Karin Fossum - He Who Fears The Wolf

Suddenly he flinched. Without warning Errki opened his eyes. In a split second he was awake. He didn't stir beforehand, as people usually do as they wake up, twisting a little, grunting and groaning. He just opened his eyes. They were surprisingly big until they focused on Morgan, and then they narrowed.

"What did you do to your chest?" The words slipped out of Morgan's mouth. "It looks like a botched hara-kiri."

Errki didn't answer, because the two down in the cellar were scrambling to get into position. Sometimes they were impossibly sluggish.

"I need company," Morgan declared. He thought he might as well be honest. "It's getting late. Let's have a whisky."

Errki got up slowly from the bed. Nothing happened. He glanced at Morgan's gun, pulled his T-shirt on over his head and followed him out to the living room. Morgan had rigged up the radio on the windowsill, with the antenna sticking out of the broken window. The temperature inside the old cabin was comfortable, but there was a warm haze over the woods, and the water far below was shimmering in the warm evening.

"I'm hungry," Morgan said. "So I'm going to have a whisky."

He fished the bottle out of the bag and unscrewed the top. It was a litre bottle. Errki waited and watched, as usual looking up from downcast eyes and, as usual, it looked as if he were ruminating on something.

"Whisky is good for everything," Morgan said as he continued to marvel at Errki's intense gaze. It was as if he knew something special, something crucial about life and death that no-one else could see. "It's good for hunger and for thirst. For love troubles and for boredom. For despair and anxiety."

He took a big gulp. His face rippled like rubber at the strong liquor. "There's nothing as nice as a moderate drinking problem," he said. "Do you know what I mean by the word moderate?"

Errki did. Morgan wiped his mouth.

"I drink regularly and steadily. But never in the morning and never too much, and never when I'm going to be driving. I'm the one in control."

He took another gulp. "And if you think I'm going to drink myself silly so that you can escape, then you're mistaken."

He held out the bottle. Errki looked at it with surprise. He didn't really care for alcohol, but he was feeling dull and empty inside, and if this was all they had, he didn't have to make a choice. It was the only thing available, this bottle of whisky. And he hadn't asked for it. It was being thrust upon him. He studied the label and turned the bottle around. Then he sniffed at the top.

"Come on, it's not poison."

Errki put the bottle to his lips and took a swallow. The whisky ran down his throat, without making his eyes smart. An unfamiliar warmth spread through his midriff. It started as a stinging sensation in his mouth, then sank downwards and filled his whole torso. Then he noticed the sweet taste, almost like caramel.

"Good, huh?" Morgan smiled. "Where do you live? Do you have a flat?"

Out by the lake, Errki thought. By the public park, in a beautiful setting and paid for by the county. One room plus a kitchen and bathroom. Upstairs lives the old man who paces back and forth at night; sometimes he weeps. I can hear him, but I don't pay any attention. If I gave him my hand and listened to him, I would give him hope, but there is no hope. Not for anyone.

"Why does it have to be such a secret?" Morgan said, reaching for the bottle.

"It smells bad there," Errki said in a low voice.

Morgan jumped at the sound of his voice. "What smells bad? Your flat? I believe it. You smell too. Maybe it's time that you went out in the fresh air."

"Raw meat smells bad. Especially in this heat."

"What are you babbling about?"

"It's on the counter. I eat it for breakfast every morning."

His face was dead serious as he spoke. Morgan stared at him suspiciously.

"Are you kidding me, or are you having hallucinations? You're just kidding, aren't you? I don't doubt that you're crazy, but I refuse to believe that you eat raw meat for breakfast."

He felt a chill spreading slowly down his spine, in spite of the heat. What kind of person was this man, sitting right here in front of him?

"Have some more whisky. Maybe you're having trouble because you didn't take your pills. If you ask me, whisky is better for you."

He sat down on the floor and put the gun down next to him.

"So tell me, when did you realise that you were starting to slip?"

Errki gave him a long, sideways glance.

"Was it like it says in books, that you got up one morning feeling terrible, went over to the mirror and saw to your horror that red worms were crawling out of your eyes?"

He chuckled as he screwed the top back on the bottle.

Errki shut his eyes. A faint drone was coming from the cellar, like a warning. "It wasn't worms," he said in his quiet, clear voice. "It was beetles. With shiny shells. They gleamed in the light from the window, black as oil."

Morgan blinked in confusion. "You're kidding, right? It doesn't really happen that way. I assume," he said thoughtfully, "that it's important to work out why a person gets sick. That's the only reason I asked you. Maybe it's inherited? Was your mother crazy?

Errki was silent, listening. Listening to the words that were spilling out of his mouth like rubbish. Like wet paper, potato peeling, coffee grounds and apple peel.

"How about you?" Errki said. "When did you realise it?"

"Realise what?" Morgan blinked his eyes and peered out of the window. "It's not easy to talk to you. Is there anything that's OK to talk about? You choose the topic." He sighed heavily. "It's a long time until nightfall."

Another pause. Errki sat on the sofa with his legs tucked under him.

"Large parts of the world are at war," he said.

"Is that so? I suppose you're right. Why don't you tell me something about the asylum?" said Morgan. He was practically pleading now.

He could do that, of course. If he felt like it. Talk about Ragne, for example, who could never reconcile herself to the fact that she was born a girl and who was forever being found mutilated, either in bed or in the shower, in a pool of blood because she had tried to cut off her genitals. And that's not easy to do when you're a girl. Soda pop, tea and coffee, Errki thought. Beer, wine, and booze. Tell all of that to this curly haired idiot? Never.

"OK, never mind," Morgan said, resigned. He looked at Errki. "Are you a genius? A sparkling, brilliant mind? I'm not pulling your leg, I can tell that you're sharp, even though you may not seem it."

Errki didn't reply. The man was a real simpleton, he was really pathetic.

Morgan sighed. He felt worn out. Errki didn't want to talk, and he was tired of listening to his own voice. Besides, what he said was nothing but babble. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't drink any more whisky either. He wasn't used to this, sitting in a room with another man and getting no answers. It made him nervous.

"What are you going to use the money for?" Errki asked with perfect friendliness.

"The money?"

"The money from the robbery. Are you going to buy a Nintendo? All the boys want a Nintendo."

Morgan stood up briskly and went over to the window. He stood there, staring down at the water. It was as shiny as glass, with a deep reddish-brown colour, like bronze. He looked at the bare island and the dry firs hanging over the water. The news would be on again shortly. He thought about the car and wondered when it would be found. When it was, the police would realise that they had gone up into the woods.

"I have to take a leak," he said and walked across the room. He took the gun with him. "Stay here. I'll be on the steps."

He went outside and breathed in the hot air. It was the hottest time of the day. He longed for a darkness that wouldn't come. Not until autumn. What a shambles, he thought.