Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

A minute ticked by, two, then three minutes. No more sounds in the silent night. She lay there, still curled up in her shell, which hardened as time passed, hard as bone, hard as stone. She was unbreakable, nothing could get into her core. She needed nothing in there, not even food. How close would he come, what was his intent? It was a long time since he had sent the first threat. Well, not sent really. It had not gone through the post. He had been in her vicinity right from the very start. She waited for the next signal. Another ring would be the death knell, catastrophe a fact. No one would hear her. But it was as quiet as a grave now. That may of course mean that he was prowling around the house, peering in the window. Her breathing was short and shallow like someone in the throes of death. She reprimanded herself. Everything was locked. There was nowhere he could get in. She moved a hand very slowly, then a foot. She did not want to leave her shell.

Her head was boiling, she could feel it, as she often did. Her cheeks were burning and feverish, her forehead and hands sweaty. She felt her neck and stomach getting hotter and hotter, the heat spreading like fire. She was sweating as though she were in a furnace. Perhaps the house was burning after all? She could not smell any smoke, could not hear the crackling of flames, nor the chirping of the smoke alarms installed in each room. She kicked off the duvet. Her whole body was cooking, her insides were bubbling and seething, something terrible was happening to her brain, it was melting, she could feel it. It melted and poured out, down the brainstem, down her backbone, all her memories disappeared. Her mother and father and Rikard Josef were all washed away by the searing brain mass, like a raging torrent. What would cause such a sensation, this intense heat, the trickling in her head and down her neck? A brain haemorrhage, she thought, a massive brain haemorrhage. The explanation was obvious, she had heard so many stories. It was of course the blood she was feeling, bursting out and destroying vast tracts for good. She was gripped by panic in the extreme. Was it this that was going to kill her? She had never even considered it.

She wanted to get out of bed, but could not move. With enormous effort, she eventually managed to reach out her hand for her mobile phone that was lying on the bedside table, so she could ring for help. Yet she felt that she was numb in the mouth and realised that she would not be able to do anything other than gasp for breath. Her fingers would not do what she wanted either, she was not able to tap in the number of emergency services. She was burning all over. She moved the little that she could and suddenly realised that she was dressed, tightly swaddled in thick clothes. It was like lying in a cocoon. She could not remember the evening before. Something terrible had happened to her that she could not understand; no one would find her here, not for a long time. As she lay there in this red-hot grip, like an iron in the flames, held by something she could not free herself from, she suddenly remembered the Englishman on the street. As soon as she remembered him, he was standing there clear as day. He came to her like a saviour, full of care and concern, darling, he whispered, darling, is there anything I can do? She wanted to touch him but could not raise her arm, it was heavy and immobile. Why did she remember him and no one else? Perhaps because the others had poured out of her head. There was nothing left in her skull, it was as dark and echoingly empty as Irfan’s shop. She lay there, completely still, petrified and hot. She had no idea for how long.

After an ocean of time, there was a change. The feeling that her brain had melted was replaced by something else. It congealed and rose up her backbone, found its way back to the brainstem and back to its original home inside the membrane. As it gradually regained its original form, she heard a crunching sound, something safe and familiar, like walking on snow. The thought of snow was cooling, the snow lay right outside her house in beautiful white banks. She regained some movement, she could formulate words again, she thought, and she was no longer so hot. She lay there quietly and breathed, slowly in and slowly out. When she was finally able to sit up again, she discovered to her surprise that she had not gone to bed with her clothes on after all. She was wearing only a vest. She put her hands to her head, it felt solid and fine. Perhaps it was a nightmare after all, one of the worst, and now it was over. Then she remembered the doorbell. The doorbell had been real, had started the whole thing. The alarm clock showed five past four, so an hour had passed.

She lay awake until the morning. Did not dare fall asleep, just felt immense gratitude that her brain was intact and that she could move, her fingers, her mouth, everything. I can, she whispered in the dark, I can! She put her feet gingerly down on the floor, slowly stood up, had to make sure that everything was all right and she would not fall over. But she was fine, absolutely fine, supple and mobile as a child. When she was dressed, she went somewhat reluctantly out to the hall, stood in front of the door for a long time, wanting to open it. Someone had been standing out there at three in the morning, someone who wished her ill. She was sure that he had left a message, a white envelope, most probably on the doormat. Her heart hammered as she opened the door, and looked wildly around for a sign. But she saw nothing, and all was quiet.

She had the day off and so took her time with everything, had breakfast sitting by the kitchen window. She looked over at the Sois’ house, where the lights were on. It looked nice. The house was probably full of laughter and love, and so it should be, they had two children. She still had not spoken to them, only seen them from a distance. Soi had driven up in a van one day and stopped by their mailbox. She had studied him carefully, a small, compact man with short hair. How easily he picks up the post, she had thought, not a hint of anxiety. Well, that was certainly how it looked. No one was out for Mr Soi and his lovely family, no one had reminded them about death. Her brain still felt fine, everything seemed to be in working order. The memories of her mother’s busy hands, her father’s ravaged body and Rikard Josef’s round cheeks, it was all there. She could pull them up and put them away again whenever she wanted. She thought about the Englishman again, he had not left her. Perhaps he was still in town, perhaps he walked down the pedestrian precinct at the same time every evening, on his way to some event or meeting that required smart clothes. What if she took the bus into town and wandered down the same street at the same time as before, around seven o’clock? She could stand in front of Ladies Choice, and if he really did walk by in an elegant coat, she could do the same manoeuvre, turn suddenly and bump into him. She dreamt of being seen again, being held by those gentle hands, being spoken to with such care. He would call her darling, he would be concerned. Ask if there was anything he could do. She chewed slowly on the crispbread, the noise filled her head. Now that she had started to listen, the noise got louder, and she realised there was nothing for it but to put the food to one side. What was it her mother used to say when she had a stomach ache or toothache? You should not pay it so much attention. She picked up the plate, cup and knife from the table and carried them over to the sink, where they clattered and clinked when she put them in the washing-up bowl. The fridge was humming as well, and as she normally did not hear the sound, she wondered if it was about to give up the ghost. A heavy trailer drove past on the road and she felt the vibrations in the kitchen floor. This was what it must be like to live with poor hearing all your life, and then suddenly get it back. The noise of the world. She stood by the sink, felt anxious, put her hands over her ears. Then she heard her blood, rushing like a waterfall, behind her eardrums. She did not know whether she could bear to live with all this noise.