Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

She dried her hands on the dishcloth and stood looking at the bent body under the kitchen table. The fluorescent light on the ceiling was reflected in the blood and it looked shiny like oil. His body was no longer receiving signals from his brain, and now he looked like a broken doll that someone had thrown away. She watched him in silence, the fluid pouring from his wounds, spreading out into a big pool. She realised that she had to do something. She came up with a temporary solution. She walked resolutely into the hall, pushed her feet down into some boots and went round to the back of the house, to the woodpile under the bathroom window, and pulled off the green tarpaulin. When she gathered it up into her arms, she could feel the cold seeping in through her overall. It was covered in frost and snow. She carried it back into the kitchen and started to spread it over him, tugged at the corners. She covered him as well as she could, made sure that the water-resistant fabric covered everything, his head, hands and feet. So she did not need to look at him. What cannot be seen does not exist. Sometimes you had to buy yourself time.

When she had finished, she realised how thirsty she was. She turned her back on him and opened the fridge, found a bottle of Uludag Frutti that she had bought from Irfan before he closed the shop. She ignored the Agent and took the bottle with her into the living room. The lemon drink was cold and sour, just as she liked it. She took small sips, swallowed and closed her eyes. Oh, she was so tired, so tired of it all. She could not even think. Not back, not forwards. Despite what had happened out there in the kitchen, she felt calm. She had erupted, and now she was sitting in the ash rain. The great machinery that had whirred in her head all autumn had finally fallen quiet. It felt so good just to sit still in the chair, with her hands in her lap, and drink the cold Turkish lemon fizz straight from the bottle.

When she came to herself again, her head was heavy and her feet were numb. She had fallen asleep, or perhaps just dozed, she was not entirely sure, she only knew she had been far away and now, with a jolt, was back again. She reluctantly opened her eyes and had the vague feeling that something terrible had happened, which scared her. But it may not have happened at all; she had had terrifying dreams before. The first thing she saw was the clock on the wall. She remembered something, but pushed it to one side. What was the last thing she did before she sat down in the chair? She leaned forward and looked at her knees. Her body felt remarkably disconnected, as though all her joints had come loose. When she tried to stand up her legs would not hold her, her hips felt dislocated, but she pushed herself up with her arms, forced herself to stand upright. After a few unsteady steps, she found her balance. She saw the empty Frutti bottle on the table. Why had she been so thirsty? She had exerted herself, she had been terrified. Or furious, or distressed, the adrenaline had dried her out. She crossed the room and went into the kitchen, where the light was still on. Everything was clear and sharp. Something had happened out here, she realised, but her brain had not stored it, her brain often made strange choices. She saw the green tarpaulin. It looked like she had carried the whole woodpile in and stacked it on the kitchen floor. But then she recognised the shape of a human body under the tarpaulin. So that was it. The Agent had knocked on the door and she had let him in. Bennet, he had said, that could be a first name or a surname, not that it mattered now.

She put her hand to her heart, stood there looking at the mound on the floor. She did not feel much. Mostly just amazement that she had ended up in this situation. It was hard to think, so she used her eyes instead. She stretched out a hand and supported herself on the worktop. Was that not a slight movement under the tarpaulin? She had not expected that, she took a step to the side, felt that her hips were not in place, held on to the counter with both hands. He was moving. Her eyes had not played a trick. It must be a hand, because there was no movement where she knew the feet were; if she remembered correctly, the hands were under the table. She heard no sounds — there was not much life left in him — but there, she saw the movement again, it was obvious now, he was scratching at the floor with his long nails. It was the right hand. She had heard his lungs collapse. How was that possible? She could not understand, or was it perhaps just death cramps? She had heard about things like that. Headless chickens that ran around the yard. It annoyed her that he would not lie still. It meant there was still life in him, and if there was life in him, it made everything a lot harder. She would have to make some decisions and think through what had happened again. And she could not face thinking about it. She had finished something, it could not start again, not now that everything was so blissfully still. She turned to the sink, picked up the knife she had left there, with its shining, clean blade. Then she bent down over the tarpaulin and thrust the knife through the green fabric, not caring where she stabbed him. There was absolutely no movement now — she stood watching for a while to be sure. She dropped the knife into the sink again, the sound of steel against steel, and turned on the tap. More blood and water washed down the drain. She looked over her shoulder to check on him, she did not want to see even a tremor. And there was none.

She paced back and forth on the kitchen floor, stamping like a sulking child, she had to get her hips sorted, get the joint back in the socket. She thought she heard a click, and then another, and everything fell into place and she could move freely again. She washed the knife properly with the washing-up brush and liquid, then put it back in the drawer. It was a good knife, and useful for so many things. She noticed the folder lying on the table. He had not had the chance to open it. And it held the truth, he had said, the good news, the unique offer. It was a brown leather folder, no, not leather — she held it to her nose and it smelt of plastic. She went back into the living room and sat down with the folder in her lap, she could feel there was some weight to it. It belonged to her now, she had the right to its contents. She had just won a long battle, and this was her plunder. It had a solid zip, which she opened and then pulled out the contents, and rested them on her lap while she threw the folder down onto the floor. A pile of magazines, lots of them, maybe as many as twenty, and they were all the same. On the cover was a colourful picture of a woman and a small boy. Mother and son, Ragna thought, mother and son! They resembled one another, both had dark hair and skin, and brown eyes. The mother was wearing a beautiful headscarf and the boy had a blue hat on, which might have been crocheted. The photograph had not been taken in Norway, but in another country, at the market, there were stalls with colourful fruits, piles of baskets and lovely fabrics. The boy had an orange in his hand, and he was running for his life. Behind him came an angry man, shaking his fist, and the woman, the mother, had her hands to her cheeks. Ragna understood the picture immediately. The boy had stolen an orange from the fruit seller and was trying to run away. Only now, after she had studied the image, did she read the title.

AWAKE!

She opened the cover. The magazine was published by the Jehovah’s Witnesses and this was the December issue. The topic for the month was parenting and criminality. She carried on, reading snippets here and there, running her eyes down the pages. One article was about Armageddon and Judgement Day, and there was another about the Thousand Year Reign and the Chosen Ones. All the signs, the truth. The man lying on the kitchen floor, the man with the long nails, was a Jehovah’s Witness. She felt leaden and utterly exhausted. She had clearly misunderstood. She let the magazines fall to the floor, there were so many of them, and they slid out into a colourful fan. There was so much to take in, so much she had to sort out. She should probably ring someone and explain, but she had no energy left and no one could hear what she said on the phone anyway. All she wanted to do was sleep. And the man out in the kitchen was not going anywhere. So she went to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. Oh, the air coming through the window felt so good, it cooled her down. All she had to do was wait. Someone would come. They would know what to do. It’s impossible to do everything alone, and I have no voice. I have to rest. You must rest, Ragna.