The Murder of Harriet Krohn

2

She lives in Fredboesgate, Hamsund.

It’s a seventeen-kilometer drive. Harriet’s house is one of a cluster of listed timber buildings dating from the middle of the nineteenth century, and is situated on a very quiet street. They are small, pretty wooden houses with beautifully framed windows. Most of the inhabitants are elderly, and most are well off. In summer, the frontages are decorated with flourishing window boxes full of geraniums, nasturtiums, and marguerites. The house is only a few minutes away from the railway station. There are twelve houses in all, six on each side of the street. Harriet lives in number four. The house is lichen-green and the sills and bargeboards are painted yellow.

Charlo approaches Hamsund. It’s still sleeting heavily, and he concentrates hard on keeping the car on the road. He doesn’t want to end up in the ditch, not tonight. On the seat next to him is an old Husqvarna revolver, which isn’t loaded. It’s only for show, he thinks. She won’t be uncooperative. She won’t dare to be; she’s elderly. He also has a pair of black leather gloves and a cotton bag for anything he finds of value. It is rolled up in his pocket. He’s on the E134, driving by the river, which is surging along on his left, rough and black. He knows the river is full of salmon, but he’s never bothered to fish. When he thinks about fishing, he remembers his boyhood. He remembers his father, who always wanted to go fishing, while he sat there getting bored, his rod dipping lethargically over the water. Fishing was too slow for him, too dull. This was something he never articulated. He didn’t want to hurt his father; he didn’t want to complain. I used to be a considerate boy then, he thinks. And what am I thinking about my father for, he’s dead now and at peace. People pass away, just as I’ll pass away, and that’s good. It certainly is good, he decides, and squints at the road ahead.

The markings in the middle of the road are only just visible. The sleet is settling like gray porridge on the tarmac, and the windshield wipers struggle with the slush. But the Honda doesn’t let him down; the Honda is matchless and reliable. He’s already worked out a good place to park. He’ll do the last bit on foot, as it’s only a couple of hundred meters. There’s an old, derelict hotel at Hamsund, and a car can be parked in the courtyard there, out of sight of the street. He’s aware that the car could give him away and that he must conceal it. He turns to the right and onto the R35, catching sight of the floodlit Hamsund church and its gravestones. He passes an Opel showroom and a couple of shopping centers, and cruises slowly past the railway station on his right. It’s a really elegant building, like a great layer cake covered with icing. How strange, he thinks, that his mind is running on cakes. Everything seems odd this evening, as if he’s playing a part in a film. There’s hardly any traffic. People are indoors.

Now he sees the hotel; it’s called The Fredly. A handsome white timber building with much fine ornamentation and dark, unseeing windows. He turns into the courtyard and parks; there are no other cars there. A notice on the wall facing him announces that unauthorized vehicles will be towed away, but he knows that no one will come here tonight. Everyone is sheltering from the weather. Then he hears a noise. A sort of click and something ringing faintly. He heaves himself around in his seat and looks through the windows. Is someone coming after all? Has someone seen the car? Again he has an acute attack of nerves. I don’t have to do this, he mumbles into the darkness. I’m not quite myself. Can’t anybody stop me; isn’t there another way? But nobody comes, and there is no other way. The voice within him is frail and attenuated.

He looks back on his life, how wretched it’s been. Guilt and betrayal, weakness. Lies and deceit. Promises he hasn’t kept. Has there been anything good about it? Inga Lill was good. Julie is the most precious thing he has. He tries to breathe evenly. He believes he’s thought of everything, but he knows it’s easy to overlook a crucial detail that might give him away later on. But this “give him away” doesn’t seem so terrifying. It’s in the future, and he hasn’t arrived there yet. It’s almost as if he doesn’t believe in it. He’s living for the moment, doing what he has to do, and time is running out. That’s what he’ll say if they catch him. I had to do it. I saw no other solution; it was a matter of survival. He turns off the ignition. Sits in the car around the back of the abandoned hotel, listening to the surrounding darkness. He hears his own breathing; it’s rapid and rasping. He looks at his watch, the dial glowing green in the darkness of the car’s interior. He pulls the flowers out of the shopping bag and lays them in his lap. The bouquet is heavy, but otherwise nondescript, packed in white paper. What if she has visitors? he thinks. There are lots of things that could go wrong. But he doesn’t believe Harriet Krohn has many visitors. He’s studied her, followed her. He’s listened in as she sat in the café with her best friend. She’s a lonely old woman and will certainly hesitate to open her door. But I’m armed, he thinks, with these irresistible flowers and a World War II revolver. She’ll have to do what I say. He pulls on his gloves and gets out of the car. Locks up. He pushes the revolver into the waistband of his pants. Once again he listens. He hears nothing but the sound of his own boots splashing in the slush. If I can just get inside, he thinks, as he walks through the darkness. Getting inside the house will be the trickiest bit. Old people are frightened of everything.

Harriet Krohn walks around her living room.

Her thin ankles carry her body’s modest forty-nine kilos, and her calves arch like bowed sticks. The veins are right under her skin and look like knotted branches, despite her thick stockings. This is her last day on Earth, her last hour. She hears the ticking of the wall clock. The street outside is quiet. She sits down by the coffee table and eats a slice of bread, spread with liver pâté. She has dressed the open sandwich with beetroot; she’s fussy about what she eats. She has a cup of lightly sweetened tea with it. The fresh tang of the beetroot combines with the sweetness of the tea. Now she pauses. A grain of wholemeal from the bread has got stuck between two molars and is pressing like a wedge. She tries pushing one of her nails between the teeth to work it loose. It’s no good; the nail is too thick. She needs a toothpick, but she’ll finish eating first. Then she’ll tidy up. There’s nothing out of place in her home. Everything is cleared away at once. She chews long and thoroughly because it’s good for the digestion. When she’s finished, she carries her cup and plate out to the kitchen, brushes the crumbs into the sink, and rinses the cup. After that she fills a bowl with licorice allsorts and places it on the living room table. It’s mainly for decoration; she likes the colors.

It’s too early to go to bed. It’s only ten o’clock and she’s bored. She must pass the evening somehow, and television doesn’t interest her. She feels disgruntled. There’s nothing to look forward to, nothing happy on the horizon. Only old age and a steadily increasing debility. Soon she’ll be seventy-six, but she feels much older. She has plenty of family silver and a lot of money, but she hasn’t the strength to use it — either on herself or others. She makes up her mind to write a letter. She has a nephew in Germany with whom she keeps in touch. Writing a letter is pleasant, and she can use it to fill the remaining hour. She always goes to bed at eleven. She has an antique writing desk in the living room with a leaf that opens out, giving her a nice little workspace. She glances out of the window and sees the heavy sleet. It’s warm in the living room, because she has the heaters on full. Even though she’s a tiny woman, she moves around with great effort. She was only thirteen when she was diagnosed with arthritis. Throughout her life, she’s battled to keep the disease at bay. But this is one of her better days: the pains can be much worse than they are this evening, November 7. There are days when she just lies in bed moaning. Cursing her own fate, which is so much worse than other people’s. The bitterness makes her hot, so she must get it out and down on paper.

She switches on the lamp next to the desk, and it warms her left cheek. She can’t see the man coming down the street. She’s found a blank sheet of paper. She gets out her glasses and perches them on her nose, holds the pen over the paper. It’s an almost spiritual moment for Harriet Asta Krohn. The pristine white paper, all the things she wants to say. The pen won’t stay still between her fingers, which are shaking with effort. But she knows from experience that as soon as it touches the paper, it will steady. Then she’ll be in command of her muscles and manage to write in a fairly decent hand with thin, delicate loops. However, she knows, too, that when she reaches the end her fingers will begin to tremble again, as the pain takes over. The grandfather clock ticks, Harriet’s heart beats. And while it does, the blood circulates through her frail body. She’s warm, replete. Then she feels the grain of wholemeal again, pressing. She’d forgotten her intention of finding a toothpick, but now she’ll leave it. She thinks: I can do that later.

Charlo stands at the bottom of the steps that lead to the front door.

No one saw him go through the gate. Harriet is unaware of his proximity, even though he’s only a few meters away. She’s always lived alone, and much of her life has been spent in this house. She knows all its sounds: every creak of the old timber, the lilac that beats against the panes of the living room when the wind blows in the summer. The occasional mouse scurrying across the attic floor. The house is spartan. The rooms are small and hot. The furniture is simple and carefully chosen; its colors and patterns blend together. There is little decoration, because she doesn’t waste money. She has no time for empty display.

Charlo climbs the steps. Harriet draws a deep breath and puts her pen to the paper, writing “Dear.” A gold bracelet on her wrist rattles on the writing surface. The letter gradually takes shape inside her head; she can hear her own voice within her. It’s authoritative and flows lightly and easily, but her hand is much slower. In the midst of this tranquil interlude, she’s disturbed by the doorbell. A sudden, insistent note in the silence. She raises her head and listens in surprise, automatically glancing at the clock on the wall, as if the clock can tell her who’s coming. Five past ten. It’s well past the time for salesmen, and too late for her friend Mosse next door. She’d never call at ten in the evening. Unless it was something very out of the ordinary. Could that be it? Could something have happened? But then if it were Mosse, Harriet realizes, she’d have phoned first, because she’s considerate, and both of them are elderly. But the doorbell has rung and she sits in her chair with her pen in her hand, paralyzed. She stares at the single word “Dear.” Then she thinks, at least the door chain’s on. But there’s silence now and she’s perplexed. After all, it could just be children playing, excited by the sleet and running around the streets in search of mischief. To leave her chair and walk through the living room and all the way out to the hall would be an effort for her; she won’t get up unless she has to. But the bell rings again, twice. The person at the door isn’t going to give up. It’s silly not to answer, she realizes. She is a grownup after all. Perhaps it’s someone from the Women’s Institute; they’ve got a habit of calling incessantly.

She rises now, with difficulty, and walks with short, fumbling steps across the room. Again she feels the wholemeal grain wedged in her teeth. Now she’s in the hall. Through the glass in the door, she can make out a figure standing on the top step. A solid black shadow. Again she hesitates. Who would turn up at this hour? She knows hardly anyone. First she undoes the lock, and then she opens the door warily as far as the chain permits. There’s a man in a green parka. He moves slightly so she can see him through the chink. Isn’t there something familiar about him? She racks her brain but can’t find him in the myriad faces stored there. He’s holding a parcel up to his chest. She has no idea what it is. She stands staring at him through the crack as she waits for some explanation. Without realizing it, her thin face has assumed a hostile and suspicious expression.

“Harriet Krohn?” the man asks.

The voice is friendly and light, as if the white snowflakes have made him merry, with their sudden Christmassy atmosphere at the beginning of November.

“Yes?” she says, and stares at the package, the little she can see of it through the gap between the door and the frame. How big it is, how infinitely white.

“I’ve got a flower delivery,” he says, beaming. Harriet is confused. Her birthday isn’t for another month, and even when it comes, no one will send flowers.

“There must be a mistake,” she stammers, still mystified. Has she ever been sent flowers before? Not that she can remember. That’s suspicious in itself. But the flowers seem to whisper to her from within their white paper. Just imagine, flowers. Can it be? Has she forgotten something? Mentally she ransacks the previous day, but comes up with nothing. The man waits patiently on the steps. It’s snowing on his shoulders. The light above the door reveals the wet patches.

“I don’t know who they’re from,” he says, “but someone’s sent you flowers. I know I’m a bit late,” he adds, “but I had such a long run today and I got stuck back there with the van in all that slush.”

He rolls his eyes in exasperation.

Harriet still holds back. It’s as if something is nagging at the corner of her consciousness. Clearly she’ll have to accept them. There must be a card inside, an explanation. But if she’s to take the flowers, she’ll have to undo the chain. She does so, her fingers clumsy, opening the door a bit wider. The man remains standing politely at the top of the steps. He doesn’t advance but is defensive, almost romantic, Harriet thinks, standing there with his flowers in the sleet. Her shoulders relax. She smiles and looks covetously at the white package.

“Well, this is nice,” she manages to say. Again something is tugging at her, trying to hold her back. She looks searchingly at the man. His teeth in the smiling face are shining white in the lamplight. One of them is damaged, she notices, but in a strange way it suits him.

“It is, isn’t it,” he says, and pulls something out of his pocket. A piece of folded paper.

“I’ll have to trouble you for a signature,” he says. “You’ll have to sign for them.”

Signing for a package sounds perfectly reasonable to her. But there’s the sleet and it’s so wet on the doorstep. She takes the flowers, presses them to the front of her dress, and steps back into the hallway.

“We’d better go inside,” she says. “I can’t write without something to lean on. And I can’t write without my glasses, either.”

She’s quite flustered. She gives him a smile — it’s not exactly heartfelt, but she thinks a little friendliness won’t go amiss when he has to work in this dreadful weather, while others stay at home in the warmth. He returns her smile, and again Harriet has the sensation that something is nudging her. However, her anxiety is suppressed by what is taking place. She feels the weight of the flowers in her arms. It’s a large bouquet. She feels suddenly important. It’s high time, she muses. I’ve slaved all my life; I deserve a bit of attention. Could it be from one of the men over at the shopping center, where she and Mosse have dinner occasionally? Could it be someone who frequents the café? Is it some secret admirer, dreaming his dreams? Could this be happening at her age? Her thoughts cause her to pat her hair. She turns her back on him and goes into the kitchen, and Charlo follows her. His boots will leave wet marks on the lino, she thinks. I’ll have to mop up after him or I might slip and break my hip, and that mustn’t happen. I’ve enough problems as it is. Things have been bad for a long time, but now something delightful has happened. She feels excited in a new way. How quickly and unexpectedly her ears can begin to burn. She goes to fetch her glasses in the living room on the leaf of the desk.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, “but I’m afraid I can’t see a thing without my glasses.”

Charlo nods. He’s silent now and there’s a sudden seriousness in his face. A paralysis, as if everything is congealing within him. He looks around the kitchen with rapid, secretive glances, but Harriet can’t see them; she’s on her way to the living room. Charlo waits with his thudding heart. It feels as if he has several hearts and that each is trying to beat faster than the next. On the floor by the kitchen unit is a bowl. It’s as hot as hell in the kitchen; the heat courses through his cheeks. He knows what he has to do, but suddenly he feels bewildered. Harriet is shuffling across the floor. He pulls himself together, gets himself back on that track. It’s important to concentrate, to follow the plan he’s worked out. Harriet returns with her glasses. She’s wearing a plain green dress and her hair is unkempt. He doesn’t want to look at her too closely; he doesn’t want to remember her face. She may be old, but her eyes are sharp. He realizes that he’s inside now, and soon he must get to work. He goes out quickly into the hall. Harriet sees him disappear but doesn’t understand the significance of it. She hears a noise, a familiar click, and realizes that he’s locked the front door from the inside. She stares after him in disbelief, dumbstruck. She can feel the grain of wholemeal no longer; there’s the taste of blood in her mouth. He’s locked the door and now he’s returning. He looks at her with a sideways glance. He has such a hounded expression, she thinks, so strange. She sways slightly, leaning heavily on the kitchen table because she thinks she’s going to faint. Her head feels boiling hot and there’s a great rushing in her ears. Confused, she gazes down at the paper she’s supposed to sign. It’s blank. Harriet feels nauseated.

Suddenly she feels her meal repeating, the taste of pâté mixed with beetroot, and something else acidic. Her cheeks prickle as the color gradually leaves her face. Why doesn’t he say something? He’s just staring breathlessly at her. She opens her mouth to scream, but only a whimper emerges. Harriet is paralyzed. She won’t ask; she’ll pretend nothing has happened. She fumbles for the package of flowers. If she unpacks the flowers, time will pass and her hands will have something to do. She starts frantically tearing at the paper, feeling his eyes on her the whole time. If he’d just say something, explain. But he only stands there watching, like an unspoken threat. She needs something for the string and she keeps a pair of sharp scissors on a hook above the kitchen unit. It’s several paces from where she’s standing, but with a huge effort she pulls herself together and goes to the unit. It occurs to her that scissors are a weapon. But the idea of stabbing a living person with them is quite out of the question for her. She gets the scissors down and walks back to the table.

It’s November 7 and it’s snowing. It doesn’t matter. It’ll soon be over. She is thirsty and her tongue is dry as sandpaper in her mouth. She cuts the string and begins unwrapping the flowers. It’s a big, well-filled bouquet. She’s never seen anything like it, never been given anything like it. She’s lost control of her hands. They won’t do what she wants at all. Her arthritic fingers are like bent claws, the skin over her knuckles is smooth and shiny. These flowers, she thinks, mean nothing at all. He wants something from the house. I see that now. I opened the door because I was greedy, and this is my punishment. She begins to sway again. She can feel nothing at all from her waist down; her legs are like posts. She opens a cupboard and finds a vase. Fills it with water and puts the flowers into it, pushes the arrangement toward the wall. The light above the unit catches the blue anemones. She wants to say a prayer but can’t utter a word, and anyway she sees more clearly than ever that God doesn’t exist. No God, no other people, only the empty street outside and her terrified breathing. Only the silent man who’s behaving so oddly. She stands with her back to him and hears that he’s drawing out a chair, as if he wants to settle down in her kitchen. She half turns and sees that he’s sitting. He’s buried his face in his black gloves. He’s in despair about something and she doesn’t know what. She stands there in perplexity, her heart fluttering.

The bouquet, oddly beautiful, pink, blue, and white, fills the vase. It looks out of place on the shiny draining board, in her house with all its grays and browns. She crumples up the cellophane and fumbles with the paper. Folds it in half and in quarters, until it’s flat. As long as her hands have something to do, her heart will contract in ever-repeated spasms. This must be a dream. I’ll wake up soon. She puts it all in the garbage can in the cupboard under the unit. She doesn’t dare bang the door, because she wants to make herself invisible. This isn’t what I thought, she tells herself. He’s a deeply disturbed man, and soon he’ll explain. But he explains nothing. He gets up suddenly and composes himself, looking at her with tear-filled eyes, and Harriet thinks, he’ll go now. Go now!

But he doesn’t go. He opens his parka and begins to fumble around underneath it. His hand comes out holding a revolver.

She doesn’t understand about the revolver. Parts of her consciousness are no longer working. Everything turns black at the sight of the weapon, so she turns away and collapses over the counter, letting go of everything, wet and warm down her thighs.

“Where’s your silver? Jewelry? Cash? Quick!”

His voice barely holds. He feels like some farcical amateur and curses his cracking voice. He’s squeaking like a mouse, as he waves his revolver angrily. Harriet shakes her head distractedly. She doesn’t want to part with anything; she doesn’t want to move.

“Money,” he says again. “Have you got any money?”

She makes no answer. She’s standing with her back to him, pretending that none of this is happening. Charlo goes into the living room. There’s a large dark sideboard along the wall, and he opens the drawers. They’re full of silverware. He puts down his gun and begins to root around in the drawers. Harriet has turned now and can see him rummaging through her things, her family heirlooms. She can’t bear it. Something starts smoldering deep within her: a prodigious feeling of injustice, because it’s her silver. She’s fond of it and it’s worth a lot of money. Rage replaces fear. She follows him into the room and tugs at his shoulders, screaming hoarsely, her fury giving her unguessed-at strength. Charlo is thoroughly distracted. It’s so quiet outside that people may hear. He hates being disturbed and this old woman is completely deranged. He pushes her away, but she doesn’t stop. She charges at him again, her face blotched with red. Charlo loses all reason. He’s got to stop this screaming. He can’t do anything or think clearly while she’s standing there shrieking like this. He grabs his revolver by the barrel and lifts it like a hammer. Just one smack in the face and she’ll huddle into a corner and shut up. So that he can get on with what he’s come for. Harriet sees the raised arm and shuffles out to the kitchen, back to the counter, still screeching — a long drawn-out wail of lament. He runs after her and hits her hard with the stock. The first blow finds a neck vertebra and it breaks with a dry click. He thinks, Julie! Help me! Harriet sinks to the floor. Horrified, he sees that her body is jerking in appalling, cramp-like spasms. He can’t bear her being like this, so he strikes again as hard as he can, striking her head repeatedly. Suddenly a stream of blood wells up from her skull. He backs away in horror, gasping for air, looking at the thing lying on the floor. He thinks she’s still moaning and there are still spasms in her legs, so he lashes out again with even more force.

Then, suddenly, weakness comes over him. The hand clutching the weapon is lowered. He wipes his forehead and gazes at the bloody butt. He gives his head a hard shake so that he can think. Because he knows that he must think now; he can’t just let himself go. Deep down he realized this would happen. People don’t part with their things without a struggle. She might be as greedy as him, mightn’t she? He turns his back to the object on the floor, puts the weapon on the counter, and feels in the pocket of his parka. He pulls out a cotton bag with a string closure. It’s Julie’s old gym bag that Inga Lill made. He returns to the sideboard in the living room. Now that all is quiet he works quickly and efficiently. He places knives and forks and spoons in the bag. There’s a lot of silver of considerable value. He opens a cupboard next to the sideboard and pulls out the contents, searching for money. When the sideboard is empty, he turns and looks around the living room. He notices the letter that’s been started lying on the leaf of the desk, notices the little bowl of candy. For reasons he doesn’t understand, he goes over to it and peers at the assortment. Automatically, he picks one he likes — the brown one with caramel and licorice — and pops it into his mouth.

Then he goes into the kitchen. He doesn’t look in Harriet’s direction; she’s just something dark in the corner of his eye. He’s searching for a door that might open into a bedroom. It’s at the back of the kitchen, hardly bigger than a storage area. On the bedside table is a jewelry case. He digs into it with his gloved hand and puts the contents into his bag: brooches, rings, a bracelet, and a string of pearls. And a large, heavy pocket watch that’s certainly gold. He tears open the drawer of the bedside table; it’s full of tablets, coins, and hair clips. He opens a wardrobe and yanks out the clothing. He has a hunch that this is where she hides her money. That she likes having it close by when she’s asleep. He finds a pink washing bag and opens the zipper. Pleasure floods through him, for there it is. A staggeringly fat wad of money. He stuffs it into the pocket of his parka, feeling tremendously elated.

He re-enters the kitchen. Harriet is lying like a slaughtered animal on the floor. She is so thin and her body is strangely twisted. He sees her gold bracelet but can’t bear touching her. He’s glad he can’t see her face because right now his life is hideous: all that’s been before, and what he’s done now. He is repulsive. His tongue feels the missing corner of his front tooth as a nasty, sharp edge. He shoves the revolver under his parka and takes a few paces to the side. Then he puts his foot in the wrong place. The heel of his boot goes into the puddle of blood and he slips. He flails wildly, trying to keep his balance. He stands for a few moments to allow his heart to calm down. Now he must go out among people again, so it’s important to be self-possessed. Relaxed, assured, and purposeful. He walks into the hallway, turns the lock, holds the door ajar, and stands listening. A shadow streaks across the floor, something black and noiseless. He starts. She’s got a cat, he realizes. It’s been waiting outside, and now it wants to come in to the warmth and light. He goes back in again to see what it will do. The cat stops and looks at the ruined body. It gives several long mews. Then it goes straight to its bowl to drink. He stands nonplussed, watching the cat. It raises its head and looks at him with half-closed yellow eyes. How extraordinary, he thinks, that the cat is behaving as normal. He leaves the kitchen again, and the cat follows. He can’t understand it. It sits on the steps watching him. He pulls the front door closed and goes down the steps, the cat keeping pace with him like a shadow. He begins to walk toward the gate. There’ll be no one around now, he thinks. I won’t meet a soul, and if I do, all they’ll see is a silhouette in the snowy night. The cat follows him for a few meters, and then it stops. Quickly he steps out onto the road.

He looks over his shoulder constantly as he wades through the slush. But he doesn’t see anyone. Not a single person is out in Fredboesgate this evening. He sees television screens flickering blue in living rooms and silhouettes behind curtains. Everyone is minding their own business. He reaches the hotel and makes his way around to the courtyard. He brushes the mushy snow off his car’s windshield. There are so many footprints everywhere. Surely it wasn’t like this when he arrived?

He gets into the car. Throws the bag with the silverware on the seat and drops the bloody revolver on the floor. His right arm is weak and he’s pulled his shoulder. He rubs the tender spot and pants, knowing that he must get away from Hamsund. But he sits there just the same. His heart is laboring, but he can’t get it to slow down. It’s pumping away at a terrific rate and he feels the heat rising to his head. He tries to breathe freely. Lays his head back, opens his mouth wide. Air down into my lungs, he thinks, air around my entire body. If he can only get out of Hamsund, if he can just get home, everything will be fine. My own home, he thinks despairingly. My own chair, my bed. The cool pillow against my face. The things that are mine, just as before. Can he do it? Can he manage to live with this? How could she carry on like that. She could have let him work away in peace and saved her own skin, couldn’t she? Deep down he knows that this is where he was headed. He’s known it all the time. It’s lain there like a blot on his consciousness.

He leans back against the headrest and reflects. He’s never quite fit the pattern. And when he’s looked at other people, he’s always felt that they’ve been attached to the world in a totally different way. He’s always had the feeling that he’s ambivalent, remote. What’s just occurred couldn’t have been avoided. This acknowledgment is so dismal that he feels like the victim of something he doesn’t understand. Something to do with fate. That the crime has lain in wait for him, trapped him like some pawn in a game. Plotted by God or the devil, he doesn’t know which. He shivers. He gets out his tobacco and rolls a cigarette, lights up, and inhales deeply. Then he puts the Honda in gear and drives off.

She didn’t survive that, he thinks. Such a frail person, fragile and brittle as plaster. Soon he’s passing the railway station. Thoughts whirl around his head, but his pulse is beginning to slow because he can’t see anyone. There’s a cozy glow coming from the windows of Hamsund. The snow is falling soft and still. People are busy with other things and he’s getting away. All at once, he’s aware of a shadow to his right, but he continues plowing on, driving carefully on the slippery surface. It’s his right of way. The shape is suddenly frighteningly close. In the next moment, there is a jolt, and he hears the noise of metal crunching against metal. The bang is loud in the silence. He is thrown against the steering wheel and feels a blow to his chest. Then everything goes quiet and the silence is unreal. Confused, he peers through the windshield and finds himself looking directly at another car. He is filled with cold terror. He remembers the revolver lying on the floor and what he’s just done, remembers it as if for the first time. Suddenly he’s wide awake. He’s fallen from the track he was moving along and into a tangled undergrowth of panic and fear. A young man is gazing at him from the other car, a pale face with frightened eyes and large, prominent ears. Charlo loses control. Without thinking, he gets out into the slush, crosses to the small white car, and tears open the door. His body is shaking ominously and he flies off the handle, exploding like a firecracker. Everything that’s pent up inside him spills out in a furious torrent. The boy seeks shelter from this storm, this vast stream of words. He holds on tight to his steering wheel and waits for things to settle down. But they don’t settle down because all the floodgates inside Charlo have opened, and his fury is pouring out.

“I’ve got a claim form,” the boy mumbles.

His arm moves toward the glove compartment, his thin hand trembling. Charlo panics at the thought of a claim form. Documents to fill out, his signature at the bottom. He will be placing himself in Hamsund on the night in question, November 7. He knows he can’t do that. He’s still leaning heavily on the doorframe and yelling into the car. His expletives become more personal; they erupt from him like white-hot lava. He stops to draw breath. He thought he was empty, but more emerges. It’s like vomit; he feels it in the pit of his stomach. Then his voice cracks and he begins to sob. He weeps over what he’s left behind him on the floor. He weeps over Julie who won’t see him. Then he’s appalled at his own reaction. Only a madman acts like this, he thinks with alarm, and slams the door shut. He rushes back to the Honda.