The Caller iks-10

by Karin Fossum

  Everyone dies.

  I’ll show them, damn it.

  He parked at the Shell station down in Bjerkås and bought newspapers. Next to the station was a small bar with Formica tables and slot machines where he liked to drink a cola. It felt good to walk around freely, without people knowing who he was, be the talk of the town but anonymous at the same time. He settled on a bench outside the station and quickly scanned the papers. Karsten Sundelin from Bjerketun was interviewed by VG, and he made it clear that whoever had done this to his family shouldn’t feel safe for a single second.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ VG’s reporter asked.

  ‘It’s not fit to print,’ Sundelin answered.

  Johnny folded the newspapers and put them in the storage compartment under the seat of the moped, started the motor and drove on. Not fit to print. Ha! he thought. Boy, I’m really scared now. After a few minutes he reached the Sparbo Dam. He turned right and drove the last stretch down a narrow forest path, got off the moped and leaned it against the trunk of a spruce. Then he walked to the water. In the middle of the dam was a sluice where the water flowed into a black pipe. You could hear the force of it like a strong, continual thrum. Rumour had it that, once, a boy had balanced on the dam — probably in May during exams — to capture another badge on his graduation cap, and he fell off the edge and was swallowed up by the pipe. They found his body a few kilometres down the valley. Johnny stayed at the bank a little while and observed the landscape, the glimmering water, the silent forest. He took a few careful steps on the wall, which was forty centimetres wide; you could easily keep your balance on it for a while, but if you walked out too far — like all the way to the sluice in the middle — it got serious. The sluice was enclosed in a cage, and the cage was always locked. Only those who maintained the dam had the key. But it was entirely possible to climb over the cage, and cross to the other side. That is, if you could bear the sound of the gushing water without losing your composure. Johnny stared down into the dark water, elated at what he’d put in motion. I may be small, he thought — just a skinny seventeen-year-old — but I have hidden talents. How good it felt to shock people.

  He sat on the dam wall and looked across the water, which thundered through the sluice into the pipe. After about fifteen minutes, he manoeuvred his way back to solid ground. The Sparbo Dam, he knew, was a freshwater source for thousands of people, and what gushed into the black pipe ended up in people’s taps.

  So he urinated in the water before he sped off.

  Johnny Beskow had a grandfather who lived in Bjørnstad.

  His name was Henry Beskow, and he lived on a cul-de-sac called Rolandsgata. Near his grandfather’s house, which was the very last house on the street, and also the oldest, there was a small rocky knoll from which a girl watched Johnny as he droned past on his moped. He had seen her many times before — she sat there often — and she was rude to everyone who passed. It was her street, her territory. She was thin and pale and freckled, and maybe around ten years old. The most striking thing about her was the fiery red plait of hair that extended down her back. She sneered at him; her incisors were the size of sugar cubes.

  ‘Lingonberry head!’ she shouted.

  She meant the red helmet. Johnny braked. He narrowed his eyes and focused his gaze in a threatening, concentrated ray. But she didn’t seem to be afraid of anything. That’s because you don’t know any better, he thought. I’ll be back for you, you freckled little shit. Ignoring her, he drove the last stretch to his grandfather’s, parked and hung his helmet on the handlebars. He wiped his shoes on the mat and went inside. The old man, who had bad legs, was sitting in a wing chair near the window. He was wrapped up in a woollen blanket, his feet on a footstool. Arthritis had twisted his fingers into stiff claws.

  Johnny Beskow sat down on the footstool. ‘Hi, Grandpa,’ he said.

  Henry turned. His eyes had a tendency to water, and some blood vessels had burst. ‘Hello, my boy. Good to see you.’

  ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

  Henry nodded. ‘Mai was here this morning,’ he said.

  Johnny tried to find a good position on the soft faux-leather footstool. ‘How is she treating you? Does she do a good job? Is she nice?’

  ‘Mai is an angel, that’s for sure,’ Henry Beskow said. She is rather dark-skinned, and her Norwegian is quite poor because she’s from Thailand. But the Thai people, you know, are always so friendly; everything they do, they do with a smile. I couldn’t get anyone better than Mai. I worry I’ll lose her,’ he said, becoming instantly concerned. ‘You can’t count on the people in social services. They reorganise all the time, making cuts to save money.’

  ‘Did you take your medicine?’

  ‘Yes,’ the old man said, ‘I did. I’m like an obedient dog, you know. I don’t have the strength to argue. When you’re dependent on others you grow pious as a lamb.’

  His crooked hands moved about his blanket, pulling at its tassels.

  ‘Would you like me to read the newspaper for you?’ Johnny asked and nodded towards the local paper on the table.

  ‘That would be nice.’

  Johnny scooped up the newspaper and got comfortable. In a clear voice he read article after article, shooting quick glances at the old man to make sure he was following along. First, Johnny read a story about a horse that had gone wild during a race; when they tried to get it under control it bit one of its handlers on the arm. Next was a long article about Polish immigrants and their poor working conditions, and another that he skipped because it was about the mishandling of dead bodies at the Central Hospital. Some had been left for a month before being sent for cremation. He read the weather forecast. The heat would continue, and there was a risk of forest fires across the eastern regions of the country. He listed the television programmes scheduled for that evening, which he thought the old man might want to see. Finally he read the piece about the baby in the pram. While he read, he peeked at his grandfather, but he couldn’t tell what the old man was thinking.

  At last he folded the newspaper and put it on the table.

  For a moment it was quiet in the room.

  ‘You haven’t had it easy,’ Henry said, ‘that’s for sure. But at least you know how to treat other people. The halfwit who did that should be whipped. Don’t you agree, Johnny?’

  ‘Of course, Grandpa,’ he answered piously. ‘And to make sure he understands we could break both his little fingers.’

  ‘We could,’ Henry said. ‘How are things at home now? You can tell me the truth. Don’t lie to spare me.’

  ‘Not good. All she does is lie on the sofa. It’s the vodka. Is there anything you need from the shop? I can go right now.’

  ‘I’ll write a list for you,’ Henry said. ‘Get a pencil and paper. They’re in a drawer in the kitchen.’

  ‘Don’t need paper, Grandpa. I’ll use my mobile phone.’

  ‘That’s beyond me,’ said the old man, and nodded gratefully. He sat completely motionless in his wing chair while Johnny tapped in the shopping list.

  The girl with the red plait was still on the knoll as he drove past.

  ‘Wobblewheels!’ she called out.

  *

  When he got back, he organised the goods in the pantry — a little room off the kitchen where his grandfather kept all sorts of things. Much of the food was old, he noticed, the jars of jam crusted with mould. He cleaned for a while, tidied up a bit, throwing out what needed to be tossed and wiping the shelves with a wet cloth. Then everything looked nice and neat. A red box, temptingly tucked in a corner, caught his attention. He inspected it, thinking it was some kind of breakfast cereal, but discovered it was a box of rat poison. He opened it and examined the pink grains inside. Though they were lethal, the grains looked quite appealing, and the fact that the grains were deadly fascinated him. He lifted the box to his nose; the grains had no scent. Obviously he couldn’t imagine how they tasted. Probably like sweets. He read the ingredients and instructions c
arefully.

  ‘When the rats go to sleep,’ it said on the box, ‘they will never wake up again.’

  Well, what do you know, Johnny Beskow thought.

  After giving it some thought, he went outside and hid the box under the seat of his Suzuki. The rat poison could be useful, and he liked having something up his sleeve. Then he went back to his grandfather. Henry was asleep in the chair. Johnny sat on the footstool and waited patiently for him to wake up, which he did some twenty minutes later.

  ‘Would you like me to make you a Thermos of coffee?’

  ‘Please. You can put a little sugar in it, but don’t screw the cap on too tight — you know how it is.’

  Johnny went to the kitchen and prepared everything. Boiled the kettle, poured the water through a coffee filter, added some spoonfuls of sugar. Got a mug from the cupboard, the one his grandfather always drank from: a blue cup with handles on each side. He set it on the table, then went to the window. He said, ‘Who’s the girl with the red hair?’

  Henry cleared his throat and coughed. Dust had lodged in his oesophagus. ‘It’s Meiner’s youngest, I think. Her name is Else. They live in the yellow house down the road. You see the old cars in the front yard? They’ve been there for fifteen years. Meiner has probably meant to fix them and sell them on, but he never has.’

  ‘She’s not nice, that girl,’ Johnny said with his mouth to the window. His breath created a small patch of condensation on the glass and with his finger he drew a skull.

  ‘Do you mean Else? Actually, she is nice. She’s like a little guard dog. She watches everyone who drives into Rolandsgata. Finds out what they’re doing here. Then she’ll bark at them when they drive off. Let me tell you: if someone comes to my house with bad intentions, Else Meiner will warn me instantly. She has eyes like a falcon, and screams like a magpie.’

  Johnny sat back down on the footstool.

  Henry was silent for a long time.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m so old,’ he said finally with a heavy sigh. ‘I’m sorry I’m so slow and useless and don’t understand anything. It won’t get any better, either.’

  ‘Stop talking like that,’ Johnny said sternly.

  ‘I’m not afraid of dying.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Are you afraid of going to sleep? It’s no worse than that. We lie down, we sail away.’

  He lifted a crooked hand and pushed tufts of hair from his forehead. His lips were narrow and colourless, as if life was leaking slowly from his body and taking with it colour and glow.

  ‘You won’t die for a long time,’ Johnny said confidently.

  The very thought anguished him, because he liked the old man, and he had nowhere else to go. No one waited for him; no one needed him to do anything. Henry was nodding off again. Johnny clutched one of his grandfather’s arthritic hands.

  ‘Grandpa,’ he whispered, ‘would you like me to open a window before I go? It’s so hot in here. You’ll be sluggish.’

  The old man opened one eye. ‘Wasps might get in.’

  ‘Do you have rats in the cellar?’

  ‘Not any more. Mai took care of them.’

  Johnny released Henry’s hand. He rose and smoothed the blanket. ‘Grandpa, when did my mother start drinking?’

  ‘Just before you were born. It wasn’t so easy, you understand. Bad things happened.’

  ‘She won’t talk about my father,’ Johnny complained. ‘I don’t know anything about him.’

  ‘Let it go,’ Henry said, turning his face away and closing his eyes. ‘It’s not always best to know the truth. Trust me.’

  Chapter 7

  Lily Sundelin pushed Margrete in the pram, and Karsten walked quietly beside them. She held on to the pram, and he held on to her arm; they couldn’t get any closer to each other. It was mid-afternoon and the sun was burning the backs of their heads. Margrete wore a dress with red-and-white stripes, and looked like a little lollipop.

  They left the Bjerketun housing estate and walked to the main road. Stopped as a car sped past.

  ‘Do you know what occurred to me today?’ Lily said. ‘Right when I got up? It hit me like a bolt of lightning.’

  ‘What?’ He squeezed her arm.

  ‘Her smock,’ she said. ‘It was gone. The pink smock.’ She leaned forward and patted Margrete’s cheek.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. For some reason he took the smock with him. Don’t you think that’s a bit twisted? I mean, who steals a smock? I don’t understand it.’

  Karsten didn’t have an answer. She saw him purse his lips. The incident had changed him, and while she partly liked the change, this sudden rage frightened her. His voice was coarse now; she noticed it whenever he answered the telephone. He was always on guard, always on the offensive, in case something should happen. She had never seen this side of him, and she wanted him to let it go; they had to go on with their lives. Yet she was also touched, because he’d risen up and tried to protect them. He had never been so big and broad as now, his voice never so gruff.

  ‘Do you think he’s keeping an eye on us?’ she asked.

  Karsten looked around the road, and at the houses. ‘No, don’t be silly. It’s possible he thinks about us, proud of what he’s done. Maybe he’s planning new attacks. Move on to the shoulder, Lily, a car’s coming. Christ, the way he drives.’

  They stood still as the car sped past.

  ‘Schillinger,’ Karsten said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bjørn Schillinger. You know, the man with the huskies. He lives on Sagatoppen. Did you see his car, the Land Cruiser? When we trade in our Honda, we’ll exchange it for a Land Cruiser.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s bigger and more powerful, tougher. Eight cylinders. Two hundred and eighty-six horsepower. How far do you want to walk? It’s really hot, and Margrete is as red as a boiled lobster.’

  Lily considered. The child was sleeping, and she herself had good shoes.

  ‘We’ll walk to Saga,’ she said. ‘We’ll turn round on the bridge.’

  They reached the bridge twenty minutes later.

  Just then a bus whizzed by, and they had to move closer to the railing. Lily’s dress fanned around her legs. Because of the rushing water, she held on tightly to the pram, a reflex. She bent over the railing and stared down. The water was rust-brown, with yellow foam. On a shelf of rock she saw the remains of a bonfire; an empty beer can clacked against the rock wall. Karsten put an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into his broad chest.

  ‘There’s a lot of power down there,’ he said. ‘Listen. It hums like a motor. In the old days, people got by with the sun and the water. Now we’re destroying the earth.’

  ‘Is that why you want a Land Cruiser?’ Lily teased.

  He grunted something unintelligible in response, and Lily grew serious again. She noticed that his chest heaved and sank, and she had a strange feeling. After what had happened, she was vulnerable in a new way. She couldn’t get over it, couldn’t forget what had been done to her Margrete. Something horrible had spotted them, had pointed at them with a quivering finger, and shattered everything. It had something to do with the light, perhaps even with the rhythm of life; everything was out of sync. She looked at the round, smooth rocks at the bottom of the river. Then she saw something that looked like a tyre.

  She squeezed Karsten’s arm. ‘Is that a tricycle?’ she said, distraught.

  Karsten strained to see. He saw something red. A handlebar of some kind. A tyre. Black rubber. ‘The tyre is too big for that.’

  ‘A pram?’ she said anxiously. ‘Good God. Is it a pram, Karsten?’

  Karsten Sundelin leaned over the railing. The thing in the water was something he’d seen many times before, but he didn’t know how it had ended up in the river. Look at that,’ he said. ‘It’s a Zimmer frame.’

  ‘A Zimmer frame? How did it get in the water?’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’re going home.’

  ‘You don’
t think there’s a person down there?’ Has someone fallen off the bridge?’

  ‘No, of course not. Have you lost your mind?’

  He turned the pram round and began walking home, now taking long strides. Lily hurried after him. Margrete awoke and looked up at them with her dark blue eyes. Then she began to whimper. Lily couldn’t bear the whimpering; it hurt her like salt in an open wound. Quickly she patted Margrete’s cheeks with her hand.

  ‘There’s always something at the bottom of that river,’ Karsten said. ‘Bicycles. Shopping trolleys. Someone probably nicked it from a driveway, and just threw it in the water. People do all sorts of odd things to amuse themselves.’

  Chapter 8

  Johnny sat on the edge of his bed listening to the sounds in the kitchen.

  His mother, up and dressed, was roaming about and pawing through cupboards and drawers. Sometimes she managed to pull herself together and prepare a hot meal.

  A guy can hope, Johnny Beskow thought. He wasn’t used to attention of any kind. Then he heard her steps on the floor. Suddenly she opened his door and stared at him.

  ‘You had a bag with you when you came home today,’ she said. ‘What did you buy?’

  ‘A couple of films,’ he said, ‘from the video shop.’

  ‘Oh, did you have money for that?’

  ‘Grandpa gave me some.’

  ‘God help me but don’t you always have money,’ she complained. ‘You’ve got it easy.’

  She spotted the bag on the bedside table. She snatched it, removed the two DVDs and read the back covers. ‘Rubbish no doubt,’ she said.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘Rubbish. But entertaining rubbish.’

  She left. For good measure, she slammed the door extra hard. That was how she marked her presence: I’m still here. Don’t you forget it.