Fireraiser

by Torkil Damhaug

  He hobbled out into the corridor, like an old man, he thought, and exaggerated his hobble, let his body go lopsided and halting. When he knocked on the bathroom door and demanded that Synne, who started a half-hour later than him, should let him in, there was even something old-mannish about his voice, and this game made it easier not to get too worried. From the other side of the door his little sister said something sarcastic. He gave up and padded down to the kitchen and shook out a bowl of muesli.

  The next time he knocked he was careful to sound annoyed, and maybe he was too; at least that was how Synne understood it. She opened the door and emerged with a yellow bath towel around her body and a pink one as a turban. Karsten was informed that it was only out of the kindness of her heart that she was willing to get dressed in her ice-cold bedroom, and that now he owed her a favour. He agreed and said he would do something for her, maybe drive her to the stables, for example.

  Eleven minutes later, as he hurried into the kitchen, she was standing by the radio, staring at it as the newsreader went on about something or other. The slice of bread and salami lay untouched on her plate. Twice before he had discovered her in a state in which she was far away and didn’t react, but the last time was more than a year ago now. He touched her shoulder, breathed a sigh of relief as she moved her gaze.

  The voice on the radio was talking about a fire.

  – Something happen?

  – Stornes, she stammered.

  The news went over to something about the National Audit Office. He lowered the volume. – The farm? Has there been a fire there?

  She didn’t answer.

  – Anybody dead?

  – The horses, she whispered. – Nearly thirty of them burned to death.

  He saw the tears welling up in her eyes. Before her first attack, Synne had been riding at Stornes farm for several years. Afterwards the doctors had decided that it was too risky for her to carry on. Because who knows what might happen if she suddenly had an episode while she was on horseback and galloping at full speed? Her furious protests were ignored, though she continued to go to the stables to look after these animals she was no longer allowed to ride. Now none of the tests showed she had epilepsy after all, and they had promised she could try riding again.

  Her whole body shook with crying, and he patted her shoulder. She was five years younger than him. After the attacks began, there were a lot of activities she could no longer take part in, and even more she voluntarily gave up. He didn’t like her being alone so much. He wasn’t particularly sociable himself, but that was something different.

  – That’s bad news, he said comfortingly, with a glance up at the clock. – But surely they managed to save some of them?

  – Only seven, she wailed.

  – Well that’s some, after all.

  She began to sob. – The horses don’t want to leave each other.

  – Don’t want to?

  – When there’s a fire or something, they all herd together, to look after each other. She closed her eyes and shook her head. – There are horses that do manage to get out but then run back into the fire to be with the rest of the herd.

  Just then their father came in. – Don’t try any April Fools on me, he said. – I know perfectly well what day it is. His eyebrows rose a few millimetres when he noticed that Synne was crying.

  – There was a fire at Stornes farm last night, Karsten explained. – Apparently a lot of horses were burnt to death.

  – Really, Father remarked as he took his coffee mug from the cupboard. It was light blue, with World’s Best Dad written on it in faded red lettering. – But no people?

  – Is that all you can think to say? Synne sniffed.

  Father poured himself coffee, cast a quick glance at her. – I don’t think it’s completely irrelevant that no people died.

  Synne made a noise somewhere between a growl and a wail and ran out; they heard her footsteps up the stairs and the slam of the bedroom door.

  – Quite a performance, Father said, and slotted two slices of bread into the toaster. He picked up the newspaper and his mug of coffee and slumped down into his seat next to the window.

  Karsten felt certain it was about more than the horses. Several times in recent weeks his little sister had had outbursts of rage and refused to go to school. When these moods came over her, she made herself completely inaccessible, shut herself off both physically and mentally. It worried him. Had done for a long time.

  – I overslept, he said tentatively. – Can I take the car?

  His father glanced at him over the top of his spectacles. – And you find that is defensible in a world such as ours?

  – No, Karsten hurriedly assured him – It is indefensible, but I don’t want to miss the first lesson. Anyway, I need to drive a bit to get more practice, that’s another thing. And in the third place, a car needs to be driven once in a while.

  Less than a year ago, suddenly and without warning, Father had upped and bought that Volvo with its 2.5-litre engine, the only investment he had ever made that might be said to be an extravagance. His excuse was that they needed a four-wheel drive to navigate the track all the way to their cabin in the winter.

  Now he shrugged his shoulders in a way that indicated that the arguments volunteered so far had made an impression on him. Having received assurances that Karsten would not park anywhere near cars belonging to reckless boy-men, or clumsy girls who opened doors into neighbouring vehicles, he agreed and approved the unnecessary and environmentally destructive trip.

  3

  As Dan-Levi Jakobsen passed Exporama and began to drive up towards Gjelleråsen, his phone vibrated. He saw that the message was from Sara. He turned off at Mortens café, switched off the engine, called her. Her voice was weak; he could tell she was lying down.

  – Still nauseous? he asked cautiously. – Can’t you manage to take Rakel?

  – No, she groaned.

  The last time she was pregnant, Sara had also been sick a lot during the early months, but not like this. She lay moaning in bed the whole morning, and it was almost asking too much of him to leave her in that state.

  – I’ll them I’m not well, he said, even though he knew it would cause trouble.

  – No, she whispered. – Don’t do that. But call in when you get the chance and take Rakel over to Mum’s. If you have time.

  She was brave. When he heard her voice, he counted himself luckier than anyone else he knew. What was more, he was aware of it, and that doubled his reasons to be happy. He had a daughter, too. Trebled them. They were going to have another child. Quadrupled them. He put his hands together. Lord, I thank you for everything. Most of all that you let me feel this gratitude, your voice inside me.

  Again he considered whether he should ring the paper and explain the situation. He knew what Stranger would say. Dan-Levi had already had more day shifts than the others in the duty group, and the news editor used every opportunity to remind him of the fact.

  He put the phone down and started the engine. The CD at once picked up again as the windscreen wipers pushed a layer of slush aside. Almost cut my hair. It happened just the other day.

  The track up to Stornes farm was closed to traffic. He parked by the old sanatorium and walked the last kilometre of the way. Two fire engines passed as he was walking. Police tape also closed off the entrance to the farm itself. Dan-Levi spoke to the policeman standing there, but didn’t get much out of him. He made his way towards the edge of the wood and took a few pictures of the ruins, saw at once that they were usable. Climbing up on to a large rock, he got an even better angle. The blackened end wall still standing, the jets of water dousing the ruins from three sides. Again he noticed how this calculating of the best angle and lighting for his pictures caused him to forget that what he was looking at was a tragedy. It still bothered him, although less now than when he had first started working on the paper.

  As he returned to the cordoned-off area, another police car swung into the space behind hi
m. Two men stepped out, one of them in uniform. It was Roar Horvath, Dan-Levi’s best friend since their days at secondary school.

  – I see the tabloids are here, he said by way of a greeting.

  – Always first, Dan-Levi nodded. He had a crude joke in mind but decided it would be inappropriate at the scene of a tragedy like this.

  The plain-clothes officer raised the tape and ducked under. Roar Horvath stayed where he was. – Been eating fish all week?

  It was just over a week since they’d spent a Sunday together at Roar’s cabin in Nes. They’d been ice fishing on the half-rotten ice and brought back a trout meal for Sara and Roar’s new girlfriend. There had been tension between the ladies from the start. The girlfriend’s name was Monica; she was an estate agent and the type of person who always had to control whatever situation she was in. Moreover, she had absolutely no idea how anyone in the twenty-first century could speak in tongues, and it was evidently important for her to repeat this to the point of boredom. Sara got tired of it and turned off, but Dan-Levi let her carry on. His pal changed partners about once a year, and he couldn’t see this one lasting any longer than the others. For a short while at secondary school Roar and Sara had been a couple, and she still complained about how he couldn’t find anyone to settle down with. Dan-Levi didn’t voice any opinion on that. His friendship with Roar was a sort of exclusion zone in which both observed an unwritten injunction never to discuss matters of faith, salvation and personal morality.

  – What can you tell me about what happened here? Dan-Levi said, pointing at the ruins. – Any hot tips?

  Only after he’d said it did the macabre pun strike him.

  – The fire technicians haven’t been in there yet, Roar told him with a grin as he wiped something from his reddish moustache. He’d started it in his last year at the police academy. Recently he’d begun waxing the tips, but this morning he’d obviously not had time to twist them up into points, and the thick clumps hung limply under his chin, making him look like a walrus.

  – What about the cause of the fire, Eggman?

  Roar glanced over at Dan-Levi. – Eggman?

  – I am the Walrus.

  He still didn’t get the point, even though old pop and rock hits were an interest they’d always shared. Dan-Levi had to explain that he was referring to the sad and drooping moustache.

  His friend rolled his eyes. – It isn’t part of my job to talk to tiresome journalists, he growled.

  – Do I have to go up to the police station to hear exactly the same thing as you’re refusing to tell me?

  – We need to go through the whole list. Technical faults, carelessness and so on.

  – And so on?

  – You know something, Dan-Levi, it doesn’t suit you, being an investigative journalist. How on earth did you end up with that gig?

  It was something Dan-Levi wondered about himself. He was going to apply for a post in the culture section as soon as a vacancy opened up there.

  – So there’s nothing to indicate that the fire might have been started deliberately? he persisted.

  Roar pulled a tin of dipping tobacco from his pocket, unscrewed it. – What makes you suppose that I would share my innermost thoughts with your readers?

  – Take it easy, Horvath, said Dan-Levi. His glasses were steaming up. He removed them, cleaned them with a corner of his shirt. – When I’ve made up my mind to keep something to myself, not even a bottle of Toilet Ninja is going to open me up.

  Roar grinned and stuck a fingertip with its liquorice-like load behind his upper lip. – I might just test that out sooner than you think. I was thinking of popping in tonight and taking a look at that kitchen.

  Dan-Levi hesitated. They’d been living in the house for a little more a year, taken it over after his in-laws. The kitchen and living room were both in need of a total makeover. And Roar was a born handyman, Dan-Levi’s polar opposite in that department.

  – We’re probably going to have to postpone the whole renovation thing.

  – I thought so, Roar grinned. – Sara still feeling sick?

  She’d started to feel unwell that Sunday at the cabin. Dan-Levi hadn’t said anything about why. It was too early; there were still a lot of things that could go wrong. But the main reason was that they wanted to keep it to themselves. That precious time when they were the only two in the whole world who knew what was going to happen.

  – She’s still feeling a little bit under the weather, he conceded. – So you don’t rule out the possibility that the fire was started deliberately?

  – We’ve got a few statements from witnesses we need to take a closer look at. Pregnant?

  Roar fixed him with a detective’s gaze and Dan-Levi couldn’t bring himself to respond. As far back as he could remember, he had been indoctrinated with that single sentence that formed the basis of all rules: to tell a lie was the worst sin of all, because it incorporated all other sins. Not just at home, but also in his sermons from countless pulpits, Pastor Jakobsen always returned to the curse of the lie. And the older Dan-Levi grew, the more he realised how right his father had been.

  – Don’t you two feel any responsibility at all in the face of overpopulation? Roar scolded him. – You’re a Pentecostal, aren’t you? I thought it was just Catholics who weren’t allowed to use rubbers.

  Dan-Levi tried to laugh it off. He could joke about most things with Roar, but this was one area he didn’t want his friend trampling around in. It belonged to him and Sara alone.

  – It’s still not definite.

  – What’s that supposed to mean? Roar seemed surprisingly interested. – Either Sara’s pregnant or she isn’t.

  Dan-Levi gave in. – Just don’t say anything about it.

  Roar wedged the snuff into place with his tongue. A brown drop dripped on to his moustache.

  – Don’t worry, he winked. – Sure as Toilet Ninja, me.

  4

  He tossed the newspaper and a bunch of ads down on to the table. Twenty-four hours since he’d last slept. Still didn’t feel tired. He switched on the computer, opened the online edition of VG. The article about the fire had been revised. Not twenty-six animals taken by the flames, but twenty-nine. He went to Dagbladet’s site. They too were now giving a figure of twenty-nine. It was about a herd of horses. But still, he wanted to know the exact number. Twenty-nine meant that six horses had escaped. Maybe they hadn’t managed to catch them all; maybe some had run off into the woods and were now charging about in the wet snow up there.

  VG’s page included a video of the fire, obviously made with a primitive camera, but close up and much better quality than the one he had recorded himself on his mobile phone from the edge of the wood over a hundred metres away. He played the video again. The stables were consumed, with only the framework remaining, outlined against the blinding yellow-white of the flames. Grey smoke wafted about in the night, mingling with black smoke from an outhouse that had also caught fire. In the jagged light a few naked birch branches trembled. The fire crews on the scene spoke calmly, as though discussing the best way to deal with some ordinary everyday problem. So the recording must have been made after the noise from the horses had stopped. On his own recording the shrieks of panic were so clear that it was painful to listen to them, and that pain conjured up a feeling of being confronted by something he controlled, but which was nevertheless bigger than him. And when neither horses nor people were screaming, and the fire crews had moved further away, he suddenly heard the fire itself. The crackling was like the sound of greedy little animals eating and eating, and behind, like a faint wind, a powerful voice whispering as it drew breath. That was something he’d heard before. He played the recording over and over again. The smoke raced about in the night, and something moved inside that greedy light. But it was not the sight that fascinated him. It was that whispering inhalation, the fire’s own, almost inaudible voice.

  He wandered out into the bathroom, cracked open the three capsules he had made ready. Injecte
d two millilitres of Trenbolone in one arm and a mixture of Testo and Primo in the other. He was in the building phase, but had learnt not to try to go too fast; made up his mind not to lose control again. In the bedroom he undressed, did push-ups and sit-ups, over a hundred of each, could have carried on for the rest of the day without tiring. Afterwards he lay there looking up at the ceiling. Suddenly he knew: the next place that would burn. He could see it in his mind’s eye, even though he hadn’t been there for many years. If he concentrated, he could hear the sounds from in there. The voices of the grown-ups. And the smells: the linoleum, the oil paints, now and then chocolate and freshly baked bread.

  He got up, opened the wardrobe, pushed his hand in under the boxer shorts and the socks and pulled out a bra. Yesterday evening before going up to the stables he’d let himself in to Elsa’s place. The smell of the perfume she’d put on before going out still lingered in the bathroom. The bra was hanging on a hook along with two dark red towels. He’d stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Now he stood there with it in his hand, naked in front of the wardrobe mirror. Finally he realised how exhausted he was and lay down on the bed on top of the blanket, feeling the faint breeze from the window, how it dried the sweat that ran down his back. He pushed the bra between his thighs.

  A bird sang directly outside; another one answered in the distance. The bedlinen was clean, the clothes he’d been wearing during the night were now in a rubbish bin, and in the morning he had showered and washed every inch of his body. Yet he could still detect a faint smell of tar when he raised the back of his hand to his nostrils. The smell brought with it the sight of the burning stable. But now he felt differently when he thought about the horses. It no longer enraged him. He closed his eyes and conjured up the crackling sound of the flames once again. And somewhere behind it, the faint whisper of a mighty voice.