Anne Holt - Fear Not

‘Eva Karin would never have kept the existence of a sister secret from Lukas.’

‘I believe you,’ said Adam, without taking his eyes off the photograph. ‘Because if this woman is still alive, she’s too old to be Lukas’s sister.’

‘Too old? How do you know? There’s no date on the photo, and-’

It was Adam’s turn to interrupt.

‘In fact, we’ve already considered the possibility there might be a child. The story about meeting Jesus when she was sixteen was clearly crucial in Eva Karin’s life. It’s easy to imagine that she might have been pregnant at the time, and that she was saved in that context. The usual practice in those days was for young, unmarried mothers to give up their child for adoption. But…’

He grimaced and shook his head slightly.

‘I’ve formed a pretty good picture of the Bishop over the past few weeks. And I have to say I agree with you. If there was a child from those days, she would presumably have told Lukas. When he was grown up, at least. Today nobody would criticize her in any way. On the contrary, a story like that would back up everything she says… everything she said about abortion.’

Astrid took the photograph and held it up in front of her.

‘The resemblance could be pure coincidence,’ she said. ‘I’ve always thought Lukas looked like Lill Lindfors, and they’re definitely not related.’

‘Lill Lindfors?’ Adam grinned and shook his head as he examined the photograph once more. ‘She looks like her, too,’ he said in surprise. ‘And now you come to mention it, I can see the resemblance with Lukas. A dark-haired, male version of Lill Lindfors.’

‘And you look like Brian Dennehy,’ said Astrid with a smile. ‘You know, the American actor. Even though I’m sure he’s not your brother.’

‘You’re not the first person to say that,’ grinned Adam, sitting up a little straighter. ‘But he’s a bit fatter than me, don’t you think?’

She didn’t answer. He took another bun.

‘How do you know she’s too old?’ she asked.

‘A woman born in 1962 or 1963 would be…’

He did a quick calculation.

‘Somewhere around forty-six today. Forty-six years old. How old do you think she was when this photograph was taken?’

Astrid held it up once again.

‘I don’t really know,’ she said dubiously. ‘Twenty-three? Twenty-five?’

‘Younger, probably. Perhaps only eighteen. People looked a little bit older in those days when they had a professional portrait taken. Something to do with clothes and hairstyles and so on, I should think. I was born in 1956 and I’d put money on the fact that the woman in that photograph is older than me.’

‘But how…? You can’t-’

‘To begin with, there’s the quality of the paper,’ he said, gently holding one corner of the photo. ‘If this woman really was born at the beginning of the sixties, then the picture would have been taken…’

Once again he did a rapid calculation in his head.

‘Around 1980. Is there anything about this photo that suggests it was taken so late?’

Astrid slowly shook her head.

‘No,’ said Adam. ‘I think it was taken somewhere around the early sixties. Perhaps as late as 1965, but no later. Look at the clothes! The hairstyle!’

‘I was born in 1980,’ she said feebly. ‘I don’t know much about fashion in the sixties. But that means this woman… this lady… she must be the same age as Eva Karin!’

‘Yes,’ said Adam, stopping himself as he was about to take another bun. ‘And that means…’

He placed the photograph on his knee again. He leaned forward, examining the facial features. The straight, slender nose. The forehead, high and curved and completely unlined. The cheeks were smooth, and the hair looked as if it could have been painted on her head, in neat waves with a curl over the temple.

‘Could it be a sister?’ he murmured as he straightened up at last. ‘She doesn’t look like Eva Karin, but in a way it could explain the resemblance to Lukas. Sometimes our genes follow a strange, roundabout route, and-’

Astrid was staring at him in horror.

‘A sister? Eva Karin has two siblings, both younger than her. Einar Olav, who must be around forty-five, and Anne Turid, who turned fifty last year – no, the year before. That isn’t her!’

They heard a noise in the hallway. High, childish voices. Someone laughed and the front door banged shut.

Astrid quickly slipped the photograph back in its envelope. She hesitated only for a second before handing it to Adam.

‘Calm down, both of you!’

She didn’t take her eyes off him.

‘Daddy and William are asleep. Quiet, please.’

Adam got up. He headed for the hallway, and was almost bowled over as two children came racing in. They looked at him with curiosity.

‘Who are you?’ asked the younger child.

‘My name is Adam. And you’re Andrea, the new Picasso.’

The girl laughed. ‘No, I put the ears and the feet in the right places.’

‘That’s good,’ said Adam, ruffling her hair. ‘It’s always good to have those in the right place.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Astrid.

She was leaning on the door frame, her arms folded. She seemed somehow relieved. Her smile was no longer quite as guarded as it had been when he arrived, and she laughed when the eight-year-old showed her a pretend tattoo covering the whole of her lower arm

‘I’m the one who should be thanking you,’ he said, raising the envelope in a gesture of farewell as he stepped outside.

The door closed behind him and he hurried to the car. Before he had time to start the engine, Astrid came running after him. He rolled down the window and looked up.

‘I thought you might like these,’ she said, handing him a plastic bag containing the rest of the buns. ‘They’re really best eaten fresh, and you seemed to like them.’

He didn’t even manage to say thank you before she was hurrying back up the drive. He sat there for a moment, then opened the bag and took out one of the delicious buns. As he was about to sink his teeth into it, he felt a pang of guilt.

But there was something very special about freshly baked buns.

And the strawberry jam was the best he’d ever tasted.

Marcus was trying to think about the good things in life. Everything that was beautiful and wonderful and had made his existence worth the effort so far. Everything that had existed before – before the brutal realization that his life was built on a mistake. A misunderstanding.

A theft.

The whole thing was stolen, and it overshadowed everything he was trying to think about and made it impossible to sleep.

Rolf was snoring gently.

Marcus sat up slowly in bed, pausing briefly between movements. Eventually, he was on his feet and padded cautiously towards the bathroom. The door leading from the landing creaked, so his plan was to go through the spa next door to the bedroom. He made it and managed to close the door behind him without waking Rolf.

A faint light was still burning. Little Marcus had his own bathroom, but preferred to use his parents’ if he needed to get up during the night.

Even in the dimness Marcus looked terrible. He gave a start when he saw himself in the mirror. The dark shadows under his eyes were turning into thick folds of flesh, and his skin was so pale it looked almost blue. He was getting heavier and heavier, and hadn’t kept to his New Year resolution for even one of the fifteen days of 2009 that had passed so far. His own body odour made him recoil: night sweat, unwashed pyjamas and fear. He turned away from the ghostly reflection and went out on to the landing.

The door to little Marcus’s room was ajar. Marcus could move more easily out here. The house could fall down around the boy’s ears at this time of night, and he still wouldn’t wake up. Marcus stood in the doorway, watching the sleeping child.