Anne Holt - Fear Not

The room rested in the faint blue chilly glow of the night light above the bed, a spaceship on its way through the galaxy. The shelves along one wall were packed with books and toys, and the computer monitor glimmered with stars on a screensaver the boy himself had downloaded. The shabby teddy bear Marcus still had to have with him in bed in order to get to sleep lay helpless on the floor. It had lost one eye long ago. The other stared blindly up at the ceiling. Marcus tiptoed across the floor without treading on any of the numerous items lying around, and picked up the bear. He held it to his nose for a moment, inhaling the smell of everything that meant something.

Silently, he bent over his son, placed Freddie in the crook of his arm and adjusted the covers. The child grunted, smacked his lips and suddenly turned over, hugging the bear tightly.

An almost irresistible urge to crawl into bed with him overcame Marcus so suddenly that he gasped for breath. He wanted to be strong again. He wanted to be the daddy who comforted his son when he was occasionally woken by a nightmare and needed him. He wanted to lie down with his arm around little Marcus, quietly telling him stories about the olden days or outer space. The boy would snuggle up close and smile, his hair tickling Marcus’s nose. There would be nobody in the whole world except the two of them, just like it had been before Rolf came, before they became three.

The way it had been before the terrible thing crept up on him.

Slowly, he backed out of the room.

He had no idea what he was going to do.

Not with his life, and not with the nights. Not with this night. The darkness grinned scornfully at him out of the corners, and he could feel his pulse rate increasing. Quickly, he began to move towards the stairs. He would go down to his study. Close the door. Watch TV. Switch on all the lights and pretend it was daytime.

He stopped himself just as he was about to slam the door behind him when he finally arrived safely in his study. Breathlessly, he smacked the panel that controlled the lighting. Nothing happened. He pulled himself together and pressed all the sensors firmly with one finger. At last the room was bathed in light, and the television came on. It was pre-programmed to NRK, which was showing Dansefot Jukeboks. He picked up the remote from his desk and turned down the sound, then switched over to CNN. He sank down on the broad, heavy desk chair and leaned his head back. His stomach ulcer was painful and he had a bitter, acrid taste in his mouth. Pain radiated from below his breastbone, and his whole body hurt. His mind was racing, and he was so frightened that his bladder felt full to bursting, even though he’d been less than half an hour ago.

This was no kind of life any more.

Suddenly, he sat up straight and found the key to the heavy corner cupboard that had come with the house. As time went by he had learned to like the Kurbits-style painting, which at first he had thought bizarre and somewhat vulgar. It helped that the cupboard was eighteenth-century, in excellent condition and worth a fortune. Now it was as if the ranks of fat, grotesque flowers were reaching out to grasp him as he put the antique key in the lock and turned it.

Inside were five small drawers. He opened the top one. There lay the tablets he had never mentioned to Rolf. It hadn’t been necessary. Both these and the box in his office had remained untouched for many years. He tipped them into the palm of his hand and went back to his chair, where he let them trickle on to the calf-skin desk mat.

He still didn’t know if drugs lost their effect once the use-by date had passed. Hardly. At least, not completely. If he took the lot, it would probably do the job. He placed one tablet experimentally on his tongue.

The taste was the same. Insipid, slightly salty.

Things would be better for little Marcus if he wasn’t around any more.

Rolf would look after him.

Rolf was a better father than he was. Through his actions Marcus had not only committed a crime; he was no longer worthy of being a father. His whole life was being a father, and his life as a father was over.

The tears poured silently down his cheeks as he placed another tablet in his mouth.

And another.

A slight feeling of sleepiness made him lean back in the chair and close his eyes. He moistened the tip of his index finger with saliva and pressed it down on the desk without looking. Another tablet stuck to his finger, and he placed it on the tip of his tongue.

The last thing he did before he fell asleep was to open the desk drawer and sweep the rest of the tablets inside with the back of his hand.

You can’t even manage to kill yourself, he thought listlessly before blessed sleep finally overcame him.

Adam Stubo woke up on Friday 16 January at 7.40 feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. Every time he had been on the point of dropping off, he had seen the picture of the woman from Eva Karin’s bedroom in his mind’s eye. The idea that their theory about a child who had disappeared or been disowned might have been correct, but with the proviso that all the circumstances had to be moved back a generation, had left him wide awake over and over again. The theory seemed more and more credible as the hours went by. The idea that the Bishop wanted to protect the memory of her parents was considerably more likely than the idea that she had wanted to avoid the shame of having a child as an unmarried sixteen-year-old.

Leaving aside the fact that there was no longer any shame attached, and that the photograph couldn’t possibly be of a woman born in the early sixties.

It must be a sister, Adam thought as he swung his leg over the side of the bed. The last time he looked at the clock it had been just after five, so he must have had two and a half hours’ sleep in spite of everything.

Another thing that had kept him awake was the fact that Johanne hadn’t called. They hadn’t spoken for a day and a half. He had tried to ring her three times yesterday evening, but all he got was the mechanical sound of her voicemail asking him to leave a message after the tone. The first time he called he had left a message, but she still hadn’t called back. He felt a mixture of intense irritation and anxiety as he plodded into the bathroom.

He was tired of living in this hotel.

The bed was too soft.

The soap made his hands dry, and he had lost his appetite.

Adam wanted to go home.

Someone was banging on the door. With a stab of annoyance he flushed the toilet, wound a towel around his waist and went to see who it was. The acrid smell of morning urine surrounded him. He opened the door a fraction and put his face to the gap.

‘What the fuck’s wrong with your phone?’ said Sigmund Berli, trying to push the door open and holding up a newspaper in the other hand. ‘Have you seen this? We’re going home, by the way, on the first available plane. Get your clothes on and start packing.’

‘Good morning to you, too,’ Adam said sourly, letting his colleague in. ‘Do you think you could possibly take one thing at a time? Start with the phone.’

‘I’ve called you five times since yesterday evening. You know perfectly well you’re not supposed to make yourself unavailable.’

‘I haven’t,’ said Adam. ‘Try again now.’

He picked up his mobile from the bedside table as Sigmund keyed in his number on his own phone.

‘It’s ringing,’ said Sigmund with the phone to his ear. ‘Have you got it on silent?’

‘No.’

Adam stared at the display. Nothing was happening. So Johanne might have tried after all.

‘Why didn’t you ring me on that?’ said Adam, pointing to the hotel phone on the small desk by the window.