The Murder of Harriet Krohn

3

He can see no stars. Only a thick darkness.

Out of that darkness, the snow drops quietly. This is the planet’s ultimate night. It will never be light again; no sun will rise in the morning. So grisly was his recent act. He bows his head in despair. If he’s being honest with himself, he thinks he’s dreaming. Soon he’ll wake up and groan with relief because it was only a nightmare. He switches on the courtesy light in the car and looks down at himself. His parka is bloody. The collision must have been the hand of God, a sudden intervention to halt him in his flight and make him face justice.

The lights are on in Erlandson’s house next door, and there, a shadow at the window. It’s almost eleven o’clock; his right arm is trembling. He sits in the car smoking, unable to tear himself away. Now and again he hears a hoarse groan, and it’s coming from him. He’s killed Harriet Krohn, but all he can think about is the accident with the white car. He thinks it was a Toyota, a Yaris. The contretemps was inexcusable. His reaction unforgivable. Only a lunatic would have behaved like that. He takes a firm grip of himself and grabs hold of the bag of silverware and jewelry, the “Tina’s Flowers” bag, and the bloody revolver. He gets out of the car and locks it.

His knees are weak. He bends close to the fender: a dent and the remains of some white paint. If only it were a bad dream, if only the fender were smooth and undamaged. Damn this weather, he thinks. Damn this whole wretched existence that I can’t cope with. Once again, he feels the need to cry, and some miserable sobs escape from him. He throws another glance at Erlandson’s house, but there’s no one at the window now.

He goes into his own house, slams the door behind him, and drops the revolver and the bag on the floor. He throws off the parka and it falls in a heap. And there he remains, standing with eyes closed, leaning against the wall. He hears himself breathing and knows that he’s alive, that the world is moving on. Even though he’s sunk to the bottom, to the very depths of existence. There’s a thudding at his temples, and the skin of his cheeks is prickling. He opens his eyes, sees his furniture and possessions. There’s the photo of Inga Lill and Julie; he can’t meet their gaze. He doubles over and starts tearing his hair, yanking so hard that his scalp hurts and the tears come. He eases his shoulders, gets a firm grip of himself, and sits down in his chair. The familiar red chair. He lies back. Oh, he’s so tired, so tired. He tries to force his breathing into an even rhythm and succeeds. Just sit quietly now, breathe, rest.

Only after an eternity does he get up and cross the floor. He knows that he must meet himself in the mirror. Instead he looks down and sees splashes of blood at the bottom of his trouser legs. Aghast, he kicks them off. He goes into the bathroom to shower. He imagines it will help, that perhaps he’ll return to his old self. Can he ever be himself again? Didn’t the door just slam and shut him away from everything? He imagined he heard a boom. He is standing quite naked in the garishly lit room. But then there’s the mirror. Perhaps it’s all hopeless if his eyes give him away as a killer.

He approaches the mirror with lowered head, and again he closes his eyes. I know what I look like, he thinks. I don’t need to make a big thing about it. He opens them again and looks straight ahead. His eyes are strange. His look is so distant; it reaches him from far away. Meditative, a little defensive. Is this really me? Am I alive? He steadies himself on the washbasin. This is too much for me, he thinks. I must calm down now. Calm down, Charlo! He makes another attempt, lifting his head and looking at his reflection with a more forceful expression. That’s better. He looks more collected. But there are those gray eyes — there’s something about them. The irises seem metallic. He leans close to the mirror and looks at his own pupils. They’re not completely round. His brow wrinkles in concern. Is it possible? Aren’t all pupils round? He moves right up to the glass. They’re cloudy at the edges and elongated, like oval slits. But this is what I must look like, he thinks. I’ve never noticed it before. How strange, how horrible. It makes him start; then the goose pimples rise. He leans forward once more. No, they’re definitely not round. It worries him enormously and he turns his back on the mirror. He stands there, unmoving, his naked body winter pale and hairy. Again he stops, freezes up. He can’t budge. He tries talking sternly to himself, tries to tear free. He turns on the tap and stands under the jet of water. Then at last his mind moves on and the hot water streams down. She’s dead, he thinks, and it’s my fault. But I couldn’t help it. She was hysterical. She went for me like an angry terrier. I was caught off guard, I was frightened, I lost control. But I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t plan it; I’ve never been cold-blooded. Never. He wants the water to splash over him, warm and soothing. He stands there resting for a while. Steps out of the shower and puts on a dressing gown. Picks up the parka and retrieves the money from the pocket. His heart beats faster. There’s a lot of money, a lot more than he’d hoped for. He settles in his chair with the wad of notes in his lap and starts counting. It’s hard because his hands are shaking. His eyes grow large. The money is dry and smooth between his fingers, masses of thousand-krone notes. He counts them ten by ten, and places them on the table. Two hundred and twenty thousand.

He rushes across to the phone and stands with the roll of notes in his hand as he dials Bjørnar Lind’s number. It’s late, but he can’t wait. He clutches the money tightly as he hears the ring tone in his ear. One ring, two rings. It seems to go on ringing for an eternity. But nobody answers. As frustrated as a child, he has to put down the phone without doing what he wanted. He places the money in the desk drawer. He goes into the kitchen and makes coffee. He pulls out a chair from the kitchen table, sits down, and drinks the coffee with sugar in it. She’s dead and it’s my fault. She’s still lying there. It’s night now, and no one knows what’s happened. He can’t sit still; he’s got a lot to do. He tries to move around slowly. It’s important to maintain his composure. But he has no composure. His thoughts are working faster than his body.

Later he stands at the utility sink and starts scrubbing the revolver with a nailbrush. Lightly bloodstained water runs down the drain. He fetches the rubber mat from the car and cleans it thoroughly. Finally he gets some bleach, squirting it directly from the bottle. He imagines this will remove all traces. His clothes must be thrown away, or perhaps he can burn them in the oven. He rushes around the house tidying and hides the silverware and jewelry somewhere he thinks is safe. He bags up the bloody clothes and stuffs them into a cupboard together with the revolver. He wants to go to bed, but he’s scared that he’s forgotten something. He tramps from room to room, from the living room to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the bathroom, a lost creature with aching eyes. He speaks severely to himself, attempts to take himself in hand. Nobody witnessed the collision. Nobody saw him go to the house. Nobody saw him leave it. Nobody except the cat with the yellow eyes.

At last, he goes to bed. He takes the money from the desk drawer and places it on his bedside table. If Lind’s thugs come in the middle of the night, he has only to wave the cash and save his skin. Soon he’ll be a man with no debts. He consoles himself with the thought, as he lies on his back and breathes out into the darkness. Lies staring at the ceiling. Frightened of falling asleep, scared to lie awake. This is what it feels like, he thinks. Now I know what it feels like. I can live with this. I must live with it. My God, it’ll be tough. He turns over to face the wall and packs the duvet tightly around him. I’ve got to sleep now, he thinks. I’m so tired. Must move on to my next day of unemployment, move on to the rest of my life. All the time he’s listening in the dark. To make out if someone is at the door or if there are footsteps outside the window. However it’s the collision that troubles him, and his own crazed reaction. That sudden bang and the shock through his body revisit him all night long.

Suddenly he’s washed roughly ashore.

He feels the cool air on his face and he’s abruptly and inescapably awake. It’s like falling from a great height. The first thing he recalls is the accident. It hits him like a landslide, the thought of his own fury, and he moans as if in sudden pain. Remorselessly it all comes back to him, in glimpses and fragments. Her kitchen, the black cat. The actions and images parade before him in a line of rapid, fantastic tableaux. He lies quite still in bed while thoughts fly through his head. He wants to lie in the dark like this forever. He wants to expunge the preceding day.

He moves his fingers carefully — the nice, whole fingers with their two gold rings. The day hasn’t begun yet, he thinks. It won’t begin until I open my eyes; I can switch the world on or off. He must gather his thoughts, introduce them one by one, sort through them. He knows he can’t do it. Before him lies a mental storm, a blitz of ghastly images. The ugly green dress, the smashed skull. Eventually he opens his eyes. A little light is seeping in from behind the curtains. He stares at the lamp on the ceiling and follows the wire with his eyes. It’s been routed along the wall and then down to the plug near the floor. He sees a little bit of a web in one corner and something dark that might be a spider.

I’m Charles Olav Torp, he thinks. It’s so strange waking up in this heavy body. There are sounds outside, but the people making them know nothing. They think that today is a perfectly normal day. No one has noticed the trembling, but soon the ripples will expand and reach every respectable person. He conjures up a crowd in his mind’s eye, and at that moment they turn to look at him accusingly. He raises his right hand tentatively and holds it in front of his face. It’s hairy and has thick nails. My hand, he thinks, and turns it, splays out his fingers, studies all the mechanics. He thinks of the power in it, unleashed as soon as it gets a message from the brain. Strike her, now. Strike! Without a command, the hand would have hung limp at the end of his arm and remained a good and loving hand. But he stood in Harriet’s kitchen and gave his hand that command. No, it shot up of its own volition. He can’t remember having shaped the thought that he should strike her. Did he do that? His hand took on a life of its own and hit out without his wanting it to. His heavy, flaccid hand. Isn’t it the same hand he’s always had? Isn’t it larger than his left one? He raises his other hand to compare them. It is larger, because he’s right-handed; that’s quite normal.

As he lies there staring at the spider, the minutes pass. He feels he’s behind the curve and that he should get up and start his day. Get up now, it’s over. Or is now the beginning? What awaits him in town? A continuous stream of people will observe him in the streets. What about the woman in the bakery where he usually buys his bread? Will she look at him with new eyes? He sits up slowly and places his feet on the floor. He’s become so conscious of his right arm, the one that raised the revolver, that he can’t ignore it. Is it really much heavier than the left? He rubs his fingers together. There’s a new and quite unbelievable sensitivity in his fingertips. He thinks he can feel the tiny grooves, the ones that form his fingerprint. He stands there with his heavy arm hanging, bent slightly forward, a bit limp. No, this is ridiculous, he thinks. Stop this nonsense.

He grasps the bundle of money on the bedside table and walks slowly across the room. It feels as if his arm is hanging like a club from his shoulder and even his gait has altered. His walk is lopsided and bowlegged like an ape’s. There is something the matter with his knees; they don’t feel right. He stops suddenly and shudders. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears like an angry drumming. He freezes in that attitude and draws breath. In the stillness, he hears a note increasing in volume. He covers his ears and is afraid that everything that’s going on inside his head may cause his skull to burst like some overripe fruit. He starts wondering if his brain might short-circuit if it has too much to do. Because she’s dead and he’s guilty. He thinks about all the electric impulses and imagines the sparks in his skull. Quite involuntarily, his knees give way, and he almost loses his balance. He saves himself in the nick of time, propping his body against the wall. He clutches the roll of notes. Turns toward the bed again and lets himself fall onto the sheets. Grabs despairingly for the duvet. Sleep now, must sleep, he thinks. Must get away from all this horror. She was so angry! He wasn’t prepared for her assault; he was naive. The first day is the worst, he thinks. The feeling will wear off, and it’ll become a habit. He hears the sound of his own breathing and imagines it’s coming from another man, a man lying next to him and breathing in his ear. The feeling is unpleasant, as if there’s someone else in the room. Someone who sees and listens and knows.

He creeps toward the wall. He lies there tossing and turning, remembering that no one has seen him, that he’s an insignificant person. He’s left no clues. He hasn’t, has he? He digests this first little sprouting of hope. He’s the one who’ll get away with it; not everyone gets caught. Slowly he gives the thought a chance. It’s fragile and he’s frightened of losing it. He concentrates hard, opens his eyes again, gazes at the wallpaper. Lilies, stripes. He puts the money to his nose and sniffs. Never has the smell of dry paper given him such blissful happiness.

He sits up slowly, perches on the edge of the bed, and pulls the curtains aside and looks out. He needs some everyday object to rest his eyes on, some assurance that the street out there is the same as ever. It has stopped snowing at last, and a line of cars is parked along the pavement. He looks closely at the cars. His face tenses with the strain: a Mercedes, an Opel, a Ford. I’d better keep tabs on the cars outside, he decides, in case they’re watching me. Why should they watch me? No one knows I was in Harriet’s house. Once again he plants his feet on the floor, then summons all his willpower and walks slowly across the room. It’s only a few steps to the bathroom. He’ll seek shelter in there, under the hot water. Thaw his frozen body, become soft and supple once more. He drops the money on the kitchen table. Then everything closes down inside him again and he glances over his shoulder. Nobody is sitting in the living room looking back at him. He pulls off his pajama bottoms a little more clumsily than usual. He keeps losing his balance. He thinks: Relax now, get into the shower, Charlo. There’s no cause for panic. She certainly won’t have been found yet. People have lives to lead in Fredboesgate. They go to work as usual, the ones that have work to go to. The ones that aren’t in the same sort of mess as I am.

Of course she’s been found, a voice within him says.

No, it’s much too soon. It’s only nine o’clock.

Someone could have come to her door early. Presumably all hell has broken loose.

Don’t get me worked up; it’ll happen soon enough. I’m trying to keep calm.

You don’t deserve to be calm. You’re never going to feel calm again as long as you live. This is going to torture and trouble you every minute of the day, and when the time comes for you to die, you won’t dare to let go because you’ll be headed straight for hell.

He pushes the voices away. He moves in front of the mirror, unwilling and curious at the same time. Perhaps his pupils are round again; perhaps it was just his imagination. He leans forward and stares. No, in his opinion they’re still elongated. He turns on the tap and stands under the hot water for a long time. Just shower now, he thinks. Relax, forget. He moves toward the wall and feels the water running. He wants to become completely clean. It feels as if he could stand there until nightfall, washing everything away. Everything that’s been, everything that’s to come.

He glances down at himself. It’s the same body as always: the stomach, the fairly sturdy thighs, the skin white from lack of sun. His chest is powerful with a slight suggestion of breasts. Suddenly he feels very giddy and has to steady himself against the wall. He leans against the wet tiles and places a hand on his heart. He thinks there’s a flickering in front of his eyes. Is it really possible that I went out there, he thinks, or is it just an evil dream? The collision leaves him in no doubt. The big crunch and the jolt through his body. He must tear himself free, get into the rut again and not ask questions. It’s too late now, it’s happened. He’s got to think ahead and not dwell on the past. With his back to the mirror, he dries himself. He guides the towel distractedly over his body, and his spirit flounders. It’s like treading water; he’s afraid he’ll drown in his own despair, his own fear.

He gets out clean clothes. Carefully buttons his shirt, does up his belt, and goes to the mirror again. He’s keeping himself under observation, as if searching for cracks. He thinks his face looks flat and immobile. Will he remember who he was? Will he remember his facial expressions? Can he find them when he needs them, so that people will recognize him, his smile, his laugh? When he does occasionally laugh.

He goes to the desk and dials Bjørnar Lind’s number. Hopping from one foot to the other, he is bursting with the good news that he can pay his debt. But no one answers. He bites his lip, phones the local radio station where Bjørnar works, and finally gets through to a woman there. No, he’s traveling on business; he’ll be away for a while. She gives him a mobile number, and he hangs up and then frantically taps in the digits. The person you’re dialing is not available. Full of frustration, he retreats to the kitchen. He takes the coffee tin out of the cupboard, fills the jug with water, flicks the switch, the light glows red.

Afterward he sits by the kitchen window, slowly drinking his coffee. Halfway through the cup he has to fetch some sugar. This need for sugar irritates him; he never usually takes it. But it’s only a trifle, he thinks. Would anybody ask, is there something up with Charlo? Is something troubling him because he’s suddenly putting sugar in his coffee? He steals a sidelong glance at the radio. He wants to switch it on but hesitates. He doesn’t know if he dares. What kind of words will they use? No, I’ll do it later, he thinks. Perhaps Harriet hasn’t even been found yet; she doesn’t get many visitors, and it’s early in the day.

He looks around the kitchen. He’s lived in this house for a long time, and yet in a strange way, he feels like a guest. This is day one. He needs to get acquainted all over again. The objects around him — the furniture, the ceiling light — all seem familiar, but they’re not his anymore. It feels as if someone has cut his moorings, and that he’s drifting in the room like a sorry shipwreck. He thinks, I’ll never come home again. He stares out into the street, his gaze watchful. Just then a large, dark car appears. It looks like an Audi. He follows it with his eyes, gripping his coffee cup. He wonders why it’s moving so slowly, as if the driver’s looking for something. For him, perhaps. There’s a momentary catch in his breast. It doesn’t belong to any of his neighbors, as he knows all the vehicles in the street. Erlandson drives an Opel, and Gram directly opposite has a Mazda. There, it’s stopping. His heart pounds. Are they after him already? The courtesy light comes on, and a man sits there leafing through something, a map maybe, or a book. Charlo stares with aching eyes.

He gets up and goes into the hallway. Takes out an old quilted jacket. He bends down and ties up his bootlaces, glancing occasionally at the door. Retrieves the bag of bloody clothes from the cupboard. For a long time, he stands there psyching himself up. He’s going outdoors, and it’s important to seem natural, relaxed, to stroll along. Move around, insignificant and gray, just as he’s always done. He opens the door a crack. He wouldn’t be able to face any of the neighbors, but the street is quiet. He walks the few steps to his car and notices the dent in the front fender. It makes him shudder. He unlocks the door with trembling fingers and throws in the bag. Oh, how that dent haunts him! He backs out into the street and changes into first gear. He wishes he had another car, a gray car. He feels that the Honda is giving off something, an angry red revealing glow.