I Can See in the Dark

Chapter 33

‘I didn’t know they were going to place me in a position like that,’ I said apologetically to de Reuter, when at last we were alone together. He claimed I’d broken my side of the bargain, and asked if I had any more secrets, which I denied.

‘We’ll have to alter our strategy now,’ he said, ‘and tighten up our defence. You’re going to need every bit of help you can get. Is there anything else I should know?’

‘No. From now on, I’ll lay all my cards on the table,’ I promised. ‘I know I’ve said this again and again, but I’m not guilty. I mean, as regards the murder. The other thing is a regrettable problem I’ve struggled with for many years. But that’s over now, everything’s behind me, and I promise to control myself.’

He barked a farewell as he headed for his car and drove off.

The prosecution ordered psychiatric tests, to find out if I was responsible for my actions. The forensic psychiatrist was an elderly man, a little over sixty perhaps, with hair that resembled a silver lid on the top of his head. He wore glasses with emphatic frames and thick lenses, a polka-dot bow tie, a suit that was a couple of sizes too large, and stout brown shoes scuffed at the toes. A couple of shiny hairs stuck up from the top of his head and formed a small antenna. I sat there staring at it, fascinated by the two unruly hairs that wouldn’t lie down. He had that knowing melancholy typical of psychiatrists, visible as a tint of sadness in his grey eyes.

‘Presumably you think I’m suffering from a personality disorder,’ I began.

We were in one of the prison’s meeting rooms. He smiled and smoothed his hair, the tiny antenna prostrated itself neatly. But only for a couple of seconds, then it sprang up again.

‘Is that the category you want to belong to?’ he asked. His voice was mild and friendly. ‘Would it make everything that’s happened easier to bear? If that was the conclusion I reached?’

I thought for a moment. ‘It makes no difference. Because I know who I am. But what I don’t know is how I got to be the way I am. Don’t ask about my childhood,’ I added. ‘There’s nothing to say about it. Nothing at all.’

‘So you weren’t mistreated in any way, or neglected?’

‘No, I was simply overlooked. Perhaps that’s almost as bad.’

‘But was it a difficult time?’

‘No, but not very much happened. My childhood was long and uneventful. My father went to work before I got up in the morning, and he returned home long after I’d gone to bed. I hardly ever saw him. He was home at the weekends, of course, but then he was ensconced behind a newspaper. Or sleeping on the sofa. My mother kept house, she was forever washing, or cleaning or polishing. She didn’t say much. She’d answer me if I asked about something, but only quite perfunctorily. They were both very reticent. I did well at school, at least in terms of schoolwork. There’s nothing the matter with my head, just in case you’re wondering. My schoolmates called me The Pike. And I found that quite difficult. The school dentist announced that he’d never seen teeth like mine before, but we didn’t have the money to do anything about them. The first time I sat in the dentist’s chair, the dentist shouted to his assistant who was working in the next room: “Vera! Come and take a look at this! I’ve never seen teeth like these in all my life.” There,’ I added, ‘that was my childhood. I don’t remember much more than that.’

‘Well then, let’s leave it. We can return to it later. Now I’d like to hear you say something about helplessness. What do you feel when you’re faced with a dependent person?’

‘Irritation. Resignation. I get angry, and I despise them for clinging to others, for begging and whining and complaining. I’m being totally honest now, and that’s no easy matter as I work in one of the caring professions. But now I really want to be understood.’

‘What about despair? Do you feel that too?’

‘After only a second or two, I feel completely inadequate. I’ve got to do something, and do it straight away. I’ve got to find an outlet for my own frustration. There’s a name for that, isn’t there?’

‘You really do want a diagnosis, don’t you,’ the psychiatrist said. ‘And perhaps we’ll arrive at one before we’ve finished. But what about you? What if you became ill or incapacitated, or needed help in some way. How would you manage?’

‘Pretty badly,’ I admitted. ‘I’d despise myself as much as I despise others. I’d go to the dogs. I’d go into a decline, and never get up in the morning again, never look at myself in the mirror. Never!’

The psychiatrist had a folder. He opened it now and took out a sheaf of papers.

‘What about the videos? What was going through your mind when they were shown to the court? What do you imagine people think of you after that?’

‘They’re probably disgusted. People can’t take very much. But sometimes those of us who work with dementia lose patience. It’s not just me, there’s a number of us.’

‘So you’re saying that others on the ward might also have tortured the patients?’

‘That’s obvious. Somebody killed Nelly Friis. Someone who lost patience. Or someone who wanted to take pity on her, I don’t know, but it wasn’t me. Almost anything could have happened in that room. And in the other rooms. We’re only human after all.’

The psychiatrist made notes. His antenna waved every time he nodded, two thin streaks of silver.

‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ I said. ‘Nelly Friis’ murder will never be solved.’

‘Why not?’

‘The judges have already made up their minds. They’ve seen the videos.’

‘It has to be proved,’ he commented.

‘No, I’ll be convicted on circumstantial evidence. Randers said so himself. People have been found guilty on circumstantial evidence before.’

‘So you don’t believe in justice?’

‘Not after this. But occasionally I glimpse a pattern. And I’ve often got the feeling that people are following me with their eyes and laying traps.’

‘You feel you fell into a trap?’

‘Of course I fell into a trap. I fell into it headlong, and I’m bitter about it. You think what you like, but a hidden camera, that’s pretty low.’

‘You chose to work with people,’ the psychiatrist said. ‘Why did you do that? What was it about the job that attracted you, when you say you’ve got serious problems dealing with other people’s helplessness?’

‘Well, I suppose it’s death,’ I admitted.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll be perfectly frank, but please don’t jump to any conclusions regarding Nelly. The patients we care for only have death to look forward to. And I like being in the proximity of death.’

‘Explain that to me,’ the psychiatrist said.

‘It has its own drama. I enjoy it, it excites me. And you must make a note that I’m confiding something important to you.’

He noted down what I’d asked, a hint of a smile on his lips. Then he pointed to his papers and tapped the thick bundle with a finger.

‘We’ll do an interview. It’s called an SCID interview, and it’ll take about ninety minutes to go through all the questions. The interview will reveal any personality disorder you may be suffering from, and if so, what sort of disorder it is. It’s an attempt to chart your most important characteristics. Characteristics that are typical of you, that have existed most of your adult life and aren’t confined to periods of particular depression, anxiety or lack of engagement. Suspicion and confidence, for example, are things we can have more or less of. What we’re looking for, is how much you differ from a hypothetical average individual. If you answer yes to a question, that you acknowledge the characteristic, it means that you believe you are more like that than most other people. And you score three points. Let me give you an example. If you answer yes to the question “Have you had difficulty making decisions by yourself?” that indicates that you think it’s been more difficult for you than for most people. D’you follow me?’

I nodded.

‘You can score from one to three points on each question,’ he added. ‘By the finish we’ll have a clas-sification.’

I said I understood, and he began immediately. He asked me about my talents. He asked about my schooling and working life and handicaps. Whether I had close relationships with people, and I had to answer no to that, of course. Apart from Arnfinn, and that hadn’t lasted long.

‘Do you often worry about being criticised or rejected in social situations?’ he asked. ‘Do you think you’re less good, clever or likeable than most other people? Do you often detect hidden meanings in what people say or do? Do you get angry when you’re offended? Do you like being the centre of other people’s attention? Do the majority of people not appreciate your unique talents and achievements? Do you often think about the power, fame or recognition that will one day be yours? Do you believe that very few people deserve your time and attention? Do you feel that your own situation is so unique that you are entitled to special treatment? Would you say it’s true that only very few things make you happy? Do you have the feeling that there is a person or a force around you, even though you can’t see anyone? Last but not least: have you ever had fits of anger so violent that you’ve lost control?’

Yes. I’ve lost control all right. Of course I answered yes to every one of these questions, these insinuations. I’ve had fits of anger, and I’ve lost control. I was exhausted when the interview was over, but I gave him what he wanted, and I scored the maximum possible, feeling a kind of strange contentment as I did so, because now I belonged somewhere, amongst the disturbed, and my condition had a name. But I didn’t mention that I’d once stuck a cannula in Nelly’s eye. And punctured a small blood vessel that made her eye bloody and red. This only happened once, and I was simultaneously excited, and horrified with myself and my own ingenuity. I didn’t mention Margareth either, or what I felt when I saw the beetroot juice on her lips. The madness that inflamed me then, how it began simmering in my trousers. How my pulse beat hard, muffled in my distracted mind.

I said nothing about these.

All evening I sat staring out at the sanatorium. There was no sun, and the windows didn’t blaze, the overcast weather made the building seem heavy and gloomy. Janson came in to hear how I’d got on with the psychiatrist.

‘He was friendly enough. He asked masses of questions and I answered them all truthfully.’

I looked Janson in the eye.

‘Tell me something,’ I asked him. ‘Have you ever completely lost your temper and done something really terrible?’

Janson, who was his usual light-hearted self, now grew solemn as well, and I could see he was searching his memory. Examining certain episodes.

‘Riktor,’ he said finally, emphasising each word. ‘Everyone loses their head sometimes. Everyone does something terrible. But most things can be put right in one way or another. Almost everything can be put right, if you take the time to do it. But not murder. Murder is irrevocable. Thou shalt not kill,’ he went on. ‘You know your Bible, don’t you?’

He laid a hand on my shoulder, it was heavy and warm.

‘That’s the way our wonderful system works,’ he said. ‘Everyone gets a second chance.’