When The Devil Holds The Candle Part 11

"Are you and Andreas close?"

Winther walked to the window.

"He doesn't let anyone get close." 189 "What about Zipp?"

"I'm surprised that he chose Zipp. Andreas is far and away his superior. Zipp is forever running to keep up. I wonder if he needs him for some reason." Skarre made a few notes.

"I don't really know him," Winther went on.

"He's my son, but I don't really know him. Sometimes I think there's no-one inside him to know." He said this with his eyes lowered, as if he felt ashamed.

Then he sat down, resting his chin on his hands and fixing his gaze on Skarre's knees.

"Surely he must have some interests," Skarre said in a feeble attempt to offer some form of consolation.

"He watches a lot of videos. In fact, I think he watches the same one over and over again. It's some kind of futuristic film. Don't you find that sick?"

"Not at all," Skarre said. "Haven't you heard about the man in London who goes to see Cats Cats every single Sat.u.r.day and has done so for eight years now?" every single Sat.u.r.day and has done so for eight years now?"

Winther answered with a grave crooked smile.

"I'll have to take your word for that. But otherwise, I suppose that Andreas does have some interest in music. Well, not singing or playing himself, just listening to music. And not live music. Recorded 190 music, on his stereo. A little more ba.s.s here, a little less treble there. Special speaker cones. Gold cables. Things like that. Maybe it's not really the music."

"Sound," Skarre ventured. "He's intrigued by sound?"

"Is that something which can intrigue a person?"

"Of course. It's a science."

"But he's not pa.s.sionate about it," Winther said.

"Just interested. He has a job and earns his wages, but he never has any money. He shares what he makes with Zipp. Why in heaven's name would he do that?"

"Because he's a good friend?"

Winther looked at him in surprise.

"So what do you have in mind when you say that Andreas might have got mixed up in something?" Skarre said.

Winther closed his eyes. "What do I mean? Well, that whatever it is ticking inside him has finally exploded."

He smiled at his own melodramatic words.

"As far as you know, has he ever been involved in anything criminal?"

"I have a feeling that he's tried a thing or two, together with Zipp."

"What gives you that feeling?"

"I just have it; it's the kind of thing you can sense with your own child. I've told his mother about it, 191 but she doesn't want to listen. She wants proof."

"So would we, but we're talking about a goodlooking, well-functioning young man," Skarre said.

"Someone who gets up each day and goes to work and spends his free time with a close friend. And someone who has a clean record, because I have to admit that we checked on that straightaway. So it's hard to see what the problem could be." Skarre had been prepared for almost anything. But not for what Winther said next.

"I'm going to tell you something." Winther stood up. "Maybe you don't think it's so strange, but you don't have children. Having children flings you into a whole other world, and I'm not exaggerating. Not having children, you live in a different reality from the one I live in."

"All right, I'll grant you that," murmured Skarre.

"I didn't think much about it when it happened, but I've been thinking about it now. Every time Andreas had to go to the doctor or dentist to get an injection, or a tooth filled the kinds of things that children need all the time. We were ready for a fuss, that he would be scared. Scream and shout. Or at least be a little nervous. But he never was. He didn't care. He would say 'All right', and off we'd go. And he would sit there as prim as a preacher while the dentist drilled or the doctor gave him an injection. Never made a sound. And I was proud of 192 him, thought he was so brave. But now, when I think back, it seems rather . . . abnormal." You didn't get the son you wanted, thought Skarre. No-one ever does. My father didn't either. Skarre remembered the fateful day when he went to see his father. After knocking three times on the heavy door of his office, he clasped his hands behind his back and said in the calmest voice he could muster that he didn't want to study theology; he wanted instead to enrol at the Police Training College. And he was certain to get in, because he had excellent grades and was in first-rate physical condition. He stood there wearing a mental bulletproof vest. He steeled himself for what would follow, the devastating response. First he was speared by his father's furious gaze. Then his voice stabbed at Skarre's chest like a knife, and in two minutes he was completely flayed. Picked clean. His father's despair felt like boiling water against his raw flesh. His father didn't accuse him of anything or try to persuade him to change his mind. But he was perfectly ent.i.tled, as he pointed out, to express his boundless disappointment. And then he got up and left. Later, he asked Skarre to forgive him. Since his son had made up his mind, he would of course support him, provided he became the best police officer he could possibly be. The memory prompted a sad smile.

193.

"You need to put pressure on Zipp," said Winther urgently. "He obviously knows something. And since he's not admitting it, it must be something serious. Something they did. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I do understand, and I believe you. We'll keep working on the case. We'll use this as a starting point."

After he left, Skarre thought about the promise he had made to Winther. At the same time he was seized with a strong feeling that something very serious might have happened to Andreas after all.

I screamed a loud, piercing scream that echoed through the cellar. He stared at me, tried to say something, but I turned and scrambled up the steps, knocking into the wire of the light bulb, which began swinging back and forth. The circle of light swept over the cellar. I slammed the trap door shut. Ran to the front door and opened it, trying to calm down. I stood on the steps for a moment, gasping. Then, as calmly as I could, I walked down the gravel path to the back garden. I didn't understand. Why was this happening to me? The flowers were starting to wither. I was withering too; I could hardly keep my knees from buckling. I was looking for something to keep my hands busy, some simple task, when I caught sight of the chair. One of the patio chairs under the 194 kitchen window! I stood there dumbfounded, trying to grasp what it could be doing there. Who had been standing on it, looking in? A horrible possibility occurred to me. There were two of them. Originally there were two! The other one had waited in the garden and carried the chair over to the window. I thought I was going to faint. But then I thought, no, it must have been the one in the cellar who had stood on the chair. And looked inside before he made his attack. I picked it up, and carried it with some difficulty up the two steps into the gazebo. If there had been two of them, and the other one was waiting in the garden, if he knew that his friend was still in the house, he would have come to the door a long time ago. I tried to force my body to stay calm, but my feet began to tremble, and the trembling spread upwards. I was shaking with indignation. I went back inside and stomped hard on the kitchen floor. In a fury, I lifted up the trap door and shrieked at him down the stairs.

"I don't own a thing. Just some old silverware!

Why did you come here!"

"I don't know," he sobbed.

Crying was too much of a strain for his injured body, and his tears dried up. I stood there for a moment, looking down at him. He seemed so pitiful, so small and alone. I was sniffling, unable to control my emotions, and that frightened me. I usually have control of things. I felt as if I were breaking up. Even 195 so, I went down again and sat next to him. Picked up the gla.s.s of water and held it out.

"Can't do it," he muttered desperately.

"You must. Otherwise you'll die."

He howled in despair, but I hardened my nerves and pressed the gla.s.s to his lips. He opened his mouth and I poured in the water. He coughed violently again, spraying water into my face.

"Can't do it," he sobbed.

"I'll arrange things so someone finds you," I said dully.

"Do it now!" he coughed. "What are you waiting for?"

I swallowed hard. At that second I felt thoroughly ashamed.

"I thought you were dead."

He didn't reply. Not a muscle moved in his body. To think that anyone could lie so still! I'm not an evil person. But something had entered my house that I couldn't control. I live alone. There was no-one to help me. For an eternity I sat on the cellar steps with my forehead resting on my knees. Not a sound from below. The only thing I noticed was the smell of mould and potatoes and dust. But later I heard a rushing in my ears that was very faint at first but grew louder. As if someone had turned over an hourgla.s.s. The sand had started running through. 196

CHAPTER 12.

Skarre's curls always attracted attention. This time it was a teenage girl at the news-stand who was staring at him. To no effect, because he was preoccupied with other matters. Winther was right, of course. Zipp was hiding something. The certainty of this was as strong in him as his faith in G.o.d. What was it that Sejer had said? People always have some reason to keep quiet, and it doesn't even have to be a very good reason. At the same time, he understood the seriousness of the situation. This was no jaunt on the ferry to Denmark. He was jolted out of his train of thought because the queue moved forward. He was the fourth in line. In front of him stood an older woman wearing a brown coat. When he looked over her shoulder, he could see into her shopping trolley. It always amused him to look at other people's shopping. He would come to some funny conclusions, based on what they were buying. This woman had a baby bottle made of clear plastic, antiseptic and cotton-wool b.a.l.l.s, three bottles of bleach and a lantern for tea-light 197 candles from the hardware section. Didn't she need any food? He craned his neck and looked at other trolleys. Usually there was a sense of order, things that naturally belonged together, such as four litres of milk, a loaf of bread, coffee and frozen cutlets. Or a case of beer, two packets of crisps, a copy of We Men Men magazine and a pack of cigarettes. Or nappies, jars of baby food, toilet paper and bananas. But the items in the trolley in front of him seemed somewhat chaotic. He was having fun. He stared at the nubbly fabric of her coat. Now she was moving forward again, with a good grip on her trolley. She was average height, stout and heavy. Since he could only see her from the back, it was difficult to say whether she was in her fifties or her sixties. Her hair was grey and permed into tight, neat curls. She wore short boots with thick heels. He wondered about the baby bottle, it must be for a grandchild. He looked into his own trolley, which contained onions, paprika, rice, a litre and a half of c.o.ke, three newspapers and a bag of Seigmenn jelly babies. He patted his pocket to check that he had cigarettes. Maybe he should get a pack of Magic too, which was in lines on a shelf behind the checkout counter. Maybe while staring deep into the eyes of the woman cashier with a brief remark: magazine and a pack of cigarettes. Or nappies, jars of baby food, toilet paper and bananas. But the items in the trolley in front of him seemed somewhat chaotic. He was having fun. He stared at the nubbly fabric of her coat. Now she was moving forward again, with a good grip on her trolley. She was average height, stout and heavy. Since he could only see her from the back, it was difficult to say whether she was in her fifties or her sixties. Her hair was grey and permed into tight, neat curls. She wore short boots with thick heels. He wondered about the baby bottle, it must be for a grandchild. He looked into his own trolley, which contained onions, paprika, rice, a litre and a half of c.o.ke, three newspapers and a bag of Seigmenn jelly babies. He patted his pocket to check that he had cigarettes. Maybe he should get a pack of Magic too, which was in lines on a shelf behind the checkout counter. Maybe while staring deep into the eyes of the woman cashier with a brief remark: "Imagine, I nearly forgot the most important thing of all!" It was a game he played. Skarre moved 198 forward. The woman in the brown coat put her shopping on the conveyer belt, paid and packed everything into a bag. Not a word spoken, not even a "please" or a "thank you". She didn't look the cashier in the eye. She seemed wrapped in her own world. Then she disappeared out of the doors. Skarre caught sight of something at the end of the counter. She had forgotten the baby bottle.

"I'll take care of it," he told the cashier. She shrugged, and as soon as he had paid for his groceries, he ran in pursuit of her. By then she was quite a distance up the street. Perhaps on her way to catch a bus. She was carrying the grocery bag in her right hand, walking close to the buildings. Skarre had put the baby bottle in the inside pocket of his leather jacket and he hurried after her. She didn't notice him. Then she cut across the street and started up the hill towards Prins Oscars gate. He was close enough to shout, but he picked up speed so that he would be able to state his business without shouting. Skarre was very considerate. She was halfway up the hill, and Skarre was only five metres behind. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket and jogged a few paces towards her.

"h.e.l.lo! Could you wait a minute, please?" She lurched around to stare at him. Her fear was so apparent that Skarre stopped at once. He threw out his arms and waved the bottle.

199.

"You forgot this! That's all."

She stood there for a few seconds, staring at him, then she turned and continued up the hill.

"What about the baby bottle?"

Finally she stopped.

"I was behind you in the shop. You left it on the counter."

He was quite close to her now. He could see her thin lips and her deep-set eyes. She had a heavy jaw and eyebrows that had grown together. Her face was pale, like something that been locked up.

"I thought it might be important," he said as he smiled and held it out to her. She took it reluctantly.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "You gave me such a start."

"I didn't mean to," said Skarre with a bow.

"There are so many strange people," she said.

"You never know who might turn up." She gave him what pa.s.sed for a smile. "You could have gone on your way and not done anything. This bottle is important."

"I thought so."

He turned to leave. She seemed to have calmed down.

"Have a nice day."

"A nice day?" She seemed to wake up. "You have no idea what you're talking about." Skarre hesitated. An expression of pure confusion 200.

appeared on her face. She turned abruptly and walked up the hill. Skarre watched her turn to the left, just short of a thick hedge. Behind the trees he could see glimpses of a white house with green paintwork.

I turned on the tap and let the water run. I was composed enough to show a little concern, and besides, I was responsible for him. I was all he had. The thought sang inside me, even though I knew that it wouldn't last; it was only for a moment that I would have a human being at my disposal like this. Someone who had to listen to me. He started groaning when I opened the trap door. It was odd to stand there with a baby bottle in my hand; it had been so long since I'd done that. I had thought everything through. If I placed a pillow on his chest, the bottle could rest there. I couldn't stand the idea of holding it for him. No, I couldn't. I was surprised that he was still alive. There was something wrong with his legs and arms, and maybe with his lungs too. His voice was weak, and he was struggling to breathe. I stood there holding the bottle in my hand. To think that I'd forgotten it! I had trouble remembering what I had said to that young man, and that made me nervous. But I had a lot on my mind. I went down the steps. He saw the bottle at 201 once and opened his eyes wide. I put the pillow on his chest, on top of the blanket. The bottle was nestled on the pillow. He sucked down the water, not stopping. Bubbles rose in the bottle. I sat there, watching him, a few steps up so that his head was visible between my knees, like something I had given birth to on the floor. It was good that he finally had some water. Tears ran down his face the whole time he was drinking. I was absorbed by that beautiful face and those bright eyes and the water that trickled and ran down his throat. I had used scissors to cut a bigger hole so it wouldn't be so hard for him to drink. When the bottle was almost empty, it was so light that it fell off the pillow and on to the cement floor, making a tiny hollow sound as it rolled away.

"Thank you," he whispered. Then he closed his eyes. I was touched. Wasn't he going to scream again? Curse me? Threaten me so I'd call for help?

It looked as if he were sleeping. I waited, in awe. He was having trouble breathing. I would have sat there all night if my back hadn't started to hurt. If I could have done it, I would have carried him up to my own bed. I would have done that for him, done it gladly. Nothing can compare with sitting there like that, looking at a person who is completely dependent on you. I decided there and then to take as good care of him as I possibly could. And the cellar, which was so 202 familiar to me, gradually began to change. It was no longer dark and sinister; I could look at it properly. Cobwebs on the ceiling, the light shining through them so they looked like silver threads. The dim light in the corners, the yellow light bulb and the dull-coloured floor. Dreary old furniture that seemed now to have some dignity, resting contentedly against the cellar wall, having fulfilled its role. The worn steps on which I was sitting. The quiet room. Andreas had filled it with something. He was young and stupid. He had acted without thinking, the way young people do; they just barge forward. But surely he didn't deserve to lie here like this, freezing. I came out of my reverie.

"Are you in pain?" I asked.

A moment pa.s.sed. He opened his eyes.

"No," he said, his voice feeble.

"Are you cold?" I asked.

"No," he said again.

He licked his lips. They had begun to split. The hair on the right side of his head was matted with blood. It was stiff and sticky.

"You're lying in such an awkward position. I'm going to move you."

"No! No!" He screamed. His eyes were filled with terror.

"But your legs are up on the steps it looks as though it must hurt."

203.

"No. Don't!"

I stood up and moved behind his head. Hesitated for a moment before I leaned down. He whimpered, begged me not to do it. But I hardened my heart and stuck my hands under his armpits. Counted to three and pulled him the last few paces away from the stairs. His shoes banged faintly against the floor. He didn't scream, which apparently surprised him. He looked better now, with his legs stretched out.

"I can't feel my body. I can't feel anything!" he said.

I was overwhelmed by what he said, by what I had done. What he had done, I corrected myself, he was to blame for all this. I was struck with great force by how serious his injuries were. I had to squash the despair I felt, that I couldn't bear to feel! I got rapidly to my feet.

"You should have thought of that before!" He opened his mouth to cry out in reply, but he couldn't speak. He didn't have the strength. I went back upstairs. Closed the trap door. Could he have broken his neck? Cut off all connections below, so that everything would stop functioning? Could he live like that? Was he getting enough oxygen? It was too late to turn back. I had burned my bridges the first time I closed the trap door. There was no going back. No going forward, either. I sat down at the table and put my head in my hands. His face would 204 appear at regular intervals to disturb me. But then I felt good again, warm and pleased. I thought that next time I would fill the bottle with warm milk, maybe with a little sugar in it. Or a couple of sleeping pills, so he would sleep. These thoughts gave me a kind of peace. There was so much good you could do if you only tried. I leafed through the newspapers again. In fact I couldn't find a single page without mention of violence or war or some other misery. A young man had shot his own girlfriend in the face. There were more kids like Andreas, there were lots of them. Each story was worse than the last. At regular intervals I would turn around to look over my shoulder. I was expecting something. A face at the window, a phone ringing. When the doorbell finally rang, my heart stopped beating. But it calmed down when I reminded myself that I didn't have to open the door. I am in charge of my own life and my own house. I let the doorbell ring, but it didn't stop. So I went over and looked through the peephole in the door. A figure loomed on the top step, and was I staring into a streaked face. It was my friend Runi. Andreas'

mother.

205.

CHAPTER 13.

Robert came out of the jail escorted by two officers. He was very pale. Several blood vessels in his eyes had burst and he hadn't eaten for days. Not by way of some form of protest, just that he couldn't keep any food down. He was living on c.o.ke and coffee and cigarettes. He didn't want to escape or to make excuses. Simply to understand. He had nothing else to contribute. Now he had all the time in the world, and he soon realised that the best path to the rest of his life lay in his willingness to cooperate. Besides, they were perfectly nice, they treated him with kindness. And that was true of everybody, from top to bottom. Like this police lieutenant, for instance. Robert slowly sat down. What was the rush? Where was he going to hide? It would always be with him, the fact that he had killed Anita. Dragging behind him like a lizard's tail. He hadn't done many bad things in his life. It's true that he wasn't a very good student, but he had no shortage of friends. He was a pleasant boy, it said so in his school report. And he believed the same as most boys, that good things 206 lay ahead for him. That he wouldn't fall into any of the traps. But now here he was, charged with firstdegree murder. Awareness of this fact kept striking him like a sledgehammer, with relentless precision, again and again. He had grown used to the pain.