Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

Once this thought had taken root, she felt connected to the passengers in a completely different way. They shared a destiny that she was now part of. She thought the throb of the engine was deeper than usual, that it was using more power, that the dark outside was becoming denser. She looked at the driver’s broad back and imagined that he had no face. From here, he would race past all the bus stops without stopping. Would not let anyone off or on. If she stood up and went to ask him a question, he would neither look at her nor answer. Their fate was sealed. She would lose her balance, grab hold of one of the bus straps and then hang there dangling as though on the gallows. She cursed Edgar Allan Poe and all the other authors who could trigger such thoughts in her head years after she had read them.

Audun got off at the square. He nodded to her as he passed, which was something. She nodded back. He slipped out of the hissing door and was swallowed by the dark, so young and lithe. Of course he was shy. She felt an affection for him as a result, it was not easy to live like that, constantly having to guard your territory, being forced to be with people without feeling any connection to them, or wanting to have any connection. She put her cheek to the window and played a mind game. She pretended she knew Audun, what his home was like, what he had and did not have, what his dreams were, and his fears. That she could read him like a book just by looking at him, his topknot, his stride, his voice, his expressions. His worn, dark clothes told her what he deemed to be important and less important. But all her assumptions were based on prejudice, in the same way that others went around thinking this and that, judging everyone, throughout their lives perhaps. If we don’t talk to each other and ask, Ragna thought, then we draw our own conclusions, damn and misjudge. But he had sat down in her place. Why just there, when nearly all the other seats were empty? Would she have to be first on the bus, from now on, to lay claim to what she believed was hers? Walther Eriksson popped into her mind. The way he had looked at her, that loaded, knowing look. He had understood everything — who she was, what she wanted, what her dreams were. She had drunk a whole bottle of Peach Canei that night. She had been easy prey.

When the bus stopped at Kirkelina, she went into Irfan’s shop to pick up a few things.

‘The dark is coming,’ he said. ‘You’re not wearing any reflectors.’

He pointed at her black coat.

‘The cars won’t see you. Just look at your neighbour Skiold and his dog, they know how to look after themselves.’

He nodded towards Olaf’s house.

She was surprised and touched by his concern. Did he really care about her well-being, would he be upset if she was mowed down? She had to admit she was lax when it came to things like that, but she explained that she never really walked around at night, just the short distance from the bus stop to her house. Something deep inside resisted using reflectors. It was her wish not to be seen. She put all her shopping into a white carrier bag, thanked him and crossed the road. She glanced up at the Teigens’ house, which was all dark, and then it struck her that it was no longer their house. She stood by the mailbox and hesitated, staring at it for a long time. Did it not look heavier than usual? Could she not hear warning bells? She took a deep breath and opened the lid. There was nothing more than the newspaper in there. She peered quickly over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching. She was exposed now, alone under the street light, visible in the dark. And she remembered that she had stood under another street lamp in the park one evening many years ago, with Walther. He was moving to Stockholm with his family. Before he turned to leave, he put a finger under her chin and tilted her face towards the light.

‘There’s not an ounce of badness in you, little Miss Ragna Riegel.’

Sejer noticed that her face opened up whenever she spoke about Walther Eriksson, as though she thought of him as a burning flame and immediately tried to get closer, seeking warmth. She blushed easily, often about trivialities. But she was not embarrassed about Walther Eriksson. He must have given her something important, a validity, a worth.

‘Were you afraid you were going to die?’ he asked. ‘As you stood there under the street light and opened the mailbox?’

Her smile was forgiving.

‘All the fuss about death,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t understand people. Do you they really want to be here forever? Lots of people have died before us and they’re obviously okay. I’ve never heard of anyone complaining from the other side.’ She smiled ironically.

‘So the fear you felt, what was it?’

‘I was scared of losing control over my life. That I would never get it back again, that I would have to live as a prisoner or a refugee. I was used to living an orderly life where I made all the decisions, but now someone else was deciding. It didn’t help if I got home and there was nothing in the mailbox, the day didn’t get any better, he had a hold of me. I was constantly waiting, but I didn’t know what I was waiting for.’

‘And you imagined getting the third letter? Did you think about what he would write the next time?’

‘When he wrote that it wasn’t long until I was going to die, it somehow felt different and more serious than the first letter. He knew something about the future, he had plans. I got the feeling that he knew something about me, and I had no idea what it was.’

‘Did you have anything on your conscience?’

‘Not at first. But I did after a while. Because he was right. Someone had picked me out of the crowd and let me know that I had been seen. That I couldn’t hide any more.’

‘And that was what you always wanted?’ Sejer asked. ‘To hide?’

She did not answer straight away.

‘I just wanted to be left in peace.’

The red light was flashing on his phone again, and because Ragna had seen it as well, there was a pause. Whoever wanted to get hold of the inspector was silently interrupting, just as the silent message in Ragna’s mailbox had interrupted her life. She sat completely still on the chair. She did not appear too tired or intimidated, just very focused. There was something special about her, something he liked. A sincerity. She did not try to make herself any better than she was, nor was she defensive. She had never asked for much in life. Her son had left home as soon as he was able to look after himself. She did not blame him, she defended him instead.

‘What did you think he would write in the next letter?’ he asked again.

She shrugged.

‘That he would give me a date.’

‘A date for your death?’

‘That would be the logical next step, don’t you think?’

‘And what would you have done then? When the day arrived?’

‘Not a lot,’ she whispered. ‘Maybe stayed indoors, locked the door. But that’s what I do anyway. You’re asking about letter number three. I often imagined letter one hundred. I liked to think that by then the threats would have lost their power. I almost hoped it would happen, that the letters would pour in so I could start to laugh at them, think of them as rubbish and of him as a loud-mouthed coward. Two short messages and then silence would be harder to live with, harder to understand. I thought a lot of strange things. I often thought, if I’m going to die, I’m going to die, whether it’s today or thirty years from now. But I was unfocused and they started to notice at work.’

‘How did they notice? Tell me.’

‘I made mistakes with the pricing. There were too many zeros or too few. People came to the till and asked if the toastie machine really did cost only twenty kroner.’