Karin Fossum - I Can See in the Dark

‘Yes, you’re thirsty, I expect,’ I remarked mildly.

Because I can be extremely friendly when I want to be, and I wanted to be then. I dug into my reserves of goodwill, buried deep within me, and which on rare occasions I require.

He dropped his gaze immediately. And coughed to clear his throat.

‘I was in the area,’ he said. ‘It was too good an opportunity not to visit. For a chat, I mean. If that’s not too much to ask. But perhaps your cupboard’s empty anyway? I don’t want to cadge,’ he maintained. ‘Well, it was only a thought, I don’t want to be a nuisance. But you know how it is, you understand people, I knew that the first moment I set eyes on you.’

He was silent for a long time after expressing this piece of flattery. He was sitting right on the edge of the sofa, twining his fingers. Just as scruffy and dishevelled as always, with his heavy, stooped body, and for an instant I felt contempt, that he couldn’t lift himself out of his state and make something of himself, contribute something to society. But then, deep down, I had a liking for him, with his quiet, modest demeanour. There was something honest and decent about his simple existence that I valued. And, after all, I’d already begun tapping those reserves of goodwill. For a while we sat there in silence. I could see that he was struggling with his thoughts, that he was trying to put them into words, that he actually had something he wanted to say. His eyes wandered over to the Advent Star in the window, and it brought a wan smile to his solemn face.

Then his eyes settled on the cupboard once more, in the hope that I might have a bottle, and I saw the yearning like a light in those dark eyes. But he bit it back, clinging to the last shred of his dignity: he wanted me to do the offering. I would, too. Soon, once he’d sat there and stewed for a bit.

‘I want to tell you something,’ he began, fixing me with his gaze. ‘Just so you know how things really stand. I’ll tell you about something that happened a very long time ago. To a small boy. Who I know a bit about. That is, if you want to hear it.’

‘I want to hear,’ I said. ‘Fire away.’

I sat still and listened attentively, noticing all the while how his eyes constantly darted towards the cupboard.

‘He was about six years old,’ Arnfinn began. ‘Well, five or six, knee-high, you know, with skinny legs. He was in bed asleep one summer night, with the window open. He slept alone. He had no brothers or sisters, so it was just him. Before he went to sleep he heard the trees outside, there was a bit of a breeze, you know what I mean, rustling in the treetops, the way that tends to make us sleepy. He was lying with his back to the window and he couldn’t hear anything except the trees. At last his eyes closed. Well, don’t ask me if he dreamt, because I don’t know. All I know is that the big house was completely quiet. And that his mother was sleeping in the room next door.’

Arnfinn paused. He thought for a moment and scratched his chin.

‘In the middle of the night he awoke with a terrified scream.’

‘Why?’ I wanted to know. ‘What had happened?’

‘He screamed,’ Arnfinn repeated. ‘It reverberated through the house. And his mother was up in an instant, running to his room. Switched on the light. Stood staring at him as he lay beneath the duvet. And you know, he was as white as the sheets he lay in. “What’s the matter?” his mother asked. “Why did you scream? My God, you made me jump!”

‘The boy pointed to the foot of the bed. “There’s a snake under the duvet,” he said. Or rather, I should say he whispered it, because she could only just hear what he said. But she almost collapsed with relief. She was expecting something different, you see. This was something she understood. And then she assumed the look the boy knew so well, the sympathetic look, you know. And it was quite a resigned look too, because he had a lively imagination. Perhaps she thought, kids are kids, and they do say funny things. “You’re having a nightmare,” she said. “Now, wake up!” She patted him consolingly on the cheek. Then she pulled the duvet off him.’

Arnfinn wrung his hands so hard in his lap that his finger joints cracked.

‘She pulled the duvet off,’ he said. ‘And there between the boy’s thin legs lay a huge snake.’

Then he stopped again and nodded.

‘A huge snake,’ he repeated.

‘You’re joking,’ I interjected.

‘I never joke,’ said Arnfinn. ‘What would I do that for? It was a snake and it was enormous. Not one of those little ones. It was enormous. It had twisted itself into a great coil. It was black, with a sort of yellowish-grey, speckled pattern, thick as a grown man’s arm, and as long as a wet week. His mother could make out its head between the boy’s knees, its nasty, flat head. Have you seen a snake close up? They’re as ugly as sin, I’m sure you’ll agree. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was touch that snake, but she bloody well had to, because the boy was completely hysterical. So she grabbed hold of the huge thing and yanked. And you know,’ said Arnfinn, ‘when we’re frightened, we’re tremendously strong. The snake crashed to the floor with a horrible sound and quickly slid under the bed and coiled up. Then she grabbed the boy and fled from the room. Rang the police and sat waiting with the boy on her lap. When they came they weren’t too keen either, once they saw the horrible creature under the bed. But they had to do something. They put on protective gloves and hauled the snake out, shoved the monstrous thing into a sack. Then they drove off with the snake in the back of the car. Well, what do you think?’

Arnfinn sank back on the sofa. He’d obviously finished his story and seemed tired.

‘Very good,’ I said calmly. ‘Is there a point to it?’

‘There certainly is a point,’ said Arnfinn. ‘That snake had escaped from one of the neighbouring houses, where a man had been keeping it as a pet. Then it got in through the open window and was attracted to the warmth under the duvet on the boy’s bed. Ever since that night, he’s found it extremely hard to sleep. He’s nearly sixty now, and he’s still got problems sleeping.’

Here Arnfinn paused for a while. He was waiting for me to say something; it was probably my turn.

‘So, was it you?’ I asked, and now my interest was genuine, because the story about the snake was both compelling and a bit exotic.

‘You asked me why I drink,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t take much. That’s all I’m trying to say.’

‘Did you find a snake in your bed?’ I wanted to know. ‘When you were a boy. Is it a true story?’

‘I have problems sleeping,’ he repeated mulishly.

He gesticulated with open hands. He’d clearly given me what he had to give, and now at last I went to the cupboard and fetched the bottle of vodka. I poured a stiff one and pushed it towards him.

‘It’s none of my business why you drink,’ I said generously. ‘And it’s none of your business why I do the things I do. But people always want to go round rubbing shoulders with each other. Confiding, understanding, explaining. Let’s skip all that, shall we? We’re grown-ups after all.’

Arnfinn raised the glass of vodka to his mouth, and now he looked blissful.

‘But you’ve probably got a tale to tell, too,’ he suggested. ‘About a small boy.’

I shook my head emphatically. At the same time I saw how Arnfinn’s face softened and turned gentle and friendly.

‘I’ve never been a small boy,’ I explained.

Arnfinn chuckled good-naturedly. His body had become loose and relaxed, and he rocked as he sat on the sofa. He was migrating into those bright, shining halls again.