Karin Fossum - I Can See in the Dark

‘Where is everyone?’ I wanted to know. ‘Sister Anna and Dr Fischer?’

‘They are in with Barbro. She has been screaming all day.’ He cupped a hand behind his ear and listened. ‘Yes, she is screaming still,’ he added. ‘It is impossible for a person to scream like that, I feel that I want to go home almost. But when I am at home, I still hear her, in my thoughts. And she will lie screaming until she dies. Dr Fischer is in despair. He cannot do her medication, nothing seems to work. So now he has consulted a doctor at the National Hospital in Oslo.’

Sali leant across the table. There was a peculiar intensity in his brown eyes.

‘But the bitter truth, Riktor, is that not everyone can be helped. And I hope the gods will put me in the right category. I mean, when my turn comes.’

I glanced across the table at Sali, that plump, likeable man, dressed in something that resembled a pair of blue pyjamas. So he had a secret passion for the turf, who would have believed it? To be honest, I didn’t like it, the fact that I’d overlooked this trait in him. Because I like to think that I understand people, that I know who they are. The way I know Dr Fischer and understand his ambitions and his frustration when he can only help a bit, or not at all as in Barbro’s case. He could hardly know that the only things she was getting from me were Tic Tacs and vitamins.

After my conversation with Sali I went down to the mortuary. It was Løkka’s small chapel for the dead, with a bier, a little table and a candle. A lace tablecloth, a Bible and a cross high up on the wall, made of brass.

I was often drawn to this room in the basement. I liked being alone here in the dimly lit room, even when it was empty, as it was now. But often it was occupied, someone waiting to be collected by the undertaker, and I relished that special feeling of being in the company of the dead. To study the sunken eyes and the blue lips. The hands, which were soon covered with black marks, the mouth which slid open. On a few occasions I had, just for amusement’s sake, bent over the departed making horrible faces. Thumbs in my ears, tongue sticking out, purely because I couldn’t stop myself. Now, an idea came to me, an impulse, that had to be instantly obeyed. I got up and lay flat on the vacant bier. My hands clasped over my stomach, eyes closed. I breathed quietly, felt my chest rise and fall, felt the joy of being alive, in my forties, still relatively young. That I could still play a practical joke or two. But what if someone came in right now, I mused, came across me playing dead? The thought of the possible consequences sent me into raptures. Anna would hide her face in her hands, Dr Fischer would slump against the wall. I jumped down and went back to the ward, where a strange stillness reigned. Barbro had been given fentanyl; at last she’d stopped screaming.

There was something in the air.

It couldn’t be ignored. Something indefinable, an alien note, like the humming in a cable, a sudden vibration. And I thought of the people I worked with, and how their looks had assumed an evasive quality, lowering their eyes or turning them away, a special glint of suspicion. I’m highly sensitive to such things. I opened my hands and examined my palms, but I couldn’t see the murder, the evil intent, the fury I’d felt towards Arnfinn. I could see no guilt in the fine creases. My hands were quite clean, my heart beat softly, there was no remorse, only astonishment. At the way it had happened so quickly, at the way nothing could have stopped me from boiling over completely. With this new knowledge about myself, that I really was capable of murder, I trod the grey linoleum of the corridors. I was wearing shoes with soft soles, my footsteps were silent, only the slight swish of my white coat as I moved along. I walked with my hands in my pockets, playing with the keys, playing nervously, for everything that had happened had given me a new receptiveness. One of the fluorescent tubes on the ceiling was flickering, it was probably a sign. That I was headed for the darkness. A door hadn’t been properly closed; I noticed the small gap. On the floor, right in against the moulding, lay a pencil, as thin and sharp as a nail. I registered this as a lack of order that wasn’t normal on our ward, as if everything were about to fall apart. Anna came walking towards me, and I smiled agreeably. Once again, she put me in mind of a swan. She had the same proud carriage, the same cool purity as she sailed across the floor.

‘Barbro’s sleeping,’ she said.

I nodded. I was leaning against the wall with sagging shoulders. My posture has never been very good.

‘Can you sleep at night?’ she asked suddenly.

The question took me by surprise, and I gave a start.

‘Not always,’ I confessed. ‘I often think about something. Something that churns and runs all night long.’

She leant against the wall as well. Relaxed her shoulders, stole a little bit of rest, lifted a hand to her blonde hair.

‘What do you think about?’ she wanted to know.

‘About death,’ I replied. ‘I think about death the whole time. My own death and that of others, I can’t help it. People often say they’re not afraid of dying. They say it in a cheerful, confident manner, seeming to be so wise and far-sighted, taking it for granted that the event will be peaceful. They’re going to die quietly and serenely, and in bed. They’ll hardly even realise what’s happening. It never occurs to them that their death might be horrible and intolerably painful, a hellish, drawn-out torture. Other people die like that, they think. I won’t make a lot of fuss when it’s my turn. But we do. We make a fuss. I mean, look at Barbro. I often think about such things. When I can’t get to sleep.’

She picked at one of her nails. Glanced up at me, deadly earnest.

‘And what about you?’ I asked. ‘What’s preoccupying you?’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘You’re not your usual sparkling self,’ I said.

‘Well then, I must have lost some of my sparkle,’ she said with a mournful smile. ‘I think about my brother all the time. About Oscar. That he’s lying at the bottom of the lake. I know it’s difficult to find him, that it’s dark and muddy down there. Rubbish and old tree trunks and whatnot. But I thought they gave up so quickly. And then he must have shouted,’ she said, ‘as loudly as he could. But nobody heard him. Think of it, Riktor. To be floundering in a hole in the ice and screaming at the top of your voice. And no one hears you.’

In my mind’s eye I saw the red ski-suit slipping under the water.

‘We don’t know for certain if anyone heard him or not,’ I said. ‘Perhaps someone did hear him but couldn’t do anything about it. I mean, there are people living in the area after all. There are several houses on the shores of Lake Mester, and others on the slopes above. Maybe most of us simply shrug our shoulders if we hear someone screaming and bellowing in the distance. And just get on with what we’re doing.’

‘What do you think went through his mind?’ she asked.

I smiled gently at her.

‘I imagine he thought of you. And he probably struggled as hard as he could. Don’t you think he did?’

She bit her lip.

‘I can’t bear to think about it.’ She began to walk away. Then she turned suddenly, and there was anger in the low voice. ‘I think death is completely intolerable!’

I nodded. Certainly death was intolerable, we were in total agreement about that. I was still leaning against the wall. Anna walked away. The hem of her coat flaring like a white sail in the grey corridor.

Randers’ green Volvo came up the drive. I could see him from the window. I heard the engine stop and a door being slammed. But no doorbell chimed to break the silence, so I waited. And while I waited my mind worked feverishly. I didn’t feel guilty, I felt betrayed. I had practically acted in self-defence. Arnfinn had dealt me a cruel blow, and my reflexes had taken over, I could explain everything, if only someone would listen. Now he’ll go round to the back of the house, I thought suddenly, he’ll catch sight of the grave, the small mound of earth. There followed several spine-chilling seconds while I couldn’t make up my mind what to do, although I’d been expecting him. I’d known he would return, and I was prepared. But there was no sound of a doorbell. Finally, I went to the front door and yanked it open so abruptly that it made him jump. He was standing on the steps with one hand on the handrail. A broad wedding ring glinted.