He has rung a number of times and I see him bring his finger once again to the doorbell. I watch him from the window. He must have been at it for a few minutes. He managed to stir me from the sofa and I have had time to make it down into the dark cellar. The light from the lamp outside falls diagonally across his face, casting dark, shifting shadows beneath his eyes, beside the bridge of his nose and around his mouth. His cap is pushed back. Those white brows and glaring pale blue eyes, like a husky. He is wearing black gloves, I see them when he takes hold of the door handle, pulling and shaking it. I hear his voice but not what he is saying. Then he lets go of the door and stands motionless, thinking perhaps, or listening, before taking a step back and looking up at the front of the house and the darkened windows. I have not put any lights on. The neck of a bottle is sticking up sideways from his pocket. He brings it out and takes a mouthful. It is vodka, Smirnoff, I recognise the red and white label from the shelves of the Vinmonopolet. He suddenly looks in the direction of the cellar window. I back up, duck down. Thirty seconds or so pass, followed by the tinkling of breaking glass, I piss myself. I guess it is the bottle, he has either dropped or thrown it on the flagstones, he has not broken the window, my thighs are soaking wet all the same. I have a build-up of saliva in my mouth. I want to groan to relieve the pounding of my heart, but do not in case he might hear me. He shouts something, fury in his voice. In between the shouting and the mumbling I make out individual words: you, fuck. Emilie. Cunt.
I have sat down on the floor. Do you want to see Emilie, is that what he is yelling, do you want to see Emilie? The wet denim stings my skin, the odour of piss fills my nostrils. It goes quiet, but I know he has not left, I have not heard any movement, no gravel crunching underfoot. I know the garden and the drive and can work out the approximate whereabouts of someone by the sound: down by the gate. By the pine trees. At the front door. Or I recognise the muffled sound of footsteps when someone walks across the lawn and around the house, the scraping of soles against the flagstones if they go up the steps to the veranda, as Tuva often does when she has forgotten her keys.
Finally I hear the sound of feet on the gravel, can work out roughly when he is passing beneath the heavily dripping pine trees, hear the gate squeak on the hinges as it is opened, scraping the gravel beneath. No sound of it being closed. That does not necessarily mean he is still here but I stay sitting motionless all the same, try to locate hiding places in the cellar without moving my head. One of Granny’s Persian rugs lies rolled up under Tuva’s old Ikea bed. I put it down here because it was so worn the pattern was indistinct. I can hide there, under the bed, between the carpet and the wall. As I creep under, I get the feeling he has his face pressed against the window looking in at me, watching my legs scramble on the floor and stick out before I draw them up. My heart is hammering, I am out of breath. But nothing happens, I do not hear anyone outside, no clawing at the window pane, no tinkling of broken glass, do not notice any tug on the door from the draught coming from a window or door being opened elsewhere in the house.
I lie there for a long time, feeling tired and drowsy, but am suddenly seized by panic, because I am trapped under here, I cannot lift my head, cannot breathe properly, the underside of the bed is pressing my face against the floor, the back of my head is right against it, I moan, scream almost, yes, maybe I do scream as I struggle to get out from under it and free.
The driveway is empty. It is beginning to get light. If he was outside now he would easily have seen my face in the cellar window. But he is not here. On the flagstones in front of the hall door lies the broken glass from the smashed Smirnoff bottle.
I step out of the wet jeans and knickers and leave them lying in a heap on the floor. Cold and naked from the waist down I walk up the stairs. It reminds me of something, but what is a memory worth? Wandering lonely before it disappears. Perhaps I am remembering how it was to be small and to run around naked. It is precious little help now, on the contrary, it only increases my confusion, because I am mixing up childhood and adulthood, dream and memory.
My toes are ice cold, making the wooden floor in the kitchen feel strangely soft and warm beneath my feet. I leave the lights off. Look out at the road from the kitchen window. Rain-soaked, glistening, deserted. I consider whether to shower before or after I call the police. The deciduous trees, divested of foliage, bend in the wind.
It is difficult to make them understand. I explain everything once. State my name, address and national identity number. Tell them about the man in the baseball cap. The Emilie case, I say, the Emilie case. To judge by the voice of the policewoman on duty, she does not appear to have heard of it at all, but everyone has, anything else is impossible. She says I need to hold the line while she talks to a colleague. Can you not just ring Eriksen, I ask, please, he knows me, but he isn’t answering his mobile. Listen, we’ll decide on that, she says and leaves me on hold for five minutes. I am still naked from the waist down, but am sitting on a chair in the kitchen, it feels cold and clammy.
They’re sending a patrol car, she says, and asks me to stay close to the phone. Don’t go anywhere. They’ll come when they come, and it’s no use pestering, she says to me, ringing again is not going to help, unless the person concerned returns, in which case I should ring the emergency number.
I take a walk around the house. Look out all the windows. The dark piles with Dad’s things on the lawn. The ridge of the neighbour’s roof between the trees. Daybreak is pale and wet. It has stopped raining. The sun comes out, making the raindrops shine, colouring the sky red. The wind does not let up. The police car glides into view.
I have put on Tuva’s grey jogging pants, and look down upon the policemen as they make their way up the drive. I do not think I have spoken to either of them before, do not recognise their faces. They stand by the door a moment, look down at the pieces of glass, exchange a few words. One of them brings a mobile phone to his ear, while the other looks towards the garden, before taking a step back and glancing upwards. I wave to him but do not think he spots me because he does not return my wave, but lifts his arm and rings the doorbell instead. I go down and open the door. One of them looks at his notebook. You rang, he says, made a report of someone trying to get into the house.
I try to explain but it is too much for them all at once, both Emilie and the smashing of the bottle, as though it were impossible that the two things had anything to do with one another. I can hear that my voice is high-pitched and reedy, because they seem suspicious, I need to make them understand, I am aware that I am repeating myself, almost crying.
I’ve told you about this man before, I say, someone must have made a note of it somewhere. It’s not supposed to be like this, not with the police, don’t you make records of important witness statements? Don’t you read reports, or whatever the hell you call them? Surely you ought to know about this kind of thing, a psychopath on the loose, a murderer, do you understand, a murderer.
I think we’ll go in, the one with the notebook says, let’s go inside and calm down. Try not to shout, it’ll only make you more agitated.
They make their way slowly and tentatively up the stairs. I follow behind looking at their black boots.
We sit at the kitchen table. I have to go through everything from the beginning, you would think they had not heard of the case, do they not get what I am saying, or understand the terrible significance? The black gloves. The smashed bottle. I say it over and over. How he shouted: Do you want to see?
Did I want to see Emilie. That was what he meant, I say. Okay, says the one taking notes, okay, all right, but afterwards when he is speaking to the duty officer, or whoever is on the phone, he recounts things wrongly, does not stress the most important part: that the man in the baseball cap has something to do with Emilie, that he is not just a drunken idiot. He has Emilie. He does not fully understand. No, he talks about me as the aggrieved party. That according to the aggrieved party, an intoxicated man attempted to gain entry into the property at three in the morning. She is very preoccupied about a pair of gloves the man concerned was wearing, and believes he shouted something about Emilie. Yes, she is a witness in the Emilie case, he says. Correct. She maintains that we are aware of the identity of the intruder, or rather the department is, that she has reported it previously, but that is a little unclear, disjointed, yes, she may be in shock, I don’t know, there may be a psychiatric element to take into account as well. That is how he speaks.
Yes, that is right, I do have a ringing and a whistling in my ears, specks in my vision, I am feeling sicker than I can stand; he is right that it is shock, I cannot come out of it and sink sideways towards the other policeman, land on his lap, pass out.
When I come to on the sofa the nausea is gone. One of them is sitting on the edge of the seat taking my pulse, his thumb warm against the inside of my wrist.
Are you very fit? he asks. Your pulse is already low, even though you were hyperventilating.
But I have a tingling in my arms, I say.
That’s normal, he says, just breathe deeply, but not too deeply.
He lets go of my wrist and gets to his feet. I do not want him to leave and ask for a glass of water. His footfall across the floor is reassuring, the sound of the cupboard being opened and closed almost everyday, as though it were Knut padding around and I was just resting. Finally there is someone here who can look after me. The ringing in my head takes over and I am not able to lift my arms. The policeman has to hold up the back of my head with one hand while helping me to drink with the other, bringing the glass to my mouth. After which he leaves me to lie in peace on the sofa and goes into the kitchen, where I hear him talk to his colleague but cannot make out what they are saying. A few minutes pass, and then the two of them are suddenly standing beside me again.
I cannot lie here any longer, I think, this is far from over. I want to tell them that, but it is hard to move my lips, I do not know if they hear what I am saying, so I tell them over and over that they have to call Eriksen. It has to do with the Emilie case, I say, to do with the Emilie case. Yes, yes, they say, but I do not see them ring. Maybe they already have.
They tell me I cannot stay in the house. I am given help to swing my legs off the sofa and sit up. Are you dizzy? asks the one who checked my pulse. His hair is soft and brown, he is probably no more than a couple of years older than Georg. No, I say. But I want to sleep. Can you drive me to a hotel where I can sleep?
Titanic in Skippergata is the only hotel I can think of that might be cheap. Located in that area, with all the drug addicts and prostitutes around, it cannot cost much. Not that it matters, I could afford an expensive hotel. But it would not be fitting, would not be in keeping with the incident. I need to leave my home out of necessity, not because I need spa treatments and relaxation, and necessities are not supposed to cost a lot, they are evil. I need to go to a hotel, it is a necessary evil, a burden. They ask if I would not rather stay with someone in the family, or a friend, perhaps. I have no friends I could ask such a thing of, but I do not say that. Anyway, I am not going to a hotel to seek out company. I want to sleep for a hundred years.
It turns out I am still dizzy all the same, I stumble getting out of the car and the dark-haired one has to hold me under the arm on the way in, I know he can feel my tit against the back of his hand. He and his colleague lean over the counter talking to the receptionist while I sit in a leather chair in the foyer gazing at their backs, their behinds, black trousers with reflective strips bunching up at the tops of their boots.
The brown-haired one accompanies me in the lift and sees me to the room.
Are you okay? he asks.
Yes, I say, I’m fine now.
And I am, because I have everything I want, a bed, a room and a door I can lock.
Remember to lock the door, he says, look, you just pull up the handle.
I nod. I never forget to lock.
So I lie down, flat out on my back, and doze. Now and again I hear the shushing sound of the ventilation system. The traffic outside. The footsteps of someone passing the door. There is no man in a baseball cap here. No one talking and asking questions, nothing to disturb me, except the mobile phone. It suddenly rings. It is Eriksen. His voice is low and confidential. I have to repeat everything all over again. I see, he says. Okay. At times he asks me to specify or repeat something. We go through the course of events. The words I heard. The gloved hands. I start to cry. It’s all right, Eriksen says, it’s all right. We’ll be in touch. Don’t go home before I say so.
Not that I want to go home. I do not want any home. I want to sleep.
I am awoken by an intense feeling of anticipation. I am looking forward to something but do not know what. I get out of bed, go into the bathroom and wash my face with cold water. There is a tray with a kettle, cups, instant coffee, tea bags and sugar lumps on the desk by the window. I boil water and make a cup of coffee. While drinking it, I look through the pages of a thick brown information folder. Inside is a restaurant menu in laminated plastic. There is a photograph of each dish. Spaghetti bolognese, pizza margherita, paella, fruit salad and that sort of thing. It feels safe. But nothing is safe. I picture hands placing the food on the plates, holding the camera and taking photographs of the meals, fingers punching in letters and numbers, moving the cursor to the send button in the display and clicking, sending the order off for printed and laminated menus. Every single planned action is carried out by a person who exists. Not only is time transitory, it is fleeting. I sometimes see a similar image of myself, but am unable to hold on to the image, it is cinematic. I see myself perform a series of rapid movements while I rush forward in time and disappear.
The few traces I leave are from an existence governed by rules. I must, for example, perform specific tasks in order to obtain food. Do what I am asked. As is expected. I am not the one who has made the rules, but I need to follow them just the same, because no others exist. That is what is so difficult, not to mention impossible, to understand. That thoughts and ideas can originate from people, but once put into practice in life they are no longer human, what is done is just done.
Either I have not stirred the coffee sufficiently or the water was not hot enough, because the last mouthful I take is strong and bitter and feels syrupy on my tongue, tiny granules of undissolved coffee powder.
It starts to rain, streak after streak of water down the window pane. Drowsiness suddenly fills my head, I just about manage to get to my feet, stand and sway on the wall-to-wall carpet. Maybe I can lie down for a little, just rest for a few minutes before going down to reception, because I need to, I need to get a move on, there is something I have forgotten. Something that needs taking care of, what was it? There is something I need to clear up, straighten out, take responsibility for. Probably something to do with the children. To do with Lars Erik.
Who said that death is final? I will just lie down here for a while, close my eyes, such a lovely shushing sound in my head, I almost disappear into the grainy sleep, the grains are shadows, sediment, a blurry precursor to the brain adjusting and the images beginning, the dreams, to be drawn down into the only place there is freedom, the only place I do not need love, because sleep takes care of me, envelops me, promises more, promises I will be spared re-emergence, a return to loneliness.
But I do not make it all the way down, sleep does not take me. Something disturbs it. It is the key. I cannot remember having been given a key to the hotel room. But I must have, so where is it? I need to get out of bed and look. So I cannot fall asleep, I lie there thinking I will soon get up. Maybe the policeman forgot. Perhaps he put the key in his pocket. He might come in when I least expect it. It is because I am so tired. I am getting mixed up. That is why I fail to remember that keys are not used any more. You are no longer handed a key attached to a metal fob or a wooden tag, you are given a keycard which you insert into an electronic holder by the door when you enter, to turn on the lights. It also activates the TV, and mine is on. The screen display has been the same since I came in: Welcome, Bea Britt Viker.
I take the card out of the holder, stick it in my back pocket, shut the door behind me and take the lift down to reception. There is no one there. Only yucca palms in huge, red pots on the floor. The pots double as lights and are illuminated. I stand by the counter, placing my elbows on the polished wood, or is it fake, laminated to resemble solid wood? The receptionist is seated at her desk behind the counter, with a PC, three telephones, a bottle of water and Post-it Notes. She does not take her eyes from the screen until I ask if they have a computer for guests to use.
No, unfortunately, she says in Swedish. We only have Wi-Fi.
She is called Annika. It says so on the brass name badge she has pinned to her white blouse. She is dark-haired, with a prominent cleavage, push-up bra, I think, and her hair is probably dyed.
Would you like the code?
Oh, she is so angenäm, as they say in Swedish, so pleasant. It makes me want to be around her. Just sit here in the foyer being filled by that comforting, subdued tone of voice she uses to guests as they come and go. And as Annika’s friendly attention trickles over me, I will become part of it, I will become like her: pure, pretty and simple. I regard her shiny dark hair cut in a Cleopatra style. What is wrong with getting dressed up, taking trouble with your appearance, playing a part, pleasing others? Probably nothing.
I don’t have my iPhone or my laptop, I say.
Oh. That’s a shame. She directs a beaming smile at me before turning back to the screen.
I remain standing there. She is not going to help me if I do not ask, but I do not like to ask for anything. It makes it so obvious that I am needy. Why can she not work that out herself?
I want to go to Lars Erik. He is the light, I think. If only I had not deleted his numbers. I could just forget about calling? It would be just as natural for him to get in touch with me as the other way around, why do I have to play the active part? Can he not just turn up? Maybe I will go to Jacob Aalls gate instead. Walk up and down his street a little. He has to come out sooner or later and then he will catch sight of me. Or he might be on his way home. Imagine he is on his way in with his girlfriend. He probably has one. And I am standing there. By coincidence as it were. Of course he will understand it is not a chance encounter. He will be forced to face the fact that I want something from him and feel aversion to that. That is the way it goes when you cling on too closely and are the wrong person. Thoughts of me will pop into his mind and he will think ugh, no, and try to shake them, try to think of something else. He will know that I have misunderstood and think it strange I could believe him to be interested. Or maybe he is used to it. Women like him and I am no exception. This is so lacking in originality. I am not the sort of woman he is attracted to and I should have realised that. He will wonder why I think I am, because that is the kind of thing you notice after a couple of seconds, at first sight in fact, so why did I not notice it? Women like Annika are probably more his type. He would assess my appearance and feel disgusted perhaps, because he has no wish to think of my body in that way. As under consideration. As the one.
I ask Annika if she can look up a telephone number for me.
Yes, but of course, sure.
Lars Erik Berg, I say. In Jacob Aalls gate. She looks back at the screen, her fingers darting quickly across the keyboard. She has green eyes and a small shapely nose that wrinkles when she smiles. She is most certainly his type. Striking, congenial. Too young of course, but men rarely mind that. On the contrary, they think it’s nice having so much firm, smooth flesh beneath their hands. Hands that run over naked young bodies at night. And my body? It cannot be compared. After all, it is mine, and that shows all over, it is a wound to the world at large. My breasts are like two flabby, anxious eyes, withdrawn. Not very come hither. And I am not the kind to lead someone on to somewhere not worth going.
Will I write it down for you?
I nod and am handed a sheet of paper with the logo of the Titanic hotel. Annika has written his name in capital letters, LARS ERIK BERG, followed by the address, which I know, and two telephone numbers.
Is that all right? Annika smiles and I say thank you, but it will never be all right. She has nice, smooth, closed walls within. Not like me, with doors that open and shut when I least expect it. Letting in forests of darkness. Keeping out quite ordinary daylight. I go back up to my room.