‘
Only
two left? You
only
have to kill another two people and then we can escape? Is it that easy for you?’
‘No, Martha. It isn’t easy for me. None of them were easy. And it’s not true what they say, that it gets easier. But I have to do it, there’s no other way.’
‘Do you really think you’ll survive?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘No! But in God’s name, then why are you talking about—’
‘Because you can only plan to survive.’
She fell silent.
He stroked her forehead, her cheek and her throat. And then he started talking. Quietly and slowly, as if he had to be sure that every word he chose was the right one.
She listened. He told her about his childhood. About his father. About his death and about everything that had happened since.
She listened and understood. Listened and didn’t understand.
A ray of sunshine had crept in between the curtains by the time he had finished.
‘Listen to yourself,’ she whispered. ‘You know this is insane, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But it’s the only thing I can do.’
‘The only thing you can do is kill a lot of people?’
He took a deep breath. ‘All I ever wanted was to be like my father. When I read that suicide note, he disappeared. And so did I. But then – in prison – when I heard the true story of how he gave his life for me and my mother, I was born again.’
‘Born again to do . . . this?’
‘I wish there was another way.’
‘But why? To fill your father’s shoes? Because the son must . . .’ She narrowed her eyes, forcing out the last tears. Promising herself that they would be the last. ‘. . . finish what his father couldn’t?’
‘He did what he had to do. I’m doing what I have to do. He died for us. When I’m done with this, I’m done. I promise you. Everything will be all right.’
She looked at him for a long time. ‘I need to think,’ she said at last. ‘You go back to sleep.’
He slept while she lay awake. It wasn’t until the birds started singing outside that she, too, fell asleep. And she was sure of it now.
She was crazy.
She had been so from the moment she saw him.
But she hadn’t realised that she was just as mad as him until she let herself into the yellow house, found Agnete Iversen’s earrings on the kitchen counter and put them on.
Martha was woken by the sound of children playing in the street outside. Cries of joy. Small running feet. She thought of how innocence walks hand-in-hand with ignorance. How insight never clarifies, only complicates. He slept so peacefully next to her that for a moment she thought he was already dead. She stroked his cheek. He muttered something, but didn’t wake up. How could a hunted man sleep so soundly? The sleep of the just. It was said to be good.
She slipped out of bed, got dressed and went down to the kitchen. She found some coffee, but nothing else. The freezer she had been sitting on in the basement, perhaps he had a frozen pizza or something. She walked down the basement steps and grabbed the freezer handle. It was locked. She looked around. Her eyes fell on the nail in the wall and the key with the illegible tag. She took the key and inserted it in the lock. Turned it.
Voilà
. She flipped open the lid, leaned in and felt the chill against her chest and throat, then she let out a short scream and dropped the lid. Turned round and sank down with her back pressed against the freezer.
She remained on her haunches, breathing hard through her nose. Tried to blink away the sight of the body that had been staring up at her with an open, white mouth and ice crystals on the eyelashes. Her pulse was so fast that she felt faint. She listened to her heart. And to the voices. There were two of them.
One of them screamed in her ear that she was mad, that he was mad, a killer, that she had to run up the stairs and get out of the house now!
The other told her that this body was simply a physical manifestation of something she already knew and had accepted. Yes, he had killed people. People who deserved to die.
The screaming voice ordered her to stand up. It drowned out the voice telling her that this was the panic she would inevitably have to experience at some point. She had made a choice last night, hadn’t she?
No, she hadn’t.
She knew it now. That the choice of whether to jump down the hole and follow the rabbit, take the step into his world, or to stay here in the normal world, was being made here and now. This was her last chance to walk away. The next few seconds were the most important in her life. Her last chance to . . .
She got up. She was still dizzy, but she knew she could run fast. He would never catch her. She inhaled oxygen into her lungs and the blood transported it to her brain. She leaned against the freezer lid, saw her own reflection in the glossy surface. Saw the earrings.
I love him. That’s why I’m doing this.
Then she opened the lid again.
The body had bled over most of the food. The design on the Frionor boxes seemed rather dated. They must be at least twelve years old, that sounded about right.
She concentrated on her breathing, on her thoughts, forcing away anything that wasn’t helpful. If they were going to eat, she had to go to a shop. She would ask one of the children where the nearest supermarket was. Yes, that was what she was going to do. Eggs and bacon. Fresh bread. Strawberries. Yogurt.
She closed the lid. Pressed her eyes shut. She thought she was going to cry again. But instead she started laughing. The hysterical laughter of a person in free fall down the rabbit hole, she thought. Then she opened her eyes and walked towards the stairs. At the top of the stairs, she realised she was humming a tune.
That you’ve always been her lover and you want to travel with her.
Mad.
. . . And you want to travel blind and you know that she will trust you.
Mad, mad.
. . . for you’ve touched her perfect body with your mind.
Markus was playing Super Mario Brothers by the open window when he heard a door slam outside. He looked out. It was the pretty lady. Or at least she was pretty today. She walked from the yellow house and down to the gate. Markus remembered how the Son had lit up when he’d told him that she was the one he had seen enter the house. Not that Markus understood much about such things, but he had an inkling that the Son was in love with her.
The woman went over to the little girls who were playing with skipping ropes and asked them a question. They pointed and she smiled, called out something to them and walked quickly in the direction they had indicated. Markus was about to return to his game when he noticed that the curtains in the bedroom were open. He grabbed his binoculars.
It was the Son. He was standing by the window with his eyes closed and his hand resting on his side, on a bandage. He was naked and smiling. He looked happy. Like Markus on Christmas Eve, just before he unwrapped his presents. No, change that, the next day, when he woke up and remembered the presents he had been given the night before.
The Son took a towel from the cupboard, opened the door and was about to close it when he stopped. He looked to the side, down at the table. Grabbed something lying there. Markus zoomed in.
It was a book. Bound in black leather. The Son opened the book and began reading it. Then he dropped the towel. Sat down on the bed and carried on reading. He sat like this for several minutes. Markus saw his facial expression change and his body stiffen, freeze in a kind of crippled position.
Then he suddenly got up and hurled the book at the wall.
He grabbed the table lamp and subjected it to the same treatment.
He clutched his side, howled and slumped on the bed. Bowed his head, forcing it down with his hands which he had folded behind his neck. He sat with his body shaking as if he was having a fit.
Markus could see that something terrible had happened, but he didn’t know what. He wanted to run over there, say or do something to comfort him. He knew how. He would often cheer his mother up. Talk to her, remind her of the nice things they had done together, did she remember them? There weren’t many to choose between, only the same three or four events, so she always did. She would smile a kind of wistful smile and ruffle his hair. And then things would get better. But he hadn’t done any nice things with the Son. And perhaps the Son preferred to be alone, something Markus could relate to, he was like that himself. When his mother wanted to comfort him because someone had upset him, he would just get irritated; it was as if her kindness weakened him, validated the bullies who called him a sissy.
But the Son was no crybaby.
Or was he?
He had just got up and turned to the window; he was crying. His eyes were red and his cheeks streaked with tears.
What if Markus had been wrong, what if the Son was just like him? Weak, cowardly, someone who fled, ran away to hide, scared of getting a beating? No, no, he wasn’t like that, not the Son! He was big and strong and brave and he helped those who weren’t or who had yet to become strong.
The Son picked up the book, sat down and started writing.
After a while he tore a page out of the book, scrunched it up and threw it in the waste-paper basket by the door. Started on another page. Not for so long this time. He pulled out the page and read what he had written. And then he closed his eyes and pressed the paper to his lips.
Martha put down the carrier bags of groceries on the kitchen worktop. Wiped the sweat from her brow. The shop had been further away than she had expected and she had practically run all the way back. She rinsed the box with strawberries under the tap, picked out the two biggest, juiciest berries and took the bouquet of buttercups she had picked along the roadside with her. Again she felt the sweet sting at the memory of his burning skin under the duvet. The heroin addict who got high from her touch. Because he was her drug now. Hooked after the first fix. She was lost and she loved it!
She sensed it on the stairs as soon as she saw the open bedroom door. Something was wrong. It was far too quiet.
The bed was empty. The lamp lay broken on the floor. His clothes were gone. Under the shards from the lamp she saw the black book she had found under the bed slats.
She called out his name even though she knew there would be no reply. The gate had been open when she came back and she was quite sure she’d closed it when she left. They had come for him, like he’d said. He had clearly struggled, but to no avail. She had left him asleep, she had failed to take care of him, she hadn’t . . .
She turned round and spotted the note on the pillow. The paper was yellow and looked like it had been torn from the notebook. It was written with an old pen lying next to the pillow. Her initial reaction was that it must have been his father’s pen. And before she had even read the words, she thought that history was repeating itself. Then she read the note, dropped the flowers and clasped her hand to her mouth, an automatic gesture to hide the ugly way the mouth contorted when the tears welled up.
Dear Martha
Forgive me, but I’m going to disappear now. I love you forever.
Sonny
39
MARKUS WAS SITTING
on the bed in the yellow house.
After the woman had rushed off, only twenty minutes after the Son had left in a hurry, Markus had waited ten minutes before he realised that they weren’t coming back.
Then he had crossed the road. The key to the house had been put back in its regular place.
The bed had been made and the shards from the lamp placed in the waste-paper basket. He found the scrunched-up piece of paper under the shards.
The words were written in a neat, almost feminine hand.
Dear Martha
My father once told me how he watched a man drown. He had been on patrol, it was the middle of the night and a boy had rung from the harbour at Kongen. The boy’s father had fallen into the sea while they were mooring their boat. He couldn’t swim and was clinging to the gunwale, but the son wasn’t able to pull his father back on board. By the time the patrol car arrived, the boy’s father had given up, let go and gone under. Several minutes had already passed and my father called for divers as the boy sobbed desperately. And while they waited, the man suddenly surfaced, his pale face gasping for air. The son let out a cry of joy. Then the father went under again. My father jumped into the water to rescue him, but it was too dark. When my father resurfaced, he looked straight into the still beaming face of the boy who thought that now everything was OK, his father was alive and the police were here. And my father told me how he had seen the heart torn out of the boy’s chest when he realised that God had merely been toying with him by letting him think he was going to give back the father he had taken from him. My father said that if there was a God, then he was a cruel God. Now I think I understand what he meant, because I have finally found my father’s diary. Perhaps he wanted us to know. Or maybe he was just cruel. Otherwise why keep a diary, but hide it in such an obvious place as under the mattress?
You have your whole life ahead of you, Martha. I think you can do something good with it. I can’t do the same. Forgive me, but I’m going to disappear now.
I love you forever.
Sonny
Markus looked at the table. There was the book which the Son had been reading.
Black leather cover, yellowing pages. He flicked through it.
He realised immediately that it was a diary even though there weren’t entries written for each day. In some places there were months between the entries. Sometimes there would just be a date and a couple of sentences. For example, it said that ‘the troika’ would eventually break up, that something had come between them. A week later that Helene was pregnant and that they had bought their own house. But how hard it was to survive on just a policeman’s salary, what a shame it was that both his and Helene’s parents came from such reduced circumstances that they couldn’t help them. Later on how happy he was that Sonny had started wrestling. Then a page about how the bank had raised interest rates, how they quite simply couldn’t pay the mortgage, how he had to do something before the house was repossessed. Think of something. That he had promised Helene it would be OK. Fortunately, the boy didn’t seem to have noticed that anything was troubling his parents.