Karin Fossum - I Can See in the Dark

Then she ran off down the paved path. She ran past Woman Weeping in her studded, faded jeans, and then she was gone.

The wheelchair was a Plesner and seemed well equipped.

At the back there was a colourful netting pouch which contained a few clothes, a knitted jacket and a threadbare teddy with eyes of black glass. It was old and covered in burls, and quite smelly when I put it to my nose. But the child smelt of soap. It had a scent that was sweet, like wild flowers. Her trainers were clean and white; she couldn’t walk in them, their only function was to keep her feet warm. The laces were tied with a double bow. She immediately became restive when I seated myself on the bench, restive because her mother wasn’t there, and because she didn’t know me. I could read it in the attitude of her thin neck, and from the hands that fluttered over her lap, and I didn’t speak a word, I waited. The silence made her uneasy. One can relate to words, but thoughts can’t be monitored, and she was probably used to the various clumsy comments people make, what a lovely wheelchair you’ve got, can I see your teddy bear? Or similar inanities. Five minutes passed. I sat absolutely still on the bench with my hands in my lap, while my imagination ran wild. Miranda’s head lolled back and she opened her mouth. I could see her large front teeth, big as sugar lumps. Her feet in their white trainers were turned inwards, a wide belt held her in the wheelchair. It was fastened with a shiny buckle.

I glanced at the path. Lill Anita wasn’t in sight. So I quickly dived into my pocket where I had a packet of lozenges. I opened the packet and took one out, weighing it in my hand. It was a Fisherman’s Friend. Small, sand-coloured and oval, and so strong it brought tears to the eyes. And, seeing as Miranda was sitting there gaping like a baby thrush, I popped it into her mouth. At first nothing happened. The lozenge lay on her tongue where it slowly but surely began to melt, and to wreak its overpowering havoc. Then, the first tears appeared. Some saliva ran down her chin and on to the front of her dress, while I kept an eye out for Lill Anita who would shortly appear on the paved path. Miranda struggled desperately with the strong lozenge. She attempted to expel it with her tongue, but this proved too much for her limited powers of co-ordination, she couldn’t manage it. There’s something about drooling. It makes people appear moronic, but for all I knew this gasping little girl might be as sharp as the scythe I had at home. A sudden light in her eyes told me that her mother was coming at last. I rose from the bench and smiled soothingly. Assured her that everything was fine. Lill Anita ran the final few steps across the parterre.

‘Have you given her something to eat?’

She rummaged in the net at the back of the chair for some tissue, tore off a large piece and wiped Miranda’s mouth.

‘Only a sweet,’ I said in my defence.

Her cheeks turned a bright red. Presumably caused by a mixture of annoyance and shame, because she’d left her helpless child in the care of an unknown man who looked like a pike.

‘You mustn’t give her anything,’ she said angrily, ‘or it could stick in her throat. Good God! You mustn’t give her things, are you crazy or what?’

So that’s the thanks you get, I thought, and stared at the object she’d deposited on the bench. A DVD. Presumably she was going to watch it when evening finally arrived and Miranda was asleep. Those few, precious night-time hours without responsibility. I returned to my own bench, and they began making rapid preparations to leave. Lill Anita put the film in the net, released the brake, spun the wheelchair round and set off down the paved path.

Serves you right for leaving your child with a stranger, I said to myself. You wicked, slovenly woman.

One night soon after I dreamt about the man in the red ski-suit.

I was standing on the shore of the lake and saw him fall through, I tried to shout, but I was mute, no sound came from me. It was terrible to watch his furious battle in the water, his constant thrashing and clawing attempts to pull himself out. Yet I also felt a strange thrill, as if I were full of good adrenalin, pumping my blood at tremendous speed through my veins. They’ve searched the lake for him without success. The rescue services and some volunteers. It must be hard for his relatives, I thought, knowing that he’s lying at the bottom of the lake, decomposing. His skin becoming porous, the flesh loosening from his bones, fish eating their way in through his eye sockets.

After the episode with Miranda and the Fisherman’s Friend, Lill Anita has been somewhat reserved. But she still comes to the park. She occupies the bench as if it belongs to her. She’s on her mobile phone for much of the time, always keeping an eye on the girl in the wheelchair. For Miranda is there the whole time, every moment needy and dependent. Ebba has been over a few times and patted her on the cheek. As if that were of any use. But old ladies are like that, they always make a fuss about petty things.

Often, when I’m at work and have a bit of time to spare, I’ll go out to the kitchen and see Sali Singh. With his brightly coloured clothes and his expansive, barrel-shaped body, he reminds me of a Russian matryoshka doll. In which case there would be six smaller Salis inside the outer one, it’s a fascinating thought. And there do seem to be several of him, too, a different one each day. He’s inscrutable. We talk about the state of the world, and all the things, good and bad, that affect us human beings. Sali is a gentle soul, full of Indian wisdom, and I enjoy listening to his calm, deep voice with its quaint accent. He often gives me a bit of food, perhaps a taster from the day’s menu, or a small cake. He puts it in a bowl and pushes it across the table to me. He’s kind and generous and he has no ulterior motives.

Then there’s Sister Anna, beautiful little Anna.

One day she came walking wearily into the ward office. She slumped into a chair and propped her head on her hand. The sun was pouring through the window and made her hair glow. I could see she was suffering. That she was ruminating on something serious, and that it was making her strangely distant. But then the mood passed and she pulled herself together, she’s nothing if not an indomitable woman. She reminded us that old Waldemar Rommen was celebrating his birthday that day, he was ninety-eight, believe it or not. It was practically a provocation in itself, there was almost no life left in him. His heart gave a beat occasionally, and now and then a shallow breath would pass his lips. His hands and feet were ice cold and had blue, bunched veins; his cheeks were as pale as marble. But Anna spent the day treating him in every conceivable way. For her, birthdays are sacrosanct, let no one deny it. But ninety-eight. Hardly any respiration or circulation, hardly any intake of food or drink, almost mummified, dry and tough as driftwood. Despite all this, Anna sat in a chair at his bedside and chatted for a long time. A quiet prattle that elicited no answer. She lit candles, she brought in the flowers his family had sent by courier, asters, I’ve never liked them, they’re vulgar. Waldemar Rommen has dementia. He understood nothing of what was going on, but Anna wanted to make much of him anyway. I visited Waldemar as well several times that day. He turned away when he saw me coming, and seemed inexpressibly tired; the shrivelled face impassive.

I sat in a chair by the bed, grasped the bony hand and held it firmly.

‘This is your last birthday,’ I said. ‘Take my word for it.’

If he felt pain or sorrow about what I’d said, he hadn’t the strength to formulate it. But his eyes were full of water. I pulled my hand away and went out again, carried on with my duties. We have so many patients on our ward, and there’s a long waiting list as well. Lots of people who want our costly care and our services.