Karin Fossum - Broken

'And I can feed the cat. You can't just leave him, you know, he needs his food.'

'I could put him in a home,' he argued.

'Oh, but that's so expensive,' she replied.

'You won't lose the key, will you?' he asked. 'I'm scared that it might fall into the wrong hands.'

'I'll take good care of the key,' she said. 'Look. It's around my neck on a piece of string.

She stuck her hand down the pink angora sweater and pulled out a blue string and there was the key.

'I won't let anyone else in, I won't talk to your neighbours and I won't tell anyone that you've gone away; I'm not stupid, Alvar.'

He believed her. In spite of everything there was a part of her that wanted to be honest.

'Where will you go?' she asked, flopping onto the sofa.

He pulled his chair closer to the dining table and started eating.

'Well, not far. Only a few days. A short break, to Copenhagen possibly. Or maybe Sweden, where they have all these hostels.' As he said it he realised that the idea of sharing accommodation with a group of total strangers did not appeal to him in the least. 'Or I might find a cheap hotel,' he said. 'I might drive around in the Mazda for a bit and see the countryside. Varmland, for example, is said to be very pretty, and a change is as good as a rest.'

'Yes, it is, isn't it?' she replied warmly. 'I fancy a change as well. I hate this town,' she went on, 'all those people staring at you, young guys fighting the whole time, I'm fed up with it. And it's so bloody cold in the winter, there's a wind from the river, it's like someone pinching your cheeks with icy fingers. Have you ever felt it, Alvar?'

Yes, he had. All the same one of his favourite things about the town was the river running through it. The bridge, the boats. The promenade where he liked to go for walks on Sundays.

'You're so good at managing on your own,' she said abruptly.

He looked up.

'You cook proper food. And it's always so neat and tidy in here, and so clean. Your plants thrive, all lovely and green.'

He shook his head, slightly embarrassed by her praise.

'I mean, single men are usually so messy.'

'Really?'

'I know a lot about that,' she said, 'I've visited a lot of them.'

I don't doubt that, Alvar thought, drinking his cold milk.

'Don't you have any vices at all?' she asked.

He considered this. 'I drink sherry,' he said, 'in moderate quantities.'

'Then it's not a vice,' she stated. 'Merely a harmless habit. It doesn't mean that you are genetically disposed towards dependency.'

'There is such a gene?' he asked.

'I swear on my life,' she said. 'In fact, addicts like me are innocent victims. You must realise that, Alvar.'

'I'm not judging anyone,' he said, hurt.

'I know,' she said softly. 'You're a sweetheart.'

Alvar choked on his milk and was overcome by a violent coughing fit.

'And you press your trousers,' she laughed. 'I don't know anyone else who does that.'

Alvar ate the rest of his omelette in silence. From time to time he glanced up at her, there was something he was dying to ask her. She lit a cigarette; he went into the kitchen as he always did to fetch her a saucer. He returned and placed it on the coffee table.

'What's your real name?' he asked, bending down.

She threw her head back and laughed. 'It's Ella,' she said, 'Ella Margrethe Riis.'

'And what will it be tomorrow?' he asked.

'Well, let me see, Linda, perhaps. Or Britt. You can call me what you like.'

'Heidi,' he suggested.

She snorted. 'What? That's just so naff.'

He pouted and pretended to look stern. 'You were the one who wanted to play name games so you'll just have to put up with it.'

'All right, all right then,' she conceded. 'My name's Philippa.'

'And I'm supposed to believe that?'

She shrugged. 'I'm supposed to believe that your name's Alvar. Even though I think it's a weird name. What were your parents thinking when they gave you that name?'

'How would I know?' he said. 'I imagine it's a family name of some sort,' he added. 'It might have been the name of my great-uncle or something, and I was named after him.'

She inhaled her cigarette.

'Do you have any family?' he wanted to know.

She was quiet for a long time. 'Perhaps. But I never see them.'

He frowned at her reply. 'Either you have family or you don't.'

'Of course. That's what I was just saying. I might have some family, but I don't know what they're doing.'

He sighed. 'You're not easy to get on with,' he said then.

'Is that what it's all about?' she asked. 'Being easy to get on with? I think you have turned being nice into a full-time job. I bet you're nice even when you're on your own.'

'Of course,' he said. 'Should I be nasty to myself?'

'Some people are,' she said. 'Some people are at their worst when they're alone. They get plastered, they overeat, they cut themselves, they bang their head against the wall, they play their stereo at full blast and blow their eardrums, they stand by the window and howl at the moon.'

'Do they?' he said, horrified. 'Why?'

'To relieve their despair, obviously. You know about despair, don't you?'

'No, not really. Not much,' he admitted. 'And surely raging against it won't make it any better?'

'Yes, it will. It gets the adrenaline flowing,' she said, 'and that's a great rush. You ought to try it sometime.'

'It's not in my nature,' he said.

'You're just scared,' she claimed, 'you're scared of what you'll find and where it will take you.' She looked around the tidy living room.

'If I were going to go mad in here, I would throw all those glass sports trophies at the wall. Oh, they would make a great sound and my ears would ring. Haven't you ever wanted to?'

He looked at the sports trophies on the mantelpiece. 'No. And please don't go mad in here,' he said, horrified.

She laughed again. 'No, no. Nothing will happen as long as you do what I say. That's my basic technique. It works on almost everyone.'

'But not on Rikard?'

She looked at him quickly. 'Who's Rikard?'

'The man who sells you the drugs?'

'Oh. You mean Roger. No, it doesn't work on him. Nothing works on him, he's a nasty piece of work.' She got up suddenly and lifted the cat onto her lap. She caressed his head.

'Oh, you gorgeous Goya munchkin,' she said softly. 'You have no worries. If I get to live my life all over again I hope I'll come back as a beautiful cat. Who can curl up on someone's lap. Have you felt his heart?' she asked. 'It beats so swiftly and so lightly. His nose is cold, is it meant to be cold? And his paws, they're all pink. And so lovely to touch. Tiny, tiny strawberry-flavoured chewy sweets. I wish I had a cat.'

Alvar sat still listening to her. Her bright, light voice filled his ears. Now, when she was sitting with the cat on her lap she reminded him mostly of a lost little girl. Impossible to handle, but very sweet in the pink sweater with the puffy sleeves.

He saw less of her in July and August.

The thought had crossed his mind that everything would feel strange and empty if she vanished altogether. He was slowly beginning to enjoy her chatting to him from the sofa. The way she stroked the cat, her laughter, so silvery and bright. He also liked it when she lay quietly sleeping. Then he would sit down in his armchair with his newspaper or a good book. Or he would treat himself to an evening sherry, which he would enjoy slowly. Then he would watch her and be filled with a kind of serenity. The cat would often lie at her feet, a grey, curled-up fur ball. The two of them, he thought, are all I have in the world. But it's enough, it's more than enough. Yet a new worry had entered his life. There was hardly any money left in his savings account. It had trickled away in a steady stream and the inevitable moment was approaching. The day he would have to say, I don't have any more money, it's over, we've spent it all. Her eyes, her ice-blue eyes, would darken and fill with hatred. Some nights he could hardly sleep. In dreams he lived this moment over and over, her disbelief, her rage, his despair. Then he would awaken with a gasp. He kept pushing the reality aside. The severed bridge still hung in the gallery. How naive he had been to think that he would ever own it. It puzzled him that no one else had bought it, that no one else had fallen for the drama of the great painting. Now it served as a reminder of his own weakness, his capricious nature, and he could no longer bear to admire it, delight in it or pine for it. He scowled at it, like at forbidden fruit.