Fireraiser

by Torkil Damhaug

  I don’t want to know.

  Again she sat down in front of the machine.

  I want to know. This is not about Karsten. This is about Synne. Karsten disappeared. Synne didn’t disappear. Synne was taken home by a stranger, never seen again. Or have I seen him again? Has he been following me the whole time? Synne’s face and hair were covered in blood. They washed it away at the hospital. Found no wound. It wasn’t her blood. Could anyone understand what that meant? Do you, Synne Clausen, understand what it means?

  Afterwards she read it aloud to herself. Like an accusation, it seemed to her.

  I accuse you, Synne Clausen, of not wanting to know.

  I want to know.

  If you want to know, why are you avoiding the only thing that can tell you what happened that night?

  Distantly she heard the sound of someone hammering on the door. She jumped, took out her earplugs.

  – Who is it?

  A man’s voice replied from the corridor, something about the police. Reluctantly she unlocked the door. The man standing there was wearing a short black jacket and a cap with a police badge.

  – Synne Clausen?

  She managed to nod.

  – Come to the kitchen, please.

  She looked up and down the corridor. The door to Maja’s room was wide open. As she passed, she saw a figure in a white suit doing something inside.

  A man was seated at the kitchen table taking notes. He stood up as she came in. He was thin and rather stooping, not much taller than she was, wearing a grey suit and a white open-necked shirt. He looked to be about her father’s age.

  – Viken, he said, offering his hand, squeezing hers but not too hard. – Detective inspector, Oslo district police. If you can just spare us a few minutes.

  – Maja, Synne managed to say.

  The policeman looked at her. – You knew her?

  Synne slumped down into a chair. – Have you …?

  – We have opened an investigation. So far we don’t know much. You were the one who reported her missing?

  Synne tried to say how worried she had been; that was the reason she had contacted them several times.

  – Can you repeat for me what you told the duty group?

  She pulled herself together. Told him about the door not being locked, why she thought something must be wrong.

  – Have you found her? she almost whispered.

  – It’s too early to say whether it’s her.

  Synne was scraping the back of her hand with her nail, back and forth, without noticing it. They’ve found someone, but they don’t know if it’s her. She couldn’t bear to think what that meant.

  The policeman continued to question her. She answered as well as she could. How long had she known Maja, did Maja have many friends in Norway, how about her relationship to the others in the corridor, did she have any kind of drug problem. He made a note of what she said about diabetes, and then Synne had to repeat what they had said to each other in their last conversation.

  – So she was going out with someone?

  – Someone she had just met.

  – Who?

  Synne thought about it.

  – A man. I don’t know anything about him.

  – Do you have a name?

  She shook her head. – I don’t think she said his name. Nor where they were going.

  The policeman had introduced himself as a detective inspector. She wanted him to say his name again, but hadn’t the energy to ask. He leaned back and ran his fingers across his balding head, moved a few of the long, thin wisps. Studied her in what seemed a friendly way.

  – Anything else you want to add?

  She looked quizzically at him. – Such as what?

  Now he smiled. – That is what you’re supposed to be telling me. Anything else at all that occurs to you. There’s no need to think it’s important.

  She closed her eyes, let her thoughts flow.

  – Karsten, she said finally.

  – Who is that?

  – My brother.

  When she looked at him, he was busy taking notes.

  – He disappeared too.

  The inspector put his pen down and leaned over towards her. She picked up a faint waft of aftershave; it reminded her of the kind her father used.

  – It was a long time ago, she added hurriedly. – Eight years. In a few days’ time.

  – And what makes you think there might be a connection?

  She couldn’t give any answer to that. Only that people around her disappeared. That she had a feeling it was something to do with her. That maybe she should stay away from people. She was talking incoherently and noticed that the inspector’s interest had faded. Again she pulled herself together, talked about Shahzad Chadar and the man who had forced his way into her room. This final detail made the policeman follow what she was saying with the same look of concentration as earlier.

  – So he broke into your room?

  She thought about it. – The door wasn’t locked.

  – But he didn’t harm you?

  She breathed heavily. – He frightened me.

  – I can understand that, the inspector nodded. – But you didn’t report this?

  – Should I have?

  – I’ll make a note of it, he said. – If we find there’s a connection to your friend, then we’ll follow it up.

  – And if not?

  – Then you’ll have to decide for yourself whether to report it.

  23

  Sweaty came waddling out from a back room at the Statoil petrol station. Eight years ago he was overweight; now he was fat. A couple of shirt buttons had given up the struggle and a tuft of belly hair stuck out from between them.

  Kai turned and examined the selection of engine oils. It wasn’t very impressive. When the only customer had paid up and gone, he ambled over to the counter and said hello. A lot of Christs, and how greats and what a fucking surprise and all that kind of stuff. Soon enough, there wasn’t much left to say.

  – Pretty busy right now, Sweaty coughed, gesturing around the empty shop. – But you can always ring me, he said generously, making an imaginary receiver out of his thumb and little finger and holding it next to his cheek. – We can go out and get rat legged.

  Kai shook his head. – I can’t ring you, he answered tonelessly. – I’m here because I have a question for you. Very simple question. It’s about the night Karsten Clausen disappeared.

  Sweaty’s eyes were as big as saucers.

  – Kasten, he lisped. – That nerd from Lillestrøm?

  – The nerd from Lillestrøm, Kai confirmed.

  – The one who disappeared?

  – The one who disappeared. It turns out that his sister was found in a roadside ditch that same evening. She was driven home.

  – Oh yeah? Sweaty’s gaze flitted around the interior of the shop.

  – And for some reason or other, it was you who drove her.

  It looked as though Sweaty’s grin cost him a day’s work by the time it came. – Now you’re pissing me about. Never met his sister. Didn’t even know he had one.

  – That’s not my question, Kai said, leaning across the counter. Sweaty’s smell hadn’t changed at all, it struck him, a stench that put him in mind of rancid butter, with an added dash of deodorant thrown in in an attempt to drown it out. – I want to know why you did that. That’s the question I need you to answer.

  – You’ve got no business here, Sweaty protested, trying to swell himself up, a barrel of fat wobbling under his Statoil shirt.

  – That’s certainly something we can discuss, Kai conceded. – But sooner or later you are going to answer my question. It might as well be now.

  – That’s bullshit, and you know it.

  Kai raised both hands. – You got it, he said with a wink. – Just bullshit. He gave Sweaty a pat on the jaw. – Didn’t mean to be rude. Now I’ll let you get on with your work in peace.

  He drove further south, crossed the border into Swed
en, turned off towards Strömstad. Walked up and down the quayside, went into a café, treated himself to a pizza, but he had no appetite and instead knocked back two cups of black coffee. Over and over, as he sat there, he shook his head. Could have grinned. Could have laughed out loud. But contented himself with this shaking of the head. He drank a Coke, ordered more coffee. He had all the time in the world but couldn’t sit still, had to get out and pace up and down the streets again. Sweaty lived on a boat. He’d checked his income tax details on the net; his given address was Bryggvägen, Vallabostrand. No number. Kai had taken a look down there. Logically enough, Bryggvägen ended down at the quayside, where a number of boats had already been prepared for the summer. But only one of them looked like a houseboat. There was an envelope with Sweaty’s name on it in a sack of rubbish on the deck.

  After another three coffees, he got back into his car. Took the coast road up. It was a bright spring evening. He stopped at a headland. Jumped out and had a pee in some bushes while watching the nervous flight of the gulls above the fjord. Carried on northwards, keeping to minor roads, played a few old Nirvana tracks. Every so often he had a conversation out loud with Sweaty. As though he couldn’t wait for the exchange, and had to rehearse it, over and over again. Sweaty’s like a balloon, he thought. If he bursts, his body’s going to shrivel down to a scrap of damp rubber.

  At ten thirty he parked close to Bryggvägen. It had grown dark. He clambered up a rise that gave a view over the quay, located the boat he had boarded earlier in the day. A faint light showed in the little cabin. He watched it for a while. Thought he saw Sweaty. Sweaty didn’t see him. He felt like a great bird circling in the sky. The darkness calmed him, but he remained unable to keep still.

  At three minutes to eleven he crossed the road a little higher up, turned back in the direction of the quay. He slipped over the rail, the boat so big it didn’t move.

  The door to the cabin wasn’t locked. He yanked it open. Sweaty was stretched out on the bunk with a duvet over him. He gave a start and tried to sit up, but Kai was on him, twisted his arm behind his back, drove his fist into him, once into each kidney.

  – Shit, Sweaty coughed as the huge body snapped first backwards, then forwards. Kai tipped it down on to the floor.

  – Fat pig, he hissed. – I asked you a question. You know who I am, right? You know you shouldn’t talk to me like that.

  Panic oozed from every pore of Sweaty’s body, the stench of butyric acid growing even stronger.

  – I don’t know any of that stuff about his sister, he lisped.

  Kai bent down, grabbed hold of Sweaty’s shirt, dragged him up then dropped him again so that his head bounced against the floor.

  – Stop squealing, pig. Or I’ll have to kill you.

  – Shit, said Sweaty again. This time it sounded more like a sob.

  – We’re talking about Synne Clausen, got it? Why did you drive her home that night? If you tell me why, I’ll leave you alone.

  – What the hell are you talking about?

  Kai took a bottle of lighter fluid from his back pocket, removed the cork and emptied half of the contents across Sweaty’s shirt.

  – No!

  He took out the Zippo lighter. – You’re going to get one more chance, he barked as he lit it. – Tell me what you were doing that evening.

  – I don’t know what happened. Sweaty stared at him through the flickering light.

  Kai put his foot on Sweaty’s stomach, squeezed a couple of litres of air out of him.

  – I was passing, Sweaty sobbed. – There was a girl lying in the ditch. I didn’t know who she was.

  Kai laughed. – So pure chance, then.

  – She was ill. She’d had an attack. Blood all over her face.

  Kai pressed down again. – What did you do with Karsten? he hissed.

  Sweaty lay there as though paralysed, and then tried to wriggle away.

  – It wasn’t me who picked up Kasten.

  Kai let him get his breath back. – But you picked up his sister?

  – Was told to, Sweaty managed to say. – Nothing to do with me. Don’t know anything else. She’d fallen off her bike, passed out.

  – Who told you to do that? Kai circled the open flame above the saturated shirt.

  – Randeng, Sweaty moaned.

  – Who’s Randeng?

  – Vemund Randeng. When I arrived, he was standing there taking pictures of the girl with his mobile phone.

  Kai struggled to stay calm. Vemund Randeng was Sweaty’s best friend, he recalled. That weekend at Sæter’s place, the two of them had done everything they could to provoke Karsten. Kai had spoken to Adrian about it, thought it was best to keep them apart, but Adrian wanted to see how it would turn out. Adrian had a thing about studying other people, as though life was a series of experiments, and he was the one conducting them.

  Again Kai bent low over Sweaty. – Was Karsten there?

  – Jesus Christ, no! His eyes looked as though they were about to roll out of his head. – Just Vemund and the girl. Then Vemund left. He was the one who dealt with Kasten.

  Kai studied his face. – Where does he live?

  – I don’t know any fucking more.

  – Vemund is your only pal, and you’re telling me you don’t know where the guy lives?

  – Not seen him for ages, he snuffled. – Not for years.

  Kai took the bottle out again, began sprinkling it around the room, grabbed a couple of blankets that were piled in a straw basket, soaked them in the lighter fluid too.

  – Before Karsten disappeared, he told you something. Something to do with me.

  Sweaty stared at him.

  – Maybe he showed you something as well, something he was carrying with him in a plastic bag.

  – I never fucking saw him again after we were at Sæter’s, Sweaty lisped.

  Kai was uncertain. The guy was terrified and stood to lose everything but still insisted he was telling the truth.

  – I don’t like it when people tell lies, he said calmly. – This world would be a better place if only people wouldn’t lie all the time. Have another think.

  – I swear, Sweaty groaned. Froth was bubbling from the corners of his mouth.

  – Please, do try to help me, Kai said. – This thing here could all go so completely fucking wrong.

  Just then Sweaty lunged upwards and grabbed hold of Kai’s trouser leg. Kai felt a sharp pain in his leg. He kicked out as hard as he could and caught Sweaty full in the head.

  – You do not bite me, he growled, and dropped the lighter. It landed on the pile of blankets, and he leapt backwards, out of the cabin.

  He heard the coming of the flame, like the barking of a playful dog as it caught hold of the clothing of the person lying inside. For an instant he thought perhaps he should look for a fire extinguisher and stop it. He jumped over the rail and on to the quay. A wave of sound burst through the air behind him and struck him like the kick of a horse. He got to his feet, ran off.

  Further down the quay, he turned and took a quick look over his shoulder. The flame rose high above the cabin, a flickering eye in the light evening.

  24

  I was thirteen and couldn’t talk to Mum or Dad about what had happened. Couldn’t talk to anyone about it. A week after the memorial service, I rang Elsa Wilkins. She invited me to visit her. I never went. I was probably afraid she’d ask me how I was bearing up.

  Only yesterday, almost eight years later, did I again ring Elsa Wilkins. Began by explaining who I am, but that wasn’t necessary, because she hadn’t forgotten me. She knows I’ve published a book of poems, and she’s read in Romerikes Blad that I’m going to write about Karsten, and it was like getting in touch with a friend I haven’t seen for a long time.

  Synne crossed out what she had written and put the notebook back in her bag as the train pulled into Lillestrøm station. She’d met Elsa Wilkins once before, outside the church after the memorial service, and it would be silly to call tha
t a friendship. When writing, she got carried away by whims, by the need to exaggerate and distort things. The little lies crept in everywhere. In the article in the local paper it said that she wanted to try to approach what had happened to Karsten. If she wanted to do something like that, she would need to use words in another way, constantly measuring them against the reality they were supposed to be describing. Maybe she wasn’t capable of it.

  Before she could change her mind, she called Erika.

  – Synne, are you trying to kill me?

  She sounded genuinely concerned. Went on about how many times she had tried to phone. Had called round at the student village on several occasions. Synne enjoyed hearing all this.

  – Where are you now?

  – I’m going to meet a woman named Elsa. She stepped down on to the platform.

  – Who is Elsa?

  – She reads the cards.

  – Reads them?

  – The Tarot.

  Hard to interpret the meaning of the noise Erika made.

  – I’m sorry, she said after a while.

  Synne decided the war was over. – Forgotten about it already, she replied. – Forgotten everything that was said. Forgotten that I came to your house and got thrown out. Had no business being there anyway.

  – I’d like to read what you showed me again.

  – I’ve already deleted it.

  – Don’t talk nonsense. I’ve just apologised.

  – I’m serious. I’m not going to be writing this story.

  Synne crossed the street without looking and jumped when an approaching car gave a blast on its horn.

  – Someone else will have to do it, she said once she had reached the safety of the pavement on the far side. – Someone who won’t be drawn into that void … It just hurts too much.

  – You mean you want somebody else to take over? Erika asked.

  – Perhaps.

  – What about asking that psychiatrist you used to go to? Maybe you could turn it into a crime novel. Erika gave a forced laugh. Synne pulled a face. – Sorry, I’ll stop being flippant. I know how much this means to you.

  – Do you?

  Erika didn’t answer. It sounded as if she was thinking. – Maybe I could try, she said after a while.