Punishment (12 page)

He stood, frozen. One arm hung loosely by his side, swinging almost imperceptibly to the beat of his heart, backwards and forwards, forwards and back. He held the beer can in his left hand. He was still hiding behind his greasy hair, his eyes were small slits of something she could not recognise.

‘I think it would be better if we sat down, Mr Seier.'

A snuffle came from his throat. An involuntary noise, as if he really wanted to swallow but had got something in his throat. He sniffled again, almost a sob, his whole body was shaking and he put down the beer can.

‘Mr Seier,' he repeated, in a hoarse voice. ‘No one has called me that for many years. Who are you?'

‘Do you know what?'

She carefully retreated from the battle tableau on the floor.

‘I'd like to ask you out, to a restaurant. We could get something to eat and then talk about why I'm here. I think I've got a lot to tell you.'

It's a lie, she thought. I have practically nothing to tell you. I have come with a thousand questions that I need to have answered. It's important for me and for an old woman who is keeping herself alive so she can hear the answers. I'm fooling you. I'm pulling the wool over your eyes. I'm using you.

‘Where can you get a decent meal round here?' she asked instead, in a light tone.

‘Come,' he said and walked towards the door.

When she moved to follow him, she stepped on the general. The breaking noise was deadened by the rough floor.
Horrified, she lifted her foot. The glass figure was smashed to smithereens, tiny shards of blue and gold stuck to the sole of her shoe.

Aksel Seier stared down. Then he lifted his face towards her. ‘Do you really believe that?

Do you really believe in my . . . innocence?'

He turned away at once, not waiting for a reply.

T
he new girl was called Sarah. Even though she was a year younger, she was as big as Emilie. So it was a bit difficult to comfort her. Just like with Daddy. Emilie wanted to comfort him so much when Mummy died. After the funeral, when the house wasn't full of people who wanted to help them any more, he didn't want her to see him crying. But she knew how he was feeling. She heard him, at night, when he thought she was asleep, with a pillow over his head to make sure that she wouldn't hear. She wanted to comfort him, but it was impossible because he was grown up. He was bigger than her. There was nothing she could say or do. And when she did try, he put on a big brave smile, got out of bed and made waffles and talked about the holiday they were going to have in the summer.

It was almost the same with Sarah. She cried and cried, but was just a bit too big to be comforted. Emilie was actually very glad that Sarah had come. It was much better when they were two. And particularly good that they were both girls and even better that Sarah was nearly the same age as her. That was all that Emilie knew about Sarah. What she was called and how old she was. Every time they tried to talk, Sarah started to cry. She sniffed something about a bus and a grandmother. Maybe her grandmother was a bus driver and Sarah thought she would come and rescue them. In the same way that she sometimes still thought that Mummy was sitting in her red dress with plum diamonds in her ears, watching over her.

Sarah hadn't realised it was best to be nice to the man.

After all, he was the one who brought them food and drink and a horse for Barbie a while back. If Emilie smiled and said thank you and was nice and polite, the man smiled back. He seemed to be happy, kind of, and more pleased when he looked at her. Sarah had bitten him. As they came into the room, she sunk her teeth into his arm. He howled and hit Sarah hard on the head. She started to bleed just above her eye. There was still a proper cut there and the blood hadn't dried and hardened yet.

‘You have to be nice to the man,' said Emilie, and sat down on the bed beside Sarah. ‘He brings food and presents. It's best to be polite. I think he's actually quite kind.'

‘He hi . . . hi . . . hit me,' sobbed Sarah and felt her eye. ‘He said he was Mum . . . mu . . .'

It was impossible to hear the rest. Emilie felt a bit dizzy. She got that old feeling again, the horrible, sickening feeling that there was no oxygen left in the cellar. The best thing was just to lie down and close her eyes.

‘He said he was Mummy's new boyfriend,' Sarah whispered tearfully.

Emilie didn't know if she'd been asleep. She licked her lips. Her tongue tasted of sleep and her eyes felt heavy.

‘Mummy's got a new boyfriend who I was going to meet to . . . tomo . . .'

Emilie sat up slowly. It was easier to breathe now.

‘Try to breathe slowly,' she said – that was what Mummy used to say to her when she was crying so much that she couldn't speak. ‘Breathe deeply. In and out. There's plenty of oxygen here. Do you see that opening in the ceiling?'

She pointed and Sarah nodded.

‘That's where he sends oxygen down to us. The man, that is. He sends down lots of oxygen to the cellar, so we can breathe, even if there are no windows. Don't be scared. You can borrow my Barbie. Is your gran a bus driver?'

Sarah was exhausted. Her face was white and covered in red blotches, her eyes were so swollen that they were nearly closed.

‘My granny's an electrician,' she said, talking without crying for the first time.

‘My mother is dead,' said Emilie.

‘My mother has a new boyfriend,' said Sarah and wiped her nose.

‘Is he nice?'

‘I don't know, I was going to meet . . .'

‘Don't cry any more now.'

Emilie was annoyed. The man could hear them. Even if he wasn't there, he might have microphones somewhere. Emilie had thought about that a lot. She had seen things like that in films. She almost didn't dare to look properly. To begin with, when she first came here, she had walked around the room looking for something, without knowing exactly what. She found nothing. But you could get microphones that were so small you could fit them in a molar tooth. They were so small that you couldn't see them. You needed a microscope. Maybe the man was sitting somewhere listening to them and watching them as well. Because you could also get tiny cameras. As small as a nail head, and there were lots of nails in the wall. Emilie had seen a film once, called Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. It was about a slightly mad but rather sweet dad who did all sorts of experiments in the attic. The children touched something they weren't supposed to touch and shrank until they were very, very small. Like insects. No one could see them. The man could see her. She was sure he had a TV screen and a headset and knew exactly what they were doing.

‘Smile,' she whispered.

Sarah started to cry properly again. Emilie put her hand over her mouth.

‘You have to smile,' she ordered, and pulled up her lips into a grin. ‘He's watching us.'

Sarah twisted out of her grip.

‘He said that he was Mumm . . . Mummy's boy . . . boyfr . . .'

Emilie squeezed shut her eyes again and lay down on the bed. There was barely enough room for the two of them. She pushed Sarah away and turned her face to the wall. When she squeezed her eyes shut as hard as she could, it was almost as if there was light in her head. She could see things. She could see Daddy looking for her. He had a flannel shirt on. He was looking for her among the wild flowers at the back of the house, he had a magnifying glass and thought that someone had shrunk her.

Emilie wished that Sarah had never come.

T
here was now a sea of flowers to mark the spot where Emilie Selbu's satchel had been found, on the quiet path between two busy roads. Some of the flowers were withering, others were already dead. And in among them all, fresh roses in small plastic containers. Children's drawings fluttered in the evening breeze.

A group of teenagers cycled by. They were shouting and laughing, but lowered their voices as they cycled round the flowers and letters. A girl of about fourteen put her foot on the ground and stood still for a few seconds before swearing loudly and clearly, then shook her head and pedalled frantically after the others.

The man pulled his hat further down over his eyes. He slipped his other hand into his trousers. Did he dare get even closer? The thought of standing on the spot, the very place where Emilie was taken, exactly where she was abducted, made his balls burn. He lost his balance and had to press his hip against a tree to stop himself from falling. He groaned and bit his lip.

‘What the hell are you doing?'

Two people appeared behind him. They popped up out of nowhere, from behind a dense bush. Surprised, he turned towards them, his penis still in his hand; it went limp between his fingers and he tried to smile.

‘Noth . . . nothing,' he stammered, paralysed.

‘He . . . he's wanking, for Christ's sake!'

It took them two minutes to render him harmless, but they didn't stop there. When the man dressed in paramilitary gear stumbled into the police station, pushed by a newly established group of neighbourhood vigilantes, his right eye was already swollen and blue. His nose was bleeding and it looked as if his arm was broken.

He said nothing, not even when the police asked him if he needed a doctor.

‘A
re you sure you don't want to speak English?'

He shook his head. There were a couple of times when he didn't seem to understand what she said. She repeated herself, in different, simpler words. It was hard to say whether it helped. His expression didn't change. He didn't say much.

Aksel Seier had ordered a filet mignon and a beer. Johanne was happy with a Caesar salad and a glass of iced water. They were the only guests at The 400 Club, a rural mix between a restaurant and a diner, only seven minutes' walk from Ocean Avenue. Aksel Seier had walked towards his pick-up, then shrugged and gone on foot when Johanne insisted. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner. The kitchen was working on half steam. Before the food arrived on the table, Johanne had told him all about Alvhild Sofienberg, the old lady who was once so interested in Aksel Seier's case, but then forced to drop it. And now, many years later, Alvhild wanted to find out why he had been sentenced and then released so suddenly nearly nine years later. Johanne described the futile search for the case documents. And finally, in a kind of casual postscript, she explained her own interest in the case.

The food arrived. Aksel Seier picked up his knife and fork. He ate slowly, taking time to chew. Again, he let his hair fall over his eyes. It must be an old trick; the coarse grey hair became a wall between him and her.

Uninterested, she thought. You seem completely uninterested. Why did you bother to come here with me?
Why didn't you just throw me out? I would have accepted that. Or you might listen to what I've got to say and then say thank you and goodbye. You could get up now. You could finish your food, accept a free meal from a past you had hidden and forgotten and then just go. It's your right. You have used so many years trying to forget. And I'm ruining it all for you. I'm crushing you. Go.

‘What do you want me to say?'

Half the meat was still on the plate. Aksel put his knife between the teeth of the fork and drank the rest of his beer. Then he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

I was expecting some enthusiasm, she thought. This is absurd. Here I am thinking I'm an angel, a messenger bringing good tidings. I want . . . what do I want? Ever since I read your story – from the moment I realised that Alvhild was right – I've seen myself in the role of the fairy godmother. Who would right all wrongs. I would come here and tell you what you already know: that you're innocent. You are innocent. I want to confirm that for you. I've come all the way from Norway and you should be . . . grateful. Damn it, I want some gratitude.

‘I want absolutely nothing,' she said quietly. ‘If you want, I can go.'

Aksel smiled. His teeth were even and grey and didn't suit his face. It was as if someone had cut out an old mouth and sewn it on somewhere it didn't belong. But he smiled and put his hands down on the table in front of him.

‘I've dreamt about what it would be like to have . . .'

He searched for the right word. Johanne was unsure whether to help him or not. There was a long pause.

‘Your name cleared,' she said.

‘Exactly. To have my name cleared.'

He looked down at his empty glass. Johanne signalled to
the waitress to bring another. She had a thousand questions, but couldn't think of a single one.

‘Why . . .' she started, without knowing where she was going. ‘Are you aware of the fact that the media was highly critical of your sentence? Did you know that several journalists mocked the prosecution and the witnesses they brought against you?'

‘No.'

The smile had vanished and the fringe was about to fall again. But he didn't seem aggressive. Nor curious. His voice was completely flat. Maybe it was because he wasn't used to the language any more. Maybe he really had to summon up his strength to even take in what she was telling him.

‘I didn't get the papers.'

‘But what about afterwards? You must have heard about it afterwards, from other people, from your fellow inmates, from . . .'

‘I had no mates in prison. It wasn't a very . . . friendly place.'

‘Didn't any journalists try to talk to you? I've got the clippings with me, so you can have a look. Surely some of them must have tried to contact you after you were sentenced? I've tried to trace the two journalists who were most critical, but unfortunately they're both dead now. Can you remember if they tried to get an interview with you?'

The glass of beer was already half empty. He ran his finger round the rim.