The Whisperer

by Karin Fossum

  But now everything was still as a grave, the old house resting undisturbed on its foundations. She had not heard a car door shut or an engine start. She had managed to cough up most of the soapy water, but her throat was still burning. She regretted slightly having cut the wire. Presumably the poor soul who had been standing out there, no doubt a shivering salesperson, or a child collecting money for the school brass band, or a deaf-and-dumb student from Lithuania with some not very good drawings, had moved on. She allowed herself to sink back down into the water. She had no idea what time it was, and she was exhausted, but not sleepy. She remembered it was December. People would come knocking at the door until Christmas now, selling smoked salmon and Christmas biscuits. Beware of the dog, she thought. Whoever had been at the door was not afraid of dogs.

  The water was cold and opaque. Ragna opened the window so the steam would evaporate, put on her clothes and crept into the hall, where she turned the key as quietly as possible and opened the door. The air was ice cold. She looked to see if a folder or brochure had been left on the step. ‘We came, but you were not home. We would like to remind you of our services and hope to see you next time.’ But there was nothing there. She looked down at the road. Maybe whoever had been at the door had left something in the mailbox.

  She went back in, locked the door, and attached the security chain. She should be tired and relaxed after the hot bath, but she felt agitated. She swept through the house, turned on the television and the computer and all the lights and lamps, and looked out at the street light on the road, but there was no one there. She popped four Apodorm out of the tray and swallowed them, then four more. What did it really matter if she was awake or asleep, or something in between? The time would pass all the same, the days, weeks and years, until she was with her parents again. She actually longed to be there. As she washed down the pills with some water, she laughed silently, at herself and her own indifference. She laughed at all the others too, all the effort and fuss they put into being something or getting noticed, and living as long as possible, please dear God. If only she could make a noise, just once. Go out onto the veranda and cup her hands round her mouth and wake all of Kirkelina, screaming so loud that the windowpanes exploded. But if she tried, it would be no more impressive than a snake’s hiss. She took off her clothes again and turned in. The pills had an immediate effect, and she barely managed to find a comfortable position before she was hurtling down a deep shaft, falling and falling, her arms and legs out in every direction like a cat that had to land on its feet at any cost. As she fell, she dreaded the moment she would reach the bottom, as she had never fallen at such speed from such a height, and she did not believe for a moment that someone would be there to catch her.

  There was nothing in the shaft. It was dark and hard to think, and it got narrower and tightened into a funnel. There was barely room to move, she had to press her arms into her body, she was caught, the shaft closed in around her, until she finally stopped. There was not a sound, not a glimmer of light that reached her. The dark was damp and green, like a well, she had no feeling of time, could not feel her own body, the only thing she registered was that something was preventing her from moving, a clamp or a band. A week passed, a month, a year. A whole life passed. And then finally, she started to rise again, slowly to a higher level, and gradually there was more space. It was no longer so quiet, there was more and more noise. A clanking, rattling and banging in her head, and she rose and rose. After an eternity she broke the surface, but the ascent did not stop, she continued to rise up into a tower to new, dizzying heights, and the sounds that reached her were no longer in her head, they were outside. It was the traffic on Kirkelina. A bus, someone honking their horn. And broad daylight.

  She discovered it was eleven o’clock and there were three missed calls on her mobile phone. Gunnhild had rung. Slowly she recalled everything that had happened. She was in a new day and everyone else was far ahead of her. She realised that in the hours that followed she would pay for falling down that shaft and climbing the tower. The price would be a heavy head, and a body that she could barely drag across the room. The silence and dark had enveloped her in a protective embrace where no one and nothing could reach her, not the shrill ring of the alarm clock, not her mobile phone and Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. But it did not last for ever. She had forgotten to open the bedroom window and the air in the room was saturated with her breath and fear. She turned over on her side and for a moment hung over the edge of the bed, staring down at the synthetic rug with a Persian pattern. Decisions had to be made. Messages had to be answered. Lights had to be switched on. Somehow or another, her feet had to get to the floor and she had to take those arduous steps to the bathroom. She had never weighed more than fifty kilos, but now it felt like she weighed a hundred. Most of that weight was in her head, she reckoned, her brain was like a solid block of cement. Even her spinal cord fluid was thick and infected, like the bathwater the evening before, and there was no longer any contact between her brain and body. Not so strange then that her feet were not behaving. There was no earthly reason to get up. All the day would bring was either an empty mailbox with no card from Rikard Josef, or a mailbox with a threat. So she turned back to face the wall and closed her eyes. In her head, she heard scornful laughter, directed at her, Ragna Riegel, the Ugly, the Miserable, the Persecuted. The Lonely, the Abandoned, the Wretched. The coward who could not get out of bed, who crept around like a thief. She was also very thirsty. She had never been so thirsty. The tablets had dried out her mouth and tongue, she would not be able to say a single word even if she had to. She turned on the bedside lamp, the poisonous red toadstool with its 25-watt bulb, and pushed herself up onto her elbow. And then she saw the folded piece of paper. Someone had left a note, there, at the foot of the toadstool. A message. She lay for a long time staring at the piece of white paper. Closed her eyes and opened them again, but it was still there. She did not touch it. Instead she tried desperately to remember what had happened the previous evening. She froze in that uncomfortable position, resting on one elbow. Looked around the room to see if there was anyone there, if the door out to the hall was open, anything. But she saw nothing, heard nothing, not even a puff of air. She had been lying in a well all night where no sound could reach her, not the alarm clock, not her mobile phone. Someone had managed to come into the house, into her bedroom, while she lay at the bottom of the shaft and was deaf and blind. He had stood by her bed and looked at her in the dark, listened to her breathing. He had perhaps noticed that she was breathing heavily.

  The connections in her body short-circuited again. The orders from her brain were not getting through. Her hand would not listen. It took a long time before she finally managed to pick up the piece of paper and read the message.

  ‘I AM CLOSER THAN YOU THINK.’

  It did not matter that she had no voice, she would never have dared use it anyway. She was more concerned about listening to what was going on in the room, outside the door, in the hall.

  If he was still there. All she could hear was the noise from Kirkelina, the steady hum of cars heading towards town, and every now and then the heavier throb of a lorry or bus. Her eyes moved around the room, looking feverishly; nothing had been moved, no one had touched the curtains, the bedroom door was shut, as it should be. She tried to work out how he had got in. She understood why she had not heard him, she had taken eight Apodorm. All the same, breaking open a door or window would make quite a noise, even if he did have good tools. She was sure that she had locked the door and that the security chain was on, as usual. He might still be in the house, maybe he was standing in a corner waiting, in the living room or the cellar. She had another thought, an important one. She remembered the telephone conversation with the police officer on duty who had not believed her. The note, the handwritten note that she was holding in her hand, was indisputable evidence. Someone was threatening her. And he was becoming dangerous. The thin paper was presumably covered in the secretions from h
is fingers, his unique loops, whorls and arches that no one else had. If the fingerprints matched any of those they already had on record, they could arrest him. Confront him, punish him. She held the note with great care, was not going to destroy it or burn it, but instead take it with her. Go to the police station and put it down on the counter.

  That was the most important thing she had to do. The other was to let Gunnhild know that she was ill, that she had taken some sleeping pills and had therefore not heard the phone. She got out of bed, and tiptoed over to the door, opened it, stood there, listened. Nothing, bar her own breathing, her own heart. She tiptoed to the bathroom door, peeked in, and immediately felt the freezing cold air. Slowly, it all came back to her. She had had a hot bath the night before and had as usual opened the window to let out the steam. But she had forgotten to close it again, it had been open all night, fixed only by the hasp, which was easy enough to lift. When she was in the bath she had heard a hammering on the door. She went over to the window and looked out. Of course, he had climbed up onto the woodpile, and from there it was easy to swing up onto the window ledge and lower oneself onto the floor. He had stood there listening to the house, the smell of bath salts still lingering in the air. He had then opened her bedroom door very, very carefully, and stood there looking at her, the little he could see in the dark.

  He had written and folded the note in advance, so his errand was done in a moment. Then he crawled back out of the open window, lowered his feet onto the woodpile. Jumped down into the snow and disappeared.

  She struggled a bit with the hasp, it was tighter than usual. She had no strength in her fingers and she was shaken. She eventually managed to close the window and, with trepidation, approached the living room, then went on to the kitchen. She studied the windows. They were intact, everything was in its place. She looked into the hall, made sure that the door had not been tampered with and the security chain was still fastened. Then she threw on some clothes and ordered a taxi. She hurried down to the road to wait, stood there freezing, with the folded piece of paper in her hand, and her handbag over her shoulder. She did not open the mailbox, as he had left his message on her bedside table. She waited and waited and got colder and colder. The taxi would come from the left, she thought, from the rank by the square. The cold made her clear and sharp, and with this clarity, came rage. She was going to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. She wanted her life back, the security and peace, a good life where she knew what was happening and was in control. She noticed a car that was driving slowly, some way down the street. She stepped out into the road and waved, saw the indicator blinking. Got into the back seat, the note still in her hand. The driver turned and looked at her, a familiar face. It was Irfan Baris. She wanted to smile, but then remembered she was angry with him for moving without saying a word. So she leaned forward between the front seat, her face close to his.

  ‘Your shop,’ she whispered, ‘the new one. It’s probably much bigger and nicer than the one you had here.’

  Yes indeed, he told her, it was.

  ‘But now you’ve closed that shop too, so you can drive taxis?’

  ‘My cousin is in the shop. We run it together.’

  She leaned back.

  ‘But when do you have time off then?’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘The police station.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked surprised.

  He kept an eye on her in the rear-view mirror, and she felt his usual nervous energy, eyes constantly looking around, fingers drumming on the wheel.

  ‘Why did you have to close the shop on Kirkelina?’ she asked resentfully. ‘Did it not make any money?’

  He hesitated, made eye contact in the mirror.

  ‘Someone from the tax office show up,’ he explained. ‘They wanted to look at the accounts.’

  ‘And they weren’t in order?’

  He said nothing, just looked at her. It crossed her mind that he was looking at her more than the road.

  ‘I suppose someone called them,’ he said.

  ‘Someone called them? And reported you, you mean?’

  ‘Why would they otherwise suddenly show up?’ he replied in a bitter voice. ‘They had never come before.’

  There was silence for a while.

  ‘Has someone stolen something from you?’

  It struck her that that was not the case. Not even a bicycle had been taken. Not that she owned a bike, the traffic on Kirkelina was too heavy and there was no cycle path. She closed her eyes, she was cold, tried to plan her entrance to the police station, going to the counter, what she would say. She had to assert herself, somehow.

  She leaned forward again and whispered in his ear. ‘Could you wait outside? Could drive me home again afterwards?’

  He nodded. He nodded several times, his eyes either in the mirror or looking at the taximeter, which showed 149, then 150.

  ‘Cold today,’ he said. ‘Very cold.’

  He pretended to shiver, hugged his slim body. Flicked some switches on the dashboard and she heard a fan starting up, then a current of warm air reached her face. She closed her eyes, listened to the engine, liked the feeling of being on her way somewhere, of taking action. Finally something was going to happen. She was no longer someone who curled up in a corner. She knew her rights, and she would demand support.

  Irfan kept his beautiful, alert brown eyes on her in the rear-view mirror. All the way to the market square, over the bridge to the south side of town, then up along the river. After about fifteen minutes he turned into the street where the main police station was, a big red-brick building with lots of glass. It was not possible to drive up to the entrance, as this was guarded by some large blocks of stone, a bit like a row of teeth, so he stopped a short distance away and explained that she would have to walk the rest. He pointed down the street to a kiosk that sold coffee and newspapers.

  ‘I’ll wait for you there,’ he said.

  She started to walk towards the entrance. She walked with a determined step and her chin up. She felt his eyes on her back. Was he one of the people who had sought refuge in Norway, who lived well on all the benefits, but who hated Norwegians? Some of her rage gave way to fear, perhaps she would not be able to report her case with as much authority as she intended. When she got to the double glass doors at the entrance, she noticed the cameras high up on the wall. So, they had already seen her. She stood looking at the cameras for a while, one to the right of the entrance, the other to the left. There was no one else there, the area in front of the building was empty. The row of stones, or teeth, had swallowed her, and she was in. To her surprise, the door slid open as she walked towards it, and she came into a large reception area with several counters, and a seating area with sofas and chairs. The counter for passports was to the left, beside the lift. And to the right was the station duty officer’s desk, in a closed room, but the walls were glass, so she could see in. The uniformed officer who was inside looked up and she mustered her courage. She looked around for a queuing system, just to make sure, but it seemed they only had one for passports. She went into the small glass room, holding the note tight. The duty officer was a slightly older man, who was bald, well built and presumably strong, but not particularly friendly. Strong in a physical sense, she thought, and because he represented an indisputable authority. All she registered, however, was indifference and a total lack of interest, as though she was interrupting something important. And even though there was no one else there, even though there was only the two of them in the glass room, he sat hunched over some papers and let the seconds tick by. Her knees felt weak and like jelly, and she was unsure of where to start. How to begin, would he help her, was he not there to help her, is that not what they learned at police college? Eventually, he looked up. His attention did not last long, as if she were something he just happened to notice, a passing insect. She put the folded note down on the counter in front of him.

  ‘This note,’ she whisp
ered, ‘was lying on my bedside table when I woke up today. Someone was in my house while I was asleep.’

  The seconds passed again, good God, they went fast, ticked by as fast as the numbers on Irfan’s taximeter. The officer took his time, his eyes gave nothing away, and he did not touch the paper. First he had to establish who she was and why she was whispering. She valiantly straightened her back, wanted to show him that she was clear-headed and sober, that she was all there, in every way.

  ‘Is there any reason for you to whisper?’ he wondered.

  She swallowed, pulled the collar of her blouse to one side and pointed at the red, jaggedy scar.

  ‘You’ve been assaulted?’ he said.

  ‘No, no. The doctor made a mistake,’ she whispered.

  He stared at her white neck with curiosity.

  ‘Do you have any ID with you?’ he asked.

  She nodded, taken aback, nodded and nodded again. Then she fumbled around in her bag to find her Visa card with the awful photograph. It certainly had not been taken by Walther Eriksson, but rather one of the photo booths in the post office. He studied it, turned it over, looked up at her to compare.