What is Mine (9 page)

He had lost control of his own time.

Now he was alone. They wouldn’t leave him in peace, the others. He had gotten very angry in the end. A great rage had forced everyone out the door. It felt good because it reminded him that he still existed.

He put his hand on the door handle.

Emilie’s room.

He hadn’t been in since that first afternoon, when the child disappeared and he turned her room upside down trying to find a clue, a trace, a code that might tell him Emilie was only joking. She had gone too far, of course, but it was all just an attempt to fool him, frighten him a bit so that they could have an extra-special evening, safe in the knowledge that Emilie would never actually disappear. He emptied her drawers. Her books landed on the floor, her clothes in a pile in the hall outside. He even pulled off the sheets and tore a poster of Disneyland down from the wall. It was no mystery, no rebus; there was neither answer nor clue. Nothing to be solved. Emilie was gone and he called the police.

The cold metal burned against the palm of his hand. He heard his own heart hammering in his eardrums, as if he didn’t really know what he would find behind the familiar door with Emilie’s name on it, spelled out in wooden letters; the M had fallen off half a year ago and he read E-ilie, E-ilie. Tomorrow he would buy a new M.

Beate had tidied up the room. When he eventually went in, he saw that everything was back in place. The books were standing neatly on the shelves, according to color, the way Emilie wanted. Even her bookbag, which the police had seized, was back in place, on the floor beside the desk.

The police thought it was his fault.

But they weren’t accusing him of anything. In the first few days, he’d felt a bit like a psychiatric patient on the one hand, whom everyone treated with kid gloves, and on the other like a criminal who everyone suspected. It was as if they were constantly frightened that he’d take his own life and therefore watched him with almost suffocating care. At the same time there was something about the way they looked at him; a sharp edge to the questions they asked.

Then the little boy disappeared.

And they changed their tune, the police. It was as if they finally understood that his despair was genuine.

Then they found the little boy.

When two of the policemen came to tell him that the boy was dead, he felt like he was being given an exam. As if, unless he answered exactly what they wanted and the expression on his face was suitable for such an occasion, it would be his fault that Kim Sande Oksøy had been killed. Such an occasion?

They had asked him to make a list of everyone he had ever known or met. He was to start with his family and closest friends. Then the more peripheral people, good and not so good friends, ex-girlfriends and one-night stands, colleagues and colleagues’ wives. It was impossible.

“This is impossible,” he’d said, throwing up his hands. He had gone as far back as secondary school and couldn’t remember the names of more than four school friends. “Is it really necessary?”

The policewoman had been patient.

“We’ve asked Kim’s parents to do the same,” she said in a calm voice. “Then we can compare. See if you have any mutual acquaintances. Or if you ever had. It’s not only necessary, it’s very important. We think that these cases are connected, so it is important to find a common link between the families.”

Tønnes Selbu ran his hand over Emilie’s bed, over the letters she had written in felt-tip pen on the blond wood when she was learning the alphabet. He wanted to bury his face in her pajamas. It was impossible. He couldn’t bear to smell her.

He wanted to lie down in Emilie’s bed. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get up either. He ached all over. Maybe he should ring Beate after all. Maybe someone should come, someone to fill the empty space around him.

Tønnes Selbu stayed sitting on the edge of his daughter’s bed. He prayed, intensely and continuously. Not to God—he was an unfamiliar figure he only used in the fairy tales he told to Emilie. Instead, he prayed to his dead wife. He hadn’t looked after Emilie well enough, as he had promised Grete, in the hours before she died.

F
IFTEEN

A
man approached the row house. The red and white tape that the police had put up had not been removed yet, but had loosened here and there. The night wind made the tired plastic wheeze at the man who slowly climbed over the fence and hid in the bushes. He seemed to know what he wanted to do, but wasn’t quite sure if he dared to. If anyone had seen him, the first thing they would have remarked on was his clothes. He was wearing a thick, turtleneck sweater under a down jacket. He had a big hat on his head, with earflaps and a peak that hung down over his eyes. The boots would have been more appropriate for a soldier fighting a winter war, enormous and black with laces far up the lower leg. A pair of coarse woollen socks stuck up over the top.

It was the night of May 19 and a mild southwesterly wind had brought warmer temperatures of around 57 degrees with it. It was twenty to twelve. The man stood in the cover of a gooseberry bush and two half-grown birch trees. Then he pulled off one of his gloves. Slowly he pushed his right hand down into his wide, camouflage pants. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on a window on the ground floor, where the curtains were drawn, which they weren’t supposed to be. He wanted to see the green teddy bear. The man didn’t have time to get annoyed about it; with a groan he went loose at the hips. He pulled his hand out of his pants. He stood completely still for a couple of minutes. His ears were buzzing and he had to close his eyes, even though he was scared. Then he put his glove back on, climbed back over the fence, and walked off down the short road, without looking back.

S
IXTEEN

I
t was already late when Johanne got up on Saturday, May 20. At least for Kristiane. The child woke up at the crack of dawn, weekdays and weekends alike. Though the six-year-old obviously liked being on her own first thing in the morning, she had no concept of how to avoid waking her mother. Johanne’s alarm clock was a rhythmical
dam-di-rum-ram
from the living room. But Kristiane wanted nothing to do with her. From six o’clock until eight, she was incommunicado. When Johanne went back to work again, once Kristiane’s illness was no longer life-threatening, it had been a complete nightmare getting the girl ready for day care every morning. In the end, she gave up. Kristiane just had to be left to her own devices for those two hours. The university was a flexible employer. And what’s more, when she had applied to teach only every second semester, this favor had been granted until Kristiane was ten. Her friends envied her—enjoy it while you can, was their advice; you can read the papers in peace and wake up properly before starting your day. The problem was that Kristiane had to be watched. Who knew what she might get up to? Johanne knew that Isak was more laid-back. She had found him fast asleep on a couple of occasions, with Kristiane pottering about on her own.

And now she had done exactly the same.

She looked over at her watch, confused. Quarter to nine. She threw back the duvet.

“Mommy,” Kristiane said cheerfully. “Mommy’s getting up for her Kristiane.”

The girl was standing in the doorway to the living room, already dressed, albeit in a ghastly pink sweater she’d been given by her grandmother and a pair of green velvet pants, with a tartan skirt on top. Her hair was done up in five braids. But she did have clothes on, so Johanne tried to smile.

“Well done, you’ve gotten dressed all by yourself,” she said sleepily. “Mommy must have slept in.”

“Slept in kept in.”

Kristiane came closer and then crept up into her mother’s lap. She laid her cheek on her breast and started to suck her thumb. Johanne gently stroked her daughter’s back with her right hand, up and down, up and down. When they sat like this, these moments of intimacy that were impossible to force or predict, Johanne could hardly breathe. She felt her daughter’s warmth through the pink sweater, drank in the sweet smell of her hair, her breath, her skin. It was all she could do not to crush her.

“My little Kristiane,” she whispered into the braids.

The telephone rang. Kristiane pulled back, slipped down from her mother’s lap, and padded out of the room.

“Hello?”

“Did I wake you?”

“Of course you didn’t wake me, Mother. I’ve got Kristiane here this week.”

Johanne tried to grab her robe. The telephone cord wasn’t long enough. She wrapped the duvet around her shoulders instead. There was a draft from the windows.

“Your father is worried.”

Johanne wanted to snap:
You
are the one who’s worried. She checked herself with a resigned sigh and tried to sound cheerful.

“Oh? Worried about me? There’s no need for that.”

“What about your behavior the other day? On TV no less . . . In fact, he even lies awake at night and wonders . . . Is everything alright, dear?”

“Let me talk to Dad.”

“Your father? He . . . he’s busy at the moment. But listen to me, dear. We thought that maybe a short break would do you good. You’ve had a lot going on recently, what with Kristiane and work and . . . Do you want to come with us to the cottage today? I’m sure you can get time off on Monday and maybe even Tuesday too. You and your father could go fishing and we could go for some lovely walks. . . . And I’ve already spoken to Isak and he’s happy to have Kristiane from today . . .”

“You’ve spoken to Isak?”

It was great that she and Isak had a good relationship when it came to Kristiane. And she realized that everyone, not least their daughter, benefited from the fact that Isak also got along well with his ex-in-laws. But there were limits. She had a suspicion that he dropped by to see them every week, with or without Kristiane.

“Yes, gosh! He’s thinking about buying a new yacht, did you know? Not just a racing boat this time; he said he was getting a bit bored of . . . well, of course, it’s got something to do with Kristiane, as well. She just
loves
being on the water, and those fast sailing boats are not particularly suitable for children. He was here yesterday and we talked about you, you know, about how worrie . . .”

“Mom!”

“What, dear?”

“There’s no need to be worried. I am absolutely fine. And anyway, I’m going . . .”

If she told her mother that she was going to the States, she would get no peace at all, just endless advice on travel routes and precautions. Her mother would end up packing her suitcase for her.

“Mom, I’m a bit busy right now. I’m afraid I haven’t got time to come to the cottage, but thanks anyway. Give my love to Dad.”

“But Johanne, could you not at least come over and see us tonight? I could make something nice to eat and then you and your father could play . . .”

“I thought you were going to the cottage.”

“Only if you wanted to come with us, dear.”

“Bye, Mom.”

She made sure that she put the receiver down calmly and carefully. Her mother often accused her of hanging up. She was right, but it was better if it wasn’t slammed down.

Taking a shower helped. Kristiane sat on the toilet seat and talked to Sulamit, a fire engine with a face and eyes that blinked. Sulamit was nearly as old as Kristiane and had lost a ladder and three wheels. No one apart from Kristiane knew how it got its name.

“Sulamit has saved a horse and an elephant today. Good Sulamit.”

Johanne brushed her wet hair and tried to wipe the steam off the mirror.

“What happened to the horse and the elephant?” she asked.

“Sulamit and dynamit. Elephant and pelephant.”

Johanne went back to the bedroom and pulled on a pair of jeans and a red fleece. Thankfully she had done all the shopping for the weekend yesterday, before collecting Kristiane from day care. They could go for a long walk. Kristiane needed to be out for a few hours if she was going to be quiet in the evening. The weather looked good; she pulled back the bedroom curtains and squinted at the day outside.