Karin Fossum - I Can See in the Dark

If it had been November, the darkness would have shrouded me and my evil deeds. But the summer night was transparent, and I prayed that my neighbours were asleep. The noise of digging carried far on the still air, and with each thrust I moaned a little as much from exertion as rising panic. Now and then I rested on my spade. I panted and wiped away the sweat, then thought about Arnfinn lying in the living room. I had a lot of cleaning up to do as well. Much of the contents of Arnfinn’s head had spilt over the floorboards and run down the cracks, and that might have implications. I’ll have to do it a bit at a time, I thought, and drove the spade into the ground; again and again I drove it into the soil, urged on by rage and despair. Why the bloody hell did this have to happen! Those blows that had worked the fury out of my body had been satisfying and wholly necessary, but I could well have done without all this cleaning-up. I took a breather. Suddenly I saw a cat slinking in from the forest; it watched me from amongst the trees, paused for a few seconds, then padded off. It felt strange being stared at. Even if it was only by a cat with yellow eyes: an intense, unblinking gaze. I went on digging. The spade continued to strike roots and stones, and the impact sent jarring pains up my arm. But the whole situation seemed familiar, too. As if it were something I’d always known, that this was how it would end. As if my life had been mapped out in advance, and that I, in a few brief glimpses, had discerned the outline of the crime to come. That that was why I lay awake at night. And why there was so much din in the room, from the diesel engine.

All this went through my mind as I dug.

I worked as hard as I could, but after an hour I’d only made a shallow trench in the ground, two metres long: it might have been deep enough to bury a broom handle, or perhaps at a pinch, little Miranda. But she wasn’t the one I’d killed. So I went on digging. I drove the spade into the earth with all my might, scraped, hacked and pounded with the sharp tip. The sound carried in the silence. Each time the spade struck a stone there was a loud ringing clang, come and see, come and see, look what Riktor’s done, murder! Would there ever be enough room for Arnfinn in this grave, I wondered, as I toiled on. I worked up more rage, more despair, more desperation. And then at last it was as if I’d passed over some threshold. All at once everything became so easy, and I had the strength of a lion. I dug, I was completely unstoppable. Finally, the grave was finished. I leant heavily on my spade. I felt like a proper workman, someone who gets things done.

Later on, when I had to haul the heavy corpse out of the living room, the weight of it was almost too much. Never had a man been so heavy. I had to pause repeatedly for breath. His head, or what was left of it, thudded against the treads going down the steps, but I paid no heed to that, I just wanted to get him buried. Once on the gravel, I dragged him round the back of the house, through the grass and over to the yawning grave. I peered into its black earthiness. One day I, too, would lie in a hole in the ground. But there’d be no one to take care of things when that day arrived. Only a few bored council workers, perhaps. The ceremony would fall on deaf ears. Suddenly I felt deeply depressed at the idea of my own impending death. And, no matter how much I tried, it was impossible to lay Arnfinn neatly on his back in the grave, with his hands folded across his stomach, as I’d originally intended. I shoved him over the edge, and he fell heavily into the hole, face down. He was squashed up against the wall of earth, his legs splayed and his arms beneath him, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Not very restful, I thought, straightening my back. It was quiet, there were no sounds from the neighbouring houses. But people might have heard the noise of the spade in the stillness. And later on they’d remember, that there’d been some digging over at Riktor’s house. On the night of 17 July. Yes, we heard it clearly, we heard a spade striking against rock. They’d mention it to the police, who’d doubtless go from door to door to find out what had happened to the lonely alcoholic from the park by Lake Mester. As far as I knew, nobody was aware of my association with Arnfinn, but you never could tell. When it comes to the police, it’s a mistake to underestimate them, even the force has its share of smart cookies. What I could rely on with confidence, was my ability to lie with complete conviction. I look people straight in the eye and lie without blinking, and they nod and believe what I say. It’s easy. I began shovelling earth over the corpse. Well, Arnfinn, I thought, this isn’t quite what you were expecting, but it’s more than Anna’s brother got. He’s rotting on the bottom of Lake Mester.

I spent more than an hour cleaning up.

That night I lay awake.

I could still feel Arnfinn’s proximity outside the house, as if some heat remained in his body, something smouldering slowly out there on the edge of the forest, like the embers in a hearth. For a long while I mused on Arnfinn and his weak character. The sort of man who gnaws away at people, like some carnivorous bacterium, I thought, who didn’t deserve to die perhaps, but who’d overstepped the mark with such audacity that it took my breath away.

And then my reason.

At the same time, there was something nagging at a corner of my mind, a feeling that I’d overlooked something important, something incriminating. I knew the police would arrive, I’m not naive. Two men presumably, I surmised, standing on the steps in their dark uniforms, legs apart. Two detached and dependable men who’d require an explanation for the sounds of digging. I could do nothing but await the hour of reckoning. I drew up my knees. Lay with my hands clamped between my thighs, like a frightened child, and waited for sleep. Trying, all the while, to suss out the feeling, the anxiety, that I’d made a mistake. As if beating Arnfinn to death hadn’t been a mistake. Just think how Anna had come to the door, and with a delicious cake as well. What did it mean? Only that she’s considerate, I said, scolding myself as I lay in bed. If only I had a woman! My elbows ached after the digging. If anyone came to the house, anyone who took the trouble to look round the back, they’d immediately notice the small mound of earth, so I was hoping for rain. I was hoping for a shower that would settle the earth and make it appear more natural. At last, I couldn’t be bothered to lie there sleepless any more, so I got up, slipped on a dressing gown and went out of the house. Round the corner, through the grass and over to the grave. Despondency overtook me and I stood staring, dry-eyed. I can explain, I mumbled to myself, if you’ll both just listen. I turned and went into the house again and stood looking out of the window. A car passed slowly with its lights on. I followed the circles of light through the darkness, and took the car as an omen. That someone was keeping me under surveillance. I laid my forehead against the windowpane. It’s madness, I whispered into the darkness, everything in this world, everything we human beings do to one another. The pious will also perish, and we’ll get no reward in heaven, so what’s the point of exerting ourselves?

18 July.

I got up and went to work, quite determined to boast about Sister Anna’s cake. I enjoyed imagining the cake as a declaration of love, even though I knew it was nothing of the kind. I do possess some self-awareness, but a lovely daydream is not to be shunned. It was a grey day with threatening clouds, and I wished that rain would come and wash away all traces of the night’s misdeeds, that luck would be on my side, and why shouldn’t it be? Arnfinn, I hoped, would be able to rest there in perpetuity, on the edge of the forest. And become a part of the great cycle of life, without anyone knowing. Just as Anna’s brother lay at rest on the bottom of Lake Mester, undisturbed by the living. As if nature can’t deal with things herself, without any help from us; she devours us and converts us, other living organisms feed on us, it’s really a lovely thought. But when I bumped into Anna in the corridor, I could see straight away that there was something on her mind. That there was something she was puzzling over. That’s the strange thing about a person’s eyes, how much they can express, the coloured iris against the white background, and the black pupil pulsating. The delicate lines in the corner of the eye. A set of highly tuned messages that can broadcast displeasure, scepticism or joy in a fraction of a second.