Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

The police would read this letter before they sent it on to Plötzensee Prison. She did not care. She would not see their faces as they read it, would not hear their thoughts and what they said to each other. She wrote page after page. Do you remember the time...? My face was always so warm, I thought it was a fever. I stayed indoors a lot, I was afraid of the sun, I burnt so easily, and I was scared for you too, you had inherited my white skin. Red hair. Every time my cheeks got hot I thought it was a fever, that I had an infection and that it had gone to my head. There were so many signs. I interpreted them as well as I could, and interpreted them wrong.

I apologise a thousand times over.

She paused every now and then to gaze out of the window. She searched for something to rest her eyes on, a bird, or a fluffy cloud drifting by, or a treetop blowing in the wind. When she felt she had told him everything — thoughts, words, deeds — she pondered on how to finish this long letter. She feared it would be the last. She did not expect him to reply, she did not dare to believe that he would accept her crime and her madness. He would pull back, slam the door, deny her forever.

My dear Rikard ,

I value you so much. If you deny yourself a child, you will never be able to experience the love I have for you. You wrote that you do not want your blood to run in anyone else’s veins, but there are no guarantees when it comes to children. Your child might be sickly or healthy, he or she might live a long life, or die young. A child can be your pride and joy or your greatest anguish. You cannot control these things. Life has its surprises for us all. Here I sit in a cell, but I have been blessed with a healthy son. My blood does run in your veins, but only the good blood, and I am good. If only you remember these words, and reflect on them in rare moments, I can ask for nothing more .

She had confessed and pleaded guilty, on the basis of the doctors’ assessment of her mental health. She had described her crime in very few words, but in enough detail; her head was clearer now, something had been released. The cell seemed bigger than eight square metres. She felt the great door of truth had been opened. But the signs were still there, the connections she had seen — they forced their way in, whether she wanted to see them or not. The messages, the forgotten watch, the Jumper who did not get up from the ground, but lay bleeding from his mouth and ears. The Agent who had hammered on the door and wanted to come in, who had talked of an imminent death, which would prove to be his own. There was a connection, a logic. Or was it all random, was everything in life random? Forces from above and below pulled and tugged at her, each championing their own agenda. The brain always looks for a pattern, she thought. It either finds what it is looking for, or makes it up, as she had done. The prosecuting authorities wanted to replace her version with their own. This is reality they said, come here.

She lay down on the bunk and, when she eventually fell asleep, dreamt that she was standing on the roof of a tall building and wanted to jump. Rikard Josef was on the street below, waving at her. Without a moment’s hesitation, she dived, opened out her arms and felt as though she were floating. It went on forever. It was not so strange that people jumped, not so strange that many chose another way. She woke with a jolt before she knew if anyone was there to catch her. No, she was falling too fast, no one was strong enough to catch her. Louise came in and picked up the letter, which was of course not sealed, as they still had to read it. With her eyes, she followed the white envelope as it left her cell. With her mind, she followed her confession, the long, detailed letter full of sorrow, regret and anger, all the way from her cell to Berlin.

‘Have you sent the letter?’ she whispered. ‘I hope it’s not been left on a shelf somewhere, under a pile of paper, and won’t get there until summer, it’s happened before. I’m asking, because I haven’t had a reply, and days are passing. How long do you think it takes for a letter to get from here to Germany?’

‘Three or four days, I reckon,’ Sejer replied. ‘Yes, Ragna, we have sent the letter. It was franked and put in the tray for outgoing post, and it’s no longer there. Rikard will have received your letter a while ago, but you have to give him time.’

‘I will have to believe you,’ she whispered bravely.

She poured herself a glass of water.

‘I had problems sleeping last night,’ she said. ‘Do you know what I was thinking about?’

‘Tell me,’ Sejer said.

‘I lay awake thinking about Joan of Arc.’

‘The Maid of Orleans. Why were you thinking about her?’

‘She was burned at the stake,’ Ragna explained. ‘And now I’m going through the fire too.’

‘The fire? You mean Rikard’s judgement of you and your crime?’

‘Exactly,’ Ragna nodded, happy that he had followed her thought process. ‘I lay there staring at my window, just as Joan of Arc stared at the small opening in her cell wall in the hours before she was burned. They kept her prisoner in a tower. She had to find a way through the pain and suffering. The flames would lick at her, scorch her black. She needed a sign from God, proof that she had His mercy and would remain in His grace after death. So she prayed. She prayed and watched for a sign, but it was pitch-black and she could see nothing and hear nothing. She continued to pray, for hours. And then something strange happened. The moon slipped out from behind a cloud and its light shone in through the small opening that had two metal crossbars, one vertical and one horizontal. When she got up from the bed, she saw that the white light had transformed the bars into a cross on the stone floor. It was a sign from God. And Joan fell into a deep, peaceful sleep, and went to the stake with dignity.’

‘A beautiful story,’ Sejer said. ‘If it’s true.’

‘It’s a beautiful story, regardless.’

He had to agree.

‘You have presumably not prayed,’ he said, ‘but you are looking for a sign.’

‘I suppose so. But I can’t find any because I’m full of chemicals. Before, my mind was a labyrinth and I could play in there for hours, happy as a child, but now lots of the paths are closed. My brain can’t find the same solutions that it used to, if you see what I mean.’

Sejer looked serious and nodded.

‘Do you know what?’ Ragna said. ‘Once when I was a baby, my father tried to sell me on the market square.’

Without thinking about it, Sejer laughed, but she was not offended.

‘I was only a few months old, but I could sit up in the pram, and before he left home, he made a big sign. “New screaming baby for sale. Great potential. Offers accepted.” It was autumn, there were a lot of stalls and the market was full of people. My father positioned himself between the fruit, berries and fresh eggs, and held up the sign in his hand. A constant flow of people went past. They looked at me, some people made offers, old ladies in particular, they laughed and smiled and discussed their bids. But Daddy shook his head and said, too low, far too low! We’re talking about something quite unique! We stayed on the square until the sun went down. Then he tucked the sign under my blanket and pushed me home again, all the way along Kirkelina from the church to number 7. My mother said he was extremely happy when he came through the door.’

She drank some water.

‘Mummy told me the story when I was older. I was hurt at first, obviously, but then I realised that Daddy thought I was extremely valuable, and not for sale at any price. That was what he had wanted to tell the world.’