Karin Fossum - He Who Fears The Wolf

"We don't lock the doors."

He went in and stood leaning against the wall. "What made you go into psychiatry?"

He studied her name tag. Dr S. Struel. He wondered what the "S" stood for. Maybe Solveig. Or Sylvia.

"Because," she began, as she closed her eyes, "because ordinary people…" She enunciated the word "ordinary" as if it were derogatory. "I mean, those who are successful, the well-equipped, goal-oriented people who follow all the rules, who achieve their objectives without difficulty, who have perfect social antennae, who navigate with the greatest ease, who get where they want to go, who acquire what they want to have – is there anything the least bit interesting about them?"

The question was formulated in such a droll way that Sejer couldn't help but smile.

"The only interesting people in the world are the losers," she said. "Or rather, those we call losers. Every type of deviation contains an element of rebellion. And I've never been able to understand a lack of rebelliousness."

"What about you?" he said. "Aren't you one of those successful and goal-oriented people? Are you rebelling?"

"No," she admitted. "And I can't understand it, because I'm – deep down – full of despair."

"Full of despair? Why so?"

"Aren't you?" She gave him a long look. "You can't be an enlightened, intelligent, involved human being on this earth without at the same time being full of despair. It's just not possible."

Am I full of despair? Sejer wondered.

"Besides it's the sterling personalities that do best in this society," she said. "Whole, absolutely confident and consistent people. You know – people with strength of character!"

He couldn't hold back his laughter any longer.

"Here we have room for rebellion, and we're not afraid of trouble. We're not afraid of failure either." She brushed her fringe back from her face. "And I probably couldn't have existed in any community other than this one."

He was fascinated by the way that she expressed her thoughts so openly, even though he was a stranger. At the same time, he didn't feel like a stranger.

"What's it like where you work?" she asked.

"Where I work?" He thought for a moment. "Where I work we have order and structure and plenty of disgusting, sterling personalities."

He tried to change his tone, which was becoming a bit too lively. "Not much room for improvisation or imagination. A large part of the job involves searching for tiny little physical things, such as hair, prints, or traces of blood. Tracks from shoes or car tyres. But later comes the psychological part, and even though it never gets much space in our reports, it's still there. And of course that's the only thing about the job that's truly exciting. If there wasn't any room for that, I would have done something else."

"And what about the people you haul in and lock up in cages?"

He looked at her in dismay. "That's not exactly how we would describe it."

Now she's trying to provoke me, he thought. Maybe she's so preoccupied with rebellion that she feels she doesn't have to comply with the normal rules of courtesy.

"I would like to send them somewhere else," he said calmly.

He was so fascinated by this woman, by her wide, fair face and her dark eyes with light rings around the pupils, that he was almost nervous about what he might say.

"If there was any other place for them," he said. "But in spite of everything we've never got any further than… cages."

"Do you care about them?" she asked. He had to look up to see what her expression was. She was teasing him again.

"Yes, I do, although I don't have much time for them. Besides, I'm not a prison guard. But I know that the guards do care about them."

"Ah, yes!" She shrugged. "I suppose we do have some of the most humane penitentiaries in the world."

"Humane?" He couldn't keep the hardness out of his voice. "The prisoners dope themselves up. They escape by jumping out of windows, and break their legs or even their necks. They go crazy, rape each other, kill each other, and take their own lives. That's how humane it is!"

He took a deep breath.

"You really do care about them!" She smiled.

"I said I did."

"I had to be sure."

They both fell silent, and once again he was astonished by this strange conversation. It was as if she lacked the usual respect for the authority he represented, which made people speak with deference or not at all.

"Errki," he said at last. "Tell me about Errki."

"Only if you're truly interested."

"Of course I'm interested!"

She went out into the corridor. "Let's go to the cafeteria and have a Coke. I'm thirsty."

He found himself trotting after her, struggling to suppress the commotion in his head, or his chest, or his stomach, or wherever it was right now. He was no longer sure of anything.

"Which way do you think he went?"

"Through the woods."

Dr Struel pointed a little to the left of the Beacon. "There's a small lake that we call the Well, but we've already looked there. If he went past it and continued on, he would come out on the main road where it passes under the motorway. And if he was seen in Finnemarka, that direction would make sense."

A little while later they were sitting in the cafeteria, drinking Cokes. "Would it be possible for you to explain to an ordinary person what psychosis actually is?" Sejer asked her.

"Are you an ordinary person?"

There was something mocking about her tone of voice, and he wasn't quite sure whether the question was meant as a compliment or something else. In his confusion he started fiddling with the mobile phone attached to his belt.

"In some ways it's impossible because it's so abstract," she said in a low voice. "But I think of it as a kind of hiding place. It's a matter of having all the normal defence mechanisms totally break down. Your soul is thrown wide open, so that anyone and everyone can step right in. Even the most innocent advance is experienced as a hostile attack. Errki has found himself a hiding place. He's trying to survive by creating a survival strategy, a sort of corrective force that very gradually takes over entirely and restricts his freedom and the possibility of making his own choices. Does this make any sense?"

She took a sip of her Coke and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Does he want to escape it?"

"Most likely he doesn't, and that's the problem. All forms of illness have their benefits, as we know, like having someone to pamper us when we're in bed with a fever. It's so nice."

That's easy for you to say, he thought.

"But how sick is Errki?"

"He's got plenty of problems, but at least he's not in bed. He eats his food, and he takes his medicine. In other words, he's being cooperative."

"And… schizophrenia? What is that?"

"We call it that, in all our helplessness, because it's practical to have categories for things. It's when a psychosis has been going on for a while. Let's say several months."

"Has Errki been sick for a long time?"

"He's one of those people everyone has given up on. He wanders from place to place like damaged goods." She sighed heavily. "If he killed that woman, I'm afraid there's no hope for him. He won't get any more help. Not the kind of help that I want to give him."

"But…" he looked at her as he raised his glass, "what do you know about the cause of Errki's illness?"

"Not much. I have my theories."

"Can you tell me about them?"

"I've often wondered whether it has something to do with his mother's death."

"According to the rumours, Errki killed her," Sejer said quickly. A bit too quickly.

"Oh yes, I've heard that. He spread the rumour himself."

"Why?"

"Because he believes it's true."