Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

The faces coming toward him are expressionless. There’s no happiness in them, no joy over life or the day, or the falling snowflakes. The life they own for just a brief span, and take for granted, glides past slowly as they dream of another life in another place. Of love, tenderness, all the things that human beings need. He walks on and on; he’d rather turn back, but he knows it’s too late. He’s come too far. He can barely comprehend how he’s got to this point, but he pushes the thought away and allows himself to drift onward, spurred by necessity and fear. He stares into the bottomless chasm that opens in front of him. The leap scares him out of his wits, yet is enticing. He curls his fingers inside his pockets. He’s so fearful for them as he imagines the pruning shears going through the thin skin and the blood spurting from the stumps. He feels faint. He’s unable to banish the image. He must get to a different place, even if the name of that place is disaster. He bears a huge shame, a miserable life. He can’t take any more; he must act now. Occasionally he raises his eyes and peers at the unsuspecting passersby. They can’t see all the horror that’s slowly growing inside him. Is this really happening? Isn’t the town a set; isn’t this a film? The façades seem like papier-mâché and everyone else like extras. No, this is real. He clenches his fists and feels the muscles tightening. He’s on the move now and gets ready, as if he’s being propelled along a track.

His lower lip is cut and he doesn’t know when it happened. The sweet tang of blood in his mouth tastes good. Later, when it’s all over, people will grieve, cover their eyes and condemn. Even though he can explain. He knows he can explain, step by step, about the weary way, about the great abyss beneath him, if he’s given time. If they’ll only listen to his story. But people haven’t got time; they’ve got their own tales of hard luck. Oh, his burden is so heavy. He’s so alone! Such are his thoughts as he walks along the street, with his hands deep in his pockets and his face turned to the slushy pavement.

He’s of medium height and powerfully built, and he’s wearing a green parka. The parka’s hood is gradually filling with snow. His face is wide, his eyes gray and close-set. Not a handsome man and not all that shy, either. A high forehead, a wide jaw, and a strong, unshaven chin. He’s wearing decent boots, but the leather is worn and leaking water, so his toes are numb. He hardly notices, there’s so much to think about. No, he dare not think at the moment. He empties his mind, turning himself into a purely purposeful organism that doesn’t look back. He must reach his goal now and not allow fear to intervene. It surrounds him, lying there like a colorless gas; he hardly dares draw breath. He passes a shop selling mirrors and catches a glimpse of his own face that makes him look away in horror. His face is so naked, his eyes deep in shadow. He keeps moving with a resolute step, his figure strong and compact, his shoulders broad and round. Each time his boots make contact with the pavement, the slush spurts in all directions with a sodden, slurping sound. Nothing can stop him. All the same, if I met someone now, he thinks, an old friend for example, we might make small talk or reminisce about the past. We might have a beer at The Dickens, and everything would be different. But no old friend appears. He has no friends — not anymore. No work either. He’s become reclusive, turned in on himself. He lives with fear and sorrow and worry. His world is small and mean. It’s November 7 and sleet is falling. Great wet flakes. He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply, filling his lungs with smoke. It makes him cough, but he knows it will pass. Soon he catches sight of a Jet service station with its garish, neon-yellow signs. He gazes up at the large H&M posters. They cover the front of the block on his right. How strange, he thinks, that the buxom girl in the lacy underwear is naked on a bleak evening like this. She looks relaxed in spite of it all, though he is wet and chilled. But this is hardly something that troubles him. It’s a fact he registers only vaguely, as if looking at himself from the outside. Soon he sees the door to the florist’s. He slackens his pace at once. He makes his final approach, peering furtively in through the shop window. He can’t stop now. He’s on that track, and before him is the plummeting slope that vanishes into darkness. At the same time, he feels himself flinching. He feels shaken. He can’t understand how it’s happened, how he’s come so close to the precipice. That before him lies a deceitful mission, a despicable purpose. Before him: good old Charlo. Charles Olav Torp. A perfectly ordinary man. A little unlucky perhaps, a little weak, but apart from that a thoroughly decent chap. Or is he a decent chap? He thinks he is, as he clenches his teeth and pushes at the heavy door. It opens inward. He hears the sound of a bell. Its delicate tinkle disturbs him. He would prefer to arrive soundlessly, unnoticed and unheard.

He stands in the middle of the shop. Immediately the smell of the place assails him, sweet and stupefying. It’s too much and for an instant he feels giddy and has to take a sideways step to regain his balance. He hasn’t eaten for a long time; did he forget? He can’t remember anymore. The day has passed in a fog, as if he’s only now waking up on the edge of the abyss. His eyes take in the premises. It’s like a mini-jungle of flowers and greenery, leaves and petals. He can make out artificial blooms and watering cans, plant food and leaf shine, wreaths of dried roses. An indescribable profusion of flowers. He reads their exotic names: chrysanthemum and erica, hibiscus and monstera. A young girl is standing behind the counter. She reminds him of his daughter Julie, but she isn’t so beautiful because Julie is the loveliest, the best. His heart beats tenderly whenever he thinks of his daughter, but he also feels a gnawing pain, and his own betrayal hits him with its full horror.

He swallows and straightens and looks at the young girl once more. She’s slender and her fair hair is in long braids. He notices her thin wrists, so amazingly pale and delicate. She’s young, he thinks, and her bones are as pliable as a kitten’s. She could probably do the splits or a backbend. Her skin is healthy and pink and almost unbelievably clear. Her eyes are lowered modestly. The floor is covered with flowers in blue and red plastic buckets. He can see roses, crimson and yellow, and other flowers whose names he doesn’t know. He stands looking around diffidently with his hands in his pockets. For a moment, he’s overcome. He feels terribly exposed in the bright light, alone with this young girl who is still waiting. She’s looking at him now, uncertain but receptive. She likes being there, likes her work. Soon the shop will close and she can go home to her little apartment and a hot bath. Something nice to eat, perhaps, maybe something good on television. Or a long chat on the phone with a close friend. He doesn’t know why, but he can tell that she’s happy, that she’s content with the way things are. Some people are content, he thinks. They must be or the world would stop, and the undergrowth would spring up and hide all traces of humanity. How beautiful: a bright green planet with no people, just a few grazing animals and flapping, shrilling birds. The girl is thin, but she looks healthy. She probably eats only as much as she needs, he thinks. Maybe she exercises and doesn’t put on any weight. Or she’s inherited the trait from a slim family.

He muses, kills time, feels that his heart is thumping tirelessly. His cheeks are hot, even though he’s just been trudging the streets for an eternity, going around and around the town that’s gray with sleet and mist. He had stood on the riverbank and stared down into the water, and considered that as a solution. To jump from the bank and allow himself to sink to the bottom. It would be quick, he thought; he’d see his life pass in front of his eyes. Inga Lill’s illness, Julie’s despair, his own sick mania for gambling. He pushes the thoughts away. It’s all becoming real for him. What he’d pictured in his head for days and weeks is now materializing. This is the first step. So harmless and respectable, buying a bunch of flowers. The girl waits patiently, but she’s becoming uneasy because he doesn’t speak. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, withdrawing her hands and then resting them on the counter once more. Her fingers are adorned with thin rings and her nails are painted red. She pushes her braids over her shoulders. They are as bright and shiny as nylon rope, and a moment later they’ve fallen forward again and are hanging over her breasts. And he knows that when she gets into bed at night and takes the bands off, her hair will be fluffy and full after the braiding. How young these girls are, he thinks, how smooth, how translucent. They make him think of rice paper, porcelain, and silk. They make him think of fragile glass. He can see her veins, a delicate network of green beneath the skin of her wrists. Life is pulsing there, with nutrition and oxygen and everything she needs to keep herself alive. He takes another deep breath. The light inside the shop, the powerful scent of roses, and the cloying heat are almost overpowering. He sees stars. He feels his pulse rise and clenches his fists hard, the nails pressing into his skin. Pain, he thinks. This is really happening. No, nothing has happened, not yet. But time is moving on, and sooner or later I’ll get there. When I do, will it be awful? The girl behind the counter makes another attempt to smile pleasantly, but he doesn’t return the smile. His face is immobile. He knows that he ought to smile, so that he’ll seem like an ordinary customer, a man about to do something gratifying. Buy a bunch of flowers. But he’s no ordinary customer and this is not enjoyable.