Chapter 20 - Only Human

I was sitting in the kitchen eating when the mobile phone beeped. It was a text message from Beate: ‘I got a boyfriend. Don’t tell Mum. Love u. Bat.’

Slices of bread get a distinctive salty taste when they lie right on top of the surface of the table, I remember that from when I was small. It is the same kitchen table, I took it with me when I left home. I thought I would get a boyfriend straight away, but that was not how it turned out.

Emilie will never have a boyfriend, because Emilie is dead.

I lie down on the sofa and nod off. I think I am resting my head on balls of wool, the wicker chair in the corner creaks. It is the pills that do it. My GP gave them to me. You aren’t ill, he said, but if depression is preventing you from writing? A little lift, that’s all. These pills. They’re a leg-up. But I am sliding down instead, am almost at ground level now: I can see the sides of a sledge sliding through crusted snow. Scraping. Cotton, snow. The illuminated carriages of the underground passing on their tracks. A queue of cars moving slowly through the slush on the road. It is to do with something, I know, but I am so drowsy, what is it that is sliding, the brittle sound of frozen slush against hard plastic. I am not on the way into the light, into the school buildings which the marching band and choir borrow in the evening, instead I am being dragged with a scraping sound that fades in the dark forest, and I tell myself I have to think, now I have to think, because if my feelings should glide more easily henceforth, my thoughts must find me in another place, if my garden has another meaning, then I do too. Or it could be my thoughts that are gliding, and my feelings have changed, become immersed? I will soon sink down to the vegetation in the garden, to pine cones and damp soil, mushrooms and grass, algae on the foundation wall and old rainwater in a flowerpot.

It is dark and raining outside, I hear the gusts of wind, something falling over in the garden, it could be the plastic chair being blown around into the bushes, lying there rocking. I sit up and switch on the wrought-iron lamp, the light bulb gives off heat, I feel it on my head, my hair getting warm.

Not only can the past lie in darkness, it can also be darkness.

Dad as a small boy, in a strange bed at night, at the children’s home, sent away. That could not go well. I think about how fear transforms everything: the taste of a slice of bread, the sight of trees, snow, houses, everything flattens out, colours recede, the air becomes grainy. That is how it feels to be afraid. It is an assault on perception.

I need a glass of water and walk into the kitchen. The rain hits the windows, the wind cleaves the hedges and tears leaves from the trees. Everything is wet and viscid, the leaves, grass, the soil in the flower beds. Soon it will be summer and Beate is in love. Expectation is in the air, shifting from person to person, place to place, depending on whose turn it is, according to age and background. It is now in Beate, or she is in it, inside a force field where everything appears possible. Creation. I think how it is not the things around us that are good for us but we who make things seem good, we grant them potency. I walk into the living room, across the Persian rug and over to the desk. The rug was once Granddad’s. There was a time when the sight of it made me light up, the tawny colours, the latent red. Now it is just a rug that fulfils its function. I am not radiant any more and things do not radiate back. Rather the earth beams in towards itself where I stand, pulling the heat back from the surface, God knows how things are within.

I hear sounds coming from outside for a while before I manage to get up and look, I do not want to. Because it is a new revolution, I feel it in my whole body, it seeps in gradually: this is not over, and is not going to let up. I am chosen and captured.

No. I will not. I am not budging. I want to sit on the sofa beneath the warm lamplight, the woollen blanket around me, looking at the fire in the stove. I want to watch TV and drink red wine. That is all I need. I do not need to think.

The sound of steps, of scraping and of things being disturbed, purposeful sounds, unlike those of an animal. Animals stop, listen and wait, move gradually and swiftly at the same time, are alert. People hurry, think ahead, want to get things over with. I stand up and walk into the darkened dining room where the curtains are drawn. Pause and hold my breath so as to hear better, but it is quiet out there now. Except for the wind. It has blown so much since Emilie disappeared. I draw the curtain back ever so slightly with my forefinger, enough to see out with one eye. Nothing. I then go from window to window on the entire ground floor, but there is no one to be seen. It is four o’clock, beginning to get light and I feel less jumpy, maybe it was an animal after all, a badger, I think, a badger’s direct way of doing things that made me believe I heard human steps. I decide to open a window. My heart begins pounding again, but nobody can get in through the window when it is on the latch, it is not possible, I tell myself, and open it. At first there is nothing but the usual sounds; the rustle of the wind in the trees and the reassuring slam of the door of the paperboy’s car down on the road, he is driving from gate to gate. But then comes a whimpering, a whining.

I wish I could ring Tuva. Not because I want her to come over, but because it reminds me that I am a mother. That Tuva is my child, whom I have protected and loved. Hearing her voice would be enough for me to understand how things ought to be handled. You need to do something, Mum, Tuva would have cried if she was still a child standing barefoot on the floor in her nightdress, her long hair down her back, upset.

Hurry, there’s an animal out there we need to rescue. It’s in pain, Mum. Mum!

An hour goes by and the sun is on the verge of coming up. The whimpering is still audible, but coming at longer intervals, weaker, I think, perhaps it is dying for me. I stand at the window looking out, listening, to see if someone is there, waiting, watching, spying on me? No one, I do not see anyone. Tears run down my face. Finally I go out.

Between the bags of firewood and the old snowblower lies Emilie’s dog. I knew it, knew that was what it was. But I was so afraid of what I would find. A dog with broken paws? With its eyes put out or brutalised in some other way? What I see before me is bad enough but not in that league. Its paws are bound together and its collar is tied to a short length of rope knotted so tightly to the snowblower that it cannot move. Skee, I say, and cry, lovely little thing. He snaps at me but is weak. Thin too, cannot have had much food in the last couple of weeks. You’re just scared, I say, there, there, you’re just scared is all, don’t be afraid, it’s okay now. I cannot manage to undo the knot in the rope so just remove the collar, whereupon his whole body twitches, I lift him up, hold him close, and he pees. There, there, I say, there, there.

Walking up the steps to the veranda I spot the man in the baseball cap, standing at the gate talking on his mobile. I hug the shivering, pee-soaked dog close to my chest with one hand, run inside, lock the door after me, pick up my phone from the living-room table and make it into the kitchen. The card with the northerner’s number is fixed to the fridge door by a magnet. I am not wearing my glasses, and have to stretch my neck and squint to make out the digits. The fingers of my free hand feel slow and podgy, I cannot move them fast enough, and I have to punch in the number with the mobile lying on the worktop. As it slides a little across the surface a couple of times, the tears begin to flow, making it even harder. When I lift my head and bring the phone to my ear, I can see the gate and the man in the baseball cap. He is also holding his phone to his ear, but has his back turned to the house, I see him hunching over a little as he speaks.

The morning sun lights up the kitchen worktop and the brown ceramic jug where I keep ladles and hand whisks, a yellow streak of grease on the top of the cooker, the green glass jar with dry crumbs of cake.

The northerner does not pick up, naturally, it is not quite half past five in the morning, so I speak in a clear, slow voice to the answering machine. The dog, I say. The man in the baseball cap.

I then ring the main number for the police. It’s about the Emilie case, I tell the duty officer, I’m a witness, I’ve found her dog. In the garden.

I see, he says.

It’s frightened, I say. I’m frightened as well. There’s a man at my gate. Every night. He’s standing there right this minute. I know who he is, he lives in the neighbourhood. You probably know him too, he looks like a psychiatric patient.

I see, says the officer. Okay, there’s a patrol car already on the way.

Already. Dispatched before I rang. I thought as much. He was at my gate ringing the police. Making up some lies. I will have to watch my mouth now. I must not let them realise that I know he has called. But maybe it is even stranger not to ask how they could be on the way before I got in touch. It is closing in, getting complicated.

Hello, the policeman on the other end of the line says, hello, are you still there?

Yes, so, I’m calling to report that a lunatic has been hanging around my gate every night since Emilie disappeared.

Emilie? I didn’t think you knew her. Well, you can take it up with the officers when they arrive. I’ll make a note of it here.

Everybody says Emilie, Jesus, the whole country knows who Emilie is. Which officers are coming?

Like I said, a patrol car first of all. Then we’ll see.

I’ve tried to call Bjørn Eriksen, I’d very much like to speak to him.

Right, well, we work in shifts, we couldn’t have one man on the same case twenty-four hours a day.

But he gave me his phone number.

Listen, I’ve made a note of everything. You take it up with them when they arrive, okay?

Okay, I feel I’m getting pretty short shrift here, I have to say.

Well, you’ll have to live with it.

Yes, obviously, I say and hang up.

Fucking arsehole.

I find the scissors in the kitchen drawer, sit down on the floor with the dog on my lap and carefully cut the rope holding his legs together. He whines a little but does not get up.

Maybe you’re thirsty, sweetheart, I whisper, holding him to my chest so he can feel it rise and fall and hear my heartbeat.

I fill an old ice-cream container with water but he will not drink. So I get a teaspoon from the drawer, lift him onto my lap again and, forcing his mouth open, tip a spoonful of water in. He tries to wriggle free and stand up but his legs give way. My eyes are so filled with tears that I can hardly see, but I manage to pour the water into a little saucer that I place beneath his snout. Then his tongue comes out and laps up a little. I stroke and pat him, cry and speak softly as I carry him around the kitchen, open the fridge and take out a tin of pâté. I sit back down and let him lick at it straight from the tin, he manages a tiny bit then tries to get down but I do not want to let go. You’re so scared, I say, lie here, I’ll look after you. With that he deposits his inky black diarrhoea in my lap. When the police car pulls up in front of the gate, I have just taken off all my clothes and placed them at the foot of the stairs. There is no time to do anything other than wrap the blanket from the sofa around me, like a sari. Then I pick up the dog again, holding it close, his muzzle to my throat.

The policemen are suspicious. They have not observed any man in a red cap, they say, and ask why I am not dressed. One of them wants to take the dog from me, but luckily he pees again, shivers and whimpers, wetting the blanket and giving me the opportunity to explain why I am not dressed. They offer to hold the dog while I change, but I will not let go of Skee, he’s too frightened, I say, and go out with him into the garden as I am. They want to know everything in detail, and I have to explain twice what has happened, how I had been up late drinking red wine because I was depressed, how I was afraid of the man at the gate, had heard sounds outside, come across the dog and tried to call Bjørn Eriksen. I cannot tell what they are thinking by their expressions. One of them walks a little way off, stands by the old playhouse and speaks on the phone. While he is talking, he looks in the window, but must not see anything, because he just continues speaking. The other one takes a walk around the garden, moves a few things, looks behind the stacks of firewood and berry bushes, but does not find anything either. The man in the baseball cap suddenly appears at the gate again. Hey, I shout, there, look, quick. The dog, in my arms, gives a start. The man in the cap opens the gate and comes into the garden.

Do you see? I say to the guy on the phone. Yes, I see, he says, pocketing the phone. Come on, he says, as though to a child, you and I can go inside for the time being, my colleague will take care of this.

He tells me that both forensics and Eriksen are on the way. I look down at my bare feet. One step at a time up to the veranda, sand and the odd piece of gravel beneath my soles. The policeman holds me gently by the elbow. I walk slowly. He asks if I want to get dressed. I turn and look out over the garden. The light seems dusty, it must be due to the haze, a veil across the sky, and the wind perhaps, maybe there is something in the air that the wind has raised up, small particles, pollen. I look at the two figures down by the gate. The man in the baseball cap is gesticulating. The policeman taking notes.

I’ll wait, I say, and sit down at the living-room table, holding the dog close, it no longer shows any signs of wanting to get down, I’ll wait.

The other policeman comes in.

What did he say, I ask, what does he think he’s up to?

He does not answer me but says he thinks I should get dressed.

Christ, I say, you must be able to tell me what he wants, he’s terrorising me. I’m going to report him, I’ll report him.

Let’s just take it easy, he says, this will all be fine.

But now I have started crying.

I am handed a glass of water but I place it on the table. The dog is warm in my arms, his breathing regular. I bury my face in his fur. After a while he turns his head and licks my ear. I pick up the glass and take a sip.

You haven’t been charged, Bjørn Eriksen later informs me, as he sits across the table, his mobile and notebook in front of him.

The two other officers have driven the dog home to Emilie’s parents. His weight, fur, warmth, I can still feel it in my arms, that was love, but now it is gone, I am alone with Eriksen and God knows what he is thinking, nothing to do with me in any case, with the person I feel I am.

I can understand your confusion, Eriksen says, but you just need to relax. We’re interviewing you as a witness and cannot provide you with any more information about the investigation than we release to the media.

But I might be killed, I say. Have you considered that, have you considered why exactly my garden was used?

What do you think yourself, Eriksen asks, what’s the reason? he says, in his thick northern accent.

I do not know why. Maybe it has nothing to do with me, even though it feels as though it does, as though it is my fault.