Karin Fossum - The Caller

But so far, it was working.

She held her head high. Smoothing her dress, she didn’t see him. He pressed himself against the door frame, holding the box behind his back. The hamster scratched and clawed inside the box, but she didn’t notice it. She looked out of the window, noted the clouds, and grabbed a coat from a wall hook. The coat was ancient, a thin, faux fur, grey-brown with some darker spots.

She put it on before the mirror in the hallway.

Yes, she’s looking for money, Johnny thought. She must have discovered some form of public assistance she might be entitled to. Maybe there was something in the newspaper about new welfare regulations — after all, the government has promised to help the poor. If she looked presentable, if her heels carried her, if people just noticed the ruche on the hem of her dress. Silently he leaned against the wall and listened to her footsteps, the sharp clap. The heels spoke their own language. It is my right, the heels said decisively. It’s not too much to ask for.

Finally she grabbed her bag and left. He ran straight to the window and watched her stalk towards the bus stop. She’s probably going into the city, he thought, to some office or other, where she’ll wipe away tears in her theatrical way. She wobbled slightly in her heels. His cheeks began to burn, because he realised everyone could see her: the neighbours and anyone driving past. The spotted coat made her look like a hyena, and now she was out hunting for carrion. Without wanting to, he felt pity for her. She looked so vulnerable in the harsh light. It tormented and confused him. The empathy weighed him down, made him heavy and sad and despondent. So he tried to muster some anger instead. His anger gave him the energy to act. When she was finally out of sight, he went to his room to get a closer look at the hamster. He decided to call it Butch. Or, put in another way, the Butcher from Askeland. It was doing well. He put it in the cage, and it seemed happy in its new home. After he had eaten a bowl of cereal, he went out and started up his moped again. He put his helmet on and drove on to the road, throwing a glance towards the bus stop.

The hyena was gone.

He checked his fuel gauge and accelerated. He wore his thin riding gloves with the skulls. Speed gave him a feeling of superiority. He felt invincible, faster and smarter than everyone else. Here comes Johnny Beskow, he thought. You can build all you want, but I will tear down your towers. That’s how powerful I am.

The road cut through a landscape of yellow fields, passed the church and Lake Skarve, Bjerkås town centre, headed towards Kirkeby and finally went eastward to Sandberg, Out here people had more money. You could see it in the houses, which were bigger and better kept than they were at Askeland. Swiss-style houses. Double garages. Big gardens. Small, silly fountains, solar-powered lights along the driveways. He neared the centre of Sandberg. To the left was a grassy slope bordering a playing field, and to the right an enormous house. He was on Sandbergveien. When he passed house number 15, something caught his attention. He eased up on the throttle. A couple were sitting outside in the sun, at a table. The man stood out for several reasons.

He was older than the woman.

He was emaciated, his body hunched.

He was in a wheelchair.

Johnny pulled off the road and laid the moped on the slope. Then he squatted down in the grass and stared at the couple. Sensing his presence, they looked at him. So he took out his mobile, pretended to punch in a number and put it to his ear. Then they turned their attention back to each other.

Johnny observed them on the sly. The man in the wheelchair wore shorts; he had bare, bluish-white legs that wouldn’t support him. His hair was thin and matted, and his hands, resting on the wheels, also seemed to be unusable. There must be something more going on than paralysis in his legs, Johnny thought, because as he studied the man he noticed the thick plastic tube in his neck. That meant he needed help breathing. It meant that his illness had spread and reached the muscles around his lungs. The woman scurried about and tended to him, poured drinks, held the cup to his mouth. Wiped his chin and cheek with a napkin, fluffed a pillow behind his back. Aimlessly she rearranged a dish on the table, but neither of them touched the food.

After staring for a long time at the couple in the garden, Johnny wandered a few steps down the road. He stopped at their mailbox, read the name and address, and returned to the slope and sat. The Landmarks. Astrid and Helge Landmark, Sandbergveien 15. He found their number through directory enquiries, and dialled.

The woman heard the telephone ringing through the open patio door, and she disappeared into the house to answer.

The man was now alone in the garden. Helpless in his wheelchair with his ruined legs. He tried to work out where the woman, his helper, the one he was dependent on, had gone. If he needed something, he would have to shout. If he was able to shout. He hardly had the strength to communicate the unrest in his doughy body.

Johnny turned off his mobile. Seconds later the woman returned, a little confused because someone had fooled her into leaving. She was back quickly, stroking the man’s arm. Johnny hopped on to his moped and rode off. The man’s helplessness and the woman’s anxiety had put him in a different mood.

On the way home, he stopped at the Sparbo Dam.

He pushed the moped the final stretch through the woods and leaned it against the trunk of a spruce. He had begun walking to the dam when he caught sight of something between the trees. Someone had beaten him there. Whoever it was had gone out on to the wall of the dam where he liked to sit. He was so furious that he wanted to scream, because that was his spot, his secret place at the water, and he had never seen anyone else there. Then he saw a blue bicycle lying in the heather to his right. He hid behind a tree, and stared with stinging eyes. The bicycle was a Nakamura. It was Else Meiner, that nasty little girl, the one with the big mouth. She was reading a book, and didn’t realise he was watching her. He glared at her red plait. The sun made it shine like a thick copper wire. A little shove, he thought, and you’d fall face first into the water. I’ll come back for you, he thought. I’ll find the right moment, and you’ll get it. He stayed a few minutes longer observing her narrow back, and then carefully returned through the heather. He pulled his army knife from his belt and slashed up both of her tyres. The sun had warmed the rubber, and the knife sliced easily. He rolled his moped on to the road and walked a good while before finally starting the engine. With the wind in his face, tears formed in his eyes and exultation in his heart!

His mother was still out when he got home.

He went straight to his room, opened the door to the cage and carried Butch over to his bed. He was smaller than Bleeding Heart, his body fatter, but just as lively as the guinea pig had been. He let the hamster crawl across the duvet, and before he knew it, it had dropped some tiny turds. They were dry and hard, and easy to pick up. Maybe I should keep them, he thought, so I can mix them with the hyena’s food. Later he sneaked into his mother’s bedroom, and stared at her mess. The hyena lives here, he thought, this is her lair. I should get a fox trap, and I should put it outside her door. So she’ll head right into the trap when she gets up to go into the hall. Then she’ll have to stagger around with that trap until the iron rusts and her foot rots.

People will hear her howling throughout the entire Askeland housing estate.

He closed the door and headed into the living room. After deciding to watch a film, he riffled through the selections and finally chose a horror film called The Living and the Dead . He got comfortable on the sofa. The film had a promising subtitle.