in the pot, and the Danish pastry that had looked so tempting in the display counter was dry and flaky. The baker had probably got up around four in the morning and taken the first batch of pastries out of the oven at five. Then he had loaded the day’s orders into a van and driven round to deliver them all, not only to Magasinet, but to lots of other cafes as well, and that took some time. She looked at her watch – it was eleven hours since five in the morning. She ate the pastry nonetheless, listened to the hum of voices and chairs scraping on the hard stone tiles. She could see the main entrance where the doors were constantly opening and closing, and every time she felt a cold gust of air from the street.
Then she noticed someone was watching her. At first it was just a glance, but she soon felt his eyes on her again and again. She became tense and hunched. Looked over at him, then away several times, had to make sure it was her he was looking at, try to find out why. She felt edgy and wanted to leave, even though it was still some time until the next bus. There was something familiar about him, she realised, perhaps he was one of the regular customers from Europris. When people popped up in unexpected contexts it was often impossible to place them. If he was a customer from the shop, then he had never seen her without her green overall on, which might explain why he seemed so unsure. She had a black coat on, with a fur trim round the hood. Like most people, he wanted to solve the puzzle, which was why he kept staring, while his brain worked overtime to place her in the right context. A pensioner in a grey coat, eating a bun. She logged him. Lots of the customers at Europris were pensioners. His grey hair was long and unkempt, and he had not shaved for a while. The bun was probably eleven hours old as well, she thought, and his coffee as bitter as hers. She turned away. Tried to show she was uncomfortable, but he did not take the hint. She stood up abruptly and hurried towards the door. Surely that old man was
not the one sending her threats? The doors slid open and she was almost blown over by the fierce wind. She pulled up her hood and took a few moments to gather herself; she had got away from her pursuer, and wanted to get home quickly now. Just as she was about to make a dash to the bus stop, he came up beside her. He was suddenly very close, and a lot taller than her, and she knew he was going to say something any moment. She noticed that he looked very meek, almost apologetic, and could not understand why. But it was her he was staring at, it was her he wanted.
‘What about the boy?’ he asked carefully.
Ragna clutched her handbag. She did not understand what he meant. The boy? Did he mean Rikard Josef? Practically no one knew she had a son, certainly not the customers at Europris, and she did not spend much time with other people. She dismissed him with a disconcerted shrug and hurried down the street towards the square, without turning round. The bus was standing at its stop, engine running, thank goodness, warm and bright, so she got on and walked down the aisle. Her seat was empty. Now that she was in the light, the city outside was dark and she could no longer see him. All she saw was a reflection of her own face. The rain on the glass erased her features, as though her face was running down the window. The boy, he had said. The boy. With that strange, slightly embarrassed smile.
The bus quickly filled. People were pushed together. A teenager plonked down on the seat beside her, and the proximity of a young body made her shrink back to take as little space as possible. She looked down the street one last time, at the umbrellas and illuminated shop windows. Walther, she thought, taken aback. Walther Eriksson. She had forgotten all the years that had passed. He was an elderly gentleman now. The tooth of time had worn him. He had asked about his son and she had not answered. What if he had moved back to town, what if she met him again? What if he asked for his son’s address? The one she no longer had.
She fretted all the way home. He was another sign, a warning, a change. She had accepted things as they were. Now that was being disturbed. They were all in cahoots, spreading like rings on the water. You are going to die, Ragna, and it is not long now.
There was a catalogue for ladies’ clothes from Wentz in the mailbox, and the newspaper. No threats, no one nearby when she looked over her shoulder. The lights were on in Irfan’s shop, and in her house.
Was it really Walther Eriksson? That jowly, old man, unkempt and badly dressed – was it really him? She was no longer certain, back in the safety of her own house. What had become of the strapping man she once met, so tall and confident and courteous – the master photographer himself? Who had walked quietly across the floor, through a whirlwind of girls, and chosen to sit on the arm of her chair. Why? She was the youngest, thinnest and palest of them all. What had he hoped to achieve? And what should she think now, after all these years? How many girls had he photographed? Only the youngest, the ugliest, the ones with the least confidence, who allowed themselves to be seduced by his camera and big lens? The wine he had poured was sweet, on purpose, perhaps – no adult would drink Peach Canei. How many children did he have? Why was she questioning his motives at all, when she had reconciled herself with her fate a long time ago, when she had seen him as a blessing for so many years? He had given her a son. Her cheeks were burning, they were burning because she realised she was wrong, and that he was just like every other man, out to get his own way. She blushed because he had seen her at close hand today, after so many years, in the badly lit cafe; he had seen that she was not beautiful, even though he may once have thought so and caught what he saw on his camera. He had given her the photograph and she had believed what he told her. He must have been incredibly disappointed today. She had faded, every year had drained her of colour. But now he had decided to come crawling. He had asked about the boy. He did not even know his son’s name, all he knew was that he had a boy. She had sent him a card after the birth, to which he never replied. No congratulations, no good luck, no thinking of you. And now, for some reason, he had come back and had somehow managed to find her. Or was it a coincidence? It had to be a coincidence. Or had his past caught up with him – was he also seeing signs everywhere? She let go of the bags in her hands, and stood in front of the mirror by the front door. Stood there in her coat. Did exactly what he had warned her not to do, and as the seconds passed, she realised she was disappearing. The older she got, the more colour she would lose. What if he came to her house this evening, with some kind of credible story, that he was visiting old stamping grounds and just wanted to say hello? That he had thought about her for all these years and wanted to know more about his son, who he had of course never forgotten. Who he had always wanted to meet, but had never found the time. Her thoughts turned nasty, her eyes narrowed. Presumably he had lost everything he had in Stockholm, his wife, children and career. And teenage girls were no longer so easy to seduce. That was why he had come back. He wanted to give it a second try, wanted to stand at her door with his hands open, his eyes begging – could he not come into the warmth, only for a moment, all he wanted was something to take with him. Some photographs, some stories about the boy.
She turned her back on her reflection and opened the front door. The only thing on the front step was a broom that she used for sweeping off the snow and autumn leaves. The wood stack was behind the house, under a green tarpaulin. She went round and got a couple of logs, held them under her arm as she wrestled the tarpaulin back into place. Once indoors again, she put the logs in the burner with some kindling. Then sat down on the floor and lost herself in the flames that she could see through the glass. Walther must have noticed that she did not recognise him. Or at least that she was uncertain. He had probably pulled his coat tighter around him and wandered the cold, wet streets, thinking about his life, or cursing it. Or perhaps he had stormed off because she had rejected him. Lonely and forgotten in his own town. Maybe he had found his way to the pub to drink away his sorrows. In his mind, he was back at the party, sitting on the arm of her chair, with his big camera bag on the floor – the weapon that got him what he wanted, especially when it came to girls. In front of the camera they became shy. In front of the camera they felt seen. The fire was burning well now, and her cheeks were hot again, only this time not from shame, but the heat of the dancing flames. The boy had done well, hadn’t he? Senior management in a luxury hotel in Berlin. While all she did was put rubbish out on the shelves in Europris. She was glad he did not know about that. Or perhaps he had been there without her knowing.
For the second time, she pulled herself out of a reverie and went into the bedroom. The old glass light fitting, full of dead flies, brought to mind a pale moon. She pulled open the bottom drawer of the chest. The photograph was in a yellow envelope, which she opened carefully. She took the photograph out and carried it back into the living room where the light was better. Sat down on her favourite chair, pulled the reading lamp closer and held up the picture. It was big, about A4, she thought. There was something fairy-like about the image. She looked as transparent as porcelain, with downturned eyes. He had not included her body, there was no beauty there. She had never been shapely, or charming or confident. It must have been her childish, or rather, angelic voice, which she had now lost. He had once said that when she spoke and laughed it sounded like the tinkling of bells. There’s no malice in you, little Ragna.
She did not sleep well that night. She felt like she had been caught. But she refused to get worked up about it. If she lay there without moving, she would eventually fall asleep. Perhaps Walther was lying awake somewhere, equally at a loss, his body tired and worn. He had followed her out of the cafe, which must have taken great courage. And he had identified himself, in his own modest way, and she had rejected him. She had looked at him as though he were a stranger and run away. Perhaps he thought that she was bitter, and that she would never say another word to him. Whatever the case, he could find out for himself about ‘the boy’. But she had no regrets. Despite the fact that he had plied her with drink, carried her to a bedroo
m, and taken advantage of her as he whispered to her and stroked her as though she were a kitten. She decided she would go into town and look for him. But then she would have to reveal her handicap. And he would discover that the bells were no longer there, and that the boy had left, and vanished into thin air.
Ragna turned over in the bed, defiantly faced the wall, pressed her forehead against the cool, dry wallpaper. She lay there in the dark tracing her fingers over the flock, feeling the different patterns that she knew so well, but could not see. A lily, a leaf. She felt them under her fingertips like Braille. Was it really a coincidence that Walther had shown up now, or was he part of something bigger, a plan she knew nothing about, a pattern she could not see?
Chapter 14
As the days passed, she got to know the rhythm of the building. The main police station was full of sounds – the slamming of cell doors, the whirring and humming of lifts, the busy pulse of the place. She heard the lock turn early in the morning when they came with breakfast, or when it was her turn to go to the bathroom, and then again later on, often around eleven, when one of the guards would come to collect her for more questioning. But it was midday now, and no one had come to collect her. No one had told her that the interview had been postponed or would take place later in the day, or perhaps would not happen at all. Or that the inspector had now heard what he needed, and everything she had said was to be summarised and presented to the district court. She waited. She listened out for any movement in the corridor, sat on her bunk with her hands in her lap, nervously scuffing her feet against the floor. Any second now, someone would come. They were just late. It was winter and the guards wore heavy boots, so it was easy to hear them as they walked around in the corridor. She got up and went over to the window, stood there with her back to the door. When it opened she would turn round with a surprised look on her face.