Karin Fossum - The Caller

He hadn’t been able to protect them.

A stranger had come from outside and blasted their relationship to smithereens.

Each time he reached this point in his flow of thoughts he tensed up, and immediately had to occupy himself with some project, something that would absorb his energy. He secured loose boards in the picket fence around their garden. Pounded nails with a hammer to use up all his strength. He got the axe and chopped until chips of wood flew. Lily watched him through the window. Just a flicker of her consciousness understood what was actually happening; she was, after all, absorbed by the child. Margrete had gained a lot of weight. The nurse had pointed this out when she visited. When this assertion was made, Lily Sundelin surprised both herself and the nurse by standing up so quickly that her chair crashed to the floor. Then she pounded on the table.

Karsten Sundelin had begun going out for drinks after work. He happily stopped off at a friend’s place, and sometimes they got a beer at the little bar next to the Shell station in Bjerkås. Then he would come home late, by taxi. Even though he was late, and quite drunk, he saw no sign of irritation in Lily.

She was busy with the child, after all.

Nights were the worst.

When they lay side by side with Margrete in the middle of the bed, now and then he would extend his hand and carefully touch Lily’s shoulder, or her hair, as had once been his habit. In return he got nothing. Just an involuntary shudder, as if the touch irritated her.

She had drafted a new set of rules.

And he struggled to understand them.

Sometimes he lay awake with his hands behind his head and imagined another woman and another life, a strong and independent woman, a brash woman who could fight for herself. Someone who laughed easily, who was able to push aside trivial matters, and get back on her feet if anyone knocked her down. Who moved on. Who ranted and roared instead of suffering in silence. Of course he could leave. Of course he could find such a woman. He was an attractive, broad-shouldered man with a deep voice, slender hips and long legs. But he was also a decent man. Moral scruples held him in their grip. They closed off the good life, the kind of life where there was room for his whole personality. He had been reduced to a caretaker for two fragile people. He had to tiptoe, always be ready, rush to them whenever one whimpered. Horrible thoughts whirled in his head, keeping him awake. They exhausted him. They led to a mix of self-loathing and anger, and he vacillated constantly between these feelings, tossing and turning while the mattress and bed frame squeaked under the weight of his heavy body.

‘Please lie still,’ Lily would say. ‘You’ll wake Margrete.’

Jacob Skarre had come home from his shift, and it was afternoon when he opened the door to his flat. He had gone shopping on the way home. His bags stood on the kitchen worktop, jam-packed with food. There wasn’t much space. Against the wall sat all sorts of electrical appliances: a food processor from Braun, a coffee maker, a coffee grinder, a sandwich maker and a toaster, along with a plastic salad spinner which didn’t fit in the cupboards. Just as he was about to put the food away, his mobile rang.

He didn’t recognise the number.

‘Hi, Jacob,’ he heard. ‘It’s Britt.’

It was a bright and excited girl’s voice, but he didn’t know anyone called Britt. Still, Skarre had been raised in a vicarage, and had been taught to greet people in a mild, friendly manner.

Always, and in every situation.

Be open and accommodating.

‘Hello, Britt,’ he replied. ‘How can I help you?’

Britt twittered like a lark, and even though he couldn’t see her, he imagined her as small and sweet, with a lot of plumage. He pulled a cucumber from the bag. At the same time he trawled his memory. Could this Britt have been a part of his life? Maybe late one evening, after a few beers? With his blond curls and good manners he undeniably attracted a lot of attention from the opposite sex.

‘He’s been here again,’ Britt said. ‘We think he’ll be coming back. He forgot his gloves.’

The woman relayed this information with a dramatic flourish. Between words she made lip-smacking sounds, as if she had sweets in her mouth. But Skarre still did not quite understand. He had just done an eight-hour shift at the police station and talked to so many people about so many things that his head was swirling with thoughts. He took a box of eggs from the bag and pushed it against the wall. He continued digging around in his memory.

‘Be coming back?’ he said.

He removed a triangle of French Brie and a bar of dark, bitter chocolate while listening to the little lark on the other end of the line.

‘They’re motorcycle gloves,’ Britt explained. ‘They’re black with red skulls. I’ve never seen gloves like that. They’re either completely naff, or totally cool. I can’t decide. I mean, skulls!’

Skarre pulled a case of beer from the bag and set it on the worktop. Now it dawned on him, slowly, like the first ray of morning light. ‘Britt?’ he said. ‘From the Spar?’

He ignored his groceries, grabbing a chair and plopping into it.

‘From the Spar in Lake Skarve,’ she said. ‘You were here, I’m sure you remember. You gave me your card. I’ve talked to the other girls, like you asked me to. The other girls on the till, I mean. And you asked me to call you. Ella Marit’s been off sick — there’s always something with her — but now she’s back. She remembers a boy who bought one of those blocks of frozen ox blood. She didn’t look at him carefully that day, and anyway, he had his helmet on. But she remembered his gloves, the ones with the skulls, because they’re not something you see every day. When he was last here, he left them behind on the conveyor belt. They’re in the staff room now. We reckon he’ll come back to get them because they look expensive.’

Skarre stood up slowly. He returned to the worktop and put his hand on the case of ice-cold beer. He felt an almost irresistible urge to crack it open and gulp down a bottle. Instead he grabbed his keys and headed for the door.

Britt and Ella Marit waited on a bench in front of the shop.

The two friends sat close together, and arched towards the sun like flowers. Ella Marit, who was older, had lit a cigarette, while Britt licked an ice lolly. They wore green Spar uniforms, and had put on whatever make-up they could — they were at the age when such things were import ant. When Skarre walked across the car park, the two exchanged whispered words, then leapt up from the bench and accompanied him into the shop and the back room where they took breaks. It was a very unpleasant room, with a narrow window high up near the ceiling and bare brick walls pocked with cracks. Like a basement. There was a coffee machine and a small fridge, a table with four chairs and a stainless-steel sink where they could do dishes.

Britt retrieved the gloves and held them out to him.

They were made of soft, black leather.

‘They’re small,’ Skarre said. He tried to pull on one of the gloves, but it was pointless.

‘He’s not that big,’ Ella Marit said. She stood in front of Skarre with her hands on her hips. ‘Just a teenager, I think. Skinny as a blade of grass.’

Skarre examined the gloves closely. They could be fastened at the wrist with a large button. On the inside was a silk-like flap: Made in China . A red skull was embossed in the leather at the top of the glove.

‘What did he look like?’ he asked.

‘Like an angel,’ Ella Marit said. ‘Dark and handsome, with really long hair.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘Jeans and a T-shirt. There was some writing on the shirt, but I couldn’t read what it said, unfortunately.’