When the Devil Holds the Candle Page 11

  "Oh, Irma, are you really sick? I'm sorry, it's just that you're never sick! Don't worry, I can hold the fort. Take as much time off as you need."

  She was quite pleased. All the others are younger than I am; I put a damper on things. Now they'd be able to really let loose and gossip about the customers to their hearts' content. And about me, no doubt. She wasn't the least bit sorry. I was right, as usual; I'm always right. In my mind I pictured Merete, in that tiny office behind the counter. A glance towards the shop, at Linda, the one with the fake fingernails. Conspiratorial smiles. No, that kind of thing doesn't bother me; it's always been like that.

  "Thank you," I whispered. I could hardly speak.

  "Have you been to the doctor?" she added, pleased with her own presence of mind in the midst of her delight.

  "I'm just going to call him now. But it could be a few days before I'm back."

  "Don't even think about us. We'll keep the shop running."

  Oh yes, I thought, I've never considered myself indispensable. I thought: Now I'm hearing Merete's voice for the last time. It sounded shrill, like a bird chirping. Now they can dance on the tables over there. I'm never going back.

  "Get well soon," Merete hurried to add. And then she was gone. She was sailing on her own sea, with no idea how far it actually is to the bottom. For a moment I felt sorry for her. For everyone who is young and knows so little.

  I stood there for a moment and listened. Not a sound from the cellar. I thought: Now he's dead. He didn't make it through the night. If he had, he would have screamed by now, he would have heard my voice and screamed for help.

  And then he did start screaming. Out of sheer terror I dropped the phone. He must have heard it hit the floor. The nightmare wasn't over. He was still lying down there, wailing. I had to call for help!

  I stuck my arms into a knitted cardigan and stared at the striped rug. Call for an ambulance. Why hadn't I called before? How long had he been lying there? Since about midnight? Since midnight? Is that right? Why? Because I thought he was dead. What kind of an answer was that? I sank on to a chair. I fixed my eyes on the tablecloth with the flowers, the one I always use, I had embroidered it myself, every single stitch. I spent a year working on that tablecloth, it's my pride and joy. Sorry. I'm digressing, but the tablecloth is beautiful, it really is. A little coffee, maybe? I stared at the coffee maker. Things wouldn't be any worse if I had some coffee. I stood up and turned on the tap. He cried out again, a little fainter this time. I switched on the radio. What did he think when he heard the music? Probably that I was crazy. But I wasn't crazy, that's what terrified me. In fact, I felt completely rational. A space in my brain was still open, and absolutely clear.

  It was cold down there. What if I crept down the stairs and put a blanket over him? I didn't have to look at him, just put the blanket over him and run back up. I needed time. He would be found, of course. I would make sure of that, but first I had to arrange a way out for myself. There was too much to explain. The idea was intolerable; what would they think? And Ingemar. Everyone at work. What if it were in the newspaper? I peeked through the window. Into the garden. The gazebo and the top of the hedge. I could see the neighbour's roof. They could see my kitchen window from their first floor. I closed the curtains. Then changed my mind and opened them. They were always open at this time of day, and I wanted above all to avoid anything that might look out of the ordinary. I went to collect the blanket from the red chair. A woollen blanket with a fringe; it was almost too warm. When I took a siesta after lunch, I always kicked it off. I stood holding it in my hands. What would he think? Would he scream louder still? Would people in the street hear him? I started to roll the rug aside. The iron ring was a big one, I could put my hand through it. I listened again. Everything was quiet, as if he too were listening. Slowly, I pulled the trap door up. I knew that now the light would strike his face. I stood there with my heart pounding. Then I heard low moans. Maybe he thought that help was coming. And he couldn't do anything to me; he must have injured himself badly. I couldn't get my head round how this whole thing had happened, in my own house. I put my foot on the top step. It was a simple thing that I had to do: down the steps – there were nine of them – put the blanket over him, turn round and go back up. A good deed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the white face. Or rather, what little of it was visible above the scarf. Why hadn't he taken the scarf off? Couldn't he move his arms? I kept my eyes on my feet, that's what I always did, I was afraid of falling, of breaking something and ending up in the hospital. When there were two steps to go, I had to take a little leap. His legs were up against the last steps. I unfolded the blanket, fumbling a bit because I was nervous. And then I laid it over him. I refused, at all costs, to look into his eyes, because then I might feel something. But I felt his gaze on me, knew that he was looking at me. I heard a few gurgling sounds. I stared at the floor to the right of his head. A pool of blood, and it had already congealed. I turned round and went up the stairs again. He started yelling. He was shouting for water. He hadn't had anything to drink for a long time. I couldn't let him die of thirst. I had to get him water and then go back down. The worst thing of all, I thought, is to die of thirst. Would he be able to drink from a glass? Or suck the water from a wet towel? I suddenly felt dizzy. Something was forcing its way into my consciousness, with no warning, something terribly moving. I walked up the steps, thinking. I owned nothing in this world. No-one's face lit up at the sight of Irma Funder. But this young man's life lay in my hands.

  CHAPTER 9

  Zipp sat bolt upright in bed. He had fallen asleep in the basement. Then he remembered everything. It was 11 a.m., so the newspaper would have arrived by now. Andreas was presumably at work. No matter what had happened the night before, Andreas would be at work now, walking around in the hardware department with that crooked smile of his. And he was gay. That was unbelievable. What's wrong with me? Zipp thought. What kind of signal was I sending out that he decided to make a move on me? Is it my tight jeans that he's always laughing at? Had other poofs also wanted me, without my realising it? He clenched his fists. The palms of his hands were sweaty. What should he say when next they met? Could they talk about sex and brag about things as they did before? Forget about what had happened? Yes, maybe, but could they keep pretending that nothing was going on – could they? When they were in a bar together, would Andreas sit there staring at the guys? Had he always done that? Where on earth was he? Zipp stared at the Blade Runner tape on the table. At the same moment he heard footsteps on the stairs. His mother stuck her head through the door.

  "It was a late night, I see."

  She said this with a smile. She didn't keep track of what he did as long as he stayed healthy and came home at night. She liked having someone in the house. Most boys moved out at his age, but she did what she could to hold on to him. And as long as he didn't have a job, he wasn't going anywhere.

  "Why aren't you in bed sleeping?" he sneered.

  "A quiet night shift," she said, sounding cheerful. "I actually took a siesta for a few hours."

  She put her hands on her hips. "The phone rang. I didn't get to it in time."

  Andreas]

  "I've got to go to the employment office," Zipp said, getting up.

  She stared at him. Was he finally going to set about getting a job?

  "I was about to make some sandwiches. You'll have something to eat first, won't you?"

  "Did you bring the paper in?" he said, looking at the floor as he pulled on his jeans.

  "Of course. And I've already read it. Do you know what time it is?"

  Since he didn't normally pore over the paper looking for a job, he had to restrain himself a bit. He put the paper next to his plate and checked the front page. Nothing. He bit into a slice of bread and peanut butter, chewed and turned the pages. Just the usual stuff.

  "The jobs are in section three," his mother advised him, watching him from where she stood at the work surface. She had another night shift ahea
d of her, which meant her whole day was free. That didn't really suit him. He liked it when she wasn't home. She was shrewd, the way mothers are; they could see right through anything.

  "I know," he mumbled, as he kept turning the pages.

  "You're looking for something," she concluded. "What are you looking for?"

  "A disaster," he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

  "Why are you interested in something like that?"

  "A little drama in the daily round, I suppose."

  He gulped down the first slice of bread as he scanned page after page.

  "You're only reading the headlines," she said.

  "Yeah," he said. "If I read all the main headlines, I'll be reasonably well-informed."

  She shook her head with annoyance and let water run into the sink. Zipp has never in his life done the dishes, she thought. Would things have been different if she'd had a daughter? Easier, maybe. A little help around the house? She wasn't sure. Some of her friends had daughters, and they complained all the time about everything being so difficult. They had to explain so much to them. Menstruation. Sex. She shivered. No, it was better to have a son, even if he were unemployed. He was handsome and gentle. Things would turn out well for him, she was sure of that. There were plenty of young people who took a while to figure out what they wanted to do. But it was expensive having him live with her. He always needed something.

  "I'm going to call Andreas at work."

  He said it out loud. It sounded ordinary enough, and he was convinced Andreas would answer. He went into the living room, punching in the numbers with a practised hand. His mother gazed after him.

  He gripped the receiver tightly. No, Andreas hadn't come to work today. Hadn't called in sick either. Didn't Zipp know that? His mother was worried about him. Had even been to see the police.

  "The police?"

  "To report him missing. He didn't come home last night."

  "Is he missing?" Zipp asked. He knew his mother was listening, like a quivering cable reaching him from the kitchen; he had no choice but to play along.

  "Didn't you see him yesterday?"

  The question caught him off guard. Who in fact knew that they had been together? Someone must have seen them. And just think of everything they'd done! It would be best to stick close to the truth.

  "Jesus, yes, we were together yesterday. Went out to the Headline. Watched a video afterwards."

  "Well, it's odd, isn't it? I suppose he'll turn up."

  "Yes. I know Andreas. He does whatever he likes." He tried to laugh, but it came out as a squeak.

  "What's going on?" His mother was standing next to him.

  "Andreas," he said, putting down the phone. "Didn't show up for work today."

  "He didn't? Why not?" She gave him a hard look. Suspected that something was up and took in every detail. The way his eyes were flickering, the way he put his hand up to push back his unruly hair. He shook his head.

  "How would I know? Everything was perfectly normal."

  "What do you mean by normal?" She squinted at him.

  "Well, last night, I mean."

  "And why wouldn't it be?"

  Silence. He searched for words but found none. Wanted to go back to the kitchen but was stopped by the phone ringing. His mother didn't move to pick it up. He shrugged and picked up the receiver.

  "Hello? Zipp? This is Andreas' mother."

  "Uh, yes?" he croaked, his mind churning like crazy, thinking about everything that had happened and what he could say, or rather, what he couldn't say.

  "Andreas didn't come home last night. I went into his room at eight this morning to wake him up, and he wasn't there! You and Andreas went into town yesterday, didn't you?"

  "Yes," he said, casting a glance over his shoulder. It dawned on him that whatever answer he gave now was crucial. Crucial to everything that would happen later, because of everything they had done. The baby in the blue pram, the old lady in the white house. Something was badly wrong, but he didn't know what. He didn't understand why the woman was sitting at the table dressed only in her nightgown, why she just kept sitting there. And Andreas, who never came out of that house.

  "You were with him. Where did the two of you go?" Her voice was suddenly sharp.

  "Here. We came over to my house." The video was on the table downstairs. Did she think he was standing here and not telling the truth? "First we went to a bar. Afterwards we watched a film here. Blade Runner," he told her.

  "What do you mean?" Her voice was uncertain. "He didn't come home last night!" she repeated. "Do you know where he is?"

  "No," he said, in a firm voice, because that was the truth, and again it was a relief not to lie. "No, I have no idea where he is. I called him at work and found out that he never showed up."

  "So you heard that? I went to see the police," she said resolutely. "He needs to learn to take responsibility. He's an adult now, after all. He ought to start acting like one. But last night . . . When did you last see him? Where were you?"

  He thought fast. "We were hanging out around town. At the square and stuff."

  "Okay, and then what?"

  "Nothing. We were just goofing around. We said goodbye around midnight," he said.

  Around midnight. That sounded plausible. Around midnight. That's when they caught sight of that woman. Near the optician's.

  "Where did you last see him?"

  "Where?" Shit, did she have to know every last detail? "Where? On Thornegata, I think."

  It slipped out. Why had he said that? Because that's where Andreas had told him to leave the street and sneak through the back gardens in the dark, while he continued following the woman.

  "Thornegata? What were you doing out there?"

  "Nothing," he said, feeling more and more annoyed by mothers who wanted to know everything, who felt they had the right to poke around and ask questions.

  "But . . . Thornegata . . . Didn't you come home together? Where was he going?"

  "Don't know. We were just roaming around," he repeated.

  "Did anything happen?" Her voice was anxious. "Were you drunk, Zipp?"

  "No, no! No, we weren't."

  "Did he meet someone?"

  "Not that I know of."

  He wanted to hang up. To be done with all this pressure. "Tell him to call me when he shows up," he said. "Tell him that I'm going to have his guts for garters."

  Speaking of Andreas only reminded Zipp of the night before, of what Andreas had wanted to do to him in the churchyard. He wished he could take the words back, but it was too late. From now on, he thought, everything's going to be difficult.

  At last she hung up. His mother was standing with the dishwashing brush in her hand, dripping soap and water on to the floor.

  "Well?"

  "Mrs Winther," he said. "She's reported Andreas missing."

  "And?"

  "She just wants to get even. He's an adult, after all."

  "Andreas is an odd sort," she said. She gave him an inscrutable look.