Karin Fossum - The Caller

Silence again. Evelyn waited until she felt it in her legs, until tears began to flow. Soon someone would come running to take her arm, lead her to her daughter’s bed. Or maybe she was already on the operating table. What had she injured in the accident? Was it her legs? Maybe her head? Would she be the same girl? Was she no longer fifteen? Had she regressed to the level of a toddler? Or worse, was she gone? Was she just something that lay there breathing, with tubes and needles everywhere? Nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she put her hand to her mouth, on the verge of vomiting all over the information desk.

Solveig Grøner started whispering. ‘Evelyn,’ she said carefully, extending a hand, ‘I don’t know quite what this means. But we have no patient with that name, nor do we have a patient we aren’t able to identify. Do you understand?’

Evelyn trembled so forcefully that her teeth clacked in her mouth. ‘But they called me. They said I had to come.’

Solveig Grøner searched feverishly for an explanation. The woman’s panic was in danger of taking over. It occurred to her that there was another explanation, and she clutched at it immediately, like a straw. ‘Could it have been the University Hospital that called? Could you have misheard?’

Evelyn considered. From where they lived the University Hospital was an hour’s drive. Could Frances have driven so far on that little scooter of hers? Of course she could have, because the scooter was brand new and she was eager to ride it. But that wasn’t what they’d said on the phone, was it? Could they have said the University Hospital? She tried to recall. Was it a man or a woman who had called? What had she been told? Why was it all so cloudy? Why couldn’t she recall anything, something concrete? All she remembered was that they had said something about the hospital. Something about Frances. Whether it was her daughter, when she was born, and something about an accident. That she should come immediately. After that she had asked for details. About Frances’s condition. But she had been told that they couldn’t give out details over the phone.

Is it serious? she had asked. Yes, the voice said. It’s serious. It’s important you get here quickly.

She stood there swaying like an invalid while clutching the counter.

‘I’ll call them,’ Solveig Grøner said. ‘What is her full name?’

‘Frances Emilie Mold. She was born in 1994. She is fifteen years old.’

As soon as she finished her last sentence, she broke down. She waited for the verdict. Felt as though someone had hung her on a hook and she no longer had any contact with the floor.

Solveig Grøner called the University Hospital, introduced herself and asked for Accident and Emergency. She grabbed her pen, squeezed it. There was something odd about this entire situation. Normally she could deal with tragedy, but here, something was completely wrong. When they answered, her suspicions were confirmed. She thanked them and replaced the handset. Looked over the counter at Evelyn Mold. Summoned all her courage. She felt herself teetering on an edge, staring into the abyss. ‘Does your daughter have a mobile phone?’

Evelyn was close to breaking point. ‘They said it was serious,’ she stammered. ‘I don’t understand what you mean?’

Solveig Grøner knew this was risky, but she had no choice. ‘I suggest you try to call her right now.’

‘But what would that do?’

‘If she has been admitted neither here nor at the University Hospital, we’ve got to try another avenue.’ She leaned forward. Looked Evelyn straight in the eyes. ‘So many strange things have happened recently. If you know what I mean.’

Evelyn Mold needed a little time to understand what the other woman meant. It was as if her brain’s compartments had been sealed off; only the chamber for fear was open. She found a mobile telephone in a pocket. Staring spontaneously at the ceiling, she discovered hundreds of bright dots. They were recessed lights, she knew, but they shone like stars. Once again she heard the snapping of a newspaper behind her, a confirmation.

‘So many strange things?’ she whispered, her eyes now on Solveig Grøner.

‘You know, the one who has been playing pranks on people,’ Solveig said. ‘The one everyone’s talking about, the one calling in fake obituaries and messages.’

Evelyn punched in her daughter’s number. While she waited for an answer, she stared once more at the stars in the ceiling.

Evelyn and Frances arrived home at about the same time.

Evelyn saw the scooter as she drove into the driveway.

They didn’t say much. It was as if they’d been forced into a strange room, and now sought a way out, back to what was near and dear: the familiar routine, with sunlight in the windows and birds twittering in the trees behind their house. The sound of the television in the corner. And the conversations between them, which always flowed easily and without restraint, conversations with much tenderness, love and laughter. Now that had come to an end, and they felt awkward; they didn’t know how to handle what they had gone through. Evelyn Mold had always viewed herself as strong and determined. As down-to-earth and realistic. She could handle a setback — had thought so at least. She had rafted down the Sjoa River — admittedly it had been some years ago, but she’d liked the thrill of it. She had run the Oslo Marathon twice, and was definitely not the type to take life for granted. When Frances got her scooter, it had awakened a distant fear in her that, possibly, she could be hit by a car. She’d had that thought but swept it away. She was rational. She didn’t look ahead for trouble. But this incident had done something to her. When they entered the house and Evelyn locked the door behind them, she walked a few steps into the lounge and then lost it. She planted her hands on a table and leaned forward, gasping for air. Frances followed her, a little awkwardly. Mama, please. I’m here. We won’t think about it any more.

But Evelyn had trouble breathing. She had never stared into the abysses within herself, and the sensation was so overwhelming it felt like a thrashing. She stood by the table, breathing heavily. It occurred to her that she had been in exactly this position once before, fifteen years earlier when Frances was born and the painful birth pangs were about to get the better of her.

‘I suppose we should think about what to eat for dinner,’ she said helplessly. She had nothing else to say.

Frances protested. She pulled at her mother’s arm. ‘No, let’s just sit on the sofa. We’ll watch television. We don’t need to do anything.’

They sat huddled together on the sofa, choosing silence. Finally, in a small voice, Evelyn said it was over, that she had to calm herself and just forget the whole episode. ‘But it’s as though everything has changed,’ she said, hurt. ‘I don’t quite know what will happen when you leave the house on your scooter. Do you understand that, Frances?’

Frances bowed her head, jutting out her lower lip. ‘Would you like me to sell it?’

‘You can drive a car in two years. You’ll be much safer in a car.’

Later, Sejer asked if there’d been anything about Frances in the local paper. What had been written? Any personal details given? Had there been, in addition to the article, a photograph of her?

Frances was wearing a pink tracksuit. Like a little kitten, she had coiled up in the corner of the sofa. ‘Why do you ask that?’

‘We believe it’s how he selects his victims,’ Sejer said. ‘At least some of them. He scans the local newspaper, finds a story and records the name and place of residence. Then he does some investigative work, perhaps through the operator service. It’s easy to find people in this country.’