When the Devil Holds the Candle (11 page)

I put on a clean nightdress and went and sat at the kitchen table. I don't know how long I sat there. I felt encapsulated, with no room for any thoughts, not even despair. Then I raised my head, and my eyes automatically looked at the window. For a wild moment I thought I saw a face against the pane. I stared and stared, but it didn't reappear. I don't know how much time must have passed before I finally asked myself the question:
What
should I do now?
When I reached that stage, the feeling of paralysis left me. And with the return of reality came the emotions: they nearly knocked me unconscious. I recalled his eyes, shining with fright and determination. To come here and force his way in had been important for him. How could money be that important? I was sitting one pace from the cellar door. If I opened it, the light from the kitchen would make it possible for me to see him. I had to get up and take a look, if only through the trapdoor. And then I remembered that I should call someone soon. Explain everything. There was so much that had to be done. Reluctantly, I got to my feet and opened the trapdoor. I didn't dare look. But I couldn't pretend that nothing had happened. If I went into another room and sat there until morning, he would still be lying in the same position. I stood with my back turned and counted to ten, to twenty. He wasn't going anywhere. He had fallen to his death. Thirty, forty. Cautiously, I turned. Why didn't he scream? I squatted by the open door. The light was slanting down over the stairs. The top step came into focus, then the others. The first thing I saw was his feet, lying on the second step from the bottom. His body was twisted into an impossibly contorted position. One arm was stretched out to the side, but I couldn't see the other one; maybe he was lying on it. His forehead was a white patch in the darkness, his cap was gone. No one could lie like that and still be alive. The angle of his head gave me a terrible clue. I stood there as long as I could, staring at him, listening for any sounds, but it was as quiet as the grave. I straightened up. I realized that the worst had happened. He was dead.

The thought came to me with absolute calm, as something important, but not dramatic. What would I have done if he had still been alive? I should have called for an ambulance, but the mere idea of having to explain everything was unthinkable. Strangers stomping into Irma's house? I put the trapdoor back in place, and laid the rug on top. It was simple. No one knew that
he had come into my house. I tried to think: I had important decisions to make. I took a deep breath, in and out, and then another, in and out. I decided to stay home the next day. I hardly ever missed work, so no one would think it odd. I could say I was coming down with the flu. And then I felt it: the strange sensation that I had been in this selfsame situation before. I couldn't understand it—fear must be playing tricks on me. But I had always believed that one day something terrible would happen. Whenever I sat in the red chair near the window I would let my thoughts wander. In my mind I'd been through almost every nightmare that might befall me, and now, here it was: what I'd been waiting for. Once I realized the connection, I grew calmer. The worst imaginable thing had occurred; in other words, it was finally over. The problem was out in the open and could now be resolved. It was time for action. However, I told myself, first I needed to get some sleep. I felt worn out. Afterward, I would get rid of all the traces. Had he left any traces? I looked around, went into the study. What about his knife? Was it down in the cellar? I was talking to myself in a low voice: "There's a dead man in the cellar. He came here to attack me. It was an accident. Nobody knows that he's here, and hardly anyone ever comes here. There must be a way out of this. There must be a way out!" I turned off all the lights except the one in the bathroom. Then I went to bed. Pulled the duvet over me and stared into the dim light of the room. I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn't. My eyes just kept running and running.

***

Zipp was perched on the top of a woodpile behind the house where Andreas lived. There was a faint light visible behind the curtains. The window was closed. He seemed to remember that Andreas always slept with the window open. He thought to himself,
Here I am again, standing like a Peeping Tom.
The bed was
neatly made. He could see the black-and-white bedspread lying nice and smooth, and the poster of the Doors. On the desk stood an empty Coke bottle. No Andreas. Zipp had been convinced that Andreas would be at home in his own bed. But he wasn't.

Zipp climbed down. He would have to go home. Where the hell else could he go? Should he wait until morning and call? His concern turned to anger. And he trudged off, past the church and the graves, walking fast with his hands in his pockets. Up and along the streets, feeling so damned alone. He had only to make it through this night. With daylight the explanation would emerge, something stupid. Andreas always had an explanation. He unlocked the door of his house and went in. Ran downstairs. Pulled off his tight jeans. His skin felt clammy and stripes from the double seams ran down his thighs. He lay on the sofa with a blanket over him and stared into the darkness. Andreas had done everything, and he had only stood there and watched. No one had anything on him. A tiny feeling of relief began trickling through him. Just before the darkness swallowed him, he remembered the chair. He had left it standing under her window. What would she think? What had the two of them been thinking of? They hadn't thought; they had just charged ahead. Suddenly he pictured the stroller striking the rocks; the baby's tiny mouth with the toothless gums; the foaming sea; the angry cries.
What we were ends here,
he thought.

***

I lay in bed for a long time, shaking as if I had a fever. I felt neither good nor bad; I was just a body, living its own muddled life, without coherence. I dreamed that my intestine was growing, that it wriggled out, slowly but surely, until it was dragging along the ground. I had to gather it up and carry it in my hands for everyone to see. An enormous tangle of intestines: Look here! Then I woke up. I hadn't forgotten about the horror in the cellar. I had only pushed it aside for a while; it was like a mean-spirited dog some distance off that couldn't get at me because it was chained up. But now it was growling. I opened my eyes and stared dead ahead at the flowered wallpaper. It growled again, this time more loudly. At the same time, I was quite sure that I wasn't crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm perfectly sane: I'm describing everything exactly as it was, down to the last detail. Are you still reading this?

Then it was quiet again. Maybe the sound had been the remnants of a dream. Then it started howling. At first a long, drawn-out, faint howl, then it got louder. I'd never heard such a sad howl before: it must be coming from a creature in dire need, in the utmost pain. An insane thought occurred to me, but I pushed it away. It wasn't possible. The world couldn't be that evil! Things were bad enough already. But the sound was indeed coming from the cellar. A muffled cry, as if he didn't have much strength, as if it had cost him everything to scream. I sat up in bed, shaking with terror now, and stuffed a corner of the pillow in my mouth. The man was alive! He was lying there in the cold cellar and screaming for help! I threw myself onto my stomach and pressed the pillow over my head. I couldn't bear to hear those screams; it was as if they were coming from a wounded animal. He was calling to me. Maybe other people would hear him. The neighbors? People passing on the street? They would stop and listen, make a note of my address. Maybe they would think I was hurting someone. I was going to be sick. What business had he coming here in the first place? If only he would shut up! Finally I got up and tiptoed across the room. I didn't want him to hear my footsteps overhead. Obviously he was in terrible pain. And he was only a boy. Imagine that he could scream like that. I've never heard anyone scream so horribly, with so much fear. A young boy, all alone in the dark down there, lying on the ice-cold floor.

I stopped in the kitchen and turned on the light over the counter. I couldn't do anything without him hearing me—turn on the water or open the door to the refrigerator. I pulled out a kitchen chair and sank down. Sat there with one hand on my stomach, feeling the warm contents in the bag through the material of my nightdress. It was quiet again. Maybe he had fainted or something, or maybe he was gathering his strength to scream even louder. I don't know how long I was there. Then he started again, this time more loudly. I stood up abruptly, went to the radio on the counter, and switched it on. Nighttime programming: they were playing music. I turned up the volume till I found a level that blocked out his howls, so that I wouldn't have to hear him. I listened in amazement to all the passion flowing into the room: "I will always love you."

"Hold me baby, hold me now." I sat hunched over the table. I didn't belong in this world, I was an unloved human being, an old woman with a bag of my own waste at my stomach, taking up space. I suddenly started to retch, but nothing came out, just the taste of sour port wine. He had stopped screaming. Did I dare to open the trapdoor? Just take a quick look and shut it again? I began rolling up the rug, uncovering the door. I listened, holding my breath, but I didn't hear a thing. He must have lost consciousness. I could go back to bed, postpone the problem for a few hours more. I stared at the wall, at the calendar that showed September. It's autumn, I thought. It's going to get even darker and colder. Then I grabbed the ring and raised the trapdoor. I peered down at the pale face, and the eyes above the scarf stared back at me, and I heard a scream so heartrending that I almost fell down the stairs. But I regained my balance and dropped the trapdoor, dropped it with a bang. He was far from dead. He was going to stay alive for a long time; he had strength. He knew that I was up here, that I could save him. I turned the radio up again. Went back to bed. I could hear the music through the open kitchen door. A man was screaming in the most terrible despair: "I lied for you, and that's the truth." I sat up in bed until the gray morning light came through my window like dirty water. Someone like me, who is so meticulous, still couldn't stop it. He wasn't screaming now.

September 2.

A slim, well-dressed woman came into the reception area. She paused halfway to the glass-enclosed booth and looked around. Then with swift, purposeful steps she moved toward the little window. Seen from the main entrance, there was something ridiculous about that little booth. But Mrs. Brenningen, the woman sitting inside it, felt entirely comfortable. She was protected there, didn't feel so much as a puff of breath from those questions she had to deal with. Didn't have to touch them. She was a sort of traffic light—red or green, usually red. Most people were told to sit and wait until someone bothered to come and get them. The well-dressed woman was out of breath, making Mrs. Brenningen think she had come to report a break-in or robbery. Something had been taken from her, and now she was indignant. She had bright red blotches on her cheeks and the lipstick at the corners of her mouth looked like dry crumbs. Mrs. Brenningen smiled brightly through the glass.

"I need to talk to a police officer."

"And what is it about?"

The woman was evasive; she apparently had no desire to tell a lowly receptionist what her business was. But everyone had specific areas of expertise at the police station, and it was important that she be sent to the right department. Above all, it was important to ensure that the woman did in fact have a good reason for being there at all. For example, the passport office had moved to a building farther down the street.

The woman seemed to sink into herself. She was thinking about the oppressive silence in her house. Even though there was never any noise this early in the morning, she could sense at once that something was missing—something quite essential. She had approached the door to his room sideways, like a crab, opened it, and peeked inside. He wasn't there. Confused, she shut the door and stood there, biting her lip. On the door was a poster. He'd hung it there years ago, but this was the first time that she had really taken it in.
KNEEL IN FRONT OF THIS BRILLIANT GENIUS,
it said. She was pulled out of her reverie by the woman in the booth, who cleared her throat, but still she couldn't answer her question.

Mrs. Brenningen represented an organization serving the public, and she didn't want an argument. She called Skarre's office and nodded toward the glass double doors. The well-dressed woman disappeared down the corridor. Skarre stood in his doorway, waiting. The woman looked him up and down and was clearly not encouraged by what she saw.

"Excuse me, but are you just a trainee officer, or whatever?"

"I beg your pardon?" he said, blinking.

"This has to do with a very serious matter."

I assumed as much, since you decided to come here,
Skarre thought. He smiled, reminding himself of a passage in the Bible about patience.

"It's called an 'officer candidate,'" he said gently. "No, I'm done with my training. Now tell me what this is about."

"I want to report that my son is missing."

He invited her to sit down.

"Your son is missing. How long has he been gone?"

"He didn't come home last night."

"So we're talking about one night?" Skarre settled himself behind his desk.

"I know what you're thinking: that there's no reason to worry. But that's really not something you can pronounce upon. You don't know him."

Skarre gave a mild shake of his head. The situation was so familiar. The son had gone missing before. Now she wanted to take her revenge once and for all and make things hell for him. But it didn't matter; Skarre still had to do his job. He picked up a Missing Person Report and started filling it in: place, date, time, his own name and title.

"The full name of the missing person?"

"Andreas Nicolai Winther."

"Nickname or any other name he uses?"

"No, none."

"Born?"

"June 4, 1980."