Broken Read online

  'Oh no,' he exclaimed, 'you mustn't take them all at once! They might be strong and we don't know what they are!'

  She had already swallowed them. She half fell back onto the sofa and stayed there without moving. Her mouth was half open, her face contorted. She finally closed her eyes. Alvar collapsed in his armchair from exhaustion, he watched the enormous transformation which slowly began to take place before his very eyes. After one minute she stopped moving, after two her breathing became more regular. It was as if her frail body sank into the sofa. A faint smile spread across her face. The smiled lasted, it was a beautiful smile and he saw clearly how lovely she was, fragile like an angel, he thought, and waves of relief washed over him, it was over now, for the time being anyway. And he hoped that wherever she had gone she would be there for a long time. The cat came creeping towards them and snuggled down next to her. Alvar let his head fall back onto the headrest and closed his eyes. He pushed aside anything the future might bring. At this very moment in time all he did was enjoy the silence, relieved that she was feeling fine, that her breathing was steady. There was something very reassuring about that, something that made him feel sleepy. Just a quick nap, he told himself. I'm exhausted.

  Darkness outside, now. Silence.

  He woke up and realised that he was cold.

  The house rested heavily on its foundation, it was as if everything had ground to a halt. He imagined a machine which had suddenly been switched off and the steady hum he was used to had ceased.

  He had been asleep for more than two hours.

  With a jolt he jumped out of his chair, a half-strangled groan coming from his throat. He glanced over at the sofa where she lay motionless. Her eyes were half open. It seemed as though she was semi-rigid, her immobility was terrifying. He could not hear her breathing, there was something missing in the room. An absence. Her ice-blue eyes were vacant, covered, it seemed, by a film of frost. The cat had moved and was now lying in a corner of the room. Alvar rushed out into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Now she was out of sight, he could convince himself it had all been a bad dream, a nightmare, he thought with his back to the door. He stayed there for a long time. Then he sneaked over to the mirror, and clung on to the sink. He blinked repeatedly, no, he was not dreaming, this was real, something dreadful had happened. No, he had to be mistaken. She'll wake up now, he thought, running back out again, she'll wake up if I shake her and call her name. But I don't know what her name is. He tiptoed over to the sofa. But shaking her was pointless, there was no life left in her frail body, no heartbeat, no pulse, no warmth. November, he suddenly realised. It's the month of November and it's an evil month.

  He started pacing the flat with rasping breath, he went from room to room, he wrung his hands so hard his knuckles cracked, he saw that her face had contorted into an ugly grimace. Her jaws had locked, her eyes were raw and dry. Every now and then he would peek over at the sofa; he was waiting for her to wake up, he was waiting for his old life to return, the life he had always taken for granted. She continued to lie there. He went back to the bathroom and washed his face with cold water, his eyes were bloodshot. He came back out and she was still lying there. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a sherry with trembling hands, stood in the doorway, drinking it, she continued to lie there. She was a stranger now who had staggered into his home and then lay down to die on his sofa, that was what had happened, was it not? Death had turned her into a stranger and she was no longer any of his concern. But he had opened the door, he had gone down to Bragernes Square and bought the pills, put them in front of her, fetched water for her and sat there watching her as she swallowed them. His actions throughout the past year, his well-meaning and apparently good intentions, piled up in front of him and turned into a mountain of guilt. He, Alvar Eide, had displayed a degree of negligence which had led her right to her death. He started to sink onto the floor; he could never hold his head up high again, not after this. Imagine that this was how his life would end, tainted by guilt and shame and horror; why had he not been able to see where it was all leading? He lay prostrate on the floor digging, clawing his fingers into the parquet, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. And they gathered themselves and turned into a sly plan, which almost took his breath away, the ultimate proof that he had never been a good person. He realised that she had been right all the time, all he knew was pretence and cowardice, he had never been a hero. Merely spineless. Defensive, pathetic. And the vile plan which was slowly taking shape was all he had to cling to, it made his body obey, it made his heart beat at a normal rate.

  I've got to get rid of her, he thought, I've got to carry her out of the house, I can't have her here, what will people say, what will they think? Will they put me away for this, will I be branded a criminal? I'll never be able to look anyone in the eye. I can't manage anything at all after this, he thought, why was I not tougher with her? If I'd been tough, she would have been alive now. Perhaps. He groaned in despair, his distress roared like a waterfall in his ears. What am I going to tell the police? I can't go to the police, it struck him, I can't tell them what has happened, they'll blame me. It was I who financed her addiction, I drove her to her death. It's all my fault. There is no God, there is no forgiveness. I was only trying to help her, I couldn't bear to see her in such pain, because I'm weak, I'm full of flaws and shame. Time will pass, he thought feverishly, time will pass, soon I'll be in another moment, an even worse one because she is still lying there with her gaping mouth and blind eyes. Why did she pick me? Can you tell from a distance that I'm a pushover; does it show in my pathetic eyes, am I betrayed by my nervous hands? Thoughts rained through his head like a shower of arrows. He concentrated on his plan. He put his palms on the floor and attempted to push himself up, but they were too weak. Blood rushed to his head, his pulse beat in his ears. A thought occurred to him, a wretched idea. He would put a blanket over her and cover her up. He pushed off again and stood up laboriously. Reluctantly he went over to the sofa, got hold of the blanket and arranged it so it covered her head and her body. But it offered him no relief, the contours of her thin body were still visible. Again he went over to the window. He stared out at the town, saw cars crawling through the streets, and the lights, yellow, red, green, people were heading home, it was rush hour. He stood there holding on to the trivial activities outside as the plan continued to grow in his head, slowly, from deep inside him: no one knows anything. No one can see into my living room, can see that there is a dead body on my sofa. Or that I'm responsible. That it is I, Alvar Eide, who pushed her into the abyss. I'll wait until night-time, he thought, then I'll carry her outside. I'll leave her somewhere, so she'll be found, and people can think what they like. I need to tidy my living room, I can't have things like that lying around.

  A faint hope grew in him, a simple, cynical thought.

  Perhaps I'll get away with it. After all, so many of them die, they call it an overdose, she's clearly one of them. She's been seen on Bragernes Square, the police will probably recognise her. They wouldn't make a big deal of it. I need to wait until later in the evening. When everyone has gone home. When will everyone be asleep? Between three and five in the morning. That's when I'll carry her outside and put her in the back of the car, I'll drive out into the woods with her, I'll cover her with the blanket. I never asked for this awful business to happen, I was just trying to help her. He forced himself to snap out of it and went to his bedroom where he lay down fully dressed on his bed. Turned over onto his side and pulled up his knees. He closed his eyes, but they opened again. He kept looking at the lamp on his bedside table, a cold glass dome.

  He fell into a perplexing dream.

  It was difficult to breathe.

  He was crawling around on an ice-cold surface, on all fours, like a wounded animal, and the air was dense and raw, it was like inhaling thick porridge down his lungs. At the same time he sensed a cool breeze further ahead, a freezing draught from a hole in the ice. He struggled to find his way,
fighting to breathe the whole time, it was like a lead weight on his chest, he had to use every muscle in his upper body to make his lungs open and take in air, every breath was a struggle. His hair and his cheeks were damp, and he worked out that he was in a thick fog, which was approaching from all sides, it surrounded him, made him invisible to the rest of the world. Still he crawled on, centimetre by centimetre, the cold breeze grew stronger and he thought he heard a faint murmur, a grinding sound, but he did not recognise the sound and it was too dark to see anything. Then his hand reached out into thin air. He stopped and froze, waved his hands in front of him in terror, there was nothing, he had reached the edge and a fierce, freezing cold wind hit from the void.

  He woke up and gasped for air. There was still a weight on his chest, and breathing a sigh of relief, he finally realised what it was. Goya, his cat, was lying on his chest purring. He nudged him off and lay there staring at the ceiling.

  At a quarter past three in the morning he got up and went into the living room.

  His saliva tasted of blood and metal. There was not a sound coming from the house, the streets outside were empty. The yard was surrounded by a fence. Would Green hear him start his car? Would he turn over in his bed, check the time and wonder? He forced himself not to worry about that. He went out into the hall, put on his coat and shoes. Turned round, saw the tiny body under the blanket. Boot or back seat? he asked himself. It would have to be the back seat. He could hide her under the blanket. He sneaked out into the yard, unlocked the car, put the key in the ignition. Got out again and opened the door to the back seat, looked inside. There was plenty of room for her tiny body. Then something happened to his heart, it started beating violently and his legs buckled and he had to support himself against the car as the reality of his gruesome errand dawned on him. He automatically looked up at the sky, no stars were visible, it was cloudy and overcast.

  He went back inside, stopped in the middle of the living room. Now he would have to touch her, hold her close. It felt like an insurmountable task. He did not want to feel her cold cheek against his own. He went over to the sofa, pulled the blanket off her and spread it out on the floor. Don't think, he decided, just act, be strong. Get her out of the living room once and for all. I should have done it a long time ago. He moved the coffee table to reach her more easily. Stood for a while stretching out his fingers as he often did.

  She was lying flat on her back with her mouth open, her irises were starting to look cloudy. Alvar held his breath and prepared himself. Counted to three and lifted her. He froze. Her body was completely rigid. It was like lifting a log and one of her arms stuck out like the branch of a tree. He swayed violently for a moment, he nearly keeled over. Then he remembered that several hours had passed, and of course he had heard of rigor mortis. Nevertheless he felt paralysed; he stood holding her dead body for a long time as though his feet were nailed to the floor.

  He finally pulled himself together. Reluctantly, with awkward, hesitant steps, he inched away from the sofa and over to the blanket. There he put her down. He wrapped her in the blanket, got up, wiped his brow. Then he went back out into the hall and jammed the door open with a shoe. Listened out into the darkness for sounds. It would take him a few seconds to settle her in his car, a few fateful seconds of his life. He breathed in and bent down again, lifted her up and started to walk. He was watching himself from afar. Here goes Alvar Eide with a dead body in his arms. It's three thirty in the morning, everyone is fast asleep. How did this happen, where did I go wrong? He walked with short, stumbling steps out into the hall and again sideways out through the front door. Then he walked as fast as he dared over to the car, bent forward and placed her inside head first, diagonally across the back seat. She lay like a wooden plank, her outstretched arm pointing accusingly at him. Carefully he closed the door without slamming it. Then he went back to close the front door and lock it. He felt revitalised now, it was nearly over. He quickly got in the car and started it, his hands were shaking so badly he almost couldn't turn the key in the ignition. Finally he got the car into gear, rolled past the letter boxes and out through the gate.

  Down the hill he passed a car; it felt weird. It drove past him indifferently. Will I ever be able to sleep after this? he wondered. Will I be able to smile or laugh? Eat a meal, will I be able to swallow? He turned right at the Central Hospital. He drove further on, up towards the ridge, he intended to drive right to the top. Many tourists came there and there were always plenty of people; she would be found quickly, that was his plan. He could not bear to turn round and look at her, he drove quietly in the darkness, crouched over the wheel. To his right were a couple of houses with no lights on. Finally he reached the top. It was a viewpoint. He stayed in his car for a while, letting the engine run, staring out at the glittering town. A car had been abandoned in the car park, it worried him, but he could see no people. Then he drove into the car park and left the car as close as he could to the beginning of the path. A sign was visible in the beams of his headlights. sa Pond, 11 kilometres. It was a narrow path, but there was room for one car. He drove on for one hundred metres and then stopped. He sat there a few seconds to gather strength. Then he opened the car door and got out; he felt the cool November air on his face. The leaves were rustling, the trees murmured in a menacing breeze, he felt as though he was being watched. Then he walked round the car and opened the door to the back seat. Glanced frantically over his shoulder, got hold of her and pulled her out. Carried her a few metres before laying her down. He took a few steps back. The bundle was barely visible in the darkness, but the sun would rise soon and some unsuspecting person would walk by.

  He drove away hastily.

  Then he heard a low drumming.

  The volume of the sound was increasing rapidly. The sound startled him, someone was coming through the woods, he sensed, and he clutched the wheel. In a flash he identified the sound. Sudden and violent raindrops started to splatter against his windscreen. The skies opened, rain came down like a grey, compact wall. It almost forced him off the road. Her tiny body would be soaked in a matter of minutes, the rain would go straight through the blanket, freezing cold and raw. He slammed on the brakes, buried his face in his hands. Was there no end to this misery? But she's dead, he thought, she won't feel anything. Nevertheless it was pouring down and he did not have the strength to push the thought out of his mind. Her skinny body at the side of the path and the rain washing down on her mercilessly. No one should lie like that, he thought, and it is I, Alvar Eide, who is responsible for all of this. He forced himself to drive on. He met no cars, the streets were empty now, he drove through them at a snail's pace, visibility was nearly zero.

  Ten minutes later he rolled into his yard. He turned off the ignition and got out. The intensity of the rain had escalated. He carefully closed the car door and quickly entered his flat. He locked the door behind him and stopped. And then it all got to him, everything that had happened and the rain, which pelted the windows like a punishment from God. I can't bear it, he thought, she's lying out there getting wet. Someone else needs to take over now and help me. Then something occurred to him. He went over to the telephone, stopped and stared at it. He saw the yellow Post-it note with a number on it, which he himself had stuck to the telephone a long time ago. With his hand trembling he lifted the receiver and punched in the number. After three rings there was a reply.

  'You're through to the Red Cross emergency helpline. This is Marie speaking, how can I help you?'

  Alvar opened his mouth, supporting himself with one hand on the chest of drawers, his voice barely audible.

  'I've done something truly awful,' he sobbed.

  Silence. He could hear her breathing.

  'Do you want to tell me about it?'

  A female voice. So light and friendly. Alvar held his breath. He was overcome by fear of what was about to happen. Marie. Perhaps this really was her name, or perhaps she just called herself this when she was working, why should he trust her? Young
women just made stuff up.

  He carefully replaced the receiver.

  CHAPTER 25

  At this point in the story I lean back and sigh heavily.

  I stare at the screen in despair. It's all my fault. I wanted to test Alvar and now I can see that he'll fail. So I imitate him. I get up and wander across the floor. I go over to the window and stare outside. I'm responsible; I have to get him through this. His despair is my despair, his shame is my shame, I don't know how it's going to end now. I begin to worry about his mental state and what he might end up doing, he has nowhere to go, no one who can help him. Yes, it was a difficult situation, but now he has made it worse, it's a disaster. The way things stand I don't see how he can avoid going to prison, and I don't think he can handle that. Then I think of his father who died at the age of fifty-three from a heart attack. I drift aimlessly through the rooms as I struggle to find a solution. Am I really omnipotent? That's not how it feels. There's only one way out, but I can't see it. How easy it is, I think, putting someone on a stage. Focusing a spotlight on them, getting them started, letting events unfold without a second thought. Suddenly you hit a wall and the audience waits expectantly like children, with their mouths hanging open waiting for the conclusion. I like to end my novels on a succinct, merciless remark.