Punishment aka What Is Mine

FIFTY-ONE

Adam Stubo felt miserable. The waistband of his pants was pressing into his gut and the seat belt was far too tight. He had problems breathing. It was ten minutes since he’d turned off from the main road going north. The road he was on now was narrow and winding and was making him feel sick. When he spotted a bus stop, he swung in and stopped. He loosened his tie, opened the top button of his shirt, and leaned back against the headrest.

Adam Stubo was forty-five and felt old.

He was sixteen when he’d met Elizabeth. They got married as soon as they were old enough and had Trine immediately. He’d come home from work one day many years later to find a sleeping baby in an otherwise empty house.

It was in the middle of summer. The smell of jasmine drifted over the neighborhood at Nordstrand. Trine’s car, an old Fiesta that she’d gotten from her parents, was parked outside, its front wheels actually on the lawn. That annoyed him. He was irritated when he went in. He was hungry. He had promised to be home by five, but it was already a quarter past six. The silence was tangible and made him stop in the hall and listen. The house was empty-empty of noises and empty of people. No supper smells, no tinkling of glasses and crockery. He found himself tiptoeing in, as if he already knew what he would find.

He had managed to get an ink stain on his pants in the course of the day, just by the pocket. He’d been fiddling with a felt-tip pen that broke. Elizabeth had bought him new clothes only two days ago. When he tried them on, she shook her head and said that it was stupid to buy khaki pants for a man like Adam. She had kissed him and laughed.

He stood still in the living room. He couldn’t even hear the birds singing in the garden; he looked out the window and saw them flying around, but he heard nothing, even though the French doors were open.

Amund was upstairs. He was two months old and asleep.

When Adam found Elizabeth and Trine, he just stood there. He didn’t check their pulses. Trine stared at him, her brown eyes glazed over with a matte film. Elizabeth was gaping at the afternoon sky. Her front teeth had been knocked out and her nose had more or less disappeared.

Adam jumped. A bus honked its horn.

He slowly started the engine and slid out of the bus stop lane. He had to find somewhere else to stop. He was going to throw up.

He opened the car door at the next turnoff and emptied his stomach before the car had even come to a standstill. Luckily, he had a bottle of water with him.

He had stayed in the laundry room all night. The ink stain was stubborn. He tried everything. Paint thinner, stain remover, soft soap. Finally, when it started to get light, he grabbed a pair of scissors and cut out the stain.

Several of his colleagues said he could stay with them. He just waved them away. His son-in-law was in Japan and came home forty hours too late. Adam held onto Amund and started to cry, at last. He didn’t want to let go of the child. His son-in-law moved in and stayed for over a year.

The water bottle was practically empty. Adam tried to take deep, steady breaths.

He didn’t have a clue what to do about Johanne. He had no idea what to do. He couldn’t understand her. He had taken Amund with him in the hope that something might happen, that she might see who he really was and maybe ask him to stay. A female colleague had once said to him that it was sweet that he cared so much about his grandson. Sexy, she had smiled, and nearly made him blush.

He must stop eating so much. He stroked his hand over his stomach; his diaphragm was tender from retching. He was getting fat.

Johanne seemed to think he was about sixty.

Adam drank the last drops of the water and started the car again. He couldn’t bear to fasten the seat belt.

The examination of Sarah Baardsen had confirmed the pathologist’s horrible theory about a potassium death. On her temple, just under the hairline, he found an almost imperceptible mark. A syringe mark. He had said it gently, with resignation, and then put down the phone. They still hadn’t decided what to do about Kim, who was already buried.

The gynecologist, who presumably could give injections, had proved to be of very little interest. He was accommodating. Understood absolutely why Adam was there. Answered all the questions. Looked him straight in the eye. Shook his head apologetically. His voice was deep and melodic; the traces of a half-forgotten dialect made Adam think of his wife. The doctor was married, had three children and two grandchildren. Part-time position in a hospital and his own practice.

Cato Sylling, the plumber in Lillestrøm, was working in Fetsund. He sounded more than happy to help when Adam phoned. Could come into Oslo the next day. No problem. It was a terrible tragedy; he really felt for Lasse and Turid and would do anything he could to help.

“Got kids myself, y’know. Shit. Would strangle the guy with my own hands if I got ’im. See ya tomorrow at one.”

It hadn’t been hard to find Karsten Åsli’s address. He had a telephone and was registered with Telenor. It was harder to find the damn place. Adam had to stop and ask for directions three times. He eventually found a gas station where an odd fat guy with red hair combed over his bald patch knew where Adam had to go.

“Three turns from here,” he pointed. “First right, then two lefts. Drive on for about six or seven hundred yards and you’ll see the house. But be careful, otherwise your undercarriage might break.”

“Thanks,” muttered Adam and put the car into gear.

Karsten Åsli had just decided to give Emilie her last meal. Not that it would make any difference. She didn’t eat anymore, anyway. He didn’t know if she drank anything. She touched nothing he gave her, but there was water in the tap.

A car was coming up the hill.

Karsten Åsli looked out the kitchen window down the old dirt track.

The car was blue, dark blue. As far as he could see, it was a Volvo.

No one ever came here. Only the mailman, and he drove a white Toyota.