When the Devil Holds the Candle (13 page)

Zipp sat bolt upright in bed. He had fallen asleep in the basement room. He remembered everything. It was eleven in the morning, so the newspaper would have arrived by now. Andreas was presumably at work. No matter what had happened the night before, Andreas would be at work now, walking around in the hardware department with that crooked smile of his. And he was gay. That was unbelievable.
What's wrong with me?
Zipp thought.
What kind of signal was I sending out that he decided to make a move on me? Is it my tight jeans, the ones he's always laughing at? Have other queers also wanted me, without my realizing it?
He clenched his fists. The palms of his hands were sweaty. What should he say next time they met? Could they talk about sex and brag about things as they had before? Forget about what had happened? Yes, maybe, but could they keep pretending that nothing was going on—could they? When they were in a bar together, would Andreas sit there staring at the guys? Had he always done that? Where on earth was he? Zipp stared at the
Blade Runner
tape on the table. At the same moment, he heard footsteps on the stairs. His mother stuck her head through the door.

"It was a late night, I see."

She said this with a smile. She didn't keep track of what he did as long as he stayed healthy and came home at night. She
liked having someone in the house. Most boys moved out at his age, but she did what she could to hold on to him. And as long as he didn't have a job, he wasn't going anywhere.

"Why aren't you in bed sleeping?" he sneered.

"A quiet night shift," she said, sounding cheerful. "I actually took a siesta for a few hours."

She put her hands on her hips. "The phone rang. I didn't get to it in time."

Andreas!

"I've got to go to the employment office," Zipp said, getting up.

She stared at him. Was he finally going to set about getting a job?

"I was about to make some sandwiches. You'll have something to eat first, won't you?"

"Did you bring the paper in?" he asked, looking at the floor as he pulled on his jeans.

"Of course. And I've already read it. Do you know what time it is?"

Since he didn't normally pore over the paper looking for a job, he had to restrain himself a bit. He put the paper next to his plate and checked the front page. Nothing. He bit into a slice of bread and peanut butter, chewed and turned the pages. Just the usual stuff.

"The jobs are in section three," his mother advised him, watching him from where she stood at the kitchen counter. She had another night shift ahead of her, which meant that her whole day was free. This didn't really suit him—he liked it when she wasn't home. She was shrewd, the way mothers are; they could see right through anything.

"I know," he mumbled, as he kept turning the pages.

"You're looking for something," she concluded. "What are you looking for?"

"A disaster," he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"Why are you interested in something like that?"

"A little drama in the daily round, I suppose."

He gulped down that first slice of bread as he scanned page after page.

"You're only reading the headlines," she said.

"Yeah," he said. "If I read all the main headlines, I'll be reasonably well informed."

She shook her head in annoyance and let water run into the sink.
Zipp has never in his life done the dishes,
she thought. Would things have been different if she'd had a daughter? Easier, maybe. A little help around the house? She wasn't sure. Some of her friends had daughters, and they complained all the time about raising them being so difficult. They had to explain so much: menstruation, sex. She shivered. No, it was better to have a son, even one that was unemployed. Her boy was handsome and gentle. Things would turn out well for him, she was sure of that. There were plenty of young people who took a while to figure out what they wanted to do. But it was expensive having him live with her. He always needed something.

"I'm going to call Andreas at work."

He said it out loud. It sounded ordinary enough, and he was convinced Andreas would answer. He went to the living room and punched in the numbers with a practiced hand. His mother gazed after him.

He gripped the receiver tightly. No, Andreas hadn't come to work today. Hadn't called in sick either. Didn't Zipp know that? His mother was worried about him; she'd even been to see the police.

"The police?"

"To report him missing. He didn't come home last night."

"Is he missing?" Zipp asked. He knew his mother was listening, like a quivering cable connected to him from the kitchen; he had no choice but to play along.

"Didn't you see him yesterday?"

The question caught him off guard. Who in fact knew that they had been together? Someone must have seen them. And just think of everything they'd done! It would be best to stick close to the truth.

"Jesus, yes, we were together yesterday. Went out to the Headline. Watched a video afterward."

"Well, it's odd, isn't it? I suppose he'll turn up."

"Yes. I know Andreas. He does whatever he likes." He tried to laugh, but it came out as a squeak.

"What's going on?" His mother was standing next to him.

"Andreas," he said, putting down the phone. "Didn't show up for work today."

"He didn't? Why not?" She gave him a hard look. She suspected that something was up and she took in every detail—the way his eyes were flickering, the way he put his hand up to push back his unruly hair. He shook his head.

"How would I know? Everything was perfectly normal."

"What do you mean by normal?" She squinted at him.

"Well, last night, I mean."

"And why wouldn't it be?"

Silence. He searched for words and found none. He wanted to go back to the kitchen but was stopped by the phone ringing. His mother didn't move. He shrugged and picked up the receiver.

"Hello? Zipp? This is Andreas's mother."

"Uh, yes?" he croaked, his mind racing, thinking about everything that had happened and what he could say, or rather, what he couldn't say.

"Andreas didn't come home last night. I went into his room at eight this morning to wake him up, and he wasn't there! You and Andreas went into town yesterday, didn't you?"

"Yes," he said, casting a glance over his shoulder. It dawned on him that whatever answers he gave now were crucial. Crucial to everything that would happen later, because of everything they had done. The baby in the blue stroller, the old lady in the white house. Something was badly wrong, but he didn't know what. He didn't understand why the woman had sat down at the table dressed only in her nightgown, nor why she'd just kept sitting there. Nor why Andreas had never come out of that house.

"You were with him. Where did the two of you go?" His mother's voice was suddenly sharp.

"Here. We came over to my house." The video was on the table downstairs. Did she think he was standing here and not telling the truth? "First we went to a bar. Afterward we watched a film here.
Blade Runner,
" he told her.

"What do you mean?" Her voice was uncertain. "He didn't come home last night!" she repeated. "Do you know where he is?"

"No," he said, in a firm voice, because that was the truth, and again it was a relief not to have to lie. "No, I have no idea where he is. I called him at work and found out that he never showed up."

"So you heard that? I went to see the police," she said resolutely. "He needs to learn to take responsibility. He's an adult now, after all. He ought to start acting like one. But last night ... When did you last see him? Where were you?"

He thought fast. "We were hanging out around town. At the square and stuff."

"Okay, and then what?"

"Nothing. We were just goofing around. We said good-bye around midnight," he said.

Around midnight. That sounded plausible. Around midnight. That's when they had caught sight of that woman. Near the optician's.

"Where did you last see him?"

"Where?" Shit, did she have to know every last detail? "Where? On Thornegata, I think."

It had slipped out. Why had he said that? Because that's where Andreas had told him to leave the street and sneak through the back gardens in the dark while he continued following the woman.

"Thornegata? What were you doing out there?"

"Nothing," he said, feeling more and more annoyed by mothers who wanted to know everything, who felt they had the right to poke around and ask questions.

"But ... Thornegata ... Didn't you come home together? Where was he going?"

"Don't know. We were just roaming around," he repeated.

"Did anything happen?" Her voice was anxious. "Were you drunk, Zipp?"

"No, no! No, we weren't."

"Did he meet someone?"

"Not that I know of."

He wanted to hang up. To be done with all this pressure. "Tell him to call me when he shows up," he said. "Tell him that I'm really going to let him have it this time."

Speaking of Andreas only reminded Zipp of the night before, of what Andreas had done to him in the churchyard. He wished he could take the words back, but it was too late.
From now on,
he thought,
everything's going to be difficult.

At last she hung up. His mother was standing with the dishwashing brush in her hand, dripping soap and water onto the floor.

"Well?"

"Mrs. Winther," he said. "She's reported Andreas missing."

"And?"

"She just wants to get even. He's an adult, after all."

"Andreas is an odd sort," she said. She gave him an inscrutable look.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Just that he's different. He's probably come up with some wild idea."

"You don't know anything about it!"

His outburst surprised him. It surprised his mother too. She turned and went back to the kitchen. He grabbed the newspaper, ran downstairs, and began reading through it. One article after another, page by page. It was a thick paper, so he was busy for quite a while. There was nothing about a woman and a stroller. And nothing about the old lady, either. But then, that story happened after the paper had gone to press.

"This had better not become a habit," Sejer said. They were in the King's Arms, drinking beer—in the middle of the week.

"No, that would be dreadful, Konrad," Skarre said, grinning.

They had not talked about the hash. Sejer had been thinking of mentioning it, but he didn't. If Jacob had any questions, he should for God's sake just ask them. Anyway, time was passing. And it was never going to happen again.

"Have you given it any thought?" Sejer said, halfway through his second pint. "If the new police station is built in the Greenland area and no one wants to come up with money to extend the road network, we might end up waiting for a train every time we're called out."

"What fun," Skarre said. He pulled at a curl from the back of his neck and twisted it round his finger.

"Your hair is getting awfully long," Sejer said.

"I know. I'm thinking that if I hold out a few more weeks, it'll be long enough for a ponytail."

"A ponytail?" Sejer frowned.

"I'm telling you," Skarre said earnestly. "If I pull my hair back into a ponytail, it'll attract much less attention than it does now."

"But a ponytail ... What about the dress code?"

"I've checked regulations: 'Hair and beard must be well-groomed and kept at moderate lengths. The hairstyle must not prevent the proper wearing of headgear or other equipment. Long hair must be either pinned up or gathered in a ponytail or braid. Hair bands and ribbons are forbidden.' "

"Jesus, you've got it off by heart! We're talking about a neutral appearance, Jacob."

"Everyone and his uncle has a ponytail," he insisted.

"What's next? Dangling earrings?"

"Studs, Konrad. I take them out before I come to work. But I don't strictly have to. 'Small ear studs that sit close to the ear may be worn.' "

"I see. Well, you're not exactly a plainclothes detective. But if we don't get the new police station soon, any kind of cooperation with the legal people is going to go up in smoke. It's just not working out right now, with them sitting two hundred yards down the street. We need to be in the same building!"

Skarre lifted his bottle of Irish stout and filled his glass. "If I put on some gel, it will look shorter. I'll tell you one thing, though, Gøran has longer hair than I do, only his is so
thin.
"

"But would that look good on you, Jacob? Having your hair plastered to your skull?"

"Don't know. But nobody takes me seriously with these curls. Mrs. Winther thought I must be some kind of trainee or something." He took a sip of the dark beer. "How's it going with Robert?"

Sejer sighed. "Fine, given the circumstances. A cliché, I know, but I have good reason to use it."

"Those kids who were with him—couldn't they have stopped him?"

Sejer traced a stripe through the moisture on his glass. "Maybe they thought he was just trying to frighten her. To make the others lose face. If only he had settled for that."

"But there must have been something they could have done!

A chap who's dead drunk with a loaded shotgun in his hands, and they all stand there paralyzed, looking on?"

"There isn't always an explanation for everything," Sejer said.

Skarre didn't care for the idea that any human beings could be prey to such an extent to their own primitive urges.

"They must have been totally taken by surprise," Sejer said.

"Too much so to coax him out of the rage that must have overwhelmed him. And they didn't have time enough, or the psychological insight."

Sejer felt something tugging at the back of his mind. He wanted to roll himself a cigarette, but he smoked only one a day, usually last thing before going to bed. If he rolled one now, he would use up his quota. To smoke two would be unthinkable.

"He had made up his mind to shoot. He needed some kind of release."

I could smoke half of one,
he thought.
And then the other half tonight. But that would be fooling myself.