The Caller (7 page)

Sejer observed the house for a few minutes.

Sundelin’s red SUV was parked in the driveway.

The air was hot and drowsy and silent.

As if the small wounded family had huddled together inside, in a corner.

He stared at the house until he began to feel like a peeping Tom, then turned and headed back. As he walked, he examined the trail, studying it closely, and found nothing but spruce cones. When he reached the clubhouse, he stopped. The boys were still playing football, and he suddenly wanted to join the game. He was in good shape, and it wouldn’t be difficult. Besides, he was almost two metres tall, and his legs were long. Almost immediately, to the boys’ jubilation, he scored a goal. Now they guarded him like a swarm of buzzing bees. After they finished, the players sat on the grass and chatted, clustered in a horseshoe around Sejer.

‘All the criminals on the loose,’ one of the boys said, ‘the bad guys you don’t manage to catch. Does it make you really cross?’

Sejer had to admit it often made him cross. The man who’d been in the Sundelins’ garden, they would have to catch him.

‘Do you have any leads?’ they wanted to know.

‘Nothing good,’ he admitted. ‘Not yet. But sooner or later, criminals make mistakes, especially when they’ve been at it for a while. They usually get careless.’

‘But the case with the baby, that was just a prank,’ said a little black child. ‘Does he have to go to jail for that?’

‘It’s not a prank,’ Sejer corrected. ‘Let me tell you something.’ He looked hard at each of them. ‘It’s a form of theft. The parents’ security has been stolen from them, and that’s very serious. Without security, life is terribly difficult.’

The boys thought carefully about what he’d said. When he left, they followed him to the car, flocking around him and waving.

‘Keep to the straight and narrow, boys,’ Sejer ordered and drove away.

One night, a few weeks after the attack against Margrete, Karsten Sundelin woke at three thirty in the morning. He lay in bed listening. A dark blue curtain kept the light out, but instantly he could tell that Lily wasn’t beside him. He switched on the bedside lamp. Margrete’s cot, which they’d brought into the bedroom, was also empty. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He knew that Lily was having difficulty sleeping. When he thought about everything that had happened, and about how much they’d lost, he clenched his hands into fists. Something had entered the house, something unfamiliar. At times he could sense it like a tension between them, almost as if someone else were listening to them and meddling in their lives – but without words, just something shadow-like and vague. He crawled from the bed and went to the lounge, where he found them on the sofa. Lily sat with Margrete in her lap. At first he thought she was asleep, but then she sensed him and opened her eyes. He sat heavily in an armchair. Lily hadn’t turned on any lights. There was only a thin, grey glow in the room. Margrete was asleep. For a long time he observed them on the sofa. Some sort of fear had been planted in Lily, he knew, and it had grown and stolen her peace of mind. Everything they once had taken for granted. He gripped the armrests of the chair.

‘We can’t live like this,’ he said.

He heard a heavy sigh from the sofa. Margrete moved a hand, but otherwise slept peacefully.

‘Well, how should we live?’ Lily said wearily. She rocked Margrete softly on her lap.

‘Like we did before.’

‘We can’t do that. You must realise that.’

He held back a protest. He switched on the steel lamp beside his chair.

Lily had pulled on a dressing gown, and draped a blanket across her knees. Right now you can protect Margrete, he thought, but you can’t sit like this for ever. We’ve got to sleep. We’ve got to work. Margrete will grow up. He didn’t say any of this out loud, but instead rose and walked into the kitchen, calling out that he was making tea and would she like a cup?

‘No, I don’t want anything.’

She sounded like a bitter old woman. Karsten leaned against the worktop. He made a fist, and cursed under his breath. Then he filled the kettle.

While he waited for the water to boil, he went back to the lounge. He wanted to say something encouraging, something to make her feel better.

‘Sooner or later they’ll get him,’ he said. ‘And justice will be served. Everything will be back to normal. Don’t you think?’

Her response was to give him a hurt look which instantly turned to one of reluctance, as if the corner she’d located, on the sofa, with a blanket over her knees and Margrete on her lap, was a place she would never again leave. There was something unsettling about it all. She was somewhere he couldn’t reach any more. It didn’t matter what he said or did, because there was no longer any energy between them, she had pushed him away.

He heard the water boiling in the kitchen.

‘I mean,’ he said softly, ‘some lose their children for good. Have you thought about that?’

He knew he shouldn’t speak these words, but he couldn’t help himself. Because Margrete lay in Lily’s lap, and she was healthy and fine and lovely. Lily looked up quickly. She made a strange sound, the kind an injured cat makes when it snarls. The kettle whistled and he stood. But when he reached the kitchen, he left the kettle and opened the fridge instead. He returned with a bottle of beer in his hand. Lily looked at him wide-eyed.

‘You’re going to have a beer now?’

He put the bottle to his lips. He felt very gloomy.

‘What if you have to drive?’ she snapped.

He drained half the bottle before putting it down with a bang. ‘Why would I have to drive?’

‘If something happens,’ she said, rocking Margrete.

‘What would happen now?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s four in the morning.’

She pulled the blanket tighter around her, as if to demonstrate her vulnerability. ‘Anything can happen,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you realised that yet?’

He finished his beer. She’s spooked out of her wits, he thought. And I’m angry. She’s sulking like a child, and I’m growling like a dog. This can’t be happening. We’ve got to sleep. We’ve got to put Margrete to bed. We’ve got to move on. There are so many things we want to do.

‘If you don’t start sleeping soon, maybe we can get our hands on some sleeping pills.’

‘Sleeping pills?’ She rolled her eyes at this offensive suggestion. ‘Then I couldn’t be alert.’

‘But I’m right beside you. I’ll wake at even the faintest sound. I’ll take care of you two.’

‘He came while we were eating,’ she reminded him, ‘and we didn’t hear a thing.’

Karsten leaned across the table and looked at her. ‘Yes, Lily. He did. But he’s not coming back. Can’t we agree on that? Come, let’s go back to bed. I know you’re suffering. You’re probably in shock. But you need to pull yourself together.’

Finally she pushed the blanket away and got up. He turned off the lamp and followed her into the bedroom. She put Margrete between them in the bed, and did so with a glance that thwarted any protest. Then she flicked on the lamp that was on her side of the bed.

‘I’m going to read for a bit,’ she said, ‘but you can go to sleep. If you’re so tired.’

She seemed to imply that he should be ashamed of himself. Because he was so tired. Karsten felt the urge to lash out at what had happened to them. What had happened to Margrete was certainly terrible – he was the first to say it. What he’d seen when he came out to the garden, Lily on the ground screaming, the child under the blanket, bloody as slaughter, he would never forget it, never. But what about the rest of our lives? he thought. We’ve got to find some kind of order. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the light bothered him. And each time she flipped a page the riffling of paper was like a clap of thunder to him. The sound rumbled through his head. Maybe we’ll end up raving mad, he thought. Maybe that was what he wanted, the one who’d come from the forest.

Gunilla Mørk had celebrated her seventieth birthday with her children and friends and neighbours, and now she was glad it was over. The platter she’d ordered from the cafe was quite excellent, so too the cake table to which she had contributed a delicious marzipan ring. Will I make it to eighty? she wondered, looking out of the kitchen window. Many don’t live that long, and it’s not a given that I will either. As active, agile and clear-headed as I am.

The sky was bright blue, and the sun was rising. God has given us another gorgeous day, she thought. I must make the most of it. It is our duty as human beings: we must appreciate the good things. And if we don’t, we’d better have a good reason. This was Gunilla Mørk’s philosophy of life. But because she’d turned seventy, she had also begun thinking of death. It hung over her like a dark cloud, and wouldn’t give her peace. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, this darkness came to her and disturbed her thoughts. She pulled the curtains aside and looked at the lawn. As she thought about death, she saw her own hand – it was no longer young and smooth, but dry and wrinkled. For a few moments, the sight terrified her. She raised her hand and examined it carefully, brought it close to her cheek. Of course it was warm and able, as always. So why these silly thoughts? Sometimes it seemed as though the moment cracked open and let in a dose of hard reality.

I don’t have much time left
.

It was early morning. She heard a little thump out front, the sound of her local newspaper being dropped into her mailbox. The postman had already moved on to the next house. He rode a bicycle with a small trailer hitched to it, and with strength she was no longer capable of mustering, he pedalled up the hill in his red uniform. Out in the garden she turned her face towards the sky and felt the sunlight. It glows the same way it did when I was sixteen, she thought, just as rich and golden. Just as invigorating. The wind is mild and the grass is overwhelmingly green and lush. I could get on my knees and eat it, just like cows do. She headed to the mailbox and fetched her paper. On the first page she saw a picture of a man with his arms around a sheep, and she read the headline.
THE MYTH OF THE NORWEGIAN SHEEP FARMER

She went inside and set the newspaper on the kitchen table. She would certainly read that article, because she had her opinions about sheep farmers. But first she wanted to brew coffee and butter a piece of bread. Everything had to be done just so, and at the right pace. Why should she hurry? After all, there was only one direction. Now I’m complaining too much, thought Gunilla Mørk, but God expects no more of a person than is given him. The food tasted good. The jam was made from berries grown in her garden, and she hadn’t ruined it with too much sugar.

She started reading about the sheep farmer.

The myth of the Norwegian sheep farmer and the love he feels towards his animals lives on, but it is overblown. The image of the devastated farmer kneeling by the body of one of his sheep following a bear attack is not about grief; rather, it’s about economic impact. When they want to get on the good side of public opinion, when they want to obtain larger subsidies from the state, they become first-rate actors.

This claim was made by a professor she had never heard of.

The man in the photograph, a man called Sverre Skarning, claimed that he loved all his sheep, even the black ones. She studied the farmer and the sheep. She tried to form an opinion, but didn’t know what to think. They probably are fond of their sheep, she thought. And she liked the photograph. A man and a sheep in close contact put her in quite a good mood. She flipped to the next page. In between she drank her coffee, which energised her, strong and hot as it was. I’ll get some things done today, she thought. Maybe I’ll stain the garden furniture; it’s got terribly dry during the summer. She concentrated her reading on the ongoing tragedies unfolding in the poorer parts of the world – cyclones, earthquakes, war and more war – then raised her head and looked out at the quiet garden, at the flowers and trees, and thought it marvellous that she of all people had been granted this peaceful spot on earth where nothing bad ever happened.

She came to the obituaries.

These she always read carefully, because sometimes she knew someone. She also made a note of the year of their birth, recognising that her own was drawing near with alarming haste; those who’d now used up their allotted time had been born around 1930. Gunilla, she thought, you’ve got to stop. You’re sitting here in the kitchen, and you are alive and well. Sunlight falls through the window, the coffee is strong. At that very moment she gasped in shock, staring directly at her own name. Gunilla Mørk, she read, was dead; she had died in her sleep. She let go of the newspaper and put a hand to her heart. She could hardly breathe. No, it was a mistake. If it wasn’t a mistake, there must be others called Gunilla Mørk. She glanced around the kitchen to reassure herself that everything was in order – that she wasn’t caught in some form of madness. But all she saw was the good old kitchen, with cups and bowls. She reread the notice. Everything was correct, the birth date, the year.

OUR KIND AND CARING MOTHER, MOTHER-IN-LAW AND SISTER, GUNILLA MØRK, BORN 17 JULY 1939, PASSED AWAY QUIETLY IN HER SLEEP TODAY, 25 JULY.

IT’S GOOD TO REST

WHEN YOUR STRENGTH FAILS YOU

AFTER YEARS OF TOIL AND STRUGGLE

AT SOME POINT

THE HOLY NIGHT COMES

AND THE MUSES OF ETERNITY

CHANGE THE BITTEREST SORROW

YOU’VE HAD TO A HUNDRED FIDDLES

ERIK AND ELLINOR, FRIENDS AND OTHER RELATIVES. FUNERAL SERVICE TO BE HELD AT EASTERN CREMATORIUM, SMALL CHAPEL, 1 AUGUST, 10.30 A.M.

Gunilla Mørk put her head down on the table.

She knocked over her coffee cup.

The newspaper said she was dead.

Erik and Ellinor – her children. And that stupid poem. Erik and Ellinor would never have chosen something so pompous, something so ridiculous and distasteful. And Eastern Crematorium, good Lord. What did it mean? Who had done this inexplicable thing? Could the newspaper have made a mistake? Of course they couldn’t have; if they had, the world had become unhinged. She shot up from the chair and paced around the room. Stood in front of the mirror over the sink. An old woman stared back at her with a face she had never seen. It was unsettling. Everyone I know will read the announcement, she thought. I have to call them. I have to call Erik and Ellinor. She returned to the chair and slumped in it, gripping the edge of the table. Maybe I nodded off and dreamed it, she thought, but that was obviously silly. Again she read her own obituary. She sat motionless, growing cold all over, because someone had picked her out. From the mass of people they had found her and hatched their hideous plans. She wanted to grab the telephone; she wanted to dial her son Erik’s number at once. Then she would know what had happened. But it took some time for her to get up. And when she was finally on her feet, the phone in her hand, she began to cry.