Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

‘He’s sleeping,’ Ragna whispered. ‘He’ll come if I whistle.’

‘Let’s hope you don’t whistle then,’ he said.

‘We’ll see. He’s well trained.’

‘Can I sit down?’

He had already pulled out a chair, but he was still standing holding the brown folder that contained the news, the unique chance. She suddenly noticed that he only had long nails on his right hand, and that the ones on his left hand were short. Perhaps he played the guitar.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, with interest.

‘You already know,’ she responded.

He gave her an apologetic smile.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Riegel. I forgot, you have a nameplate on the door. Ragna Riegel. Why don’t you sit down, Ragna?’

He nodded at the empty chair on the other side of the table, talked as if she were a guest in her own house. So she remained standing in protest, at a slight distance, leaning back against the worktop with her eyes on him all the while.

‘So,’ he said, with the same intensity as he pulled out the chair, which scraped on the floor. He put the folder down on the table and put his hand on it, as if to emphasise the importance of the contents. ‘So, Mrs Riegel, you know what kind of times we’re living in.’

She raised her thin eyebrows.

‘The signs,’ he said, and looked at her. ‘Have you seen the signs?’

Signs? She thought about the letters she had received. The anonymous letters, the note on her bedside table.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked, staring at him.

‘Bennet,’ he quickly replied.

‘Yes, Bennet,’ she nodded. ‘I’ve seen the signs.’

He seemed happy with this answer. He nodded several times as though she had confirmed something important — his own importance in the world, perhaps, or the value of what he was about to show her.

He’s here now, Ragna thought, in my kitchen, just a couple of metres away. She had lost most of the feeling in her lips, as she often had on the rare occasions she had had too much alcohol, like the night with Walther Eriksson when she had drunk the peach wine.

‘Then you know what I want to talk to you about,’ Bennet said. ‘Then you know why I’m here.’

It was Ragna’s turn to nod. She could feel a drawer knob in the small of her back, it cut through the thin material of the overall like a sharp edge.

‘I’m sure that you’re looking for the truth,’ he said. ‘Having stumbled around in the dark for so long, you deserve some answers. Good answers.’

‘Yes, I do,’ she whispered.

She was like an eagle, alert, ready. She pressed herself back against the drawers, her heart racing, her blood pumping, everything working together.

‘Well, I have come to tell you the truth,’ Bennet said. ‘And I can see that you’re searching. That’s why you let me in. Perhaps you’ve been waiting for me.’

The truth, Ragna thought. Everyone is searching for the truth. But she was no longer so sure that she wanted it. She did not nod, she did not smile, instead she listened to his breathing and realised they were in rhythm. She heard the rustle of the cheap suit fabric when he shifted position on the chair, it sounded like her own nylon overall.

He leaned forward over the table.

‘We have to start with an uncomfortable fact,’ he said, ‘but I can tell that you’re prepared. You have thought long and hard about many things.’

He folded his hands on the table.

‘Fact?’ she whispered.

‘That you’re going to die, Ragna,’ he said in a grave voice.

She felt the drawer knob again, it was sharper, it dug into her back like a claw. She felt the adrenaline surge, and the fury — this man had invaded her life and destroyed her mind, caused her brain to melt so that it ran down her spine. He had robbed her of sleep, he had made her face unravel like an old sweater.

‘And so are you,’ she replied. ‘You are going to die. And it won’t be long.’

Her response took him aback. It was not what he had expected, not what he was used to hearing. So he was lost for words, and needed a moment to plan his next move. He chose to smile. They were in a part of the world where a smile could disarm an enemy.

But she gave him no more chances. She turned her back to him, and opened the top drawer, studied the contents, rattled among the plastic and metal. She ignored the spoon and the ladle. She considered a big pair of scissors for a moment, but then chose a knife instead, with a long, jagged edge. Pulled it out of the drawer, gripped the handle and turned to look at him. His eyes started to dart this way and that when he saw the knife. In the blink of an eye he abandoned his role. He had no strategy for dealing with this. She liked the fact that he said nothing. He scrabbled with the folder, with his right hand, the one with the nails, as though that might protect him, grabbed it and held it up like a shield. It did not occur to him to run, out of the kitchen, out into the snow.

‘My name is Ragna Riegel. I don’t threaten people anonymously. Do you hear what I’m saying?’

The Agent nodded. For some reason he was still smiling, and it made him look like an idiot. While his mind worked furiously to understand the situation, he looked at her properly for the first time. But he did not get up and leave.

‘The news,’ she said as she approached him with the knife. ‘I want it now.’

He raised his hand to ward her off.

‘If you would just listen to me a moment.’ It was his turn to whisper now.

‘Oh,’ Ragna continued. ‘So you’ve lost your voice now as well. Then you know what it’s like. Now I’m the one sending the messages. No one will hear you.’

Finally he felt the urge to get up and leave. But doing so would only make the situation worse, and he suspected that the woman in front of him was totally unpredictable. He chose to stay in character. Do what he had come to do, cling on to that remnant of control. But his strength failed him, and all Ragna could hear was a faint mumbling.

‘I’ve come to offer you a place in the Thousand Year Reign,’ he stuttered. ‘Before it’s too late.’

The Thousand Year Reign? She was still holding the knife, pointing it towards him. The tip was no more than a metre from his torso. She took a step forward, then another. She thought it was strange that he remained seated, that he didn’t push the chair back and try to get away. He was holding on to the folder for dear life. When she suddenly leaned forward and thrust the serrated knife into his stomach, he looked astonished. But he was still only concerned with staying upright on the chair, as though falling over would be an admission, a final defeat. She pulled the knife out again. It was not easy as it had gone in all the way to the handle. He fell forward over the table, one hand still holding the folder, the other over the stab wound. It looked like he had completely forgotten her. He turned his face to the window, where the low winter sun shone in. She heard a faint wailing, then all was quiet for a long time. She did not like the fact that he was still sitting on the chair. It meant that she had not asserted herself enough, she wanted him on the floor. So she stabbed him again, and again, randomly. Then she heard a long, hissing sound and she knew that she had punctured his lung. He must have had a lot of air in his lungs, because the noise went on and on. He started to cant to the side; she pulled back and waited for him to fall to the floor. He was bleeding heavily onto the linoleum, which was cream-coloured, and she was amazed at how quiet it was. Finally he fell all the way. With a great sigh, he lay curled around the table leg.

She was still clutching the knife so hard that she felt it all the way up to her shoulder. She turned away from him and went over to the worktop, dropped the knife in the sink, turned on the tap. The blood and water disappeared down the plughole and she washed her hands, which were clean and white again in an instant. She turned back and looked at him. The Agent. Bennet. It was all so clear now. He was the one who had jumped from the roof of the high building. He was the Jumper. She could see that now, it was him; he was wearing the same clothes, his black jacket open. Now he would never get up again, never look at her with those inscrutable eyes. The sign she had been given so clearly only moments ago. He had jumped for the last time, and now he would stay on the ground. He had forgotten his watch at the till. She had held his time in her hands. She knew that the watch had stopped now as well, lying in its white box, she was absolutely sure of it. She nodded to herself as she had these thoughts, and reflected on all the obvious signs. Of course there was a pattern, an order.