Black Seconds (7 page)

It was his mother who took care of him, who made sure he had clean clothes and a clean home. Emil accepted that his mother came to his house, but at times she irritated him. She never stopped talking. He could hear her words and he understood them, but he felt that most of them were superfluous. The noise they made rolled toward him like waves and reminded him of the sound of heavy surf. When she started her torrential flow of words he closed up and looked stubborn. Not that this made her stop. She told him off, corrected him, ordered him about and made demands on him, but underneath it all she was very fond of him, and the truth was that she worried about him. She was scared that he might have an argument with someone, scared that he would frighten people with his appearance. He was never going to fit in and she had accepted that. She was also afraid that cruel people might want to harm him or force him into situations he could not control, because she knew the great forces hidden beneath his closed exterior. She had only seen it happen once. She had seen Emil go berserk in an insane and almost frenzied rage. It was a nightmare she managed to suppress most of the time, but it made itself known anyway, sometimes, in her dreams. Then she would wake up, drenched in sweat, terrified at the memory, at herself and her son. She was obsessed by the thought of what might happen if he were to become frightened again. Or if someone attacked him. At times her fear manifested itself as nagging.

"Do you have to go around wearing that stupid old cap?" she would say. "Surely you could get yourself a new one? It would look so much better. I know you think your three-wheeler is the bee's knees, but you do realize that people stop and stare at you, don't you? Most people make do with two-wheeled motorcycles. It's not like there's anything wrong with your balance, either."

She put on a martyred expression that was lost on her son. Afterward she sank down in shame because she had tormented him, but she just could not help herself.

Emil parked the three-wheeler outside the Joker and went in. For a while he padded around the shelves on his wide splayed feet. He wore thick boots whether it was summer or winter. They were so worn that he could stick his feet into them without untying the laces. He carried the red shopping basket on one arm; he never did enough shopping to get a cart. Today he was buying coffee, milk and cream, a loaf of bread, and some soft cheese. When he got to the checkout he added three newspapers. The checkout assistant noticed the papers. Emil had the local paper delivered and did not normally buy the national ones. However, he had started doing so in the past few days. But then again, so had most people, she thought. Ida Joner's disappearance had affected everyone who came there to do their shopping. Everyone had their own views about what had happened, and the shop provided an opportunity to air them. She was keying in the prices when Emil remembered something important. He shuffled back toward the shelves and returned with a bag of unshelled peanuts. The checkout assistant frowned at the sight of them: she could not imagine why anyone would want to buy peanuts that had not been shelled, roasted, and salted. Emil always bought un-shelled peanuts. He was particularly sullen today, she thought. He never spoke to her, but he normally allowed himself plenty of time, as though the business of shopping was an important one, a ritual he enjoyed. This time he paid as fast as he could, his fingers trembling a little as he searched for change in his wallet. He stuffed his shopping into the old backpack. Then he left without touching his cap as a good-bye. The door slammed behind him. She could see him through the window as he mounted his three-wheeler. How offhand he seemed today, she thought, and immediately wondered how she could think that, given that he had never exchanged a single word with her.

Emil started the engine. Once more he kept a steady pace, and headed for the racetrack. As he approached Laila's Kiosk he spotted a police car and a couple of officers. Emil tightened like a coil. Clenched the handlebars and stared deliberately right ahead of him. One of the officers looked up and noticed the strange vehicle. Emil had never had any contact with the police, but he had a profound respect for anyone who wore a uniform. Besides, the condition of his vehicle was such that he really ought to have it serviced, but his only income was his disability benefit and he could not afford it. He often thought that sooner or later someone would turn up with a pair of pliers and remove the license plates. Fortunately, the police were otherwise engaged. They were looking for this girl, Ida. He knew that and concentrated deeply so as not to distract them. He drove past them still staring rigidly ahead of him, but he sensed that he was being watched. Then he turned right. A few minutes later he took a left and reached Brenneriveien 12, where he lived. He parked and covered the vehicle with the black tarpaulin. His garage was full of junk; there was no longer any room for the three-wheeler.

He entered the house. In the kitchen he stopped and listened. Alert like a cat. He put down his backpack on the table and took out his shopping. Opened the bag of peanuts and emptied a few into the palm of his hand. Softly he went into the living room. The door to the bedroom was ajar. He kicked it shut and stood for a while breathing heavily. The peanuts grew moist in his clenched fist. Finally he went over to the window. Emil kept a birdcage in which a gray parrot the size of a pigeon sat on a perch. It began singing a pretty, low tune to earn the peanuts. Emil stuck his fingers through the bars and dropped the nuts into the feeding tray. Immediately the bird ducked, grabbed a nut with its claw and sank its beak into it. A dry, cracking sound was heard as the nut split. At that moment the telephone rang.

It was his mother.

"Well," she said. "The thing is that I'm busy tomorrow and the day after, so we'd better do the cleaning today."

Emil began chewing. But his mouth was empty and he had nothing to chew on.

"I can't stay long," she went on. "I've got my sewing circle at Tulla's tonight and I missed the last one, so I really want to go this evening. I'll start the washing machine for you and then you'll have to hang up the clothes yourself. You can manage that, can't you? Just make sure you reshape them before you hang them on the line, otherwise they get crumpled. And we both know you're not very good at ironing. I'm just about to wash my own floors, so I'll be with you in about an hour."

"No," Emil said, frightened.

He regarded his mother as a cleaning machine, and now she would want access to every corner of his house. He visualized splashing water, foaming soap and his mother's face slowly turning red. He recalled the strong smell of Ajax, the upset when the furniture was moved from its usual place, fresh air coming in from the windows, which she insisted on opening, the nasty draught, the unfamiliar smell of freshly washed bed linen. He imagined—

"You know I have to," his mother insisted. "We've talked about this." Her voice started to quiver.

Emil kept breathing into the handset, did not want to hear what she was about to say.

"Have you had something to eat today?" she went on. She cared about him, she always had. "You never eat properly. Have you heard about fruit and vegetables? I suspect you only ever eat bread, but your body needs more than that. You ought to buy some vitamins and take them during the autumn and winter, Emil. You can get them at Møller's. I'm sure they would have some at the Joker; if not, they'll order them for you. You just need to make an effort, you should take some responsibility for yourself, you know. It's not as if I'm getting any younger," she banged on.

Emil threw a quick glance at the door to the bedroom. Then he looked at the clock.

"Have you washed yourself today?" she went on. "God only knows how often you wash your hair. I don't suppose you do it properly, either, standing there hunched over the sink. And anyway..." she droned on, not expecting an answer, "do you dress up warm when you go out on the three-wheeler? It's autumn now, you've got to watch out so that you don't catch the flu. If you're sick in bed, you'll be helpless: I can't come over every single day. I'm busy enough as it is. Margot Janson from next door is still confined to her chair by the window since she broke her hip. If it hadn't been for me, God only knows what she would have done. I wonder if anyone will be there for me the day I can't manage on my own. If only you had a wife, you would have some hope of a comfortable old age, but if it's true what people say, that we all get what we deserve, then I must have done something bad in my life that I don't even know about."

She got ready to conclude her monologue. "You can start by pulling the furniture away. Hang the rugs over the fence outside, so I can get going faster. I do hope the car will start," she said anxiously. "It was making noises yesterday; I wonder if perhaps the battery has run down. Do you have detergents and things like that to hand?"

"No!" Emil said. Once again he visualized his mother. She was like a hurricane now, a tornado. Her tirade blocked out all the thoughts she did not dare think; she swept them out of the way with words.

"I'll bring a bottle of Ajax," she said. "One day we'll go through your cupboards. You always forget to stock up on things. How many times have I been to see you and found there was no toilet paper? I've lost count. After all, you're a grown man. Anyway, I've got to go now. Just make sure you get started and I'll be with you soon."

"No!" Emil said. He said it louder this time.

His mother heard the rising intonation in his voice; it was unusual. He always said "no" and he said it in many different ways, but this was bordering on something else. A kind of desperation. She frowned and pressed her lips together. She did not want any more problems, not a single one.

"Yes!" she said.

***

Ruth stuck her arms into the sleeves of her coat. On hearing the slam of a car door she stopped. With one hand still in the coat sleeve, she pushed down the handle and opened the door. A very tall man with gray hair was walking across the drive. Ruth recognized him straight away. He stopped at the foot of the steps, bowed, then walked up the steps to her. She finished putting on her coat and held out her hand. He was so tall that she felt like a little girl. She almost wanted to curtsy.

"I've just been to see Helga," Sejer said.

"I'm on my way there now," she said quickly.

"Could I have a word?"

"Of course."

She pulled off her coat. Led him into the kitchen. There was an L-shaped bench with cushions.

"Now, about Ida," Ruth said despondently. "I don't suppose there are that many options left?" She stared at him with frightened eyes. "Helga is losing hope," she groaned. "I don't know what will become of us if the worst has happened. It will be the death of her. She lives only for that child. Ever since Anders moved out."

Sejer listened while Ruth talked. She spoke rapidly because she was so worried.

"It's not good to be on your own with a child," she said, bustling around the kitchen but not actually doing anything. "Children shouldn't become your whole life, it's too much for them to bear. I can't begin to imagine what Helga's going to do the day Ida becomes a teenager and goes out all the time." She blinked, confused by her own leap of thought.

"Can you tell me why Helga got divorced?" Sejer asked.

Ruth looked at him wide-eyed. "Why do you want to know about that?" she asked, baffled.

He smiled quickly. "I don't really know myself. But I ask all sorts of questions."

He said it so simply, his eyes downcast as if he was genuinely tormented by this. It made her want to help him.

"But surely their divorce has nothing to do with Ida going missing?" She frowned.

Sejer looked at her. "No, we don't think so, either. I'm just being curious. Is it hard to talk about?"

She hesitated. "Well, I don't really know." She placed her hands on the table, as if she wanted to prove to him that they were clean, metaphorically speaking.

"So," he said. "What can you tell me about the breakup between Helga and Anders Joner? You're her sister. You're close, aren't you?"

She nodded without looking at him. "I don't know the whole story," she said evasively, "but I think there was another woman. Anders had a one-night stand and Helga couldn't handle it. She threw him out. Anders is ten years younger than she is," she continued. "And don't get me wrong. He is a good man, not the kind who sleeps around. But it happened this one time, and Helga couldn't deal with it. She's so, well, how shall I put it, so principled. So rigid."

"Did she give you any details?"

Ruth looked away and ended up staring at the valance above the window. "She did. But I don't feel it's for me to tell you. It wouldn't help you, either."

He accepted this and nodded. "Helga says that Ida is very fond of both you and your husband, Sverre?"

Ruth could picture Ida once more, a quick shiny flash of a living, breathing girl, here, in her own kitchen. Then she blinked and the image vanished. "We're used to her coming here." She nodded. "It's so quiet when she's not around. She is the kind of child who attracts a lot of attention. She has several other aunts and uncles, but she never visits them."

"Is there any particular reason why she doesn't see them?" Sejer asked cautiously.

"That's just how it is, I guess. Anders's brothers have never shown any interest in Helga and Ida. They're busy with their own families. Or perhaps they just don't have anything in common. They live a bit farther away than we do."

"Do you work?" he wanted to know.

"I do a few hours' substitute teaching at Glassverket school," she said. "When someone's ill and so on. Otherwise I'm at home."

"Your daughter, Marion, how old is she?"

"Twelve," Ruth said. "She's in seventh grade. She spends a lot of time with Ida. This is very difficult for her; I don't know what to tell her. But she reads the papers and watches the news. It's impossible to keep anything from her."

"You have nothing to keep from her," he said. "We don't know what's happened."

Again she was puzzled by the neutral way in which he expressed himself, since she was convinced that Ida was dead. And not only dead, but killed in some horrific way. The worst one of all, in unimaginable pain and fear.