Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

The notice, which he had made himself, on a piece of cardboard with uneven writing, had been taped to the door.

Ragna clutched her handbag to her chest. In it was her purse, and the money she was going to use to buy flatbreads. She felt like a little girl with a coin in her hand who had come to the sweet shop too late. Irfan Baris had moved. Without telling her, without preparing her or any explanation, without thanking her for all the years she had been a loyal customer. And there was nothing on the sign to say where he had moved to. For all she knew, it might be somewhere south of the river, where she seldom went. Or even worse, he might have moved to another town. It was almost like losing a lover. Irfan was a handsome man, with eyes as brown as chestnuts. He always listened to what she had to say, and sometimes surprised her with thoughtful comments, like she should get herself a reflector. And what about all the praise and enthusiasm she had showered on his shop? The interest she had shown in his well-being, his family, how they celebrated Christmas, and more? All the money she had contributed to his business over the years — she shopped there all the time — did it mean nothing? Was it not even worth him telling her that he was going to move?

Without thinking, she looked around for Olaf, he would know. She peered up the road and down, looked back at the dark windows, the empty shelves. How could this have happened? And so fast, it took time to move. There must have been more of them, she thought, maybe they worked all night. While she lay sleeping, they had packed everything into boxes and loaded them into a van. She was overwhelmed by a sudden sorrow, felt worthless, forgotten, ignored. Standing there alone and freezing in the dark, as though she had been robbed. Well, there would be no flatbreads and ham, as she had planned. No longer could she wander around in her living room looking over at the lights in his windows, lights that had become a part of her life, and the street. No doubt someone else would open a shop there, the place could not be used for anything else. But right now, there was nothing, no wonderful smell of exotic spices, no fruit that he was selling cheap because it had been there too long. She tried to remember what she had in the fridge and it was not much. He could have said something. He could have prepared her. She pushed the door hard several times, to relieve her anger. She swore in the dark, a whisper that no one heard, something mean about foreigners who had no manners, had no understanding of common courtesy. She turned her back on the shop and stormed across the road.

There was nothing in her mailbox.

Every time she looked out of the window she was filled with an indefinable fear. The whole street had changed, she thought, the lighting outside was different, it was intruding into her living room. She found herself going over to the window again and again in the hope that she was mistaken, that suddenly the lights would be on in Irfan’s shop as though nothing had happened. Long before he came to Norway with his family there had been a newsagent’s there called Sweet News, and before that there had been a small hairdresser’s with only one chair. Her father went there occasionally, though generally he let his hair grow. But she remembered the nice smell of shampoo and hair tonic. And the scent of leather from the chair her father sat in, which could be lowered and raised and swivelled round. Sometimes, if she asked nicely, she was allowed to sit in the chair herself. The hairdresser pretended that they were at the fair and swung her this way and that, before her father had his hair cut. And now, black windows. The miserable sign was scarcely visible, no more than a pale square on the locked door.

Then suddenly she noticed a man. She did not know where he had come from or how long he had been standing there, she had been so focused on the closed shop. He was standing under the street light at the bottom of her drive. The first thing she noticed was that he was standing absolutely still. He was dressed in something long and dark, but as far as she could see had nothing on his head. And he was staring at her house. His head was big and round, and his body was long and thin. Because he was standing under the light, she could see him quite clearly even though it was dark. She stepped back into the room. It was just someone out for a wander, who happened to admire her house as she looked out, because the warm light streaming from the windows made it welcoming. If she went and looked again now, he would be gone, perhaps on his way up towards the church. But that was not the case, he was still standing there. And his arms, those long arms, were not hanging loosely by his side, but were pressed against his body as though he were carved in stone. Perhaps she should close the curtains and turn off all the lights? Instead she collapsed into the armchair, sat there for some time and watched the clock on the wall as time ticked by. She could hear the small click each time the minute hand moved. Felt with her whole being that he was standing there, felt his eyes.

She had to get up and check again. He had not moved. It was cold and he was unsuitably dressed, no hat or gloves. He seemed oblivious to the dark and the snow. His posture was defiant, like he was making a demand, or waiting for something, only she had no idea what. She stepped to the side of the window, hid behind the curtain. But he had of course seen her silhouette through the glass. What if she waved to him — would he wave back? Would her hand act as a signal to set something in motion, something over which she had no control? She huddled up behind the curtain, held the thick fabric tight in her hand. A car drove slowly by, the white headlights dipping, but the man did not move. She tried frantically to find a way to deal with it, she could not simply ignore him, he was standing in her drive, he was staring at her house. She should probably walk those forty-eight steps down to the road and ask what he wanted, if he was waiting for someone or something, if he was looking for an address. But he might then answer, nothing, and I’ll stand here as long as I like. I’m within my rights. Which was true. So she tried to ignore him, did not dare go out, but hit the wall with her fist to vent her anger. She would not do much more than produce vapour in the cold air, and words he could not hear. And if he was suddenly gone, did that mean he had come up to the house and was standing on the top step right now, laughing at the Rottweiler, because he realised she did not have a dog, or, even worse, he knew, because he had been watching her for a long time? Instead, she turned on the television and sat down in the armchair, stared at the flickering screen without taking anything in. She resisted the temptation to close the curtains. Then he would probably think that she had seen him and was frightened, and she did not want to give him the pleasure, if it was the thrill he was after. Ragna thought she could hear him, standing there by the lamp post, growling. She could hear him over the sound of the television, as though he was right outside the window. Or was it Olaf using some electrical equipment in his house, a drill perhaps? She decided to wait for half an hour, and if he was still there she would ring the police. It was definitely time to get someone else involved. The clock on the wall ticked by, she could hear clearly. So she turned up the volume on the television, but she could still hear him. When those long thirty minutes had finally passed, she peeped quickly out through the window — he was still there. So she gave him another half-hour. Tiptoed out into the kitchen, made sure always to keep her back to the window. She brewed a cup of tea, and stirred in the sugar. Snuck back into the living room, bent over so she was under the radar, and watched the minutes pass on the wall clock. He was still there.