Karin Fossum - The Caller

Frances went to pick up the newspaper she’d saved. She pointed at the photograph. Then she glanced at her mother. ‘It’s been fourteen days. We were at a dealership to pick out my scooter, and a guy from the Council for Road Safety talked to us. He was writing about traffic safety, so I answered a few questions. At the end he took my photo. It’s a bad photo. I look so fat.’

Sejer read the short article. She had just turned fifteen, and the scooter was a gift from her father, who lived abroad. When he finished the article, he read the caption under the photo.

‘Frances Mold of Kirkeby looks forward to driving. But she is also concerned about safety, and buys the most expensive helmet. She won’t, she pledges, be a reckless driver.’

‘Look,’ Sejer said. ‘Your name and address are here, so it wasn’t difficult to find you. But he must have also kept this house under surveillance. He needed to be certain you were out on your scooter when he called. More than likely he called from a kiosk.’ He observed the two women sitting close to each other on the sofa. ‘When you were at the hospital reception,’ he said to Evelyn, ‘do you recall whether you felt as if you were being watched?’

Evelyn seemed perplexed. ‘There were a lot of people in the cafe,’ she said, ‘and a lot of coming and going through the main entrance. But whether any of them looked at me, I wasn’t in any state to notice. I was completely out of it. Do you know what? If a snowman had stood behind the information desk I wouldn’t have noticed. Why do you ask anyway?’

‘Because he typically shows up to watch his prank play out. Did anyone visit you today?’

‘No one. Just you.’

‘Then I’m guessing he was at the hospital,’ Sejer said. ‘He watched this house. He saw Frances start the scooter and ride through the gate. He called you and then went straight to the hospital. He knew you would show up.

It’s quite possible he observed the entire scene at close range.’

‘I’m speechless,’ Evelyn said.

‘He must have a screw loose,’ Frances said.

Henry was asleep when he entered the room.

In the frayed chair, with his legs on the footstool. He slept soundlessly and with an open mouth. A few worn teeth were visible in his pale gums. Johnny sat down. Proud of what he’d done, he sincerely believed he was remarkable. Not that he thought he was worth much — no more than a louse, or a centipede, or some other nasty creature that crawled around in the damp dark under a rock: he had no more goals or reasons to live, had no more answers, no greater right to life. He didn’t feel significant or vital, and there was nothing meaningful in his life. He felt disconnected, like when you pull up a weed that can never again take root. Indifferent to life and death, to what happened, to what people might think, he could do as he pleased. What it would lead to didn’t concern him, and it didn’t bother him to think of the consequences. But he felt a bond to the old man asleep in the chair.

Where will I go when you are gone? he thought. Who will I visit? Who will I help? This is the only place where I can think clearly. Here, in this hot, stuffy lounge, on the old footstool. I’ll make a sandwich for you, and then I’ll swat a fly. I’ll fetch the post, and then we’ll chat for a while.

‘Grandpa?’ he whispered.

Henry blinked. ‘I knew you were here,’ he mumbled. ‘You come as silently as a cat, but I notice at once.’

Johnny moved closer. ‘Has your carer been here?’ he wanted to know. ‘The woman from Thailand?’

The old man raised a claw-like hand and wiped a droplet of snot from his nose. The hand, with its crooked fingers, resembled those primitive weapons Johnny had seen in films, a wooden club with spikes hammered into it.

‘Mai Sinok. Her name is Mai Sinok, and she was here at eight this morning. She brought a pot of cabbage soup, and four nectarines. I’ve eaten it all up, Johnny, there’s nothing left for you.’ He opened his pale, watery eyes.

‘Grandpa, how are you feeling today? You’re not getting worse, are you?’

The old man considered this question. He regarded his frail body from head to toe. ‘I’m not getting worse,’ he said. ‘But I’m not getting better, either. I have water in my lungs, you know, and arthritis in every body part and a failing heart. What do you know, it rhymes. Did you catch that, Johnny?’

Johnny put a hand on his grandfather’s arm. ‘You’ll live until you’re ninety,’ he assured him. ‘In twenty years I’ll be sitting here, and you’ll be like a gnarled tree that I can hang my helmet on.’

The old man grunted, apparently a laugh.

‘Tell me what it’s like,’ Johnny said. ‘To be old. I mean, when the body is as worn out as yours. You hardly ever eat. Just sit here sleeping. Hardly ever talk to anyone, just me and Mai Sinok.’

‘You mean I’m near the edge of my grave.’ He stroked his hair away from his forehead. The room’s heat made him sluggish and drowsy. ‘You too are on the edge of the grave. Perhaps we’re all on the edge of the grave.’

‘I’m just seventeen,’ Johnny said. ‘I’ve got a full life ahead of me.’

‘That’s what we like to believe. Otherwise life would be impossible.’

‘Tell me what it’s like,’ Johnny repeated. ‘Can you feel death getting closer? Can you feel your heart and everything else work more slowly? What’s it like to live in slow motion?’

‘Oh, it’s all right. It’s like bobbing in the surf, against the shore and out, against the shore and out. From morning to evening. You’ve just got to let yourself go.’

‘You’re lying,’ Johnny said. ‘Bobbing in the surf, you say.’

Again the old man grunted a laugh. With his spiked club-hands he made a slight wave, gave Johnny a clumsy caress. ‘I’m feeling quite well, lad.’

‘But I want to know what it feels like,’ Johnny insisted. ‘Is the light different? Or the sound?’

Henry sighed. ‘I see the same things as you. Every person lives his life on the edge. The view is the same. To say anything else would be a lie.’ Then he added: ‘Where have you been today? What have you been up to?’

Johnny made himself comfortable on the footstool. In spite of his modest weight, the plastic cover and the nails holding it together cracked.

‘Not much. I went to a cafe. I ate a vanilla pastry and perused the newspaper.’

Clearly they’ll get me, he thought.

Sooner or later. That’s all right. While I wait for them to get me, I’ll have fun. I like this game, I always win. But if I were to meet my match, then that would be all right. I won’t sulk and complain. It was fun while it lasted, and I’ve made my presence known.

He stayed with Henry for several hours. They read the newspaper and discussed this and that, but for long stretches of time they just sat in comfortable silence. Close to each other in the hot room. When he finally got up to leave, he caught sight of Else Meiner through the window, and when he was in the garden, she also caught sight of him. She straddled her blue Nakamura bicycle, and it appeared to be fixed. The tyres were brand new. He started the moped and put on his helmet, then slipped on to the road. She waited. Her face was one big grin. He thought about something his grandfather had once said. That a person who teases you was often a person who, deep down, was attracted to you, possibly even in love. So he studied Else Meiner extra carefully. The little girl’s pointy face with the large front teeth. Was she in love with him? Deep down? He continued on the road slowly. This time he didn’t look away, down at the handlebars or up at the sky. He stared directly at her. She didn’t flinch. He had never really looked at that smile, he realised, and it was actually a bright and cheery smile. She knows I was the one who slashed her tyres, he thought, that’s what she’s trying to say. That’s why she’s not shouting at me like she normally does, because we’re even now. We’re finally even! He gunned the throttle and raced ahead, across the road. As he passed her, she raised her middle finger.