Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

After long periods of rest, she got up again and sat by the window, as patient as an old woman who had nothing to wait for, other than death. There was a steady flow of traffic outside, but no one stopped by her house, only the Agent had stopped and he had not had good intentions. All her life she had watched the world through this window. When she was little, she had had to stand on a stool to see out, but the picture was always the same. Only the colours were different. The street light was still on, so her helpers would be able to find their way to her house. What is the first thing you remember? they would ask. Daddy, she would say. He saw me clearly. He saw everyone else as well, the vultures. The predators. Daddy was always frightened. He died from it, he died from fright. I’m going to die from fright too, and that’s fine, because then I’ll end up in Daddy’s inner pocket, the one next to his heart, and that’s where I want to be. And your mother, do you remember her? She always got up early, long before the rest of us, she had to be ready. Each morning she put up her long hair, she dressed nicely every day, there were so many authorities to deal with. They all came to our door and confronted her with everything we were unable to do, everything we struggled with. Our duties, tax, the bills, which were not always paid. Rikard Josef and his upbringing, Daddy’s illness. They were constantly coming to get Daddy, they took him away without a word. He was not big and strong, he was thin as a fencepost. He did not eat much, there were more important things to do in life. Why did they come to get him? her helpers would ask. Because he knew so much, he had his own vision, an intuitive understanding that the rest of us shut down, because we cannot take it all in — we have to lie, to ourselves and to others, to adapt and survive; the space we operate in cannot be too big and bright, because then we lose control. But Daddy went out and was open to it all — that was why they came to get him. All they could see was a madman wandering out into the road to stop the traffic.

It was me who found him, she would say. He had hanged himself sitting down, from one of the handles on the cupboard door, all he was wearing was a pair of old underpants. His legs were as black as ink, the blood had sunk and gathered at the bottom. He sat stooped with his chin on his chest, it looked like he was praying, but I know that he didn’t pray. What did you think? they would ask. That he was right. That we were all frightened, deep down, of life, that is. Of every day. Just not the last day, not for what would come after it.

Following this long sequence of thoughts, she came to herself again. She wondered if she had heard something out in the kitchen. The sound reminded her of the scratching up in the loft at night, when the mice were scurrying about. If only he could lie still out there, she had no more energy. But she hauled herself up and limped into the kitchen. She took hold of one of the corners of the tarpaulin and lifted it to one side. The Agent’s eyes were open. He was staring at something in the distance that she could not see. She was sure that it was the Thousand Year Reign, that he finally had a place as one of the chosen few, and that was what he had wanted. But if that was the case, if he was staring into the Thousand Year Reign, it was not a beautiful place. The Agent looked horrified, disappointed, terrified. She put the tarpaulin back with care, waved to the camera again to show them she was still waiting, and pointed towards the hall to indicate that the door was unlocked. Then she returned to the sofa and rested for a while. She could feel that her body needed food and water, but she could not face it. She was floating, rising up to the ceiling, was light as a feather. They could come and lift her up, carry her away, lock her up, if only they could find her son and let him know. At regular intervals, she tottered out into the hall to make sure the door was still unlocked, opening it and looking down to the road, and then closing it again. There was another message on her mobile phone from Gunnhild. This time she could not bear to answer. She no longer checked the time, only noticed the light fading, then it was dark, then it got light again, then it was dark, as the days passed. It must be Wednesday now, or Thursday. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth and everything, not just her knee, ached now. There was a flickering in front of her eyes, like a fluorescent tube just before it breaks. She struggled out to the bathroom to get some paracetamol, but all she found was the box of Apodorm. What did it matter if she was asleep when they came? They just had to wrap her up and carry her out. And she so desperately wanted to be carried. She pressed the tablets through the foil, took out another tray and continued until she had a handful.

She was lying at the bottom of a boat, she could feel the movement of the sea, and it was stormy. She rolled back and forth on the long, heavy waves, her body knocking against the sides, sometimes soft, sometimes hard. No, it was something else. Someone was shouting and shaking her, she wanted to answer but her mouth was dry and she could not form the words. All feeling had run out of her in the same way that the blood had run out of the Agent. She just wanted to be left in peace on the rocking boat. But whoever was calling would not give up, the voice was right next to her ear, she could feel the breath, it was warm.

‘Ragna! Wake up!’

She wanted to open her eyes, but they were dry too. Wake, awake, there was something familiar about the words. She had heard them before, read it somewhere. Gradually her sight returned, but all she could see was her hand, which she lifted shaking to her face.

‘I’ve hurt my knee,’ she managed to whisper.

‘Did you faint?’

It was Gunnhild.

Ragna realised she was lying on the floor and was wearing only the nightgown.

‘He’s lying in the kitchen,’ she said.

‘What did you say? Maybe we should call a doctor.’

‘No, he’s dead.’

There was a short silence.

‘Not Rikard?’ Gunnhild asked. ‘Has something happened to Rikard? Has someone called from Berlin?’

Ragna would have given her arm to be able to scream. To scream from the bottom of her lungs, the depths of her life, a scream that would shatter windows. But she could do nothing but repeat herself in a whisper.

‘I think he’s dead. Can you not smell it?’

Gunnhild went reluctantly out into the kitchen and stayed there for a long time. Ragna crawled across the floor to the sofa and hauled herself up. When Gunnhild came back in again, she stood there with her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.

‘Who did that?’ she asked.

‘Me.’

‘No,’ Gunnhild said, petrified.

‘Yes,’ Ragna said. ‘I had to.’

‘Have you killed him?’

‘I think so.’

Gunnhild collapsed into Ragna’s favourite armchair.

‘But why?’

She did not get an answer. She went to the telephone to ring. She did not say much, she had to give her name, that she was at Kirkelina 7 and it was in connection with a death. She opened the veranda door and let in the freezing air, then stood by the window, staring down towards the road.

Ragna propped herself up on her elbow.

‘Did they believe you?’ she whispered.

‘Who?’

‘The police.’

‘Of course they believed me.’ Gunnhild looked bewildered. ‘Why would they not believe me? Who is he?’

Ragna sat up straight on the sofa, leaned back against the cushion.

‘Don’t know him at all.’

‘But,’ Gunnhild stammered, ‘why did he come here?’

‘He’s been pestering me all autumn.’

‘Pestering you? Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

Gunnhild glanced down at the road again.