I Can See in the Dark

Chapter 35

I hardly slept a wink that momentous night before judgement was due. The judges would rise and give their verdict, either I was the one who’d pressed the pillow over Nelly’s wan face, or there was room for reasonable doubt. Of which I was to have the benefit, naturally, those were the rules. It was a long and exhausting night. The smell of putrefaction in my cell was intense, time after time I rose and stood there not knowing what to do, looking around for Arnfinn, and imagining I could hear his hoarse breathing in the nocturnal stillness. Close to panic, I searched my bedclothes for maggots, shook my pillow and duvet and brushed my hand feverishly over my sheets. I checked the ventilator up on the wall, convinced that the smell was coming from there. And I thought I could see a cloudy gas seeping into the room, it settled like a veil around the bed, thick as porridge, filling my nose and head. I couldn’t sleep. I lay as if in state, stiff as a board, with my arms at my sides, steadfast and immobile.

Around midnight a storm blew up. At first there was just the occasional gust, then it rapidly increased in force. The wind howled round the corners of the big prison building, and after an hour the rain set in with an ominous rush. Its drumming rose and fell, as it beat against the walls and windowpanes. I lay on my bed and listened in dismay; the wildness of the elements was so great that night that I imagined it must have some special meaning. A portend of things to come, the verdict, and the disapproval, people turning away in disgust, with cold, reproachful looks. Cut off from society once and for all. A reject yet again, a rotten individual. But morning came and the furious wind had abated at last. Immediately I began to think of Margareth and my new life. I told Janson about the foul smell, but he couldn’t understand it. He said that no one else had complained, and that I was probably just worn out. In that state we can imagine the weirdest things.

I dressed according to de Reuter’s instructions, looking very decent and respectable, and Janson accompanied me through the corridors to the back of the court. De Reuter was sitting there with his briefcase on his knees. He seemed bright and alert, not in the least dejected, as if anticipating victory, and that made me nervous.

‘Feeling nervous?’ he asked affably.

‘Yes.’

‘If they bring you in guilty, we’ll appeal. We’ve got a good case.’

It was 17 November. The two lay assessors had dressed for the occasion as well, in formal, neutral attire. The indictment had been extended. In addition to Nelly’s murder, I was accused of maltreating and persecuting patients at Løkka, and obstructing Dr Fischer’s treatment plans. That I had knowingly and wilfully sabotaged all medical intervention. I flinched slightly as I sat beside de Reuter. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. Some of it was due to the gravity of the occasion, and the fate that might await me. Some was due to Margareth, for she was never out of my thoughts for an instant. It would have been a joy if she’d been present in court. But in a way, it was a relief she wasn’t there and couldn’t hear the things that were said, the many humiliating conclusions, and there seemed to be plenty of them, about my character and propensities.

For now the court-appointed psychiatrist had risen and walked to the witness box. He proceeded to explain my disturbed personality: insensitivity to existing social norms and conventions. A lack of empathy and understanding, a lack of social talent, apathy towards the suffering and misfortunes of others, emotional frigidity, arrogance and sadistic tendencies. Illusions of self-importance and grandeur.

I bowed my head as he listed all my failings, attempting to summon up the requisite degree of humility de Reuter had demanded. The judges spent a long time in reaching agreement, and de Reuter said that was a positive sign. It meant that there was room for doubt. I had to stand to receive their final decision. I clutched de Reuter’s arm involuntarily, clutching at hope, silently pleading and praying for justice.

‘In the matter of wilful murder: we find the defendant not guilty.’

I hadn’t misheard. The words replayed themselves in my mind, we find the defendant not guilty. I collapsed with relief, and for one brief second there was room for a merciful God in the emotional chaos within me, and that was a new element in my faithless life. And even as I was experiencing this rush, this inexpressibly large release, I received my sentence for maltreatment with head held high. One year’s imprisonment; taking into account the time already spent on remand, 270 days left to serve. For harassing and torturing Nelly Friis. For misappropriating Dr Fischer’s prescriptions, for subjecting dying patients to gross threats. In addition, I was barred from ever working in the caring professions again. But that didn’t matter. Margareth, I thought. Justice, I thought; now all I need is to play my cards right.

The press gloried in the details. Verdens Gang had its own eye-catching headline the following day.

The Nurse from Hell.

‘Congratulations,’ said the big Russian.

‘Well I never,’ said Margareth. And Janson slapped me on the shoulder. Randers had sent me a lingering look as if to say, we’re not finished with one another yet, you and I. But we were. And from the moment my cell door slammed shut, I began to serve my time. I gobbled up the days like a famished dog, consumed time with every bit of my energy and ingenuity. I made my own calendar, and immediately began a countdown. Now that I’d been given a release date, time passed more quickly. Time had become like a road stretching towards a promised starting post, and this post marked the beginning of a new and honourable life. Janson admired the calendar I’d made. It had 270 small squares, one of which had to be crossed off each evening when the day was over. In the margin I’d done tiny illustrations for each month. A leafless tree for November, a heart for December, a six-pointed snow crystal for January.

‘You can draw,’ he concluded. ‘You really can. I’ll get you some things, so you can keep working at it.’

And so I began to draw. Each day after dinner: a hidden talent I never knew I had. Once I’d started I was unstoppable. I drew the familiar sanatorium, and the six-metre-high prison wall with its nests of barbed wire. I drew in the exercise yard: the bench, the fence, and the facade of the building with its many windows. I drew Janson as he leant against the wall with his muscular arms folded. I drew my hand, my foot, my diminutive cell, the bed and the desk. The strokes got more deft and rapid with each passing day, they emanated from somewhere deep within me, were transmitted through my arm to my hand, and flew lightly, even lovingly over the paper. I liked the smell of graphite when I sharpened the pencil. I lost myself in my drawings. I made up my mind to be a model prisoner, a good example to the other inmates, and called on all my reserves of generosity and discipline. I spoke to the priest, even though I’m not a believer; it was a matter of making the most of every new impression. I sat in the library and read. Even this was an exercise of sorts, sitting still, concentrating, absorbing. A fortnight after I’d received my sentence, Ebba came to visit. She seated herself comfortably on the chair and immediately took out her crocheting, presumably because I’d asked her to bring it along. I enjoyed watching her peaceful occupation.

Her needle moved like lightning. I sat and watched it for a long time.

‘Nelly Friis’ murder remains unsolved,’ I said.

She gave me a quick look. Her curls were crisp and newly done, her hair sat like a well-fitting cap.

‘That’s a problem for the police. They’ll work it out all right.’

I asked about little Miranda’s progress.

‘They go to the Dixie,’ Ebba said, ‘she and her mother. With their coffee and Coke. Almost every day. What a blessing it is, everything that’s happened. She’s walking almost normally, but it’s taken a long time. When she’s wearing baggy trousers you simply don’t know the braces are there. But she can’t run, of course. She’ll have to plod her way slowly through life. And perhaps that’s no bad thing, you get more out of it that way.’

She held her crocheting up to the light and examined her work, while I admired the complicated pattern, stars within borders, and the minuscule, barely visible stitches.

‘You’ve adapted,’ she noted. ‘You’re flexible. That’s good. What are you going to do when you’re released? It’ll be midsummer. You’ll need a job.’

‘They help with that,’ I explained. ‘We’ve got a kind of support service here in prison. But I’m not working with people any more. It just exasperates me. I can’t take people who plead. I can’t take people who whine and complain. So I’ll have to keep away from them.’

‘There’s good in everyone,’ Ebba maintained.

I didn’t try to deny it. I presented her with a drawing of the sanatorium, in which every one of its windows was an eye looking out on the world. For a brief moment I toyed with the idea of telling her about Margareth, but decided not to. Secrets are my strong point, I wanted to keep it to myself. Our relationship was a bastion for the future, and I added to it, stone by stone, with diligence and care. Margareth knew nothing about it, she didn’t know what I was working up to and hoping for, didn’t know about the dream that I was determined to turn into reality. But one day she would see it, she would see the lovely palace and clap her hands in delight.

And so the days and weeks passed. I conformed, I waited. I’d get out and find a job, then I’d woo Margareth as a free man. With an income and good prospects. With an exemplary record, and my eyes firmly fixed on a new and respectable path. That was the plan.

Humility. Patience. Contrition.

Margareth’s assistant passed away.

I dropped my knife in the sink when she told me, and almost whooped for joy. I’d never have believed a dead kitchen assistant would have given me so much pleasure. I could have leapt and danced with delight, I could have sprayed a bottle of champagne. Thank you, O Lord, her assistant is dead! But I stopped myself. After several months in prison I’d developed a certain amount of tact and propriety. They were the things I needed to conquer Margareth.

When the time was ripe.

Winter arrived and held everything in its icy grip, and the mercury sank towards minus twenty. I feared that the pipes in my house would freeze, and later burst, causing leaks in the spring and then damp problems, as well as bills I wouldn’t be able to pay. So I was given leave to go and switch on the heating. Of course, I thought of Arnfinn lying under his rhododendron bush. Everything was covered in a blanket of snow, even that chapter of my life. I considered that the long year I had to spend alone in my cell would be sufficient punishment for it all. Of course I wasn’t perfect. But I felt that I’d have paid for my sins at last.

The asylum seeker from Somalia had become pals with the big Russian, and they made quite a pair as they sat together in the common room. Two great hunks of brawn and sinew. Now, at least, he’d found his niche, and no longer had to spend his days playing table tennis. Instead, he went to the gym and got even bigger and stronger, if that was possible. His physique was so muscular that he seemed about to explode. He didn’t recognise me. We’d bump into one another occasionally, in the corridor or in the common room, but he looked right through me, his expression vacant. And then, very cautiously, I began to flirt with Margareth. I had to, because time was running out; if I wanted to win her, I’d have to act. Soon she’d understand my motives, and realise they were good. All through the winter they were good.