Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

He starts counting peppercorns. He wants to be truthful when it comes to his crime. So he takes forty peppercorns and places them on the right. He sits there for a long time, staring at the two piles. Is there any chance at all of righting this, of living with it? Yes, time will take care of everything. Much of his life is still before him. Maybe forty years, maybe more. If he does good every day for the rest of his life, couldn’t he earn forty peppercorns to go on the left, and pay his debt? Immediately he begins to count peppercorns again. You can’t judge a man’s life before it’s over. He pushes the peppercorns over to the left and leans back contentedly. Time will work in his favor, and his pupils are perfectly fine.

He sleeps well that night. Curled up in bed like a child, with his hands beneath his cheek. He drops into a light, shimmering sleep and dreams about Julie and Crazy. They’re galloping along a beach and the water flies around the horse’s hooves. His great body glints in the sun and Julie’s gorgeous hair billows like a red pennant in the wind. Fast, graceful, and unconquerable, they’re on their way to an adventure. He wakes with his head completely clear. For a while, he lies staring up at the ceiling. He follows the wire with his eyes, from the lamp and down to the plug in the wall. He throws the duvet aside, puts his feet on the ground, and stands up. He’s unprepared for what happens next. Both his legs buckle under him. He pitches forward with all his weight and bashes his head on the bedside table with tremendous force and falls flat. He feels a stab of pain, and a moment later the cold floor against his cheek. He lies there for a while, groping like a blind man. His temples are hammering. He can’t believe this; it’s past surely. There’s nothing the matter with him — the doctor said so, his blood said so. His blood is as pure as spring water. All the readings are normal. He tries to rise but can’t control his legs. This is more than he can bear. A great fury grows within him, and he hauls himself up awkwardly in a mixture of anger and tears. He sits on his bed again and punches the mattress, cursing quietly and bitterly.

He looks at his kneecaps. What the hell is wrong with them? he thinks. He stays like this for a long time. He bends his knees and wiggles his toes. His fingers, too. They’re working fine. But they’re so sensitive. He’s never felt them so sensitive before. His vision is blurred again and he can see only the vague outlines of furniture and other objects in the bedroom. He blinks repeatedly, but it makes no difference at all. He sits there immobile, not knowing what to do. Filled with anxiety, his feet planted on the cold floor. Help me, Julie; I’m fading away! But she’s not there. He’s a lone man on the edge of his bed, and he’s helpless.

Finally he gets to his feet again. His legs are just about able to carry him, and he walks haltingly across the room. He is no longer capable of trusting his own body. It’s seven-thirty, so no one will answer if he calls the medical center now. He’ll have to wait. He finds an old dressing gown. Sits in a chair by the window and listens to the ticking of the wall clock. There’s an Opel driving past, and shortly after a BMW. He keeps massaging his thighs the whole time. He wants to rub some strength back into them and make them his own legs, the ones he’s always had. Legs that do as he wants. Fear tingles down his spine. He bites his lip hard and recognizes the taste of blood in his mouth. I must call the doctor, he thinks. I must get help with this. What is lurking inside his body? He curls his fingers again. There’s nothing wrong with his fine motor control and his vision has almost returned to normal. Could it just be that he’s careless, not concentrating? Did he get up too quickly? Was he giddy? No, that couldn’t be right, because he lost all strength. It hit him suddenly. He leans on the table. The idea of a virus crosses his mind. It could be that. He’s heard so much about it. He’s heard of people who wake up paralyzed and a week later they can walk again. Most likely it’s harmless, and the doctor will find it. Something microscopic that is affecting him, certainly not dangerous.

At eight he calls the medical center, but there’s no answer. This means that they don’t open until nine, and he spends a long hour waiting. He loiters, filling in the time. He eats a slice of bread slowly and washes it down with a cup of coffee. His eyes are always moving to the street to check for unfamiliar cars. At five past nine he calls the medical center for the second time. Briefly he explains what has happened. It’s quiet for a few moments at the other end, as if she’s sitting reading something. He waits. Then she’s back on the line. He’s told to come in at once.

He considers this as he sits in the waiting room, the fact that he was told to come in immediately. As if he really is in a mess and there isn’t a second to lose. What have they written in his notes that’s given him such easy access. What do they think? He speculates about bone cancer and wonders if something has attacked his joints. An infection maybe or a tumor. He looks at the other people waiting, but he can’t meet their eyes. He feels too uneasy. He clutches a magazine but can’t concentrate on the royal family. The doctor appears at the door and calls Charlo’s name. He’s being seen before everyone else. He studies the doctor’s face, but it is impassive as always. His smile is the usual calm one, his voice pleasant. Charlo sits down, perched on the very edge of his chair.

“So,” the doctor says earnestly. “Your symptoms have returned?”

“Yes,” Charlo replies. He looks at the computer screen but can’t read what’s written there. “I got up this morning and fell flat on the floor. To be honest, it’s really beginning to annoy me.” He feels bitter sitting there. He feels afflicted. But the enemy is invisible; it’s like shadowboxing, and he feels a trifle exhausted.

The doctor reads his notes and nods.

“I think we’d better have you admitted for tests.”

Charlo gapes. “Admitted?”

“To the Department of Neurology at the Central Hospital,” the doctor continues steadily. “It’ll only take a couple of days. Not all diseases can be diagnosed with blood samples, so you’ll probably have some other tests. Mainly just to exclude things.”

“But, hospital?” Charlo stammers. He’s filled with anxiety again. He’s got a thousand questions. He’s never been in the hospital before. He’s never had anything wrong with him, never injured himself.

“We need some specialist help,” the doctor says. “You mustn’t alarm yourself unduly.”

“But,” says a fraught Charlo, “I’ve got a daughter, and I’ve got to collect her from school. She’s got to go to the stables; we’ve got a horse. He needs tending daily. I work at the riding center myself as a handyman. I’m needed there every day.”

The doctor nods evenly. “I’ll give you a sick note, of course. As I say, it’ll take a couple of days. I think we ought to get to the bottom of this now. Don’t you agree?”

Charlo nods disconsolately. “Yes, of course. But what more can you tell me? Have you got any theories? I mean, do you recognize this?”

The doctor is silent for a few moments. He takes his eyes off the screen and looks at Charlo. “It wouldn’t be right for me to start speculating,” he says. “I’ll leave that to the specialists. You’ll be in the best of hands.”

“But neurology?” Charlo blurts out. “Why there, exactly?”

“We can’t be certain it’s neurological,” he says quickly, “but we’ve got to begin somewhere. Try to keep calm. You’re doing the sensible thing.”

Charlo waits while the doctor writes out a referral. He sits studying his hands, occasionally glancing around the consulting room. He catches sight of a wall chart of the human body, with all the bones and muscles and sinews depicted. It’s quite a machine, he thinks. It’s a wonder it works as well as it does, year after year. Hardly surprising that once in a while something goes a little wonky. Perhaps it won’t be serious. But the idea of going into the hospital is an impossible one for him. He feels small. He thinks about Inga Lill and of all that she had to endure. The doctor finishes. He asks if Charlo is in any pain, if he needs any medication. He says he doesn’t. They shake hands. The doctor wishes him the best of luck. Charlo steals out of the office and stands in the street breathing in the fresh air. It all seems unreal to him. He walks and feels as fit as a fiddle. All his muscles are working, his skeleton thoroughly up to the job. At three o’clock, he picks up Julie outside the school.