Fireraiser

by Torkil Damhaug

  Roar grinned sarcastically. – If we wanted it all to be in the papers, I wouldn’t hesitate to let you know. He took another couple of large swigs. – But okay, there is some connection.

  Dan-Levi removed his glasses and wiped them, mostly to disguise his curiosity.

  – Give me a little bit of what you’ve got, he said calmly. – I’ve always shared with you.

  Roar squeezed more foam out of his moustache. It was a sorry sight by this time.

  – Do you swear it will go no further? By God in Heaven and His only begotten Son?

  He looked at Dan-Levi, probably wondering if his blasphemy had managed to provoke his friend.

  – We think the arsonist is using some kind of ignition mechanism.

  – You already mentioned that. Time to be a little more specific.

  – We found one that was almost intact at the nursery school. Fires were started in several different locations.

  Roar took out a ballpoint pen and began to sketch on one of the serviettes on the table.

  – A cigarette and matches held together by an elastic band, fastened to a kind of fuse. It gives the arsonist the chance to light it and get some distance away before the fire really takes hold.

  Dan-Levi picked up the serviette and sat staring at the primitive drawing. He knew at once where he had seen something like this before.

  – This is just too crazy.

  – What’s too crazy?

  He lowered his voice. – I found something exactly like what you’ve drawn here.

  Roar dropped the glass he was about to raise. It hit the tabletop with a loud bang. – You’re kidding me, right?

  Dan-Levi turned the serviette around and drew. – One cigarette and three matches, fastened together with an elastic band.

  – Ordinary matchsticks?

  Dan-Levi thought about it. – No, they were flat, the kind of matches that come in a little book, at hotels and restaurants.

  Roar leaned across the table. – Where did you find this?

  – On the steps outside the house.

  – Your house? Jesus fuck, Dan-Levi, pardon my language. You do realise that this conversation has just turned into a witness interview?

  By the time Dan-Levi got home at around eleven, Sara had gone to bed. He grabbed a yoghurt from the fridge, picked up the newspaper and sat at the kitchen table, flipping distractedly through it as he ate. Before they parted, Roar had insisted that they go round his place with an expert fire investigator. By that time of the evening his thinking wasn’t exactly clear. The rubbish had been emptied ages ago, but they ought to take a look around the garden, in his opinion. As though there would be anything to find there. Someone had dropped the ignition device, if that was what it was, on his front steps, Dan-Levi insisted. He said nothing about who it might have been. Not a word about Karsten Clausen being right next to him when he found it.

  He refused to bring Karsten into it. There had to be some other explanation. He would talk to the lad himself. He knew of cases where people had been unjustly accused of something criminal. He had seen the suffering and the problems experienced by innocent people after a cross-examination, the suspicious looks of neighbours and friends. He knew of at least one case in which a life had been ruined. A false accusation of child abuse arising from a tragic family conflict in which a cynical mother had used every possible means to deny her former husband custody of their children. This was different, but Karsten Clausen was a sensitive boy. A loner who struggled with friends and girls. Two other things had struck him as he sat at Klimt’s with Roar. Karsten had seemed in a strange mood that morning when he had come to his door, as though there was something or other he wanted to tell him. And on the evening of the fire at the nursery school he had also behaved strangely, not that Dan-Levi could recall the exact details of what was said.

  His stream of thought was interrupted by a sound from the staircase. Sara was standing there. She was wearing a tracksuit.

  – Not gone to bed?

  – Fell asleep on the bathroom floor.

  She came over to the table, gave him a weary smile. He held her, pulled her down on to his lap. He loved to take in the smell of her. It made him calm at the same time as it excited him. Especially what she exuded when she had just been sleeping.

  – You smell so good, he murmured in her ear.

  – And you smell of beer and cigarettes.

  – A victim of passive smoking, he said in his defence.

  – And the beer, you old boozer?

  – Again, passive.

  She laughed sleepily into his hair. – And Roar, he’s OK?

  Dan-Levi hesitated. He had to tell her about Monica, but she was tired and needed to sleep.

  – So-so, he said vaguely, and looked into her face, the grey eyes that were at once happy and sad. – I’m the luckiest man in the world, he said, and kissed her.

  – Carry me up to bed, she ordered.

  He lifted her up. He’d never been the big strong he-man type, but she was as easy to carry as a little girl.

  – Carrying you like this has made me hot, he told her as he kicked open the bedroom door.

  – I’m much too tired to resist, she murmured.

  He unbuttoned his shirt. Just then Rakel called out.

  – Stay awake, he warned Sara as he headed off to the child’s room.

  His daughter was sitting up in bed. – Thirsty.

  – Okay, I’ll get some water for you.

  – No, she protested. – Water Man get it.

  Dan-Levi leaned over the bed railings and gave her a hug. They had had so much fun from this story about the Water Man that the little girl had become obsessed by it. A true story that would be repeated in years to come, maybe even feature in the wedding speech Dan-Levi was planning, when the time came to give her away.

  – The Water Man couldn’t come tonight, so he’s asked me to fetch your drink for you.

  – Water Man, Rakel insisted.

  By the time Dan-Levi returned to the bedroom, Sara had fallen asleep. He swallowed his disappointment, tucked the duvet carefully around her warm body, bent over and said a prayer for her. Downstairs he put on shoes and a jacket, walked up the street and turned into the little cul-de-sac. A black car stood there with its engine running, a BMW he could not remember having seen in the neighbourhood before. Someone was sitting inside it. He could just make out the glow of a cigarette through the dark windows.

  He couldn’t see lights on anywhere in the Clausen house, but Karsten had said that he wasn’t going to the cabin with the rest of the family for the holiday, and Dan-Levi decided to wake him up if he was home. Just then he saw someone by the door.

  – Can I help you? he called out.

  The man standing there whirled round and walked towards him. Dan-Levi noticed that he didn’t look Norwegian; probably a Pakistani or from somewhere in the Middle East. He repeated his question. The young man shook his head and crossed to the car, which backed out into Erleveien, accelerated away through the residential area and was gone.

  25

  Karsten jumps over a fence, comes to a snow-coated ledge, stops at the outer edge. Immense stones are fed into the deep chute below him to be crushed. Someone down there shouts his name. He runs off, opens a door, stumbles on to a staircase. Somewhere in the building a baby is crying, but as he makes his way up the stairs, the crying changes until it sounds as if it’s coming from an older child. Just then he realises he’s back home, on his way up to the first floor. He has to find Synne before it’s too late.

  He sat up in bed, drenched in sweat. Slowly he remembered where he was. In the other top bunk Vemund turned over. It felt as though he was looking at him in the dark, but Karsten could tell from his breathing that he was asleep. He leant down over Adrian’s bed. It was empty.

  He lay back down, his body stiff after all the exercising. Once again he’d had to squash into the back of Sweaty’s Toyota and sit in the nauseating stench of butyric acid that came from hi
s body, try to stop looking at that ridiculous spider dangling below the rear-view mirror and the way it was supposed to jiggle whenever they drove over a bump or turned a corner.

  Someone was crying. Karsten jumped down from the bed, stood in the middle of the floor, listening. He heard it again. He slipped out into the corridor, over to the stairs. He heard the sound of a low voice coming from the chubby girl’s room. Just then the door opened. He recognised the silhouette of the person standing there.

  – What are you doing here?

  Adrian sounded more angry than surprised.

  – Someone’s crying, whispered Karsten. – I had to see what the matter was.

  – Everything’s fine, said Adrian. He led him back to the bedroom, closed the door behind them. – No need to wake the whole house, he said quietly.

  Karsten leaned against the bunk beds. – What’s the matter with Vera?

  Adrian turned towards him. In the dark, Karsten could just about see his eyes.

  – Something happened. I had to take care of it. It’s all right now.

  – Take care of what?

  – Can you keep it just between the two of us?

  Karsten nodded.

  – Vera’s mother wants to see her, but Sæter won’t allow it. Vera’s been crying every night, waking me up too. I had a word with her. She’s in a terrible state.

  – That’s good then, said Karsten, relieved, as he climbed back up into his bed. – That you comforted her.

  He slept soundly. Didn’t notice the light falling in through the thin curtains. Didn’t notice the blanket being tugged off him, and then his boxer shorts. Awoke suddenly as something wet and ice-cold hit him in the face.

  He jumped down from the bed, naked from the waist down. Vemund was hopping around the floor, bent double with laughter, Sweaty choking and beating his head against the wall. They’d pinched not only his underpants but his trousers and pullover.

  – The little boy’s sleeping so soundly, Vemund howled. – Doesn’t even notice that his pants have come off.

  – Oh that boy’s had the operation all right.

  – Give me my clothes, Karsten raged.

  – That’s the price you pay for sleeping in in the morning. Vemund pointed to the open window. – You’ll have to go down and get them yourself.

  – Price to pay, Sweaty echoed, lisping.

  Vemund took out his phone, bent down in front of Karsten and started taking pictures. – Is that what you were hoping to impress the Paki slag with?

  Something snapped in Karsten. He took two steps forward and sank his fist into the Shrimp’s face. He withdrew momentarily, astounded by what he had done, surprised by the dull thud, the pain in his knuckles, the feeling of something breaking. Vemund’s fist struck his lip, and then it was as though a fuse had blown, and everything went dark. He grabbed hold of the wispy hair, pulled, twisted the thin body down on to the floor, sat on top of him, pinioning his arms beneath his knees, then threw another punch at his mouth. He could feel Sweaty’s hands around his neck but kept punching and punching away at the bloodied rat-like face beneath him. Distantly he heard the door being opened.

  – Let them fight, Kai ordered.

  – He’s killing him, Sweaty protested, but Kai pulled him away.

  Karsten felt the darkness lift. He raised his fist again, and the skinny body beneath him twisted and bucked, but with Kai’s entry, the rage had subsided. He looked down at the bleeding mouth and the frightened eyes, dropped his fist, got to his feet, grabbed somebody else’s blanket and wrapped it around his body. When he crossed to the window and looked out, he saw all his clothes spread out in the dirt.

  – Shit, he muttered, and felt the jab of anger again.

  – How are you going to sort this out? Kai stood next to him. – Who’s going to fetch your clothes?

  Vemund had got up and was sitting on the edge of the bed, whimpering and spitting blood.

  – Him, Karsten said, pointing.

  – You’ve got to say it to the lad.

  – You go down and fetch my clothes.

  – Wasn’t me that threw them out, Vemund wailed.

  Karsten thought it over. – I don’t give a shit who it was, he announced, astonished at how his voice still sounded angry. – You fetch them.

  Vemund glanced over at Sweaty, but his pal was busy packing his rucksack, no help to be had there.

  – I’ll kill you, he howled at Karsten. Then he got up and headed for the door.

  26

  He let himself in using the TrioVing key he had taken last time he was there. There was a light on in the corridor; otherwise all was in darkness. He listened. The even hum of the refrigerator; apart from that, nothing. He climbed the steps slowly, avoiding the ones that made a noise, the fourth, the eighth, the tenth. Headed on towards the room that had once been his. That still was his. As long as that room existed, it was his.

  The curtains were open. He stood there awhile, looking out. On the other side of the copse lay the ruin of the nursery, on this side the sleeping houses. The kind of place where nothing could happen. Not until it did happen and everything got torn up and turned upside down. And then it would take years for things to fall back into place again. If they ever did. Even when everyone now lying asleep behind these dark windows was gone, the stories would still live on: the house that stood there a hundred years ago burnt down to the ground. No one knows why. Forces that people had no control over struck at the heart of their lives. It might all begin with a spark from the friction between a small, round sulphurous surface and a strip of card saturated with tiny splinters of glass.

  He was carrying four ignition devices. The last time he was there he had lost one somewhere or other along the way. He took the two bottles of lighter fluid out of his pocket, placed them on the table. Once again the computer was on standby. He woke it up, opened a few documents the journalist had recently written. Articles presumably intended for the local newspaper. Something about a drunk driver, something else about vandalism in a cemetery. He found the document he’d read last time he was there, the one containing an ongoing series of dated notes.

  15 April: Sara is in the bath. Rakel been sleeping all evening. I have everything.

  16 April: Karsten still not home. Need to talk to him before he gets called to attend an interview. He mustn’t become a victim of groundless suspicion. The Judas dilemma.

  He looked out of the window again. Karsten Clausen lived up at the top of the road: was it him the journalist was talking about?

  He opened the cupboard, shone his torch inside. There was a suitcase on the floor that hadn’t been there last time. He lifted it out and crept in underneath a pair of overalls, some coats and shirts, removed the board and squeezed his upper body in between the two sides. It all came back to him, what it felt like to sit in that room that nobody else but him knew about. Hearing the tramping up the stairs, the door slung open, the furious voice calling his name. Knowing that no one could find him.

  He shone the beam on the rear wall, found where the little letters had been scratched in, running in and out of each other in a restless pattern. Fire Man come tak them hom with you. The scorch marks that framed the prayer were still there, along with a stain that he recalled was blood. This was the dark side of the room; all the blackness that possessed him was gathered here. On the other beam was her name. He’d scratched it in day after day. Counting them now, he reached a figure of thirty-five. Took out his knife and carved it once more. Because it was Elsa he was thinking about in here. She was the one he could always bring to life in this dark recess. When she spoke to him, her voice was stronger than the one he heard in the flames. Hers was the voice that held him back, that made everything that didn’t want the house to be burned down triumph over everything that did. When he carved her name into the beam, the tiny recess turned into a great white room, a temple in which she appeared if only he pressed his fingers hard enough against his eyes.

  Now the balance between the
forces had changed, the weight was tipping in the other direction. She herself had used this image when she read the cards for him, when she spoke about death and the fire that purified. Everything in this world lies in a balance, and the slightest thing we do can change the way the scales tip. Maybe it was Monica who had provided the crucial weight. Her body in the bathtub half eaten by the water, the skin peeling away from the bones beneath his fingers.

  He took out one of the ignition devices, straightened the cigarette, which had been bent slightly. This was where it should begin. Among the clothes hanging against the bone-dry woodwork. He felt the itch, felt it spreading through his body, from his bones and up into his spine. And beneath it the tiredness that threatened to suck everything inside itself. If he listened into the silence, he could hear faint voices. They came from the bedroom; the door was ajar.

  We have to tell him, Gunnhild. Sooner or later, for Chrissakes, we have to tell the boy.

  A little pause; his lips moved as he mouthed her reply.

  He’s still so little. Can’t we wait?

  He goes out into the corridor, stands outside the bedroom door.

  Why should we have to raise her Paki kid? She’s rolling in money.

  You know why, Tord. And I’m not prepared to go on talking about it every single evening.

  Then silence. Back in his own room, he takes the lighter out of the desk drawer. That was the evening when he scratched the prayer to the Fire Man on to the beam. Decorated it with a border of scorch marks. But just as he is about to set light, Elsa is there, talking to him, holding him back.

  He woke to a sound. A child’s shout. Not loud, but where he was lying, there was only the thin rear wall separating him from the room on the other side. He wriggled out of the cupboard, slipped into the room.

  The girl was standing up in her cot.

  – Are you thirsty, Rakel? I’ll get you some water.

  She didn’t answer, but even in the dark, he could tell from her large, bright eyes that this was what she wanted.