The Darkest Room

35

The murderer had stepped out of the shadows among the trees, walked over to Ethel, and whispered:

“Do you want to come with me? If you just keep quiet and come with me, I’ll show you what I’ve got in my pocket… no, it isn’t money, it’s something even better. Come down to the water with me and you can have a fix of heroin from me, completely free. You’ve got your own needle and spoon and lighter, haven’t you?”

Ethel had nodded.

Joakim shivered and pushed the dream-pictures out of his head. A rumble like thunder shook him.

He woke up properly and looked around him. He was sitting in the front row in the prayer room, with Katrine’s Christmas present on his knee.

Katrine?

It was almost completely dark. The flashlight had gone out and the only light came from the single bulb in the loft, seeping in through the narrow gaps in the wall.

And the rumbling noise? The barn hadn’t been struck by thunder or lightning-it was the storm, roaring its way in over the coast.

The blizzard had reached its peak.

The stone walls on the lower floor were immovable, but the rest of the barn was shaking in the wind. The sound of the air being forced in through the cracks rose and fell like a siren around Joakim.

He looked up at the roof beams above his head and thought he could see them trembling. The storm-force winds came pouring in over Eel Point like black waves, making the wooden walls creak and bang.

The blizzard was tearing the barn apart. That’s what it felt like.

But Joakim thought he could hear other sounds too. Rustling noises from inside the room-slow footsteps crossing the wooden floor. Restless movements in the darkness. Whispering voices.

The church benches had begun to fill up behind him.

He couldn’t see who the visitors were, but felt a growing chill in the room. There were many of them, and they were starting to sit down.

Joakim listened, his body tense, but remained where he was.

It was quiet on the church benches now.

But someone else was walking slowly along the aisle beside them. He heard careful noises in the darkness, the scraping sound of footsteps from a figure passing all the benches behind him.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that a shadow with a pale face had stopped beside his bench, and was standing there motionless.

“Katrine?” whispered Joakim, without daring to turn his head.

The shadow slowly sat down beside him on the bench.

“Katrine,” he whispered again.

Tentatively he groped in the darkness and his fingers brushed against another hand. It was stiff and ice cold when he took hold of it.

“I’m here now,” he whispered.

There was no reply. The figure bent its head, as if in prayer.

Joakim also lowered his eyes. He looked down at the denim jacket beside him and carried on whispering:

“I found Ethel’s jacket. And the note from the neighbors. I think… Katrine, I think you killed my sister.”

And still there was no reply.

So we sat there in the outbuilding staring at each other, Ragnar Davidsson the eel fisherman and I.

I was extremely tired by this time. The blizzard was on its way, but I had managed to rescue only a few of Torun’s oil paintings, half a dozen canvases that were lying on the floor next to me. Davidsson had thrown the rest into the sea.

– MIRJA RAMBE