Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

You are going to die. In other words, backwards, die to going are you. You. The person who had written the message had good motor ability. The letters were carefully written, one by one. The sender did not want the writing to have any recognisable loops or curves. Like a fingerprint. A man, of course; a woman would never make a threat like that. Oh, so it’s a man now, not a teenager, she thought. She turned the piece of paper over. The note had been written with a strong hand, and it was possible to see the letters through the paper. What if it had said ‘Ragna’ on the envelope, rather than ‘Riegel’? Or both names. Or if it had said ‘Kirkelina 7’. Then she would not have been so frightened before reading what was written, but could not explain why it should make a difference. The note was for her, without a doubt, it was in her mailbox. Her son had left home, her parents were dead. And the way the note was formulated gave the impression that she was worthless. She was just ‘Riegel’. And she was going to die. It was the brevity that frightened her, just the bare essentials, merciless, no doubt. I’m hungry, she thought, confused, and folded the piece of paper again. Put it back in the envelope, opened the cupboard under the sink and pushed the letter into the rubbish bin. And there it lay among the old, rotting food.

She ate more slowly than usual, she was indignant. As though someone had spoken behind her back or started a rumour. Indignant, as she had never bothered anyone, had never stood out, had never been derogatory about anyone, neither as a child nor as an adult. She was offended. She was deeply disturbed. She sniffed again, finished her food and stood up, took the rubbish bin out from under the sink, tied up the bag, pushed her feet into some shoes and went out, carried the rubbish down to the road. Opened the bin. She saw that it was half full. She looked down Kirkelina, in case she could see or hear anyone, then she looked up towards the church. She could just make out the spire. Her neighbour Olaf appeared with his dog, walking towards the church. They were both wearing yellow reflective coats. She stayed where she was as she thought it might be nice to have a quick word with him. She knew Olaf well, they had always been neighbours. His Rottweiler, Dolly, spotted her and pulled at the lead. Ragna had never met another Rottweiler as small as Dolly. The dog still looked like a puppy and would never grow up, it seemed. She looked at her kind neighbour and longed for only one thing, that he would tell her that he had also found a ridiculous threat in his mailbox. A note that he was going to die. And only his surname on the envelope, no sender. But he said nothing about receiving such a letter, he was as carefree and happy as always, nothing was weighing on his mind. He was a man, anyway, he had a voice, some muscle even, she thought, he was broad-shouldered, and strong, and a good deal older than her. Instead he looked up at the street light by her house and said: ‘I envy you that light, Ragna. It’s pitch dark outside ours.’

He pulled Dolly back as she was straining at the lead.

‘But I’m sure you deserve it,’ he added with a smile.

Ragna wondered what he meant. Maybe he meant she needed that extra bit of help as she had lost her voice, after all, she had a handicap. Oh, I’m being mean now, she realised, Olaf is a good man. Olaf can hear what I’m saying, even if a lorry drives by as I open my mouth, he just moves closer, he listens and reads my lips.

‘The Teigens are moving,’ he told her and nodded to the house opposite hers. The house she could see from the kitchen and bedroom.

‘Oh!’ she whispered in surprise.

‘A Thai family with two children have bought the house,’ he continued. ‘They’re going to open a small restaurant in town, and apparently the wife has been given permission to run a massage clinic. At home. In one of the rooms in the basement.’

‘What?’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘Massage?’

Olaf burst out laughing when he saw her expression.

‘I’m sure it’s all very above board. Evidently she has a qualification from Thailand and knows a lot about bad backs. It’ll probably be pretty reasonable as well, and she’ll only be open every other day.’

‘Will you go?’ Ragna whispered.

‘I expect so,’ Olaf said. ‘If the wife doesn’t mind. They’re very beautiful, those Thai ladies.’

He winked at her when he said that. The reflection of the street light made his eyes sparkle. He turned and followed a car with his eyes as it cruised past them and on up towards the church. They could just see the clock on the spire, where the pale face shone like the moon.

‘The doctor says my bones are starting to look like a Christmas tree covered in snow, because of all the calcification,’ he told her. ‘Come on, Dolly! We need to carry on.’

He walked off with the dog behind him, and she watched their yellow reflective jackets dance into the dark. He had not had a letter. Only she had received a letter. She turned and went back up to the house, settled down on her chair in front of the television, and turned on the news channel. She had to know what was going on in the world, her own was so incredibly small, and her colleagues always discussed the night’s news when they came to work the next day, and she wanted to be part of that. If anything had happened in Berlin, she paid particular attention. But the images did not hold her attention in the same way as usual. She was constantly distracted — the distraction was like a nail in her head, and it had struck something deep down. She sat still with her hands in her lap, and told herself she was a fool for not burning the letter immediately in the wood stove. She had not even torn it to shreds or crumpled it up, the letter was lying in the rubbish bin down by the road, just as complete as when she first read it. The threat still held, she had not destroyed it, it lay there screaming, screaming so loudly that the bin lid was banging, and no doubt the whole of Kirkelina could hear the noise. Hear that she was anxious and useless in number 7, a woman without a man, without even a voice. She got up and crossed the room, went out into the hall, put on her shoes and opened the door, strode down to the road, and opened the rubbish bin. Bent over. It was dark, and she had her back to the street light and she could scarcely see a thing. Which bag was it in? The one on top, or the one that had fallen slightly to the side? Some were from Irfan’s shop, plain white with no advertisements, but she found a couple from Europris with the green logo. Now, try to remember, which bag had she taken out from under the sink? She rummaged around in the rubbish, squeezed the bags one after the other, trying to feel what was inside. Eventually, she pulled one out. The lid slammed into place. She was about to turn back to the house when Olaf appeared again, on his way back. He glanced at the bag dangled in her hand and she blushed.

‘Ah,’ he said with a smile. ‘We sometimes have to dig out things from the rubbish that we’ve thrown away by accident too. Was it a lottery ticket? With the winning number?’

She pulled the bag to her chest and shook her head.

‘Took the wrong one by mistake,’ she whispered. ‘I leave the bags out in the hall, and some need to go down into the basement and others out to the rubbish. I’m having a clear-out.’

‘You’re not thinking of moving as well, are you?’ he asked.

‘No, no, I’ll never move.’

She turned away from him and trudged up to the house, closed the door. Her cheeks were still burning with shame. She was fond of Olaf. She could not imagine life without him, her kind elderly neighbour, who always had a good word to say and who maybe looked out for her, checked to see if the light was on in the morning, a sure sign that she was still alive. Or kept an eye out in case the house went up in flames or someone broke in. He knew that she could not scream.