He Who Fears The Wolf

CHAPTER 10

"Which way do you think he went?"

"Through the woods."

Dr Struel pointed a little to the left of the Beacon. "There's a small lake that we call the Well, but we've already looked there. If he went past it and continued on, he would come out on the main road where it passes under the motorway. And if he was seen in Finnemarka, that direction would make sense."

A little while later they were sitting in the cafeteria, drinking Cokes. "Would it be possible for you to explain to an ordinary person what psychosis actually is?" Sejer asked her.

"Are you an ordinary person?"

There was something mocking about her tone of voice, and he wasn't quite sure whether the question was meant as a compliment or something else. In his confusion he started fiddling with the mobile phone attached to his belt.

"In some ways it's impossible because it's so abstract," she said in a low voice. "But I think of it as a kind of hiding place. It's a matter of having all the normal defence mechanisms totally break down. Your soul is thrown wide open, so that anyone and everyone can step right in. Even the most innocent advance is experienced as a hostile attack. Errki has found himself a hiding place. He's trying to survive by creating a survival strategy, a sort of corrective force that very gradually takes over entirely and restricts his freedom and the possibility of making his own choices. Does this make any sense?"

She took a sip of her Coke and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Does he want to escape it?"

"Most likely he doesn't, and that's the problem. All forms of illness have their benefits, as we know, like having someone to pamper us when we're in bed with a fever. It's so nice."

That's easy for you to say, he thought.

"But how sick is Errki?"

"He's got plenty of problems, but at least he's not in bed. He eats his food, and he takes his medicine. In other words, he's being cooperative."

"And… schizophrenia? What is that?"

"We call it that, in all our helplessness, because it's practical to have categories for things. It's when a psychosis has been going on for a while. Let's say several months."

"Has Errki been sick for a long time?"

"He's one of those people everyone has given up on. He wanders from place to place like damaged goods." She sighed heavily. "If he killed that woman, I'm afraid there's no hope for him. He won't get any more help. Not the kind of help that I want to give him."

"But…" he looked at her as he raised his glass, "what do you know about the cause of Errki's illness?"

"Not much. I have my theories."

"Can you tell me about them?"

"I've often wondered whether it has something to do with his mother's death."

"According to the rumours, Errki killed her," Sejer said quickly. A bit too quickly.

"Oh yes, I've heard that. He spread the rumour himself."

"Why?"

"Because he believes it's true."

"And you don't?"

"I choose to keep an open mind. We all deserve a chance," she said firmly.

Yes, he thought. I deserve a chance too. But I probably wouldn't take it even if it fell into my lap. She's not wearing a ring, but that doesn't mean anything. In the past it was a definite sign, it was possible to separate out the ones who were available. The way he had with Elise. Long, smooth fingers and no ring… What on earth am I sitting here thinking about? Sejer wondered.

"How did she die?" he asked.

"She fell down the stairs."

"He didn't push her?"

"He was eight years old."

"Eight-year-olds push and shove all the time. By accident, or when they're playing. Errki was home, wasn't he?"

"He saw it happen."

"Did anyone else?"

"No."

"What exactly do you know about it?"

"Almost nothing. He was sitting on the steps when help arrived, and he may well have been sitting there for a long time, unable to move." She pulled a pack of Prince Lights out of her blouse pocket. "It happened so long ago."

"One other thing. Officer Gurvin said something about him living in America for a while."

"He lived in New York with his father and sister, for seven years. They came home to Norway at regular intervals, for Christmas, and so on."

"And… is it true that he was in contact with a rather unusual person?"

She suddenly smiled. "I haven't been able to check on that. I talked to his father, but he admits that he didn't keep very good tabs on what Errki did with his free time. He was more involved with his daughter. In contrast to Errki, she was good at everything, and socially accomplished. But you're thinking of the magician, aren't you?"

"Maybe he put some strange ideas in his head."

"I think he had plenty of those already. But I don't expect that it helped matters. The worst thing is…"

She fell silent and stared at her Coke. Sejer could see that she was deciding whether to continue, or whether she might be overstepping a boundary.

"The worst thing is," she repeated, "that sometimes I've wondered whether he really might have that ability. Whether he can see more than the rest of us, and even make things happen through deep concentration. I can't explain it in any other way than that he sets things in motion by sheer force of will."

All right. Now she had said it.

Sejer frowned. He had just started to like her, only to find out that she was a little flaky, wasn't the level-headed and intelligent woman he'd first thought. A close call!

"Go on," he said.

She fixed her gaze on a statue outside, a naked girl on her knees who was staring out at the hospital grounds.

"I'm going to tell you about the first session we ever had, Errki and I. All of our patients are assigned to a therapist and also become part of a group, where they're given group therapy. It was time for his session. I was sitting in my office, waiting to see whether he would manage to be on time, after I had shown him where we would meet. And he arrived on the dot. I nodded at the sofa near the window, and he sat down, sprawled out and remained silent. I couldn't see his eyes. The room was quiet. There's something magic about that moment. The first session, the first words."

She was speaking quietly and very slowly. Sejer could feel himself being drawn into her thoughts, almost as if he were right in the room with them.

"'We have exactly one hour,' I began. 'And today you will decide how we spend it.' He didn't answer. I didn't try to break the silence; I'm not afraid of silence. It's common for them to say little or even nothing at all during the first hour. Or the second. He seemed comfortable and relaxed, as if he were resting. Not nervous or anxious. After a while I decided to talk about myself."

"What did you say? Are you even allowed to talk about yourself?"

"Of course, within certain limits."

Her voice changed, as if she were reciting a litany. "I must be personable without being personal, involved without being invasive. Firm, without being sharp or authoritarian. Sympathetic, without being sentimental. Et cetera. I told Errki that what we were going to do, he and I, was find a language that was uniquely ours, that only he and I would understand. No others would be able to decipher it. By 'others' I meant the voices inside him that fling him around and make his life miserable. I said that we could find a way to communicate and that it would be our secret. A code. So if there was anything he wanted to tell me, he could put it into code. And I would be able to work it out provided I had a little time, and that cracking the code would be my problem."

She paused to take a breath. "But he didn't move, and the minutes passed, and I waited for a sign from him. I suppose I slipped into a sort of daze. His presence was somehow soothing. He sat there as if he owned the whole room. When finally he stood up, I jumped. He went to the door without looking at me. That's against the rules, so I stopped him. But he just turned around and pointed at his left wrist, although he wasn't wearing a watch. The hour was over. There was no clock on the wall, and yet he was right. Exactly 60 minutes had passed."

"What did you do?" Sejer said.

She laughed softly. "I tried a little trick. I told him there were five minutes left, but I said it with a smile. And then the first word passed his lips. The first word he ever said to me. 'Liar'."

Sejer looked out of the cafeteria window at the green lawns. It occurred to him that it was late, that he needed to get back to Headquarters soon. He hadn't taken a phone call in all the time he'd been here. Maybe Errki and the robber had been found, as he sat here getting lost in psychiatry and some of its secrets. Or in her. In everything that might have been, a different future than the one he had imagined for himself.

"Afterwards," she said, "I made a note in my journal. One-nil for Errki."

"How do you think Errki would react if he felt threatened?"

She looked at him and her expression turned anxious at the thought of what he might be going through right now. "He would withdraw as much as possible. He would be on the defensive."

"But what if he couldn't withdraw any further? What if he is repeatedly threatened or provoked? What would he do?"

"I tried to tell you earlier, but you didn't take me seriously. He would bite, to protect himself."

"Bite? Where?"

"Wherever he can."

Errki was asleep. Morgan stood in the doorway, looking at him. A jagged red scar stretched from Errki's throat to his navel. It had healed badly. Morgan pondered this for a moment, but couldn't come up with a reasonable explanation for what could have given him such an ugly scar. He stayed where he was and stared, although he had come in to wake Errki up. He had been sitting alone for a long time on the old sofa in the living room, staring vacantly into space, listening to the radio. There were no new details on the news. A hundred thousand kroner, they said. He had counted the money, and they were right.

Morgan stood motionless. There was something intimate about staring at a sleeping man. Staring at a sleeping girl would be quite different. Or so he imagined. Errki was breathing easily, his eyelids quivering, as if he were dreaming. His black jacket and T-shirt lay in a mess on the floor. Why should I wake him? Morgan thought. Why am I standing here like a lonely puppy, feeling like I need company? He can damn well stay where he is. He doesn't speak, and he's much too preoccupied with his own twisted insides to hear what I'm saying. But when he's asleep he looks like everybody else.

He wondered whether the craziness stayed with him when he slept, whether his dreams were crazy too. Or whether he had a hollow somewhere deep inside where everything was normal. A place that he refused to accept.

Suddenly he flinched. Without warning Errki opened his eyes. In a split second he was awake. He didn't stir beforehand, as people usually do as they wake up, twisting a little, grunting and groaning. He just opened his eyes. They were surprisingly big until they focused on Morgan, and then they narrowed.

"What did you do to your chest?" The words slipped out of Morgan's mouth. "It looks like a botched hara-kiri."

Errki didn't answer, because the two down in the cellar were scrambling to get into position. Sometimes they were impossibly sluggish.

"I need company," Morgan declared. He thought he might as well be honest. "It's getting late. Let's have a whisky."

Errki got up slowly from the bed. Nothing happened. He glanced at Morgan's gun, pulled his T-shirt on over his head and followed him out to the living room. Morgan had rigged up the radio on the windowsill, with the antenna sticking out of the broken window. The temperature inside the old cabin was comfortable, but there was a warm haze over the woods, and the water far below was shimmering in the warm evening.

"I'm hungry," Morgan said. "So I'm going to have a whisky."

He fished the bottle out of the bag and unscrewed the top. It was a litre bottle. Errki waited and watched, as usual looking up from downcast eyes and, as usual, it looked as if he were ruminating on something.

"Whisky is good for everything," Morgan said as he continued to marvel at Errki's intense gaze. It was as if he knew something special, something crucial about life and death that no-one else could see. "It's good for hunger and for thirst. For love troubles and for boredom. For despair and anxiety."

He took a big gulp. His face rippled like rubber at the strong liquor. "There's nothing as nice as a moderate drinking problem," he said. "Do you know what I mean by the word moderate?"

Errki did. Morgan wiped his mouth.

"I drink regularly and steadily. But never in the morning and never too much, and never when I'm going to be driving. I'm the one in control."

He took another gulp. "And if you think I'm going to drink myself silly so that you can escape, then you're mistaken."

He held out the bottle. Errki looked at it with surprise. He didn't really care for alcohol, but he was feeling dull and empty inside, and if this was all they had, he didn't have to make a choice. It was the only thing available, this bottle of whisky. And he hadn't asked for it. It was being thrust upon him. He studied the label and turned the bottle around. Then he sniffed at the top.

"Come on, it's not poison."

Errki put the bottle to his lips and took a swallow. The whisky ran down his throat, without making his eyes smart. An unfamiliar warmth spread through his midriff. It started as a stinging sensation in his mouth, then sank downwards and filled his whole torso. Then he noticed the sweet taste, almost like caramel.

"Good, huh?" Morgan smiled. "Where do you live? Do you have a flat?"

Out by the lake, Errki thought. By the public park, in a beautiful setting and paid for by the county. One room plus a kitchen and bathroom. Upstairs lives the old man who paces back and forth at night; sometimes he weeps. I can hear him, but I don't pay any attention. If I gave him my hand and listened to him, I would give him hope, but there is no hope. Not for anyone.

"Why does it have to be such a secret?" Morgan said, reaching for the bottle.

"It smells bad there," Errki said in a low voice.

Morgan jumped at the sound of his voice. "What smells bad? Your flat? I believe it. You smell too. Maybe it's time that you went out in the fresh air."

"Raw meat smells bad. Especially in this heat."

"What are you babbling about?"

"It's on the counter. I eat it for breakfast every morning."

His face was dead serious as he spoke. Morgan stared at him suspiciously.

"Are you kidding me, or are you having hallucinations? You're just kidding, aren't you? I don't doubt that you're crazy, but I refuse to believe that you eat raw meat for breakfast."

He felt a chill spreading slowly down his spine, in spite of the heat. What kind of person was this man, sitting right here in front of him?

"Have some more whisky. Maybe you're having trouble because you didn't take your pills. If you ask me, whisky is better for you."

He sat down on the floor and put the gun down next to him.

"So tell me, when did you realise that you were starting to slip?"

Errki gave him a long, sideways glance.

"Was it like it says in books, that you got up one morning feeling terrible, went over to the mirror and saw to your horror that red worms were crawling out of your eyes?"

He chuckled as he screwed the top back on the bottle.

Errki shut his eyes. A faint drone was coming from the cellar, like a warning. "It wasn't worms," he said in his quiet, clear voice. "It was beetles. With shiny shells. They gleamed in the light from the window, black as oil."

Morgan blinked in confusion. "You're kidding, right? It doesn't really happen that way. I assume," he said thoughtfully, "that it's important to work out why a person gets sick. That's the only reason I asked you. Maybe it's inherited? Was your mother crazy?

Errki was silent, listening. Listening to the words that were spilling out of his mouth like rubbish. Like wet paper, potato peeling, coffee grounds and apple peel.

"How about you?" Errki said. "When did you realise it?"

"Realise what?" Morgan blinked his eyes and peered out of the window. "It's not easy to talk to you. Is there anything that's OK to talk about? You choose the topic." He sighed heavily. "It's a long time until nightfall."

Another pause. Errki sat on the sofa with his legs tucked under him.

"Large parts of the world are at war," he said.

"Is that so? I suppose you're right. Why don't you tell me something about the asylum?" said Morgan. He was practically pleading now.

He could do that, of course. If he felt like it. Talk about Ragne, for example, who could never reconcile herself to the fact that she was born a girl and who was forever being found mutilated, either in bed or in the shower, in a pool of blood because she had tried to cut off her genitals. And that's not easy to do when you're a girl. Soda pop, tea and coffee, Errki thought. Beer, wine, and booze. Tell all of that to this curly haired idiot? Never.

"OK, never mind," Morgan said, resigned. He looked at Errki. "Are you a genius? A sparkling, brilliant mind? I'm not pulling your leg, I can tell that you're sharp, even though you may not seem it."

Errki didn't reply. The man was a real simpleton, he was really pathetic.

Morgan sighed. He felt worn out. Errki didn't want to talk, and he was tired of listening to his own voice. Besides, what he said was nothing but babble. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't drink any more whisky either. He wasn't used to this, sitting in a room with another man and getting no answers. It made him nervous.

"What are you going to use the money for?" Errki asked with perfect friendliness.

"The money?"

"The money from the robbery. Are you going to buy a Nintendo? All the boys want a Nintendo."

Morgan stood up briskly and went over to the window. He stood there, staring down at the water. It was as shiny as glass, with a deep reddish-brown colour, like bronze. He looked at the bare island and the dry firs hanging over the water. The news would be on again shortly. He thought about the car and wondered when it would be found. When it was, the police would realise that they had gone up into the woods.

"I have to take a leak," he said and walked across the room. He took the gun with him. "Stay here. I'll be on the steps."

He went outside and breathed in the hot air. It was the hottest time of the day. He longed for a darkness that wouldn't come. Not until autumn. What a shambles, he thought.

Errki got up from the sofa and sat down on the floor instead, leaning against the wall. He heard the stream strike the dry grass and the cosy sound of Morgan zipping up his trousers. The whisky felt warm in his body. He wanted more.

Morgan came back inside. He could ask for more, but it went against a principle that was impossible to override. To ask for something. No, that was unthinkable. Here came Morgan, with his stubborn stride. He dragged the bag away, and stood with his back turned, fiddling with the radio, twisting the antenna a bit. Errki stared at his sleeveless shirt and down at his muscular calves. Imagine being a man and having all the equipment a man should have, but at the same time looking so discordant, as if he'd been put together using random parts that didn't fit. The room was silent. Errki was about to say a prayer. He couldn't remember when he had last prayed, not in years. He could feel the words balling up into a lump that refused to come out.

Instead he stared at the bag. He concentrated all of his strength in one eye and felt his gaze becoming a ray penetrating the room. It struck the black canvas bag, and the next instant a thin stream of smoke rose up from the black material. He noticed the faint smell of burning. Morgan turned around. A rumbling sound was coming from the cellar, as if great blocks of stone had come loose somewhere and were crashing down. The rumbling grew louder, it was like thunder. Nestor blazed up. A moment later Errki saw something growing out of the filthy floorboards. A river of blood. He stared. It was about an inch from his feet. The bag stood on the other side.

"What's the matter with you?" Morgan said in real alarm. "Are you sick?"

Errki was staring at the bag.

"I think you should have some more whisky. Maybe that would help."

He sounded worried. Errki stayed where he was. He was staring at the blood.

"I said, have some more."

But Errki didn't move. He couldn't reach the bag with his hand, he would have to take a step forward to get it. His feet would slip in the thick, hot blood.

"Why do you make everything so damn difficult! Do I have to put a teat on the bottle and hold you in my arms?"

Morgan grabbed the bag, took out the bottle, and held it out to him. Errki tore it out of his hands and took a drink. The bag stopped burning.

You were lucky. Don't count on being so lucky next time.

"I'm not stingy," Morgan said. "Say what you like about Morgan, but I'm not a stingy person." He scowled at Errki, who was drinking greedily.

Morgan went out to the kitchen. It was true, Morgan was a strange man, but not stingy. He was rummaging through the drawers out there, then Errki heard him open the door to the pantry. While he was out of sight, Errki took several more big gulps. He could hear Morgan cursing softly and things being tossed around. Then a rustling sound that meant that he was fiddling with a candle wrapped in plastic. Next he went into the bedroom. Errki drank some more, listening to him pounding on the walls. Suddenly his voice echoed through the cabin. "What the hell? Take a look at this!"

Errki stood up and tottered forward. "You called, Master?" He was holding the bottle in his hand.

Morgan had put the gun on the windowsill. "Look what I found!"

He held out something to Errki. Dry brown paper, folded together several times. "On the floor under the bed. A map of Finnemarka. Let's work out where we are."

He read aloud, "Map of Finnemarka, National Map Company, 1965. Give me a hand, Errki."

Morgan picked up the gun and went back to the living room. Errki followed.

"Do you know how to read a map? You're going to have to help me. Can you find the location of this cabin?"

He spread out the map, and it just about disintegrated under his fingers. Errki looked at it. Then he put the tip of his finger on a tiny, pale blue spot. "We're here," he said.

"Is it that easy?" Morgan stared. "How can you be so sure?"

"Look at the water outside," Errki said. "See how it's shaped? Then compare it to the map. It's called Himmerik Lake."

"Jesus. You do have your lucid moments."

Morgan went over to the window and looked out. The water had the very same shape as the lake marked on the map. "You're really familiar with this place, aren't you? We haven't gone very far have we," he added. "Tonight I can head over the ridge and come out here," he pointed at the map again. "And just for fun I'm going to trade clothes with you."

He grabbed the whisky bottle. At last he was feeling better. He knew where they were. Everything had a name: the mountains, the lake, and around everything the road network, clearly numbered.

"You'll go back the same way we came while I continue on – I guess it's northwest. You can borrow my shorts. You'll look great in these Hawaiian shorts. I'll let you go then. Around midnight."

He looked pleased. He had a goal.

"The news," he said suddenly. He stumbled over to the radio and turned up the volume. A female broadcaster this time. Errki sat down on the floor again and closed his eyes. His lips felt numb and pleasantly relaxed from the liquor.

Now to the murder in Finnemarka. The savage murder of 76-year-old Halldis Horn is a top priority of the police force, in addition to the robbery at Fokus Bank. The police are following a clue that may lead them to the killer, but haven't yet revealed what the clue is. In the meantime, the police say that they firmly believe the murder will be solved quickly.

Morgan looked at Errki. "Where do you think she lived? Did you know her?" He scratched his head. "I wonder if they're going to search near here? Can you imagine what he must have been thinking to do something so terrible?"

Errki tossed his head involuntarily, making his hair flutter. But he didn't say a word.