Karin Fossum - He Who Fears The Wolf

Errki's hands began fumbling over his thighs, clad in the black trousers. He put one hand on the gun and felt it settle down. His hand fitted the gun like a glove. There was a significance to that; it meant something.

"She did sewing for people."

"She was a seamstress?"

"Bridal gowns made of silk. Suits and coats. Or customers brought old clothes that had to be ripped up and resewn. That was what she did most. She ripped up old suits."

"Have a drink," Morgan interrupted him. "It's tough to tear open old memories."

Errki took a drink. The cellar was silent. The dust had settled, everything was grey. For a wild moment he thought they might even be gone. In the silence his voice became crystal clear. His own voice. The words weren't planned in advance, they came gradually to life, and if he felt doubtful and held them back, new words appeared, wanting to be born. One word led to another, and he was powerless to stop them.

"I was playing on the stairs," he said quietly. "I was eight years old."

You weren't playing. You had set a trap. Let's not disguise the facts, we were there and saw everything. The Coat saw you, it was hanging in the hall.

Errki moaned. His rage was growing stronger and stronger. Or was it despair? How could he sit here with his mouth open, letting this rubbish spill out? Sickness, death and misery, snails, worms and toads. He tossed his head angrily. Morgan was listening. Errki could feel him listening, in a thoroughly physical way, like skin against skin, and he couldn't stand to be touched. Not even by Sara with the wave. In his mind he heard the lovely harp that accompanied her voice.

"Why on the stairs?" Morgan was still drinking. For the moment he had no plan other than to get stinking drunk. A short-sighted but pleasant goal. "I mean, that's a hell of a place to play."

"The stairs," Errki said heavily. "The attic. The light in the hall was on. I could hear the sound of the sewing machine. Like a clock ticking. I was playing on the stairs because I wanted to be near her."

"So the stage is set," Morgan said, "and the play can begin. The light is on, the sewing machine is going, and little Errki is eight years old."

"I had found an old fishing line in the basement and erected a cable car out of it, going from the top step in the attic all the way down to the first floor."

"You strung up a goddamned fishing line?"

"I stuck holes in some empty matchboxes and made cars out of them, filled them with almonds and raisins, and then sent them off below. The phone rang. She called, 'Can you get that, Errki?' I didn't want to, I was busy playing, had just filled up a car with almonds. I sat on the stairs and waited. She appeared in the doorway and took two steps. Her foot caught in the line and she stumbled forward. She was always so quiet, but this time she screamed. She toppled over and fell, just like a piece of furniture that had been tossed downstairs."

Morgan was speechless. His eyes were shining, as if he were a child listening to a story that was a bit too frightening.

"I was sitting on the third step, close to the wall. She crashed past and didn't stop until she hit the floor, wrapped around the banister."

"Did she break her neck?" Morgan was whispering. "You're so damned weird. One minute you seem so normal, talking like a regular person. Why are you so normal all of a sudden?"

Errki seemed to wake up. "First you yell at me for being crazy, and now I'm supposed to explain myself for being normal. Of course I'm normal. Are you normal? You rob banks, and your nose is rotting away."

"But why did she die?"

"All the blood ran out of her body."

"What did you say?"

"All of it, out of her mouth. It just gushed out like a waterfall and made a whole little lake at the foot of the stairs. I could see the light in the ceiling reflected in the blood, and the Coat was like a dark shadow. The phone was ringing, but I couldn't pick it up. I would have had to put my foot in the big pool of blood and drag it with me all through the house, over the carpets and floors. Eventually it stopped ringing. I unfastened the fishing line and put it in my pocket, then sat still and waited. The blood stopped running out of her mouth, her face was grey as a rock. Sooner or later somebody will come, I thought. Father, or a customer. Somebody. But no-one came. Not until all the blood had turned dull, and I couldn't see the light reflected any more."

At least Errki fell silent. He didn't feel relief, just emptiness. He touched the gun. A single bullet in the chamber. That must mean something, it must be intended for him.

"Yes, but blood coming out of her mouth? Why did that happen?"

"Give me a little whisky."

"Did she crack her skull open?"

"She was a seamstress."

"You already told me that."

"She was ripping up an old suit. Stitch by stitch, using a razor blade. She always put the blade between her lips if she had to tug at the material a little, or change the position she was sitting in. Then the phone rang. She walked across the room with the blade between her lips, and stumbled on the fishing line. The razor blade vanished down her throat."

Morgan choked, and clutched his hand to his throat. He could feel his pulse throbbing under his clammy skin. The thought of swallowing a razor blade almost made him vomit.

"Listen, Errki. You seem absolutely clear-headed to me," he said. "Maybe you've just been in the asylum too long. Your mother's death was an accident. It wasn't your fault. And by the way, it was fucking stupid to hold a razor blade between her lips. And fucking stupid of you to take the blame."

"I was the one who strung up the fishing line."

"But you were just playing, right? The incident is hereby filed away as an accident."

The remark was meant to be consoling, but it didn't look as if it had any effect.

"We humans think that we can control our own lives," Errki said. "But we can't. Things just happen."

They were both silent for a long time.

Then Morgan asked: "What are you thinking about now?"

"About a farmer back home. Johannes."

"So tell me about Johannes, now that we're making such headway."

Morgan felt as though time had stopped. The future no longer existed, only the present. It was just him and Errki here between these four rough wooden walls. Dimly lit and comfortable. The whisky was burning in his veins, giving him a floating sensation.

Errki thought about Johannes. A grey, wrinkled, dry old man with dead eyes. He seemed to recognise himself in those eyes, as if he and Johannes were related. Eyes without hope. And then one day, there he was, at the top of a ladder.

"He'd started drinking. His wife was dead, and Johannes shrank to almost nothing in just a few months."

"Sounds like my mother after my father died," Morgan said.

"He started drinking. He drank all the time, without stopping, for months. People kept coming over to try and help him, but it didn't do any good."

"So he drank himself to death?"

"No. In the end he woke up and put a stop to it, after sharing a bottle of liquor with the minister."

"Sounds like a great minister."

"The minister saw me and started yelling, but I didn't stop. I could have stopped, but I went out of the door as fast as I could and hid behind the greenhouses."

"Why was he yelling?"

"Stop nagging at me like that."

Errki turned around and grabbed for the bottle. Morgan let him have it.

"Johannes got a job working for the minister as a handyman. He was whitewashing the church, standing at the top of a tall ladder, working hard. Then Errki Johrma came along. Johannes didn't hear anything because he was busy with his work, and besides, he was whistling, happy and sober as he was. That's exactly why I was disappointed. He'd started to look like everyone else.