Thomas Enger - Scarred

He wonders what kind of father he would have made; if his child would also have stood close to the tracks to watch the trains whizz by. If his son might have conquered his stutter and made something of himself. There must be qualities you pass on, surely, or traits, in the same way you pass on hair and eye colour. Perhaps Sebastian would have broken free, been his own man, his father’s direct opposite, the person he tried so hard to become when he was little? First he wanted to be a pilot; no, a butcher actually, he longed to look into the stomachs of dead animals. But then he wanted to be a hunter and later a professional football player. And then he stopped wanting to be anything at all.

She comes to greet him, her arms wide open and she pulls him close. And he stands there, he doesn’t put his arms around her, he just recognises the smell of her, the familiar smell of something sweet mixed with the aroma from the kitchen. Lamb and cabbage, black pepper and potatoes; the smell of stew usually makes his mouth water, but today it just makes him feel nauseous.

‘How nice that you were able to come after all,’ she practically shouts and holds him out away from her.

And everything is all right until his father enters the room, his father who had always favoured Werner. He says nothing; he just stops in front of the mirror where the telephone used to be in the days before they got a cordless one. The floorboards always used to squeak so badly right there.

‘I thought you said he wasn’t coming?’ he says, addressing his wife.

‘I know, but – he changed his mind. Isn’t it wonderful?’

‘Couldn’t he have let us know?’

She tries to say something, but no words come out before he marches past them. No welcome hug. No outstretched hand.

Not this time, either.

‘I hope you’re hungry,’ she says as she goes into the kitchen, eager for him to follow. ‘See,’ she adds, pointing to the saucepan. He nods and looks at her.

Everything is as it always was and everything is different.

Soon they sit down to dinner, but he struggles to swallow the food. He thinks about how much has been said in this room and how little.

‘Could you pass the salt, please?’

He looks at his father. Gives him the salt shaker, but as he does, he knocks over his own half-empty water glass. The water splashes across the table cloth and drips down on the floor. His father’s knife and fork hit the plate on the other side of the table. His father sighs heavily.

‘Are you just going to sit there?’

He makes no reply. His mother, who is sitting next to him, tears off several sheets of kitchen towel and presses them against the table cloth.

More sighing. More snorting.

‘Are you just going to sit there like a brat? Aren’t you going to apologise?’

Slowly he turns his head and looks at him. He makes no reply.

‘Eh? Aren’t you going to say sorry?’

No , he thinks to himself. Not any more .

The next moment his father pushes his chair back. The chair legs scrape against the floor as his hastily scrunched-up napkin lands on the table.

A veil settles over his eyes. And, as he feels a strong hand clamp down on his own, he stops seeing clearly. He just does.

And he does.

And he does.

Emilie has been to many funerals over the years, but the pain she felt at losing someone can’t compare to what she feels now. It’s completely different when someone is murdered. And what torments her the most is the thought of what must have been going through Johanne’s head when she realised that she was going to die.

Emilie has gone to bed and closed the door. She desperately needs to be alone. All she can think about is who could have taken the life of her best friend. A woman she could talk to about everything. She remembers all the wonderful things they used to do together. It’s impossible to understand that they will never do anything together again.

There is a knock on the door and Mattis opens without her having said ‘come in’.

‘It’s the police,’ he says, holding up Emilie’s mobile. ‘They want to talk to you.’

Emilie feels punched in the stomach at the mere thought of having to talk to someone now. She hoists herself upright. Mattis comes in, hands her the telephone with a cautious, friendly smile. Emilie wipes the tears from her face, her cheeks feel red hot; she takes the telephone and waits until Mattis has closed the door behind him. Then she says ‘hello’.

‘Hello, this is Bjarne Brogeland from Oslo Police.’

‘Hi,’ she says in a feeble voice.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he says. ‘I understand that you were one of Johanne Klingenberg’s best friends.’

‘Yes,’ Emilie stutters. ‘I was. Thank you.’

‘I’m sorry for disturbing you, but I need to speak to you.’

‘I understand,’ she says, and straightens up a little more. He has a nice voice , she thinks. Warm and reassuring .

‘You and Johanne met at a café today, am I right?’

‘Yes. At Café Blabla on St Hanshaugen.’

‘How did she behave while you were together? Was she anxious about anything? Nervous?’

Emilie thinks about it.

‘No, she was just as she always was. Joking and laughing as usual.’

‘She didn’t give you the impression that she was scared of anything or anyone?’

‘No,’ Emilie almost laughs and wipes her nose. ‘She was in a good mood.’

She hears the policeman making notes.

‘Did she mention what she was going to do after you’d had lunch together?’

‘No, she was going home, I think. She might have had some shopping to do first.’

‘Nothing apart from that? Did she say anything about what she was doing with the rest of her day?’

‘No, we didn’t talk about that,’ Emilie replies.

‘Did you notice if anyone was watching you at the café?’

Emilie tries to search her memory, but not a single face comes up.

‘What time was it when you left?’

‘About one o’clock, I think.’

Emilie can hear that her voice is still weak so she clears her throat in an attempt to make it firmer.

‘How much do you know about your friend’s life?’

‘What do you mean?’ Emilie asks.

‘Would Johanne tell you everything?’

‘Yes, or at least I think so.’

‘Do you think she would have told you if she was in any kind of trouble?’

A stinging feeling starts in her stomach and spreads to the rest of her body. Even the thought that Johanne might have kept secrets from her, problems Emilie could have helped her solve, makes the tears well up again. She squeezes her eyes shut and feels the teardrops run in parallel down her flushed cheeks before dripping from her chin.

‘Yes, I’m sure of it,’ she stammers.

‘What about men, then? Boyfriends.’

Emilie coughs again.

‘Yes, we did used to talk about men.’

The policeman stirs and the chair he is sitting on squeaks.

‘Was she seeing anyone at the moment?’

‘No. She hasn’t had a boyfriend for ages, but I know that she would go on dates from time to time. But it never got serious.’

‘So she never mentioned anyone who was obsessed with her – or vice versa?’

Emilie shakes her head before she remembers that the officer can’t see her.

‘I can’t think of anyone,’ she replies.

‘Okay,’ the officer says, pausing again. ‘How long has it been since you last visited her flat?’

Emilie tries to remember.

‘It has been a while. We usually meet for lunch once a month or thereabouts, but we don’t visit each other at home nearly as often as we used to. I live in Jessheim, I have a young child and I work full-time, and she’s busy with her life in Oslo. Well, that’s to say,’ Emilie says and grief takes over her voice again. ‘She’s not busy with anything any more.’