Punishment aka What Is Mine

THIRTY-THREE

He felt strangely nervous. Perhaps he was just tired. The two hours’ sleep on a side road in Lavangsdalen, three quarters of an hour’s drive from Tromsø, had helped of course. But he still didn’t feel all that bright-eyed. The muscles in his lower back ached. His eyes were dry. He blinked furiously and tried to squeeze out some tears by yawning. His nervousness manifested as a prickly feeling in his fingertips and an uneasy hollow feeling in his stomach. He gulped some water from a bottle in long, deep gulps. The car was parked behind the student apartments at Prestvannet. Students come and go. They borrow cars. They have visitors. It was the perfect place to park. But he couldn’t sit in the car for much longer. Someone would notice. Especially here, where there were so many single women. He put the top back on the bottle and took a deep breath.

It took less than five minutes to walk to the small path at the top of Langnesbakken. He knew that, of course, as he’d been here before. He knew her habits. Knew that she was always at home on the last Sunday of the month. Her mother would come at five o’clock sharp, as she always did. Just to check. To check her property. Disguised as a family meal. Sunday roast, a good glass of wine and beady eyes. Clean enough? Nice enough? Has the grouting in the bathroom been redone?

He knew what would happen. He had been here three times in the course of the spring. Had a look around. Made notes. It was five to three. He walked around the corner and looked over his shoulder. No one. It was raining, but not heavily. The clouds drowned the mountains on Kvaløya; they were darker to the west and the weather would worsen toward evening. He quickly crossed a garden with a light step and disappeared behind a bush. It was thinner than he’d hoped. Even though he was wearing gray and dark blue, he would be easily spotted if someone cared to look. Without looking back, he ran over to the house wall. There were no neighbors to the northwest. Only small winter-worn birch trees and dirty remnants of snow. He was breathing heavily. This was not how he had anticipated feeling. Nervousness constricted his throat and he swallowed quickly several times. He hadn’t felt like this before. He held tightly onto the small pouch on his belt. Elation. That’s what he should be feeling. A certainty that made him sing inside. This was his moment.

This was his moment.

He could only just hear her. Without looking at his watch, he knew that it was three o’clock. He held his breath. All was quiet. When he peeped around the corner, he saw that he’d had more luck than he dared hope for. She had left the carriage out on the grass. An old hammock was lying on the terrace, so there wasn’t room for the carriage. The world was silent except for his shallow breathing and an airplane that had started its descent to Langnes. He opened the pouch. Got ready. Approached the carriage.

It was standing under the eaves, out of the spring rain. But the child was covered up as if winter storms still raged around the house. The hood was up. A rain cover was buttoned over the carriage. The mother had also put a net over it, to keep stray cats out, perhaps. He struggled with the cat protection. Unbuttoned and pulled back the rain cover. The baby was lying in a blue sleeping bag and wearing a hat. The end of May and the baby had a hat on! Close to the head. The strap under its chin disappeared in a fold of skin on the chubby neck. There wasn’t much extra room in the carriage. The baby was fast asleep, with its mouth open.

He mustn’t wake it.

He would never manage to get enough clothes off the child.

“Shit!”

Panic washed over him like a wave, starting at his feet and then up through his body, winding him. He dropped the syringe. He had to have the syringe. The baby gasped and gurgled. The baby was a great big gaping breathing hole. The syringe. He bent down, picked it up and put it in the pouch, pulled out a piece of paper. His hands were shaking; he dropped the plastic cover. Bent down, picked it up, put it in his pouch. The sleeping bag was filled with down. He pulled it over the breathing hole. Held the dark blue material firmly between his fingers, his gloved fingers, the child twisted and thrashed, tried to turn away, it was amazing how easy it was to stop it, he held on, pressed firmly and didn’t let go, until there was no resistance from under the down and the blue material. But still he didn’t let go. Not yet. He kept pressing with a firm grip. The plane had landed and it was quiet everywhere.

Luckily, he remembered the piece of paper.

“I remembered the message,” he said to himself, once he was in the car. “I remembered the message.”

Even though he fell asleep at the wheel twice-he woke as the car veered over onto the dirt siding, just in time to pull back-he managed to drive as far as Majavatn without stopping, other than to piss and fill gas from the jerry cans on hidden side roads. He had to sleep. He found a blind spot for the car on a track by a deserted camping site.

It shouldn’t have happened like that.

He should have been in control. It should have been carried out as planned. Suddenly it was impossible to sleep, even though he felt sick from lack of sleep. He started to cry. It shouldn’t have been like that. It was his moment. Finally. His plan, his wish. He cried so loudly that he felt ashamed; he swore and hit himself in the face.

“Thank God I remembered the message,” he mumbled, and dried the snot with his fingers.