Karin Fossum - Broken

He pales. 'And how many minutes is that?'

'Forty-two million. It's almost three hundred million heartbeats.'

Alvar comes over and steadies himself against my chair.

'You mustn't say such things. Now I too can feel every single heartbeat.' He places his hand on his chest.

'It's fine,' I say, 'it's fine that you can feel your heart. I think we need to feel alive, I think we need to expose ourselves to pain. But in our society this is not acceptable. People have always used their shrewdness and imagination to relieve pain. Today everything must be easy and it mustn't take time. I hate disposable cutlery,' I confess, 'and ready meals. Parboiled rice. Powdered hot chocolate and instant coffee. Part-baked bread. Things like that. Living takes time. We need to give each other time.'

He finds his place on the sofa. 'November,' he says lamely. 'It's eight months away and from now on I'll be aware of every second. Lindys has knocked through my shell and left a gaping hole. I feel the cold differently now and nearly all sounds have become noises. I'm not used to such sensitivity.'

'It's about time your body found out what it means to be alive,' I say. 'And yes, it hurts. But that's also how you'll learn to let in a little joy.'

'I don't need very much of that,' he claims, 'I prefer security. And you have taken it away from me.'

'In order to give you something else,' I say. 'Experience.'

The days passed, and the weeks.

Alvar carried out his job with the same diligence and pride as he always had done. He was friendly, correct and polite, and when he framed pictures in the workshop it was with great care and attention to detail. But in the late afternoon, when it was nearing closing time, he was consumed by a nagging anxiety. What if she was lying on his sofa, or even worse, in his bed? Perhaps she was having a shower in his bathroom now? Perhaps she had robbed him blind? Though he had no valuables to speak of. He had acquired another idiotic habit. He always stopped by the cashpoint outside the Cash and Carry on his way home. As long as he had money, she would take it and go, it was the only way he was able to get her out of the flat quickly. His savings dwindled slowly and steadily. One day there would be no more, he thought, one day I'll be as poor as a church mouse. What's she going to do then?

He left the gallery at five in the afternoon. The knot in his stomach grew as he walked through the streets to the Cash and Carry. He got to the cashpoint, he took out his wallet and found his card, which he stuck in the machine. The card was checked, please enter your PIN. He entered the code and all the time a voice inside was telling him that this was insane, but he was unable to stop himself. The money was his only weapon and with it he bought back his own freedom. He took out six hundred kroner, put the notes in his wallet and headed home. The cat was sitting on his doorstep and he experienced a brief moment of bliss. His front door was locked, but then she usually locked it from the inside, presumably so she could hear when he came back. He unlocked the door and went in. He spotted her immediately; she was lying on the sofa under the blanket without moving. He took a few more steps towards her. Then, to his horror, he saw something on the coffee table. A syringe, he realised, and a thin light grey rubber tube. He clasped his mouth in fear. He stared at her for a long, long time, but all he could see was a bit of her cheek and locks of her blonde hair falling over her forehead. Out of sheer desperation he coughed violently to see if she would react. She did. She turned her head and opened her eyes, her gaze was unfocused.

'You can't bring this back here,' he yelped, pointing at the table, at the syringe and the tube, which frightened the living daylights out of him. She grunted something incomprehensible and closed her eyes. He remained where he was while his brain was working overtime. He had put up with so much from her, but now he was overcome by an irresistible urge to put his foot down. To tell her that there were limits to what he was willing to tolerate.

'Lindys,' he said louder this time, 'you can't bring drugs in here!'

Again she opened her eyes and she gazed at him dully. 'Why are you calling me Lindys?' she slurred. 'My name's Rikke.'

He let out a soft groan. 'I'm not having it!' he said, still in a tone of voice bordering on falsetto. She sat halfway up, turned and lay down with her back to him. Alvar waved his hands in the air. It felt as if he was fighting a shadow, which kept slipping away so that he would never be able to punch it. He looked at the syringe on the coffee table and shuddered. Here, in his living room. A girl on heroin. Had his neighbours seen her arrive, and what might they be thinking? He spun on his heel abruptly and went out into the kitchen. Stood for a while leaning against the worktop while he thought furiously. I need to eat, he thought, I need to eat to get through this, I mustn't panic. I need to talk to her when she wakes up, properly. I need to be firm and decisive and resolute. Yes, he thought, I need to stop giving her money. I will make this a condition. She will not get another krone if she brings drugs into my living room. It's that simple.

Cheered by this resolution he opened the door to the fridge and found a box of eggs. An omelette was what he needed, he could grate some cheese and sprinkle it on top, have some bread with it. The cat appeared for a drink of water. There were no sounds coming from the living room. He tried to ignore the fact that she was in there. Then he cracked two eggs against the edge of a bowl. She'll be gone soon, he told himself, and perhaps I'll get several days without a visit. Again he had another flash of inspiration and an idea began to take shape in his head. She had taken his spare key, perhaps it was in the pocket of her grey jacket? He took a few steps and looked into the living room. Yes, it was in a pile on the floor. And Lindys was still sleeping. Or Rikke, or whatever her name was. What if he stole it back? What if he gave her a taste of her own medicine for once, used her own methods? This is what it means to be shrewd, he realised, and now there was a time and a place for it.

He tiptoed into the living room. His heart began to pound, but she was clearly on a different planet, he could not even hear her breathing. Then he got hold of the collar of her jacket and pulled it carefully towards him. First he tried the left pocket, but there was nothing but fluff. Then he eased his hand into the right pocket and there it was. His key. He snatched it and put it in his trouser pocket and he instantly felt like a thief. He replaced the jacket on the floor and went back to the kitchen. I had no idea I could be this devious, he thought, amazed. Soon she'll wake up and rub her eyes. Then she'll ask me for money and then she'll leave. Still thinking that the key is in the pocket of her jacket. Two to three days will pass and then she'll return, but she won't be able to let herself in. There'll be trouble, he thought anxiously, what am I going to do if she starts hammering on the front door with her fists, what will the neighbours say? He started to worry, unable to live with what he had done. Perhaps it was best if she had her own key anyway? Then he became massively irritated at his own indecisiveness, he was perfectly entitled to retrieve his key.

He whisked the eggs with a fork and added salt and pepper to the mixture. He poured the eggs into a frying pan, and they started to congeal instantly. He grated some cheese and sprinkled it onto the eggs, he sliced some bread and buttered it. When the meal was ready he carried it into the living room. Again he looked at the syringe and the tube. He felt ill at ease. Something like that was dangerous, he knew, the papers wrote all sorts of things about infection, and here he stood with his freshly cooked food which he was just about to eat. He rushed back out into the kitchen and found a pair of Marigold gloves, pulled them on and went over to the coffee table. Picked up the tube and the syringe, went over to the bin under the worktop and dropped them into it. Finally he could breathe more easily and he went over to eat. He switched on the television and still she did not stir. Where are you now? he wondered, and looked at her blonde hair. In some kind of paradise? A place free from hurt, worries and discomfort? A place with no concept of time, no pain? A place where you float? Perhaps it's like being in warm water, the light is low and the silence complete. Soon she would wake up and then what would happen? He ate quietly, taking care to breathe steadily and calmly the whole time; unless he focused on his breathing, he would whip himself into a state of frenzy within seconds. When he had finished he clinked his cutlery a little to see if she would react. She did. She rolled quietly onto her back and faced him. Her eyes were black.