I Can See in the Dark (22 page)

Three days of freedom.

Reading the death notices in the paper, I see that Barbro Zanussi has finally died. It says that she passed away peacefully, but I have my doubts on that score. No one talks about the unpleasant aspects. The rattling and gasping, the disgusting metallic smell from deep within the lungs as they empty for the last time. But at least now she’s at peace, the pain and despair are over, I almost feel relieved for her.

Poor, unfortunate Barbro. A myriad of emotions well up, and for a brief moment I’m filled with compassion. It’s dreadful that things can turn out so badly, that life can be so unbearable.

I like reading death notices. I relish them like I would a sweet. And Barbro’s relatives have chosen a moving poem.

*

I start my new job, and manage really well. I’m not especially friendly, but then I don’t have to be. I do my job and no one complains. People come in and out; it’s a busy place. One day, Eddie and Janne come into the shop, hand in hand, as if conjoined like Siamese twins. Inseparable from the waist down. They look just as happy as ever, and this surprises me greatly. Because I’d imagined that, like Romeo and Juliet, they’d suffer some terrible death in each other’s arms. I’d thought that Janne would find another man sooner or later, better-looking, stronger. And that Eddie would kill her with his bare hands. Throttle her with a vice-like grip, and crush her larynx. Only to take his own miserable life afterwards, because things like that do happen. But I seem to have been wrong. They’re still together, and they buy a bag of buns, before wandering out into the sunshine again, ensconced in their bubble of contentment.

It really worries me the way things are going so well for them. Because I can’t understand what they’ve found, that I’ve never found. But I’m working on it, and I’m moving in the right direction. I count the days just as I did when I was inside, I’m counting down to payday. August is glorious in all its verdant beauty. One day I go to the park by Lake Mester. An unknown woman has taken my bench, and for an instant I’m indignant. She obviously doesn’t know the rules, and she makes no attempt to move when I arrive. She sits rocking a pram. She’s about my own age, probably a grandmother, I think, and find another seat. I perch on the bench that Arnfinn always used. It’s good to sit here again, by the fountain, I sit for an hour listening to the tinkling water. The dolphins are so familiar, so smooth and lithe and wet. On my way home I stop by
Woman Weeping
. I place my hand on one of the rounded breasts, and think about Margareth. Margareth occupies my thoughts entirely, everything else is blotted out by these dreams, and the castle I’ve built in my mind. I go back to the house. I potter about, gradually adjusting to my new existence as a free man, working for Shell with a regular wage and pleasant workmates. They know nothing about why I was in prison. In fact, they don’t seem interested in me very much anyway, and I feel relieved about that. I can hardly expect everyone to see what’s unusual about me.

To realise that I’m wholly exceptional.

At last it’s silent in my bedroom at night.

There’s no chugging diesel engine, no one whispering from the corners of the room.

*

Ten days of freedom.

Free in the morning, free at midday, and still free in the evening.

One day I make the trip to the cemetery.

I imagine that Anna’s brother is likely to be buried here, by Jordahl church, but as I begin to work my way through the headstones, I realise it’s going to be hard to find him. The cemetery is large. I wander amongst the gravestones, reading the odd inscription, halting occasionally to look about me. I catch sight of a man. Presumably he’s a cemetery worker, he’s clipping away at a hedge. The clean snap of his shears, with its even and persistent rhythm, is carried on the still air. I hesitate, but decide to approach him. He starts when I enter his field of vision; he must have been immersed in his own thoughts. He’s wearing a blue cap with a visor and a Honda logo on it.

‘I’m searching for a grave,’ I say. ‘It’s rather important that I find it, but I’ve no idea where to look. Would you happen to know your way about here?’

‘Searching for a grave?’ He gives an unenthusiastic toss of his head, as if I’ve disturbed him in something important. Presumably I have. ‘Well, it’s not easy to say,’ he adds curtly and lifts the shears again. The sun catches the metal blades. He’s both reluctant and ill at ease, but I’m on an important mission so I don’t give up.

‘He went through the ice on Lake Mester,’ I explain. ‘Last year. April it was. Took them forever to retrieve his body, it was found by some amateur divers, almost by pure luck. His name was Oscar. It was an important case, in all the papers. Help me!’ I suddenly implore, beseeching him like a child.

He lifts his shears and clips a few twigs. Pushes his cap back on his head, the weather’s hot and sweat glistens on his hairline. A few dark hairs stick to his skin.

‘Oscar,’ he repeats. ‘Yes, I remember the case. A skier, wasn’t he? I remember his grave, too, it’s a lavish affair. Yes, I know it. There were three hundred people in the church, many more had to stand outside. Go down to the stone wall over there, and look in the furthest row.’

He points with a bronzed hand. I look in the direction indicated. I thank him and start walking. By the stone wall, in the furthest row, the man who fought and lost. And here am I, the sole witness. I feel a kind of importance as I walk along the gravel path between the gravestones. All these dead people. All these silent souls. And only a few of them are granted the privilege of being ghosts, like the sister at the sanatorium. I want to be a ghost too, I think, as I slowly cross the cemetery. I want to stand there and rumble like a diesel engine. I want to whisper in corners. Then, at last, I pull myself together. I remember that I’ve changed, that I’ve served my time. That from now on, my motives will be good, and I move on amongst the graves, until I arrive at the black stone with its gold lettering. The one belonging to Anna’s brother Oscar. Died at the age of fifty-three. The gravestone has a nice inscription.

We love you. We miss you.

I kneel, peer over my shoulder at the gardener working at his hedge, but he’s not looking in my direction, he’s busy with his own affairs.

Then I whisper to the stone.

‘There was nothing I could do.’

And again, a bit louder.

‘There was nothing I could do!’

Someone, perhaps Anna or Oscar’s wife, has planted some pansies. The bed is neat and has been lovingly weeded.

Whenever I think about my own death, I’m always worried that nobody will come and tend my grave. But now I’ve found Margareth. Obviously she’ll come, I think, regularly and often. Margareth is thorough and conscientious, she won’t skimp. I’d like pansies, too. Such beautiful, velvety flowers with their yellow stamens. I also want to leave voices behind, voices of people who knew me. Riktor, they’ll say, we knew him well. Riktor, an old friend of mine. Riktor, my husband. My partner, my best friend. I want what others have got, and I’m going to get it. It’s my turn now. Everything comes to those who wait, and I’ve hesitated long enough. Now I’m going to take life with both hands, it’s high time.

I kneel in front of the grave until the small of my back begins to ache.

There was nothing I could do.

I’ve nothing more to say to Oscar. His recklessness put me in a very awkward position. I can hear the snipping of the shears from the hedge. Then I get up and go. I pass the gardener and nod to him, walk towards the gate. Now this, too, is a closed chapter of my life.

THEN ONE OF
the bad days dawns.

But I don’t realise it yet, standing by the window and looking out at this known and familiar sight, this little kingdom of mine. The meadowy grass in front of the house and the birch at the bottom of the drive, it’s all mine.

Twenty days of freedom. Two days to payday. The longing for Margareth like an ache in my body, her hands, her freckles, her mascaraed eyes. It’s a new, strange sensation, something I’ve never felt before.

I think about buying a bunch of flowers, and giving them to her on our first date, making myself as attractive as I can, being generous and gallant, because I’m pretty certain I can be, if I only try. Making an impression on Margareth isn’t easy, she’s reticent and reserved, but I shan’t give up, I’m extremely purposeful. I turn these things over in my mind, making plans, as I gaze through the window. The birch by the road stirs. Then suddenly, I make up my mind to phone. I decide it’s now or never, the impulse strikes me in a flash, and I act fast. I go to the telephone and ring Enquiries, and they give me the number of the county jail. I note the eight digits on a pad, dial the switchboard number and wait. I can hear it ringing. It rings and my heart pounds. The blood roars as it forces its way through my arteries.

Hi, I’ll say, when they finally put me through to Margareth. Hi, this is Riktor here. This might be a bit of a surprise, but I want to ask you out.

And if you say no, I’m going to lose my head.

Just then, I see something outside the window, something that gives me a jolt. A green Volvo has turned in, and I start when I see Randers at the wheel. I slam down the phone before anyone can answer, and rush out to intercept him at the door. He’s standing on the bottom step, as macho and self-assured as ever. The sun bounces off the bonnet of the green car.

‘You’re a free man, and here I am disturbing you,’ he smiles. ‘But I won’t trouble you unnecessarily, I promise. I only want to tell you something. Something you may be interested to hear, perhaps even have a right to hear. After all that’s happened, all you’ve been through.’

I stand in the open doorway and wait. I try to remain calm, but it’s not easy. Because once again I’m assailed by a sudden doubt, as if there’s still something I’ve forgotten, something I’ve overlooked.

‘Barbro Zanussi is dead,’ Randers says. ‘She was a patient at Løkka, on your ward, wasn’t she?’

‘I know about it,’ I say. ‘Yes, I saw the notice. But I refuse to believe she went peacefully. She probably died with a scream on her lips, she was in great pain.’

Randers strolls across the gravel to the side of the house, and I follow.

‘There were certain irregularities about her death,’ he says.

‘What do you mean, “irregularities”?’

‘Certain findings that may indicate she was suffocated. Just like Nelly Friis. With a pillow, presumably. And yes, maybe she did scream, as you suggest.’

I breathe a sigh of relief, animated by the thought that Barbro had probably been killed in the same way as Nelly. The ultimate proof of my own innocence.

He keeps walking and stops as he reaches the back garden. I want to stop him, but I’m desperate to hear what he has to say.

‘Would an apology be in order?’ Randers asks.

‘Thank you,’ I say in a measured tone. ‘Perhaps you ought to have a word with Dr Fischer. He’s the one who always seems to find them. The one who always informs us. I’ve thought about that a lot.’

Randers nods.

‘We were about to do that,’ he says. ‘But we got there too late.’

‘How so?’ I ask in disbelief.

‘Dr Fischer is dead,’ Randers says. ‘He took an overdose. He was terminally ill, in fact. He had a malignant brain tumour. Just here,’ says Randers, placing his finger on his left temple. ‘He left a letter. He couldn’t bear the thought of life in a nursing home. He knew too much about it. And not to put too fine a point on it, so do you.’

I refrain from replying.

‘“I am a despicable doctor,” he wrote in his letter. “And my conscience is heavy.” What d’you think he meant by that?’

‘I always knew he’d die of a bad conscience,’ I say.

‘Well, that was all I came to say,’ Randers remarks.

‘I see,’ I reply, relieved.

‘Except for one parting question. We’ve reopened an old case. A disappearance.’

I stand with my hands in my pockets. I feel my nerves beginning to tauten.

‘Arnfinn Jagge,’ Randers says. ‘He hasn’t been seen for a year. You knew him, didn’t you?’

‘I don’t know anyone called Jagge,’ I answer evasively. ‘I don’t have a lot to do with people,’ I add, ‘it’s too difficult for me. You know perfectly well that I’ve got a serious personality disorder.’

‘So he’s never visited this house?’

‘No, he’s never been here. Never. You won’t find anything linking him to me. Or to this place.’

‘He was an alcoholic,’ Randers explains.

‘Well, in that case I certainly didn’t know him. I don’t let just anybody in through the door.’

‘His daughter has arrived from Bangkok,’ Randers continues. ‘She had a business over there for many years, but now she’s wound it up and come home. And naturally she wants to discover what became of her father. She’s moved into his house. She came to my office yesterday, and I reopened the case to see if we had anything to go on. He was seen here at this house on several occasions. An extremely reliable witness phoned in and tipped us off. So I thought I’d ask you if you had any theories about what might have happened.’

‘There’s never been anyone here called Jagge,’ I say sullenly.

Randers begins ambling round the garden. I watch him like a hawk, I don’t like his self-assured air. He’s like a leech, why can’t he just leave? I think. But he doesn’t leave, he hesitates. He turns and gazes towards the forest. Perhaps he notices the path. God knows what he’s thinking.

‘He could have committed suicide, of course. In which case there’s nothing to investigate. Perhaps he went into the forest to die. Like an old cat. But in that case he’d have been found. Suicides often position themselves where they’re easily visible, you know, on a path or close to a hiking trail. And we haven’t found him in the forest.’

Randers takes a few more steps towards the forest. He halts two or three metres from Arnfinn’s grave. I hold my breath.