Karin Fossum - I Can See in the Dark

So, it was 17 July. Arnfinn came to my door that day. He stood hesitating on the bottom step, with that mixture of embarrassment and shame I’d seen so often. Stooping forward, with one hand on the banister and imploring eyes. I’d become fond of this grave, sombre man and his simple life, so I was pleased to see him. And I harboured a few pleasant thoughts about the future. The years would pass, Arnfinn would visit, as steadfast as the sun, to get his vodka.

He sat in the corner of the sofa as always. I fetched the bottle as usual, and immediately the conversation flowed more freely, he warmed to it so much that he sat and purred like a stove. I’ve never been open-handed, but I watered him like a rare plant. In reality, I was teetering on a knife-edge, I just didn’t realise it. When, later in the afternoon, and after a considerable quantity of vodka, which I’d so generously poured for him, he headed to the toilet, it never occurred to me that everything was about to change. That everything would end in disaster, that life would take a grisly twist from now on, his life and my life. Shortly afterwards, he came out of the bathroom. He stood for a moment in the hallway, swaying, I could see him in the corner of my eye, because I’d got up and gone to the window. But he hadn’t realised this. He was standing there with something in his hand; he glanced quickly over his shoulder, a bowed and wary figure in the dimness of the hall. He’d picked up my wallet and was now turning it over. I usually left it on the sideboard out there once the bustle of the day was over. Of course he wasn’t sober, so he took a couple of off-balance, sideways steps. Then the unthinkable happened. It felt like a slap in the face. Suddenly, he opened my wallet and pulled out a couple of notes. They disappeared into his shirt pocket; it was all over in a matter of seconds.

Dear old Arnfinn. A man I’d thought of as a friend. With his grubby fingers deep inside my wallet.

In my consternation I think I must have regurgitated some gastric juice, because I had a sour taste in my mouth, and the room began to spin in front of my eyes. Then he replaced my wallet on the sideboard. He walked back perfectly calmly and sat down in his sofa corner. I could see the bulge the notes made in his shirt pocket. But he sat there as if nothing had happened. Just as if he were still the same dear old Arnfinn.

My teeth were chattering with rage.

My arms were dangling like two clubs of solid stone.

‘When I was little,’ Arnfinn began, in a voice that was exactly as normal because he didn’t realise what was happening right in front of him, that I was consumed with his treachery and my own fury, obsessed with the thought of the retribution I felt his mean theft deserved. ‘When I was little,’ he repeated, ‘there was a boy in my class, his name was Reidar. Was it Reidar? Yes. He wasn’t quite all there, if you know what I mean. One day when his parents were out, he cut the legs off the family’s budgie. With nail clippers. I was there, as a matter of fact, and I saw him do it. And I won’t forget that legless budgie. It only weighed a few grams. A tiny ball of yellow feathers.’

Here Arnfinn paused to fortify himself with vodka. Afterwards, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and coughed up a bit of mucus from his throat.

‘When its legs came off,’ he went on, ‘it fell over on its side and died then and there. It was the shock, I should think. I remember the sound, as the bird’s small feet flicked through the air. There was a girl there too, she went into hysterics. Maybe she finds it difficult to sleep, too,’ said Arnfinn. ‘We human beings find excuses for most things when it comes to justifying our actions. And the way we live. And all that stuff.’

He took another gulp.

‘Don’t we, eh, Riktor? We find an excuse?’

He patted his shirt pocket. I suppose he wanted to make sure the money was still there. How much was it? I kept a couple of thousand kroner in cash, didn’t I? — yes, I thought so, a couple of thousand of hard-earned money. I couldn’t utter a word. Rage gripped my heart and affected my circulation. I couldn’t breathe. I felt powerless and white-faced, yet his words had conjured up a clear image of the legless bird, although the story was probably a lie, just as the story about the snake would have been a lie, the way Arnfinn’s whole person was one big lie, a drunken bluff. A coarse felon, a deceiver. I’d thoroughly misjudged him, it was more than I could bear. I opened my door to you, I reflected bitterly. I’ve poured vodka for you. I’ve replenished your hip flask every single time.

He gazed a little uncertainly at me as I crossed the floor. Perhaps he caught something in my manner, something new and ominous, for he was suddenly on his guard.

‘Aren’t you feeling well?’ he asked. ‘You look very pale.’

I walked past him without a word.

Across the room, past the sofa and out into the kitchen, propelled by something so explosive that I struggled to control my pulse and breathing. I had some tools in a drawer, including a large hammer. It had a rubber grip and felt comfortable in the hand. With the hammer raised I went back into the living room, and now I was no longer bereft of power, I was mad with anger. He knew nothing about what happened next. The vodka had made him slow, and I was as quick as a rattlesnake. The last thing I saw was his eyes, a surprised expression, and a movement as if he wanted to get up and leave. Leave the house, go down the road, with my money in his pocket.

Arnfinn the thief. Arnfinn the traitor, the deceiver, the drunk, the sponger and the parasite. The head of the hammer struck home. I hit him once with all my strength, it felt like cracking a huge egg. He fell over on to his side and then rolled on to the floor. The hammer had left a great dent in his skull. I heard a feeble moaning. It was coming from the depths of his lungs and didn’t sound quite human. I was terribly disturbed by this moaning, it seemed to penetrate the very marrow of my bones, and now there was no way back, I had to strike again, I had to make him cease his noise once and for all. But it felt impossible. I no longer had that fire inside me, my fury had dissipated, but a corner of my brain worked feverishly on the problem. None of my neighbours could see the rear of my house. If I waited until dark, I could dig a grave on the edge of the forest bordering my back garden, and push him into it. I could manage perfectly well without lights, and no one ever came to the door, certainly not at night. I was gripping the hammer. Now it felt as heavy as lead. I had cramp in my fingers, the rubberised shaft felt hot in my hand. I paced the floor and thought about what I’d just done; the gravity of it, that I’d smashed a man’s skull, how everything had happened so fast, I’d had no time to think. My God, I’d struck him in a blind rage. I began to walk round and round while Arnfinn lay there whimpering.

I’d have to hit him again.

But at that moment, at that very instant, as I stood with the hammer raised and lined up above Arnfinn’s head, there was a ring at the door. I started like a thief. Nobody ever came to the house, and this was hardly a convenient moment. The hammer suddenly felt out of place in my hand, as if put there by something outside myself, an alien force. Obviously I couldn’t open the door. Presumably it was just a salesman, or someone collecting for famine relief in Africa. Or cancer research, or the blind: so many people come begging. So I stood in the middle of the room holding the hammer and waiting, as if frozen fast by my own evil deed. I listened, I counted the seconds, there was another, strident ring. Then I heard an alarming sound. I nearly lost my composure altogether when I realised what was happening. Someone was turning the handle of the door and opening it. And I remembered that the door wasn’t locked; I hadn’t turned the key again after Arnfinn had arrived.