The man with the white bicycle helmet did not like leaving the house, but he had no choice today, because there was nothing left in the fridge. He had hoped that the food would last longer, the groceries he had bought the last time he went shopping; he could not quite remember when, but it was some time ago. Possibly last Tuesday, or was it in April? No, April, he was quite sure of that; April followed March, and March was a long time ago. In March the bin men had come to collect everything he had put in the green container by the outhouse. No, not in March, on Tuesdays, they emptied the bins on Tuesdays, when he would usually hide in the bathroom, so he was sure about that. Not in March. On Tuesdays, he would hide in the bathroom so they would not come to the house to ask if they could borrow his telephone or use his lavatory, because they had done that once. And the bin man with the gloves had peed on the edge of the toilet seat and laughed at him for wearing his bicycle helmet inside, and ever since then he had hidden himself in the bathroom every time they came.
Every Tuesday. In March. No, not only March, every month. October. It was October now. He had turned the page on his calendar some days ago. Yes, he had, he remembered that. Going from September to October. September had had a picture of a seagull. And now the seagull was no longer there; instead, there was a fox. Quite a cunning fox, with a tail that was white at the tip, and it had winked at him as he sat at the kitchen table eating the last tin of tuna. It had made him realize that the fridge was empty and that, although he did not want to, he would soon have to cycle down to the shop again, and hope that they would not laugh at him, like they usually did.
Furtively. That was how they did it. Not when he was in there, no, never then; at times they would even pretend to be friendly. The young woman with the chewing gum, and the other woman who was behind the till, when he showed them the list he had written of the things he needed, they pretended to be kind to him then. Walked around with him and helped him put things in the basket, crispbread and tins of mackerel in tomato sauce and pork chops; they would not laugh then. Nor when it was time to pay either, even when he was unable to make the money in his wallet match the number on the till. Not then either – they would pretend to be nice and help him count – but afterwards. When he had left the shop and pretended to have cycled home but was really watching from behind the bottle bank, or from behind the van, which said ‘Hurumlandet Supermarket’, then they would laugh at him, laugh out loud while slapping their knees, because he always wore his bicycle helmet. It took twenty-four minutes to cycle each way, if the road was not too slippery, as it was today, and he realized that he was dreading it more than usual as he unlocked his bicycle and pushed it carefully down to the main road.
It took nearly thirty-five minutes today. It was that icy. October, no longer September, but still it was almost winter. Perhaps it was all his fault? He had worried about this recently, that it might be his fault that it was so cold. The sky was heating up, he had read about it; the ice around the North Pole and the South Pole would melt unless you sorted your rubbish properly. Usually, he was very careful about it – food waste in the food-waste container, plastics in the plastic container; he never mixed cardboard or paper with the other rubbish, and always compressed milk cartons and cans before he threw them out – but he had been ill some weeks ago. His head had been aching, and he had had feverish dreams in the middle of the day, and it had made him forget all about recycling; he had just chucked everything into the same bin and, when he realized his mistake, it had been too late. He had eaten nothing for four days, in the hope that it would make up for his mistake, but he had started passing out and been forced to eat something in the end. When he had woken up the next day, there had been ice in the yard outside, and ever since then he had been sweating profusely, and he had hidden himself behind the kitchen curtains every time he saw light down on the road, scared that they had realized what he had done. That they were coming to get him. But, fortunately, none of the cars had turned off and driven up towards the house. They hardly ever did. He rarely had any visitors. Just the bin men on Tuesdays.
He attached the front wheel to the bicycle stand with one lock and looped the chain, which he had carried in his rucksack, around the rear wheel. He spent a few minutes checking that both locks were secure before he started the long walk towards the door. He never went straight inside; no, he had tried that once, and it had gone horribly wrong, his mind had been on other things, and he had just opened the door and stepped right into the shop, and no, that had ended badly. There had been wolves inside, huge, grey wolves with big eyes and slavering jaws, and he had been so scared that he had knocked over a stand with sunglasses and, on his way out, he had run right into the door, then an ambulance had turned up and they had laughed at him again, all the nurses and the doctors who had stitched his face with a needle and thread, and after that time he had learned that it was best to be careful. So now he always approached in a small arc, swinging past the glass doors so that he could take a look inside, then a quick glance at the advertisements, because it was OK to pretend to be looking at today’s promotions, you didn’t look stupid. Barbecue sausages for 19.90 kroner. Three packets of nappies for the price of two. No wolves today. The man with the white bicycle helmet heaved a sigh of relief, yet still he waited several minutes and had another look inside to be sure before he plucked up the courage and walked the last, heavy steps up towards the door to the supermarket.
As always, a bell rang out above him, but this time he was prepared, so he was not scared. He picked up a basket from the stack, took out his shopping list from his pocket and moved as quickly as he could up and down the aisles. Milk. Yes. Eggs. Yes. Salmon fillets. Yes. He was starting to feel better now: the things on his list were easy to put into the basket today; none of them refused, like they did sometimes. Bananas. Yes. Potatoes. Yes. Chicken. Yes. He began to smile: today was his lucky day; look how well it was all going. He liked chicken, but it would not always go into the basket, sometimes he had to eat just potatoes, but today nothing was difficult at all. The chicken came of its own accord today. Perhaps it was not his fault, after all, that winter had come so early? He smiled to himself, put the last items on the list into his basket and walked proudly up to the till.
The young woman put down a magazine and blew a big, pink bubble, and she did not look at him as if he were an idiot, no; in fact, she smiled faintly. He could feel his heart beat a little faster under his puffa jacket as he started putting his groceries on the conveyor belt. She had probably realized it, too. That today was his lucky day. That it was not his fault, this business about the weather.
‘Do you want a bag?’ the young woman said when she had scanned all the items.
‘No, thank you.’ He smiled contentedly, and was just about to put his shopping into his rucksack when he saw them.
On the stand nearest the till.
The newspapers.
Oh no. ‘Cash or card?’
He stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.
On both front pages.
The photograph.
How could they have …?
‘Excuse me? How would you like to pay?’
‘The chicken came of its own accord,’ he muttered, not taking his eyes off the photograph on the front of the newspapers.
‘What are you talking about?’ the girl said.
‘The chicken.’
‘Yes?’ The girl sounded hesitant now.
‘It came of its own accord. It doesn’t always.’
‘No, OK …’ the girl behind the till said. ‘So will you be paying by card or cash?’
‘No, I have a rucksack.’
‘Rucksack?’
‘I don’t need a bag.
‘No, OK … But … How are you going to pay for your shopping?’
‘It’s not my fault.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I didn’t kill the cat.’
‘The cat?’
The expression in the girl’s eyes had changed.
‘I didn’t kill the dog either.’
‘The dog? Yes, OK … Will you be paying by card or …?’
A wolf was approaching. A fat wolf with glasses. From another door at the back of the supermarket. The wolf was getting closer and closer to him, and all the man in the white bicycle helmet wanted to do was run out of the shop, but his feet were no longer working; they seemed glued to the floor. He closed his eyes and stuffed his fingers into his ears; today was Tuesday, and it was probably better to hide in the bathroom, especially in March, when the bin men came – no, not March, October, the fox had said so.
‘Hello, Jim, is that you?’
Jim opened his eyes and saw that it was not a wolf after all. It was the nice man. The nice man with the beard who owned the shop.
‘The chicken wanted to get into the basket,’ he insisted as the nice man with the beard looked across to the girl behind the till, who just shrugged.
‘Is there a problem with the payment?’
The girl with the chewing gum pressed her finger against her temple and shook her head, but the nice man with the beard looked at her sternly so she quickly lowered it.
‘Come on, Jim, let’s pack up your shopping,’ said the nice man who owned the shop, and helped him get his things into the rucksack.
‘I didn’t kill the dog,’ Jim said, and shook his head vigorously.
‘I’m quite sure you didn’t,’ the nice man with the beard said, walking him to the doors, and they opened easily now, almost automatically.
‘Don’t worry about paying me today, Jim. We can do that some other time, OK?’
The nice man smiled and did not laugh, showing his teeth, even when Jim struggled with one of the bicycle locks.
‘You know that I’d be happy to deliver your shopping, don’t you? You only have to call, and I’ll come to your house.’
‘It’s very important to do things for yourself.’
‘Yes, of course it is. And you’re doing really well, Jim. But if you need anything, you just call, OK?’
‘The tip of the fox’s tail is white, that’s why it’s October,’ he said, before stepping hard on the pedals and cycling home: a new record this time, less than twenty-two minutes, even though it was terribly, terribly slippery, especially in the middle of the road.