Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

She pulled at the sleeve, and gave a resigned smile.

‘You probably don’t know the shop, it’s called Ladies Choice.’

‘I do know it,’ Sejer said.

‘Well, anyway, they have some beautiful dresses, and we’re allowed to dream. So I stood there like a little girl admiring them, but I had to laugh. I would never be invited to a party, so what good were beading and sequins to me?’

‘But if you were invited to a party?’

‘Then I would decline. I don’t know if you go to parties, but for me, it would be impossible. The music and voices and laughter and clinking glasses and chair legs scraping on the floor. You can imagine. I’m hopeless in situations like that.’

‘I am too,’ Sejer admitted.

‘And when I’d had my little daydream, it was time to move on,’ she said. ‘I turned away from the expensive dresses a little too abruptly and stepped back on the pavement, and a man who was passing walked straight into me. We collided with such force that it left me dazed. He got just as much of a fright as me, poor thing. He was an Englishman, about my age, well dressed and totally horrified. He put his hands on my shoulders and stammered, “Oh, I’m so sorry, darling! I’m so sorry!”’

She watched Sejer to see if he was listening. She saw the small changes of expression in his face and eyes, as the images she was giving him flicked by.

‘He stood looking at me for a few moments,’ she whispered. ‘And then I couldn’t stop myself, I just burst into tears. In my awkward way. Can you imagine?’

‘Why do you think that was?’

‘No one has ever called me darling,’ she said. ‘No one, not even my mother or father, or Walther, or Rikard Josef. None of my friends. No one has ever looked at me like that, put their hands gently on my shoulders or talked to me with so much care and concern. He asked if I was all right, if maybe I was hurt or wanted to say something. But all I could do was cry, which is pathetic, and, well, I’m not very charming when I cry. His hands on my shoulders got heavier, and even though I was wearing a coat, I could feel their warmth. They were very warm. And he looked at me closely. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked. But I pulled back and just wanted to run away. My ridiculous crying was bad enough, I did not want him to know that I didn’t have a voice, that would only make him more concerned, and I couldn’t bear that. There’s a limit to how helpless a person can be. I managed to force an apologetic smile before walking as fast as I could down the street and out onto the square, and when I finally turned the corner and knew that he couldn’t see me any more, I bawled my eyes out. It didn’t matter, no one would hear me anyway. Care and concern, I thought, from a complete stranger. Darling, darling, and his warm hands, the weight of them on my shoulders, I could still feel them. My life took a turn. Something I had not seen before had been revealed to me. When the bus pulled away from the square, I realised that I had forgotten to buy food. My rucksack was empty and I had nothing at home. So I cried a bit more, then laughed in my stupid way, and I didn’t care what people thought. The man sitting next to me must have thought I was mad.’

She rested for a while in the cell, on the foam rubber mattress with a plastic cover. Once again she was a little boy on the railway track. The steel was singing, she could feel a fine vibration through her body, she was quivering like a string. She liked the feeling, someone had touched her that evening by Ladies Choice. The Englishman had touched her. At home in Kirkelina she had often sat in front of the burner and stared into the flames, tried to meditate her way out of her sad life. Stop time, hide away in a small, secret space. But she had never managed it. Here in the cramped cell, however, she could slip away to almost anywhere. It must be the thick walls, she thought. No one could reach her in here. And because the room was safe, it also felt big, much bigger than eight square metres, more like a beautifully lit, big hall with an arched window. That is what it felt like, even though she knew it was not true. After a while, she turned over to face the wall. She remembered the encounter on the street, relived it over and over again. It was only when she was back home again in the warmth, and had taken off the empty rucksack and her thick coat, that she started to question the whole experience. She could recreate every detail in her mind, even though it had all happened so quickly. The force of his strong body that had so swiftly changed to gentle concern. Perhaps it was not a coincidence after all, she had thought. His friendliness and worried eyes had been overwhelming. He might have been waiting for her, he may have waited a long time, been standing around the corner keeping watch. And no one dressed like that, not on a normal weekday in November, not in her town. The man had been wearing dark trousers, and an elegant winter coat, which might have been wool. She had seen a white shirt and thin tie. He had short hair and nothing on his head. She had not had time to notice what he was wearing on his feet. But he was a sign. Someone had sent her something good. She should have answered his question.

Is there anything I can do?

But what should she have asked for? Should she have clung on to him and begged for help? Tugged and pulled at his expensive woollen coat, can you teach me to scream?

She was woken by a quiet click, and knew that it was one of the guards looking in through the peephole. Then there was another click when it was closed. It was Louise who came in and pulled her out of her dreams. Louise spoke to her in a friendly voice, the kind an adult might use to talk to someone with special needs. Ragna could read the signs, she was used to them. Even though Louise was at least twenty years younger than her, she spoke down to her and pronounced everything clearly. There were many reasons for it. Her own unattractiveness, the fact that she was sitting in a cell and was fragile as a bird. And that she did not have a voice. Louise wanted to know if everything was all right. Ragna had a sudden urge stand up for herself. She did exactly what Louise had done, she was patronising. She whispered that nothing was all right. She was awaiting a trial that presumably would leave her utterly exhausted, and then she had to face years in prison. And after that, the rest of her life, carrying a burden that was so heavy it was almost impossible to bear. Was everything all right?

‘You know what I’m accused of?’ she whispered. ‘And the sentencing framework?’

Louise had to admit that she did.

‘Then don’t ask silly questions.’

Louise reacted in the same way that the other staff did when they did not know what else to do, she rattled her keys and turned on her heel. But Ragna would give her one thing. None of the others locked the cell door in the same quiet way. She clearly had no need to underline the obvious difference between herself and Ragna.

She remembered that it was night, the room was dark and the alarm clock emitted a green light. The sound of the doorbell made her bolt up and to her horror she saw it was three o’clock. Someone was on her front step, wanting to get in. Someone who was not afraid of the snarling Rottweiler. She did not turn on the light. Her heart was pounding, and her breathing was far too fast. Were there not more sounds too, a kind of rustling at the door, a faint banging on the wall? It was hard to work out what was going on. Were there more of them? What did they want? She owned nothing in the world, did not want to own anything. The only thing of any value she had was her son. She was sitting up in bed and did not dare to move the duvet, he would hear it, the person standing at the door breathing. If the duvet rustled she would give herself away, and it would only incite him. To what, she did not know, but surely something terrible, because no one with good intentions would ring the doorbell in the middle of the night. She sank back down into the bed as carefully as she could, not a breath must be audible, not a heartbeat. She fell into a state of petrified apathy, she had reached a point long anticipated in her thoughts. The moment had arrived, something awful was about to happen, he was on his way in. He had threatened her, had stood there under the street light and watched the house. She curled up, making herself as small as possible, and imagined that she was lying in a shell, an impenetrable, protective skin. Nothing happened inside the shell, no one could reach her there, she did not actually exist. She grabbed a corner of the duvet and held on to it as hard as she could so she would not drift away. In her mind, she ran through the construction of the front door and the lock. It would be easy to force it open with, say, a crowbar, as the wood was old and rotting. The security chain on the inside was hardly a problem, no thicker than a chain she might wear round her neck. Or had she imagined it all? She was so vulnerable at the moment. Was the shrill sound in the house no more than the remnants of a dream? She did not dare take any chances, did not trust the voice of reason. It was best to lie there without moving and wait for whatever it was outside to give up and wander back down to the road and then disappear into the dark. Was a catastrophe unfolding — if, for example, her house was on fire and she had not noticed, then surely he would ring the bell again? He would shout and bang on the door as loudly as he could. If he did not, then something else was afoot. But it couldn’t just be her imagination, she thought, the doorbell had a loud ring, an unmistakable, shrill signal. Her mother had chosen it, as she was hard of hearing.