I Can See in the Dark (Karin Fossum) Page 4

  ‘Hi, it’s Lill Anita here. Yes, we’re in the park. Oh, God no, it’s not easy finding something to do every bloody day. And I don’t like going to the Dixie, people stare, I’m so sick of it, and Miranda’s just the same as other kids, she always starts making a fuss, then people gawp even more, I can’t bear it. Yes. We’ve just arrived. Well, the weather’s not too bad. Might as well sit here as anywhere. What did you say? You’re at the Dixie? Have you got that film we were talking about, is it on Blu-ray? Is it as good as everyone says? Can I borrow it?’

  Here Lill Anita paused. She tended the child with a busy hand, smoothed her hair and straightened her dress, checked if she was cold, I don’t think she was. Then she looked over at me sitting on my bench. It was as if a thought had suddenly struck her, as if she’d seen me for the very first time. Her gaze was long, sober and appraising, it took in the whole of me, my slicked-back hair and my thin, stooping shoulders.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you,’ she said in a high, carrying voice, because I was some way off, and the water from the fountain made a certain amount of noise. ‘Sorry to trouble you, but I’ve got to nip over to the Dixie quickly to fetch something. You couldn’t keep an eye on Miranda for me while I’m away, could you?’

  She leant over the wheelchair, straightened Miranda’s dress again; it was a beautiful dress, I don’t know how people can dress their children up like that when they’re on Social Security. She was doubtless on Social Security too, just like the alcoholic Arnfinn, that’s what the system’s come to now, you can manage for a long time without a job, some people spend a whole lifetime without contributing to society.

  ‘It’ll only take ten minutes,’ she added, ‘I’ll run all the way.’

  She gazed at me under mascaraed lashes and gave the small pout of a wheedling child. As for me, I was completely dumbstruck. I couldn’t believe my ears. Miranda, that helpless, speechless child in my depraved custody. The two of us alone in the park by Lake Mester, a little disabled girl, entrusted to me and my whims, my defective impulse control. I checked the surrounding park several times, but no one else was in sight, just a few sparrows hopping about searching for food at the base of the fountain. They found nothing, only sweet wrappings and other bits of litter. Decomposing leaves from the previous year were rustling about on the ground, and there was a soughing from the trees lining the paved path. A gust of wind blew through the park ruffling my hair; quickly, I patted it down.

  Keep an eye on Miranda. Had I heard her correctly? I took myself sternly in hand, making an effort to appear responsible. How long had we both been coming to the park by Lake Mester, Lill Anita and I? For at least a year, regularly. I had always behaved in a respectable manner. I was well dressed, too, in a decent jacket and trousers and, as I’ve said, we were on nodding terms.

  ‘I’ll look after Miranda,’ I promised, and rose from my bench. I walked calmly across the parterre, with slow, measured steps and open, candid hands. Although my head was seething. Although my fingers were itching and my whole body was tingling, I kept calm. That feeble, gesticulating child. In my care. Lill Anita jumped up straight away, finished her conversation and slipped the mobile phone in her pocket. She nodded at the path and over towards the café.

  ‘Ten minutes tops,’ she repeated. ‘I’m only going to collect a film. You don’t have to speak, she’s so hard to understand, I mean, for anyone except me. Just sit quietly on the bench. If she tries to wheel herself away you’ll have to stop her, she can be a bit difficult sometimes, but the brake is on. Make sure of the brake,’ she said breathlessly.

  Then she ran off down the paved path. She ran past Woman Weeping in her studded, faded jeans, and then she was gone.

  The wheelchair was a Plesner and seemed well equipped.

  At the back there was a colourful netting pouch which contained a few clothes, a knitted jacket and a threadbare teddy with eyes of black glass. It was old and covered in burls, and quite smelly when I put it to my nose. But the child smelt of soap. It had a scent that was sweet, like wild flowers. Her trainers were clean and white; she couldn’t walk in them, their only function was to keep her feet warm. The laces were tied with a double bow. She immediately became restive when I seated myself on the bench, restive because her mother wasn’t there, and because she didn’t know me. I could read it in the attitude of her thin neck, and from the hands that fluttered over her lap, and I didn’t speak a word, I waited. The silence made her uneasy. One can relate to words, but thoughts can’t be monitored, and she was probably used to the various clumsy comments people make, what a lovely wheelchair you’ve got, can I see your teddy bear? Or similar inanities. Five minutes passed. I sat absolutely still on the bench with my hands in my lap, while my imagination ran wild. Miranda’s head lolled back and she opened her mouth. I could see her large front teeth, big as sugar lumps. Her feet in their white trainers were turned inwards, a wide belt held her in the wheelchair. It was fastened with a shiny buckle.

  I glanced at the path. Lill Anita wasn’t in sight. So I quickly dived into my pocket where I had a packet of lozenges. I opened the packet and took one out, weighing it in my hand. It was a Fisherman’s Friend. Small, sand-coloured and oval, and so strong it brought tears to the eyes. And, seeing as Miranda was sitting there gaping like a baby thrush, I popped it into her mouth. At first nothing happened. The lozenge lay on her tongue where it slowly but surely began to melt, and to wreak its overpowering havoc. Then, the first tears appeared. Some saliva ran down her chin and on to the front of her dress, while I kept an eye out for Lill Anita who would shortly appear on the paved path. Miranda struggled desperately with the strong lozenge. She attempted to expel it with her tongue, but this proved too much for her limited powers of co-ordination, she couldn’t manage it. There’s something about drooling. It makes people appear moronic, but for all I knew this gasping little girl might be as sharp as the scythe I had at home. A sudden light in her eyes told me that her mother was coming at last. I rose from the bench and smiled soothingly. Assured her that everything was fine. Lill Anita ran the final few steps across the parterre.

  ‘Have you given her something to eat?’

  She rummaged in the net at the back of the chair for some tissue, tore off a large piece and wiped Miranda’s mouth.

  ‘Only a sweet,’ I said in my defence.

  Her cheeks turned a bright red. Presumably caused by a mixture of annoyance and shame, because she’d left her helpless child in the care of an unknown man who looked like a pike.

  ‘You mustn’t give her anything,’ she said angrily, ‘or it could stick in her throat. Good God! You mustn’t give her things, are you crazy or what?’

  So that’s the thanks you get, I thought, and stared at the object she’d deposited on the bench. A DVD. Presumably she was going to watch it when evening finally arrived and Miranda was asleep. Those few, precious night-time hours without responsibility. I returned to my own bench, and they began making rapid preparations to leave. Lill Anita put the film in the net, released the brake, spun the wheelchair round and set off down the paved path.

  Serves you right for leaving your child with a stranger, I said to myself. You wicked, slovenly woman.

  Chapter 13

  ONE NIGHT SOON after I dreamt about the man in the red ski-suit.

  I was standing on the shore of the lake and saw him fall through, I tried to shout, but I was mute, no sound came from me. It was terrible to watch his furious battle in the water, his constant thrashing and clawing attempts to pull himself out. Yet I also felt a strange thrill, as if I were full of good adrenalin, pumping my blood at tremendous speed through my veins. They’ve searched the lake for him without success. The rescue services and some volunteers. It must be hard for his relatives, I thought, knowing that he’s lying at the bottom of the lake, decomposing. His skin becoming porous, the flesh loosening from his bones, fish eating their way in through his eye sockets.

  After the episode with Miranda and the Fisherman’s Friend, Lil
l Anita has been somewhat reserved. But she still comes to the park. She occupies the bench as if it belongs to her. She’s on her mobile phone for much of the time, always keeping an eye on the girl in the wheelchair. For Miranda is there the whole time, every moment needy and dependent. Ebba has been over a few times and patted her on the cheek. As if that were of any use. But old ladies are like that, they always make a fuss about petty things.

  Often, when I’m at work and have a bit of time to spare, I’ll go out to the kitchen and see Sali Singh. With his brightly coloured clothes and his expansive, barrel-shaped body, he reminds me of a Russian matryoshka doll. In which case there would be six smaller Salis inside the outer one, it’s a fascinating thought. And there do seem to be several of him, too, a different one each day. He’s inscrutable. We talk about the state of the world, and all the things, good and bad, that affect us human beings. Sali is a gentle soul, full of Indian wisdom, and I enjoy listening to his calm, deep voice with its quaint accent. He often gives me a bit of food, perhaps a taster from the day’s menu, or a small cake. He puts it in a bowl and pushes it across the table to me. He’s kind and generous and he has no ulterior motives.

  Then there’s Sister Anna, beautiful little Anna.

  One day she came walking wearily into the ward office. She slumped into a chair and propped her head on her hand. The sun was pouring through the window and made her hair glow. I could see she was suffering. That she was ruminating on something serious, and that it was making her strangely distant. But then the mood passed and she pulled herself together, she’s nothing if not an indomitable woman. She reminded us that old Waldemar Rommen was celebrating his birthday that day, he was ninety-eight, believe it or not. It was practically a provocation in itself, there was almost no life left in him. His heart gave a beat occasionally, and now and then a shallow breath would pass his lips. His hands and feet were ice cold and had blue, bunched veins; his cheeks were as pale as marble. But Anna spent the day treating him in every conceivable way. For her, birthdays are sacrosanct, let no one deny it. But ninety-eight. Hardly any respiration or circulation, hardly any intake of food or drink, almost mummified, dry and tough as driftwood. Despite all this, Anna sat in a chair at his bedside and chatted for a long time. A quiet prattle that elicited no answer. She lit candles, she brought in the flowers his family had sent by courier, asters, I’ve never liked them, they’re vulgar. Waldemar Rommen has dementia. He understood nothing of what was going on, but Anna wanted to make much of him anyway. I visited Waldemar as well several times that day. He turned away when he saw me coming, and seemed inexpressibly tired; the shrivelled face impassive.

  I sat in a chair by the bed, grasped the bony hand and held it firmly.

  ‘This is your last birthday,’ I said. ‘Take my word for it.’

  If he felt pain or sorrow about what I’d said, he hadn’t the strength to formulate it. But his eyes were full of water. I pulled my hand away and went out again, carried on with my duties. We have so many patients on our ward, and there’s a long waiting list as well. Lots of people who want our costly care and our services.

  I kept my eye on Anna all that day.

  She went about wrapped in her own thoughts and was obviously working through something difficult, because her eyes were sombre and her mouth had a sorrowful slant. I didn’t want to meddle and pry, I know how to behave, but I wanted to get her alone in the ward office. It took some time before an opportunity presented itself at last. Naturally, Dr Fischer came in and sat on and on, with his legs crossed, joggling his foot. He had the obligatory suede shoes on, and as usual he massaged his temple. We could never hear him coming. He’d steal along the corridors like an Indian hunter.

  At last we sat there, Anna and I, one each end of the sofa, and it was just the two of us, Dr Fischer had gone. She closed her eyes and nodded off, I saw her chest rise and fall in a slow, heavy rhythm. The sun flooded in through the window and her lovely face was bathed in an almost ethereal light. Suddenly she opened her eyes.

  ‘I’m not quite myself,’ she mumbled. ‘Do excuse me.’

  Then she shut her eyes again and rested her head against the wall. And I realised that something had happened. My imagination set to work. It’s probably her husband, I thought, he wants a divorce, he’s found another woman. I studied her hand clandestinely, but saw that her wedding ring was still there. You never can tell, though, the relationship between two people is a difficult thing.

  ‘What are you then, if you’re not yourself?’ I asked tentatively.

  ‘I’m upset,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s my brother, Oscar.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Oscar?’ I wanted to know. ‘Is he ill?’

  ‘He fell through the ice on Lake Mester,’ she replied. ‘And they can’t find him.’

  Chapter 14

  MY BROTHER OSCAR fell through the ice.

  I hadn’t misheard, she really had said it.

  Then she got up and went out, drifted down the corridor, her skirt swinging gently around her slim legs. Her brother, I thought, her brother Oscar in the red ski-suit, he who’d battled against the water and lost, and I’d witnessed it. There was a bond between us after all, I saw it clearly. Destiny had a plan, this couldn’t be coincidence, there was something larger than me, a pattern that I was part of, and its discovery thrilled me and made me dizzy all at once.

  I carried my secret with me for the rest of the day. Now it was even bigger, and I felt ready to burst like an over-inflated balloon. But the truth had to be withheld, I had to bear that alone. However, I felt I’d been chosen, I was the only one who knew.

  When the shift was over, and evening was approaching, I went to the park. That day I took a detour and arrived at the fountain from a different direction, along a path that skirted the lake and then led on to the town, with all its bustle. This took me past the other beautiful sculpture in the park by Lake Mester.

  Woman Laughing. I stood for a while regarding her. I put my hand on the smooth bronze and ran it over her thighs and back, in long, affectionate strokes. Having first checked over my shoulder to make sure no one was looking at me. Then I went to my bench and sat down, admiring the dolphins and listening to the chuckling water. I sat there alone with my big secret, this new discovery in my life: I was one of the chosen.

  I sat there until evening began to descend.

  The darkness crept slowly on, but with my exceptional night vision I saw the shapes and outlines start to quiver with their familiar light. A sparrow, a stray cat, insects, like fireflies all of them. And then came the calm that dusk brings with it, of everything settling down, of everything ceasing. My own breathing was all that could be heard. I was just about to get up and go. Home to the empty house and its empty rooms, home to the diesel engine that was impossible to escape, home to the whispering voices.

  Just then, Arnfinn came tottering along the path.

  Slow, heavy and swaying, he struggled to keep his feet, but it was obvious that he was bound for his bench, the one he usually occupied. I sat there serenely and watched his laboured progress. Either he’d drunk too much, or too little. He came on, rocking like an injured crow, limping, uncertain and helpless, impervious to the fact that I was sitting there studying him. His hands groped for support, but his main problem was his trembling, the whole of the faltering edifice was threatening to collapse at any moment. But he walked. One foot in front of the other, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the green bench. At last he lowered himself on to it. For a while he sat there blinking, not even looking in my direction. Then all at once he brightened, as if he’d thought of something pleasant, and he rummaged in his inside pocket for the hip flask, which always used to accompany him, which always used to provide peace and warmth. The lovely, silver-plated hip flask, which was now in my inside pocket, the trophy I’d taken, and carried with me ever since. Waiting for the right moment. And the moment was now.

  This was the decisive instant when I would finally come to his rescue, I would come like a s
aviour and light up those bloodshot eyes, I would help his trembling body to relax. I’ve never been a soft-hearted soul, but here was a man I could save. Anna’s brother drowned before my eyes, but now I could make a difference. I rose and went over to him, took the hip flask from my pocket and offered it with a smile and a friendly nod. The feeling of doing a good deed spread upwards from my toes, and suffused my whole body. He took it and studied it carefully, to see if it really was the hip flask he’d missed so sorely. He managed to remove the top after a bit of a struggle, but there was only a drop left in the flask, not sufficient to satisfy his need. Nevertheless, he went on putting the flask to his lips, as if hoping for some miracle that might fill it with vodka, providing he didn’t stop hoping.

  ‘You haven’t got a drink, by any chance?’ he asked feebly.

  The asking had cost him dear, he was now staring at the ground, but his need was too great, he had to bite the bullet and beg.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a drink. I’ve got a bottle of vodka. And, you know, it could be for you.’

  I took hold of his arm and hauled him up. He was as unmanageable as a sack of potatoes. At that moment I caught his smell, a mixture of mildew and drunkenness. He hung heavily on my arm, and I was scared he’d fall on the path and lie there floundering. But he managed. Walking like a wounded soldier, heading for vodka and salvation. I was used to doing this, of course, walking and supporting someone on my arm, like the patients at Løkka, the few who were able to get about.

  ‘A drink,’ I reiterated. ‘To put you back together again.’