by Karin Fossum
He raised his hand to ward her off.
‘If you would just listen to me a moment.’ It was his turn to whisper now.
‘Oh,’ Ragna continued. ‘So you’ve lost your voice now as well. Then you know what it’s like. Now I’m the one sending the messages. No one will hear you.’
Finally he felt the urge to get up and leave. But doing so would only make the situation worse, and he suspected that the woman in front of him was totally unpredictable. He chose to stay in character. Do what he had come to do, cling on to that remnant of control. But his strength failed him, and all Ragna could hear was a faint mumbling.
‘I’ve come to offer you a place in the Thousand Year Reign,’ he stuttered. ‘Before it’s too late.’
The Thousand Year Reign? She was still holding the knife, pointing it towards him. The tip was no more than a metre from his torso. She took a step forward, then another. She thought it was strange that he remained seated, that he didn’t push the chair back and try to get away. He was holding on to the folder for dear life. When she suddenly leaned forward and thrust the serrated knife into his stomach, he looked astonished. But he was still only concerned with staying upright on the chair, as though falling over would be an admission, a final defeat. She pulled the knife out again. It was not easy as it had gone in all the way to the handle. He fell forward over the table, one hand still holding the folder, the other over the stab wound. It looked like he had completely forgotten her. He turned his face to the window, where the low winter sun shone in. She heard a faint wailing, then all was quiet for a long time. She did not like the fact that he was still sitting on the chair. It meant that she had not asserted herself enough, she wanted him on the floor. So she stabbed him again, and again, randomly. Then she heard a long, hissing sound and she knew that she had punctured his lung. He must have had a lot of air in his lungs, because the noise went on and on. He started to cant to the side; she pulled back and waited for him to fall to the floor. He was bleeding heavily onto the linoleum, which was cream-coloured, and she was amazed at how quiet it was. Finally he fell all the way. With a great sigh, he lay curled around the table leg.
She was still clutching the knife so hard that she felt it all the way up to her shoulder. She turned away from him and went over to the worktop, dropped the knife in the sink, turned on the tap. The blood and water disappeared down the plughole and she washed her hands, which were clean and white again in an instant. She turned back and looked at him. The Agent. Bennet. It was all so clear now. He was the one who had jumped from the roof of the high building. He was the Jumper. She could see that now, it was him; he was wearing the same clothes, his black jacket open. Now he would never get up again, never look at her with those inscrutable eyes. The sign she had been given so clearly only moments ago. He had jumped for the last time, and now he would stay on the ground. He had forgotten his watch at the till. She had held his time in her hands. She knew that the watch had stopped now as well, lying in its white box, she was absolutely sure of it. She nodded to herself as she had these thoughts, and reflected on all the obvious signs. Of course there was a pattern, an order.
She dried her hands on the dishcloth and stood looking at the bent body under the kitchen table. The fluorescent light on the ceiling was reflected in the blood and it looked shiny like oil. His body was no longer receiving signals from his brain, and now he looked like a broken doll that someone had thrown away. She watched him in silence, the fluid pouring from his wounds, spreading out into a big pool. She realised that she had to do something. She came up with a temporary solution. She walked resolutely into the hall, pushed her feet down into some boots and went round to the back of the house, to the woodpile under the bathroom window, and pulled off the green tarpaulin. When she gathered it up into her arms, she could feel the cold seeping in through her overall. It was covered in frost and snow. She carried it back into the kitchen and started to spread it over him, tugged at the corners. She covered him as well as she could, made sure that the water-resistant fabric covered everything, his head, hands and feet. So she did not need to look at him. What cannot be seen does not exist. Sometimes you had to buy yourself time.
When she had finished, she realised how thirsty she was. She turned her back on him and opened the fridge, found a bottle of Uludag Frutti that she had bought from Irfan before he closed the shop. She ignored the Agent and took the bottle with her into the living room. The lemon drink was cold and sour, just as she liked it. She took small sips, swallowed and closed her eyes. Oh, she was so tired, so tired of it all. She could not even think. Not back, not forwards. Despite what had happened out there in the kitchen, she felt calm. She had erupted, and now she was sitting in the ash rain. The great machinery that had whirred in her head all autumn had finally fallen quiet. It felt so good just to sit still in the chair, with her hands in her lap, and drink the cold Turkish lemon fizz straight from the bottle.
When she came to herself again, her head was heavy and her feet were numb. She had fallen asleep, or perhaps just dozed, she was not entirely sure, she only knew she had been far away and now, with a jolt, was back again. She reluctantly opened her eyes and had the vague feeling that something terrible had happened, which scared her. But it may not have happened at all; she had had terrifying dreams before. The first thing she saw was the clock on the wall. She remembered something, but pushed it to one side. What was the last thing she did before she sat down in the chair? She leaned forward and looked at her knees. Her body felt remarkably disconnected, as though all her joints had come loose. When she tried to stand up her legs would not hold her, her hips felt dislocated, but she pushed herself up with her arms, forced herself to stand upright. After a few unsteady steps, she found her balance. She saw the empty Frutti bottle on the table. Why had she been so thirsty? She had exerted herself, she had been terrified. Or furious, or distressed, the adrenaline had dried her out. She crossed the room and went into the kitchen, where the light was still on. Everything was clear and sharp. Something had happened out here, she realised, but her brain had not stored it, her brain often made strange choices. She saw the green tarpaulin. It looked like she had carried the whole woodpile in and stacked it on the kitchen floor. But then she recognised the shape of a human body under the tarpaulin. So that was it. The Agent had knocked on the door and she had let him in. Bennet, he had said, that could be a first name or a surname, not that it mattered now.
She put her hand to her heart, stood there looking at the mound on the floor. She did not feel much. Mostly just amazement that she had ended up in this situation. It was hard to think, so she used her eyes instead. She stretched out a hand and supported herself on the worktop. Was that not a slight movement under the tarpaulin? She had not expected that, she took a step to the side, felt that her hips were not in place, held on to the counter with both hands. He was moving. Her eyes had not played a trick. It must be a hand, because there was no movement where she knew the feet were; if she remembered correctly, the hands were under the table. She heard no sounds – there was not much life left in him – but there, she saw the movement again, it was obvious now, he was scratching at the floor with his long nails. It was the right hand. She had heard his lungs collapse. How was that possible? She could not understand, or was it perhaps just death cramps? She had heard about things like that. Headless chickens that ran around the yard. It annoyed her that he would not lie still. It meant there was still life in him, and if there was life in him, it made everything a lot harder. She would have to make some decisions and think through what had happened again. And she could not face thinking about it. She had finished something, it could not start again, not now that everything was so blissfully still. She turned to the sink, picked up the knife she had left there, with its shining, clean blade. Then she bent down over the tarpaulin and thrust the knife through the green fabric, not caring where she stabbed him. There was absolutely no movement now – she stood watching for a while to be sure. She dropped the knife into
the sink again, the sound of steel against steel, and turned on the tap. More blood and water washed down the drain. She looked over her shoulder to check on him, she did not want to see even a tremor. And there was none.
She paced back and forth on the kitchen floor, stamping like a sulking child, she had to get her hips sorted, get the joint back in the socket. She thought she heard a click, and then another, and everything fell into place and she could move freely again. She washed the knife properly with the washing-up brush and liquid, then put it back in the drawer. It was a good knife, and useful for so many things. She noticed the folder lying on the table. He had not had the chance to open it. And it held the truth, he had said, the good news, the unique offer. It was a brown leather folder, no, not leather – she held it to her nose and it smelt of plastic. She went back into the living room and sat down with the folder in her lap, she could feel there was some weight to it. It belonged to her now, she had the right to its contents. She had just won a long battle, and this was her plunder. It had a solid zip, which she opened and then pulled out the contents, and rested them on her lap while she threw the folder down onto the floor. A pile of magazines, lots of them, maybe as many as twenty, and they were all the same. On the cover was a colourful picture of a woman and a small boy. Mother and son, Ragna thought, mother and son! They resembled one another, both had dark hair and skin, and brown eyes. The mother was wearing a beautiful headscarf and the boy had a blue hat on, which might have been crocheted. The photograph had not been taken in Norway, but in another country, at the market, there were stalls with colourful fruits, piles of baskets and lovely fabrics. The boy had an orange in his hand, and he was running for his life. Behind him came an angry man, shaking his fist, and the woman, the mother, had her hands to her cheeks. Ragna understood the picture immediately. The boy had stolen an orange from the fruit seller and was trying to run away. Only now, after she had studied the image, did she read the title.
AWAKE!
She opened the cover. The magazine was published by the Jehovah’s Witnesses and this was the December issue. The topic for the month was parenting and criminality. She carried on, reading snippets here and there, running her eyes down the pages. One article was about Armageddon and Judgement Day, and there was another about the Thousand Year Reign and the Chosen Ones. All the signs, the truth. The man lying on the kitchen floor, the man with the long nails, was a Jehovah’s Witness. She felt leaden and utterly exhausted. She had clearly misunderstood. She let the magazines fall to the floor, there were so many of them, and they slid out into a colourful fan. There was so much to take in, so much she had to sort out. She should probably ring someone and explain, but she had no energy left and no one could hear what she said on the phone anyway. All she wanted to do was sleep. And the man out in the kitchen was not going anywhere. So she went to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. Oh, the air coming through the window felt so good, it cooled her down. All she had to do was wait. Someone would come. They would know what to do. It’s impossible to do everything alone, and I have no voice. I have to rest. You must rest, Ragna.
She closed her eyes. Her heartbeat was calm and light, because her heart did not know what to do, and carried on with its job of keeping her alive, without judgement. The boy had stolen an orange. Did that mean that the mother had failed, she wondered, or did it mean that in some faraway land that she knew nothing about, a juicy orange was such an irresistible temptation for a poor boy that he could not stop himself? Would they chop off his hands, did he live in a country where they did things like that? She lay for a long time thinking about the picture. In her imagination, she was the woman and Rikard Josef was the boy. He had once, when he was eleven, stolen a big hunting knife from a sports shop, but the staff caught him red-handed. She had had to go and collect him and apologise on his behalf. She remembered the shame. She had had to promise the shop assistants that she would give him a serious talking-to, and she tried to recall what she had said. That he must never do that again, that he was not that kind of boy and she was not that kind of mother. And when she asked him why he had stolen it, he said that it was a good knife. I wanted it. Did the Agent know that? Was the picture a sign? The topic of the month was parenting and criminality.
She changed position several times before she finally settled and fell asleep. She dreamt that she was walking through an exotic market in a foreign country, buying fruit. And it was Irfan who owned all the stalls. Irfan stood there in a long white tunic, and she stopped and talked to him for a long time, she had a voice, and it was bright and clear as a bell, and Irfan clapped his hands in delight. He gave her a basket for the fruit and she picked out all the things that tempted her, plums and apricots and dates and other treats. She paid for an extra orange, the one her son had stolen, and put the coins in Irfan’s hand.
She did not know how long she had slept, curled up in the dark room. Maybe one hour, maybe four, time stands still when you sleep. But she thought it was still Sunday, and through the gap in the curtains she could see that it was still light. There was not a sound in the house, she could hear no traffic on the road, where was everyone, had everything stopped? She got up and walked slowly to the bathroom, as though there was something wrong with her legs. Not even Walther Eriksson would have been able to find anything alluring about the face that stared back at her from the mirror, not even with the best camera in the world. She thought her eyes looked darker, like the eyes of the woman at the market, the mother of the orange thief, a mother who had perhaps not fulfilled her duties as a good parent. She had not managed either, she realised, as Rikard Josef had just vanished. She looked around for some clothes but could not find anything other than an old nightgown that had been thrown on the floor. It had thin straps and a lace trim around the neck. She pulled it on over her head and went into the kitchen where the Agent was lying. She gasped when she saw the tarpaulin, as she was sure it had slipped. While she was asleep he had moved again, the mound was a different shape. This time he had without a doubt moved his arms and legs in an attempt to get across the floor, perhaps even to stand up. She went over to him, bent down and listened to see if he was breathing. She kicked his body gently, then again, and a third time, with no result. The initial gentle nudge with her foot became hard kicks, she had to be certain. He was down and she kicked him all the same, as people have always done. She was no different from anyone else, no better, and it was easier than when someone was standing.
She needed to put some more clothes on, she felt that it was cold. And she should put some wood in the burner. The woodpile under the window at the back of the house was no longer protected from the wind and weather, as the tarpaulin was in front of her on the floor. She looked up at the clock and discovered that she had been asleep for hours. Her hand-knitted cardigan was hanging on the back of the chair by the computer, she put it on, wrapped it tight around her and turned on the television. She switched to the news channel, sat on the edge of her chair and stared at the flickering screen. Perhaps they knew already. Maybe Agent Bennet had been reported missing. Could she stab someone with a knife without anyone noticing, could she cut a string forever, not just the thin thread of a conversation, but an entire physical entity, without any consequences? No, she could not. There were cameras everywhere on the street, maybe even in her own house, someone would have noticed something. She looked around and saw the two smoke alarms on the ceiling. They looked like beautiful UFOs, plate-shaped with a small mesh that looked like a window. They might have tricked her and installed a camera there instead; that was what society had become, everyone was being monitored. She noticed a small flashing red light in both of them, which she had not seen before. This made the UFOs even more alive, somehow, as if they were inhabited. She remembered there was also a detector installed in the kitchen, and if that was actually a camera, then the whole thing had been filmed. She went out and stood under the detector; the red light was flashing. That could be a sign that someone was sitting in the control room up there at
this very moment watching her on a screen. Little Ragna Riegel in her nightgown and cardigan. She raised her hand and waved. Looked down at the green tarpaulin, smiled at the camera again, waved and pointed, waved and pointed. Then she pushed her bare feet down into a pair of boots and went round to the back of the house to get some wood.
The logs were covered in a fine film of frost, in beautiful tiny crystals. If she was going to do all that she had to, she at least needed some warmth, and perhaps also some food. And she did not want to greet people in her nightgown, even if it did have a lovely lace trim, and everything had to be in order when they came. As she knew they would, several of them. Or would they? Had she not already asked them for help several times, and yet no one had come? She got angry again. She stacked as much wood as she could balance on her arms and went back in, put it in the burner. When the fire was blazing, she sat down on the floor and stared into the flames. Her cheeks got even hotter, and her shoulders and chest. What need was there for anything else when you had a fire? The flickering tongues transported her elsewhere, they crackled and danced, became a living being that she had to keep alive. As long as the fire burned, time stood still. For a while she looked at one log, then at another. The glittering snow crystals had long since melted and evaporated, the living room was as hot as a baker’s oven, she had to take the woolly cardigan off. She did not want to hear another sound from Bennet now, but snuck out to the kitchen to make sure, tiptoeing closer. She thought once again that the green nylon fabric had changed shape – now the mound was spread out over the floor like some great, formless single-celled organism, an enormous amoeba. Her father had explained this to her when she was little, that this happened to all of life. And it would happen to her, she too would take on another form. She would die and then she would come back as something else.
‘As what though?’ she had asked. With her small hand in his big one.