Karin Fossum - He Who Fears The Wolf

There was no answer. Errki groaned and thrashed around, his shoes banging against the floor. It sounded as if someone were beating him, as if someone were yanking and tearing at him and tossing him around. After a while he started coughing and gasping, or maybe he was belching and vomiting. Morgan shuddered. Dear God, what a madhouse! Something in this room had poisoned them both. Maybe there was a curse in the cracks of the floorboards that had begun seeping out as soon as they walked into the hut. It felt like a lifetime ago that he had been inside that bank, pointing the gun. They must have sent people out to search, they must have found the car! Why had they put that damn tarpaulin over it?

Errki grew still down on the floor. He was lying there, breathing hard. Morgan glanced at the gun.

"That was quite an attack, wasn't it?" he said gently. "What's going on?"

Errki began gathering up his body, piece by piece. To Morgan it looked as if he were searching for something that he'd lost. His black hair fell in his eyes as he fumbled like a blind man.

"Are you seeing things?" Morgan asked uneasily. "Could you get me the whisky?"

Errki pulled himself into a sitting position. He was bent over, holding on to his stomach, with his eyes closed. Every muscle in his body was wound as tight as a steel spring. Drool was sliding down his chin.

"Don't nag me," he gurgled.

"I didn't mean to nag you. It's just that I'm freezing. I thought you might lend me your jacket. Is there any whisky left? Could you take a look, after you're done with… your attack?"

"I said, don't nag me!"

There was a faint rustling sound from his polyester trousers as Errki finally stood up. He walked across the room, hunched over like an old man, still clutching his stomach. First he picked up the gun, then he went into the bedroom. His jacket was on the bed, rolled up into a pillow. He snatched it, keeping one hand on his stomach, then tottered back to the living room. The bottle stood next to the radio, and it had no top. He picked it up and took a swallow as he stared out at the water. His body needed time to calm down. This time he had split in half without the slightest warning. The life that lay ahead of him didn't seem very appealing. He stared at the dark surface of the water. Not a ripple. The water was dead. Everything was dead. Nobody really wants you. They just want what you can give them. Morgan wants your jacket and the whisky. Do you have anything else to give, Errki?

He stood holding the jacket, drinking the whisky. He could put the jacket over Morgan. A friendly gesture. The question was, did it make any difference? Did it make life worth living?

"Don't drink it all!"

Errki shrugged. "You've just got a slight drinking problem," he said vaguely.

"My nose hurts like hell."

"Plundering together is a joy. Dying together is a party," Errki said, handing him the bottle. Morgan drank until tears filled his eyes, then put the bottle down, gasping for air. He tucked up his knees and lay down on his side, as if making room for Errki to sit at the end of the sofa. Either he would sit down, or else he would shoot him. But he no longer felt threatened, and he didn't know why.

Errki hesitated. He looked at the place on the sofa and realised that it was meant for him. Cautiously he put the jacket over Morgan's shoulders. A chorus of laughter rose up from the cellar and roared in his ears.

"Shut up!" he shouted, annoyed.

"I didn't say a word," Morgan said. "What on earth do they say to you, anyway? Your voices. Tell me about them, tell me what it's like. Then at least I'll die a wiser man."

The whisky was burning hot in his stomach; he was already feeling better. "Why do you listen to them? You know they're not really there, don't you? I once heard that crazy people know that they're crazy. That's what I don't understand. I hear voices, they say. Damn it, I do too, once in a while. Inner voices, like in my imagination. But I know that they're just imaginary, and it would never occur to me to do what they say."

"Except when they tell you to rob a bank, I suppose?" Errki said.

"Hey, that was my own decision."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I can recognise my own voice when I hear it."

Errki was still staring at the empty place on the sofa. Morgan looked at him with genuine curiosity. "Tell me about them. Can you see what they look like? Do they have fangs and green scales? Do they ever say anything nice? You shouldn't let them get to you. Christ, I thought they were going to finish you off. Maybe I should talk to them. Maybe they'd listen to an outsider."

Morgan giggled. "Mad dogs and children often have to be dealt with by the neighbours."

With great effort he pulled himself into a sitting position next to Errki, lifted one hand and tapped Errki three times on the forehead. "Hey, you in there! Stop terrorising the boy. He's exhausted. Find some other skull to plunder. Enough is enough!"

Errki blinked uncertainly. Morgan sounded dead serious. He began to snicker.

"Is there more than one? A whole gang?"

"Yes. Two."

"Two against one? Damned cowardly. Tell one of them to get lost, and then you should have it out with the one who's boss, man to man."

Errki laughed, nervously. "You don't have to worry about the Coat. It just lies in the corner, shivering."

"The Coat?"

Morgan looked at him in surprise. The full extent of the boy's madness was finally becoming clear to him.

"It hung on a hook in the hall."

Time abruptly spun backwards. Everything came back to him as it had once been. He saw glimpses of faces and hands, raised eyebrows, turned backs, silk and velvet, reels of thread in many colours. He flew backwards along a road full of potholes, lined with green ditches, and approached the house. The door open, the narrow hall, the stairs leading up. He was sitting on a stair, almost at the top. His father had built the stairs out of pine. The wood was full of narrow, squinting eyes that were always watching him.

"It just hung there. Father's coat. It didn't have anything in it, just air. Shivering, shifting in the draught from the attic. One time it turned inside out, and at the same instant she tumbled down and set the air in motion."

"Tumbled down?" Morgan gave him a quizzical look.

"My mother. She slipped on the stairs. I pushed her."

"Why did you do that?" Morgan lowered his voice. "Did you hate her?"

"I told everybody that I pushed her."

"But you didn't? Or aren't you sure? Why did you say that you had?"

Errki saw the images in front of him, flickering above the rough timber. He raised his hand and pointed. Involuntarily Morgan turned to follow his gaze. The only thing he saw was the filthy wall. Errki was silent.

"You know what?" Morgan said, hauling himself up into a better position. "Wouldn't it be great if your voices could talk to the other voices instead of to you? I mean, to the voices of the other patients in the asylum. Then they could fight among themselves and leave all of you in peace. Damn, sometimes I'm a fucking genius. You know how you should get rid of them? Use a good old tactic. Set them up against each other, and they'll end up obliterating each other. Give me the bottle!"

Errki picked up the bottle from the floor and held it in his hand.

"Give it to me. I want more!"

Morgan stretched out his arm for the bottle. Errki held on to it. "The one who fights the source will die of thirst," he said gravely. Then he let him have it.

Morgan took two gulps. "Why did your mother fall down the stairs? Tell me about it. We can pretend I'm your doctor. I'm good at that, you just have to give me a chance. Come on, tell Uncle Morgan. Talk about it, my friend, and it will be all right."

He gave a low chuckle. He was very drunk.