Karin Fossum - I Can See in the Dark

To realise that I’m wholly exceptional.

At last it’s silent in my bedroom at night.

There’s no chugging diesel engine, no one whispering from the corners of the room.

Ten days of freedom.

Free in the morning, free at midday, and still free in the evening.

One day I make the trip to the cemetery.

I imagine that Anna’s brother is likely to be buried here, by Jordahl church, but as I begin to work my way through the headstones, I realise it’s going to be hard to find him. The cemetery is large. I wander amongst the gravestones, reading the odd inscription, halting occasionally to look about me. I catch sight of a man. Presumably he’s a cemetery worker, he’s clipping away at a hedge. The clean snap of his shears, with its even and persistent rhythm, is carried on the still air. I hesitate, but decide to approach him. He starts when I enter his field of vision; he must have been immersed in his own thoughts. He’s wearing a blue cap with a visor and a Honda logo on it.

‘I’m searching for a grave,’ I say. ‘It’s rather important that I find it, but I’ve no idea where to look. Would you happen to know your way about here?’

‘Searching for a grave?’ He gives an unenthusiastic toss of his head, as if I’ve disturbed him in something important. Presumably I have. ‘Well, it’s not easy to say,’ he adds curtly and lifts the shears again. The sun catches the metal blades. He’s both reluctant and ill at ease, but I’m on an important mission so I don’t give up.

‘He went through the ice on Lake Mester,’ I explain. ‘Last year. April it was. Took them forever to retrieve his body, it was found by some amateur divers, almost by pure luck. His name was Oscar. It was an important case, in all the papers. Help me!’ I suddenly implore, beseeching him like a child.

He lifts his shears and clips a few twigs. Pushes his cap back on his head, the weather’s hot and sweat glistens on his hairline. A few dark hairs stick to his skin.

‘Oscar,’ he repeats. ‘Yes, I remember the case. A skier, wasn’t he? I remember his grave, too, it’s a lavish affair. Yes, I know it. There were three hundred people in the church, many more had to stand outside. Go down to the stone wall over there, and look in the furthest row.’

He points with a bronzed hand. I look in the direction indicated. I thank him and start walking. By the stone wall, in the furthest row, the man who fought and lost. And here am I, the sole witness. I feel a kind of importance as I walk along the gravel path between the gravestones. All these dead people. All these silent souls. And only a few of them are granted the privilege of being ghosts, like the sister at the sanatorium. I want to be a ghost too, I think, as I slowly cross the cemetery. I want to stand there and rumble like a diesel engine. I want to whisper in corners. Then, at last, I pull myself together. I remember that I’ve changed, that I’ve served my time. That from now on, my motives will be good, and I move on amongst the graves, until I arrive at the black stone with its gold lettering. The one belonging to Anna’s brother Oscar. Died at the age of fifty-three. The gravestone has a nice inscription.

We love you. We miss you.

I kneel, peer over my shoulder at the gardener working at his hedge, but he’s not looking in my direction, he’s busy with his own affairs.

Then I whisper to the stone.

‘There was nothing I could do.’

And again, a bit louder.

‘There was nothing I could do!’

Someone, perhaps Anna or Oscar’s wife, has planted some pansies. The bed is neat and has been lovingly weeded.

Whenever I think about my own death, I’m always worried that nobody will come and tend my grave. But now I’ve found Margareth. Obviously she’ll come, I think, regularly and often. Margareth is thorough and conscientious, she won’t skimp. I’d like pansies, too. Such beautiful, velvety flowers with their yellow stamens. I also want to leave voices behind, voices of people who knew me. Riktor, they’ll say, we knew him well. Riktor, an old friend of mine. Riktor, my husband. My partner, my best friend. I want what others have got, and I’m going to get it. It’s my turn now. Everything comes to those who wait, and I’ve hesitated long enough. Now I’m going to take life with both hands, it’s high time.

I kneel in front of the grave until the small of my back begins to ache.

There was nothing I could do.

I’ve nothing more to say to Oscar. His recklessness put me in a very awkward position. I can hear the snipping of the shears from the hedge. Then I get up and go. I pass the gardener and nod to him, walk towards the gate. Now this, too, is a closed chapter of my life.

Then one of the bad days dawns.

But I don’t realise it yet, standing by the window and looking out at this known and familiar sight, this little kingdom of mine. The meadowy grass in front of the house and the birch at the bottom of the drive, it’s all mine.

Twenty days of freedom. Two days to payday. The longing for Margareth like an ache in my body, her hands, her freckles, her mascaraed eyes. It’s a new, strange sensation, something I’ve never felt before.

I think about buying a bunch of flowers, and giving them to her on our first date, making myself as attractive as I can, being generous and gallant, because I’m pretty certain I can be, if I only try. Making an impression on Margareth isn’t easy, she’s reticent and reserved, but I shan’t give up, I’m extremely purposeful. I turn these things over in my mind, making plans, as I gaze through the window. The birch by the road stirs. Then suddenly, I make up my mind to phone. I decide it’s now or never, the impulse strikes me in a flash, and I act fast. I go to the telephone and ring Enquiries, and they give me the number of the county jail. I note the eight digits on a pad, dial the switchboard number and wait. I can hear it ringing. It rings and my heart pounds. The blood roars as it forces its way through my arteries.

Hi, I’ll say, when they finally put me through to Margareth. Hi, this is Riktor here. This might be a bit of a surprise, but I want to ask you out.

And if you say no, I’m going to lose my head.

Just then, I see something outside the window, something that gives me a jolt. A green Volvo has turned in, and I start when I see Randers at the wheel. I slam down the phone before anyone can answer, and rush out to intercept him at the door. He’s standing on the bottom step, as macho and self-assured as ever. The sun bounces off the bonnet of the green car.

‘You’re a free man, and here I am disturbing you,’ he smiles. ‘But I won’t trouble you unnecessarily, I promise. I only want to tell you something. Something you may be interested to hear, perhaps even have a right to hear. After all that’s happened, all you’ve been through.’

I stand in the open doorway and wait. I try to remain calm, but it’s not easy. Because once again I’m assailed by a sudden doubt, as if there’s still something I’ve forgotten, something I’ve overlooked.

‘Barbro Zanussi is dead,’ Randers says. ‘She was a patient at Løkka, on your ward, wasn’t she?’

‘I know about it,’ I say. ‘Yes, I saw the notice. But I refuse to believe she went peacefully. She probably died with a scream on her lips, she was in great pain.’

Randers strolls across the gravel to the side of the house, and I follow.

‘There were certain irregularities about her death,’ he says.

‘What do you mean, “irregularities”?’

‘Certain findings that may indicate she was suffocated. Just like Nelly Friis. With a pillow, presumably. And yes, maybe she did scream, as you suggest.’