Karin Fossum - The Caller

‘That’s it. Try it now, you rascal.’

Johnny sat. At first he felt nothing and thought he might not weigh enough. But just as he was about to express his disappointment, he began to sink. The gel grew warm, and the warmth filled his entire body, until it felt as though he was being held by a thousand chubby hands.

‘Wow,’ he said excitedly.

‘You see what I mean?’ Henry said. ‘Isn’t it just sheer luxury?’

Johnny gave the chair back to its rightful owner then returned to the footstool.

Something caught his eye.

The Sunday paper lay on the table — Mai had brought it in — and he saw the front-page headline: TORN TO DEATH BY DOGS.

He read these vivid words and looked at the photograph of a little boy with his coarse blond tufts of hair. Further down the article was a subhead: Suspicion of sabotage .

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Was he killed by dogs?’

Henry looked at the newspaper. ‘Yes, something terrible happened to him. At Glenna, up near Saga. Mai read the article to me. A little boy on a hike, and out comes a pack of dogs.’

Johnny read the article. And while he read, his mouth dried up completely.

‘But did they just attack him? For no reason?’

‘Dogs do that sometimes when they’re in a pack,’ Henry said.

‘But why? The dogs were pets, weren’t they? Someone owned them?’

He continued reading, rushing through the sentences. The boy was attacked, it said, by seven dogs and died of substantial injuries. He hadn’t stood a chance.

Henry shook his head. ‘The laws of humanity no longer apply when they run off like that,’ he said. ‘The hunting instinct takes over. They grow wild again. People would too, I tell you. In extreme situations. The dog owner — what was his name again?’

‘Schillinger,’ Johnny said.

‘Right. Schillinger. He says it’s sabotage. He says someone must have opened his dog kennel as a lark. Just to see the dogs run off.’

‘And who would that be?’

The old man rested his eyes on him. They were filled with a surprising intensity. ‘You need to ask? We have enough riff-raff around here. They’re everywhere with their horrible pranks. The man who’s calling people, they haven’t caught him, have they? And he’s been at it for weeks.’

Johnny set the newspaper down. He could no longer sit still. He had to get up and pace. After a few moments he returned to the footstool.

‘The dogs can’t open the gate on their own,’ Henry said, ‘and their owner swears he’s always mindful to close it. When something like this happens, it’s no surprise the prankster gets blamed. After so many weeks of terrorising people, he’s going to have to put up with it.’ He tapped his gel pillow. ‘He’ll probably have some sleepless nights. Whether he’s guilty or not. Because this is negligent homicide. They’re out searching for leads. And he’ll have to pay for it!’

‘But,’ Johnny said weakly, ‘the guy who’s calling and placing announcements and all that, he’s just playing. They’re just innocent jokes.’

‘Innocent jokes?’ Henry got worked up. ‘Did you hear about the little girl displaying her two angora rabbits at an exhibition? She got her photograph in the paper and all of that. Two days later someone crucified a stuffed bunny on her door. Do you think that’s a joke?’

Johnny stared at the newspaper on the table, then turned it over so the front page was face down. Sitting motionless, he let his arms dangle at his sides. ‘How convenient for Schillinger to have someone to blame,’ he mumbled.

Irritated, Henry gesticulated with his hands. ‘Are you defending the joker now or what? You know what he’s been up to? I’ve thought about it often; one day he’ll go too far, and he’ll get a taste of his own medicine. It’s no longer a joke. But you’re a caring lad, Johnny, and you don’t understand such mischief.’

Johnny didn’t have anything to say.

‘Did you read the entire article?’ Henry asked. ‘It’s awful about that boy. One arm was torn off. They found it in the woods, several metres from the body. Think about his mother and father. I mean, think about them!’ Henry’s eyes began to run, and he had to wipe away some tears. ‘When I was a boy,’ he went on, ‘I grew up near a mink farm. We would gather there, a group of us boys, and look at them through the fence. They certainly smelled. You could smell it for miles around. None of the neighbours were especially happy about them, that’s for sure. To be honest, Johnny — because we’re always honest with each other, are we not? — we let them out of their cages a few times. Just for the fun of it. We weren’t against the fur trade or anything like that. We hadn’t a clue about those things. If old ladies wanted to wear fur, it was OK with us. But it was awfully funny to watch them dash off in every direction. So they put up an electric fence and the fun was over. But as you know, these are the things boys do.’ He coughed. ‘When I buy strawberries at the shop —’ He paused and started over. ‘Well, I never go to the shop any more. But before, when my legs held up, I would sometimes go to the shop to buy strawberries, and in some of the baskets I would find a rotten berry on top. So I would immediately think the entire basket was rotten. Isn’t that right? That’s how we humans function. No,’ he added, ‘perhaps that’s a bad comparison. But you know what I mean.

‘You look a little pale, Johnny. Why don’t you go to the kitchen and get yourself a drink from the fridge.’

Johnny got up, disappeared into the kitchen and found a Coke. He uncapped it and stood bent over the worktop drinking.

‘The scoundrel ought to go from door to door in the whole area,’ Henry Beskow shouted. ‘Kneel on every single doorstep and beg for forgiveness. What do you think of that, Johnny?’

Johnny clutched at the worktop. It was as if the room spun wildly and he stared down into an abyss so deep and so black that he grew dizzy.

‘Johnny!’ Henry shouted from the living room. ‘Don’t you think he should kneel on every doorstep?’

‘It’s too late,’ Johnny mumbled. ‘People will think what they want to think. And anyway, you can’t beg forgiveness for everything.’

Gunilla Mørk didn’t believe Schillinger and his claims of sabotage. She didn’t care for his bitter tone, or his hostility and aggressiveness. He lacked humility in the face of the terrible thing that had happened, and she suspected him of exploiting the situation. The prankster who’d made fun of them for weeks had a touch of sophistication, she thought — there was no escaping that. He was creative and imaginative, and he had style. She had cut her own obituary out of the newspaper and hung it on the wall in a little silver frame. Each morning when she entered the kitchen, she read it and thought, Oh no, not yet. I’m still here. It gave her a certain satisfaction.

Sverre Skarning discussed the incident with his Syrian wife, Nihmet. ‘He’s been everywhere,’ Nihmet said, ‘our terrorist. Done all sorts of strange things. No wonder he’s being blamed for this, that and the other. It’s the price he’s got to pay. He should turn himself in. If he doesn’t, we’ll have our own theories.’

‘Bjørn Schillinger grew up here,’ Skarning said. ‘He’s had dogs for thirty years. When he trains with the wagon in the summer, he brakes when people walk on Glenna. In the winter he lets skiers pass. He’s considerate, and he’s meticulous in everything he does. The dogs are his life, and he cares for them in every way. He would never allow something like this to happen. Forget to close the gate? Never!’

No, it was impossible to comprehend. It didn’t make any sense.