The Whisperer

Chapter 20

Lars tapped in the six-digit number 007007, which he had chosen, to turn off the alarm. The red light stopped flashing and he opened the doors to the shop.

He liked being the first one in. It made him feel like the boss, which strictly speaking he was not, but the truth was that the others behaved as if he was their superior. He was strong and confident and well spoken, and a good head taller than the ladies, all obvious advantages of being a man. He turned on the lights, opened the till and then did the morning round, first through the shop, checking the well-stocked shelves, then out into the storeroom. They always set mousetraps at night, so he checked them next, but there were no dead animals. There were periods when he picked up dead mice like windfall, as there were plenty of biscuits and chocolate to be had. He started the coffee machine, looked over all the unopened boxes and crates that were piled from floor to ceiling. He checked the pricing machines, that there were enough labels, and if there was anything lying on the floor he picked it up and threw it away in one of the containers. Though, to be fair, there never was anything on the floor. Both Ragna and Gunnhild tidied up after themselves and kept things in order, the way women do. Audun was also learning the ropes. He stroked his thin beard as he walked around. Ragna came in without a sound. He noticed that she had not done her hair, the dry wisps of indeterminate colour were going every which way, and her shop coat was stained. Lars said nothing, but Gunnhild did, as soon as she came to work.

‘There’s a clean overall in the staffroom,’ she said, looking Ragna up and down. ‘I’ll get it for you.’ And then she added, eyes sharp: ‘Did you sleep in today?’

‘I’m on the till today anyway,’ Ragna mumbled, embarrassed. ‘No one will see the stains when I’m sitting down. I think it’s coffee.’

She turned away and tried to do her hair with her hands, but only made it worse. She felt rested, but quite out of herself too, and a bit fuzzy, as though she had drunk a few glasses of wine. However, she put on the clean overall and went to the till. She had taken Apodorm for several nights in a row now, but they were not so strong after all. She had swallowed six tablets the previous night and still not managed to sleep, lying there feeling the cold draught from the window and listening for footsteps. And when she did manage to sleep through the night, it felt as though she had been on a long journey to a foreign country when she woke up. She almost did not recognise her own room and it was hard to get going.

The person who was after her, who she called her stalker, remained silent. She did not know what he was thinking or planning. This made her angry and frustrated, and she started to walk around with clenched fists. She remembered that aggression was listed as a possible side effect of the pills, and that made her even angrier. She noticed that Gunnhild was watching her more closely, which she both liked and did not like. No one else cared, but it made her feel she was being watched, and work was where she had felt relaxed until now. She could breathe easy in the shop and she felt looked after. The fact that the large, brightly lit shop always had six security cameras on had never bothered her in the slightest. The lens was like a dead eye, it did not really see her, it only registered her movements without judgement. But Gunnhild made her own judgements.

In all the years that Ragna had worked at Europris, she had never stolen so much as a paper clip. She was not the sort to horde things she did not need, she was not greedy, and she got by with very little. But the others stole things, she was sure of that. And they covered for each other. She didn’t think Audun did, though — the fact that he never spoke meant that she felt a connection, and so she thought the best of him. She wondered if Rikard Josef was an introvert, if he had inherited that from her, if that was why he never got in touch. But it was finally December! She could expect a Christmas card from him any time now. With his new address. She fantasised about a Christmas card from Johannesburg with a picture of the hotel on front, maybe a swimming pool in the foreground and lots of lush plants around the entrance. Only once had the card not come until after Christmas, but instead of being upset about it being late, she was over the moon because the card had been particularly nice that year. An angel with glittering wings.

She had not been sitting at the till long when the first customer came through the door. It was the Agent in the dark suit. Today he really was in a rush. He looked neither left nor right and hurried down the aisles with a big shopping trolley, pushing it in front of him, in his good shoes. He had obviously planned his visit as there was no hesitation, no hanging around. He picked up washing powder and a sack of sand in quick succession. Ragna imagined that the sand was for his old mother, who he looked after. No one clears the snow for me, she thought, I just have to make sure I keep upright. She felt so tired and heavy. She was aching everywhere and her eyes were dry. Her mouth was dry as well, and the skin on her cheeks and hands. When she had a moment, she got herself a glass of water and drank from it whenever she could, otherwise she would not be able to say anything in the few situations where she needed to. It was the tablets that gave her a dry mouth. One of the side effects. More customers came in, December was always busy. They bought little Santa Clauses and angels and lights, and all the other Christmassy things. The Agent was out of sight for quite a while. In the brief moments when no one was standing in front of her waiting to pay, her mind wandered, but it met resistance. It was like walking down a long corridor and constantly being stopped by closed doors, then having to find another way round, with more closed doors. She barely saw the others all day, and when she did, she only saw their backs as they filled the shelves as fast as they could, pricing and stacking. Gunnhild had this suffering expression on her face, which she always got in the run-up to Christmas, when they were all busy, underpaid and tired. And still at the bottom of the social ladder without even the right to strike. Her pricing machine fired like a machine gun.

The Agent came into view again. His dark suit made him stand out among all the down jackets. He stopped by the stand of Casio watches, which was only a few metres from the till. He turned it round slowly, studied the watches one by one. The whole time, goods were passing her on the conveyor belt. The customers were all a bit fuzzy today because she was so tired, but the Agent held her attention. He stood trying on the watches without realising he was being studied. She could see that his trolley was full, and he only had practical things. No angels or Santa Claus, not even candles. Perhaps he did not celebrate Christmas, not everyone did. Suddenly, Gunnhild was in front of her with a cup of coffee.

‘Just want water,’ Ragna whispered.

Gunnhild gave her a stern look.

‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘You need something to perk you up. I’ll get Audun to buy you a bottle of mineral water, as the tap water here is horrible. In the meantime, drink some coffee.’

She disappeared again, and Ragna saw that the Agent had made his choice. He walked towards the till with the watch in his hand, pushing the full trolley in front of him, and got in the queue. He stared at the Casio watch, admiring its impressive range of functions. The face was big and full of various displays, and the strap was smart. When it was his turn to put his purchases on the conveyor belt, he held on to the watch, and only when she had scanned everything else, did he hold it out for her to take. He had very dark eyes, she noticed, and they were deep-set. There was a twinkle in the darkness, a reflection of the shop lights. Ragna bent down and took a white box with a lid from the shelf below the till. The box was lined with blue velvet and contained a small Casio brochure. She put the watch in the box, closed the lid and scanned it. He paid by card and she gave him the receipt.

‘The guarantee,’ she whispered, and pointed to the receipt. ‘Don’t throw it away.’

He looked up in surprise, had not understood her. Automatically leaned in towards her, as there was so much background noise in the shop.

‘The guarantee,’ she repeated. ‘One year.’ She pointed at the receipt that he had in his hand, and then at the white box that slowly slid towards the end of the counter. When she had made sure that he finally understood, she looked away. She could not bear his astonishment, wonder and curiosity, she had seen it all before, for years. She clammed up. She glanced quickly at all that he had bought and pulled out three big bags, and he moved down to make room for the next person in the queue.

Then he was gone. The doors slid shut and she forgot him. She listened to ‘White Christmas’ and ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ as they droned out of the loudspeakers. A short while later, one of the customers — an older man — discovered the white Casio box that had been left behind at the end of the counter. The Agent had packed his things in a hurry, and had missed it. Ragna opened the box and stared at the watch he had chosen and paid for. Perhaps he had not noticed yet, he had other things he needed to do, and was carrying three bags. Only when he got home and emptied all the bags would he notice that the watch was missing. And panic for a moment. But then he would realise it was still in the Europris shop and they would of course have put it to one side. Ragna put the box down on the shelf below the till and told the others about it. She described the Agent in detail, it was easy.

‘Suit? Surely he doesn’t wear that all the time?’

‘Yes,’ Ragna said. ‘He really does. He’s been here before, and he’ll come back again, in a black suit. Believe me. I told him to keep the receipt.’

For the rest of her shift, she sat there, looking out for him. Her eyes were constantly drawn to the entrance, which opened and closed all the time. But he did not come back. She was afraid that he had not understood his oversight, that he had looked in the car, if he had come in a car. Or that he had phoned the bus company, if he had taken the bus. But if he needed a watch, he would come back again for a new one. Only Europris sold them that cheap. Before walking to the bus after her shift, she checked to make sure that the watch was still lying on the shelf.

No threatening letters in the mailbox. No card from Rikard Josef. Still dark in Irfan’s shop. The mean, succinct sign was still there on the door. But the Christmas card would come. It was advent, and no doubt busy in the hotel, she would give him time. She could just imagine him hurrying along carpeted corridors in expensive black shoes, dealing with the constant questions from the guests and staff. She took the paper and carried on up to the house. Then it struck her. She had not walked forty-eight steps as she usually did, but had done it in thirty something.

She looked around, bewildered, and stared down at her feet to see if they looked different. How was it possible? She looked back at the mailbox, which seemed to be closer than usual. She saw her tracks in the snow, a narrow trampled path. The problem, her uncertainty, could of course be resolved. She could go back down to the road and count again. But she dismissed the idea. I’ve just taken slightly bigger steps than normal, she thought, because I’m tired. How silly! Resolute, she turned and went inside, and banged the door shut. Thirty-something steps, well, well. Tomorrow it might be fifty-something, and so what? She was tired and could not walk any other way, sometimes she was slow, other times fast, and that affected her stride. Again, she cursed Irfan Baris. She often could not face going to the supermarket in town after work, so she had to use what there was in the fridge. She found some out-of-date eggs, but eggs lasted for months. She whipped them up and poured them into the frying pan, added some bits of hard cheese, salt and pepper. She had the omelette with a piece of bread and an espresso, to keep her awake. She must not fall asleep in the chair, the nights were bad enough already.

There was no one by the lamp post staring up at the house. As there was nothing interesting on television, she read the newspaper, but only the headlines. She sat in the armchair staring at the dark windows, trying to order the day’s events, thoughts, conversations and observations. To see if she had missed any signs. The Agent stepped into the spotlight, he had to be important in some way or other. He must have discovered by now that the Casio watch was missing. He was annoyed. He had gone through the day in his head, had looked in all his pockets and the car. He had planned the following day so he could pop in to the shop and ask if they still had it. And she would give him a friendly smile and hand him the white box from the shelf below the till, and make him happy. It would be a perfect moment. And she did not have many of them.

Then she fell asleep in the chair, despite her efforts to stay awake, with her chin on her chest and her pale, freckled hands on the armrests, still wearing her green overall. A lonely, conscientious soul with hopelessly dry, undernourished hair. Not even a sparrow would live in such a terrible nest, she often thought, whenever she caught sight of herself in a mirror. And time slipped by, and no one woke her. No one rang on the bell or knocked on the door, as she no longer had a doorbell, only a terrifying Rottweiler, ready to attack.

When she woke up, her mouth was dry, and she was so angry she could have wept. She discovered it was late in the evening, about the time she normally went to bed. She was stiff after spending a couple of hours in a crooked, uncomfortable position on the chair, and her neck ached. She turned on more lights, struggled to clear her head and looked to see if there was anything worth watching on the television. She was hungry again. She went into the bathroom and started to run a bath. The water gushed out of the taps. She got undressed. Got it into her head that she had forgotten to lock the front door, that anyone could walk straight in, open the bathroom door and find her here, naked, and utterly devoid of beauty. She shrugged and was blasé again — of course she had locked the door. The small movement, turning the key to the right every time she crossed the threshold, was automatic. She filled the bath nearly to the brim, and sank into the hot water, letting her hands float up. They were small, like those of a child. It was a very quiet night on Kirkelina. All she could hear was a drip from the tap. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It was as if she was weightless. If only she had been a fish or a sea anemone, or a jellyfish with long tentacles, how delightful life would have been. She floated around with the fish for a long time. But then suddenly came to when something broke the silence.

She heard several hard blows echo through the house, as though someone was trying to get in. She flailed around in the slippery tub, managed to sit up, but then slid down again. As she panicked she swallowed the soapy water and it went down the wrong way, and she remembered that she had put two handfuls of bath salts in when she was running the water, and that American teenagers had been using it for years to get high, and now it would enter her blood system and go to her head, and terrible things would happen. She would lose her grip on reality and maybe hallucinate; she might even start to gnaw at her own flesh, she had heard stories about that. She held on to the edge of the bath and listened. She heard knocking and hammering somewhere in the house, at a door, not a window. Someone was using a lot of force, a person with a special strength. This was no knuckle rapping on the window. She had lived in the house all her life, and she had never heard anything like it, not even on those rare occasions when her father was well and decided to sort things out. To hang up pictures, do some repairs, move the furniture, as instructed by her mother. The warm bathwater was now on its way down to her bronchial tubes and left a disgusting taste in her mouth. She wanted to cough it up, but it was too far down. She heard the knocking again, with the same force. She stared at the bathroom door, petrified — she had not turned the key, had never done that, not even when she was a pregnant teenager. Her mother and father had never invaded private moments, like when she sat on the edge of the bath, naked, with her growing belly. She coughed violently and spat the vile taste out of her mouth, sitting bent forward in the warm water like an old man about to die.

There was more knocking, but it was less intense this time. When it finally stopped, she gave herself a stern talking-to, with the voice of reason. The person knocking on the door was presumably some sort of salesperson who had tried without success to ring the doorbell. It might be the fishmonger, who came by every fourth week and parked his white van outside. Maybe he had come to sell her some Greenland prawns, or halibut or cod or fishcakes. But they always came in such big bags, and she lived on her own. She had once tried to explain to the fishmonger that she did not have a freezer, just a small icebox at the top of the fridge, with enough room for a loaf of bread. And she would never be able to eat five kilos of prawns, even if she took a year, but it would be nice if he could do what van Gogh once did when he needed money for absinthe. He had painted some tempting pink prawns and had a potential buyer who desperately wanted the delightful crustaceans, but he was not rich and could not pay. So van Gogh said he could sell him half the picture, and he cut two of the prawns out of the canvas with a sharp knife; he got his coins and absinthe, and the buyer got as many prawns as he could afford. Might that be a solution? But the fishmonger had never heard of van Gogh’s prawns, and he was not willing to open a packet and sell her half a kilo. But he had given her a smile before he had returned crestfallen to his van and driven on to Olaf’s house.

But now everything was still as a grave, the old house resting undisturbed on its foundations. She had not heard a car door shut or an engine start. She had managed to cough up most of the soapy water, but her throat was still burning. She regretted slightly having cut the wire. Presumably the poor soul who had been standing out there, no doubt a shivering salesperson, or a child collecting money for the school brass band, or a deaf-and-dumb student from Lithuania with some not very good drawings, had moved on. She allowed herself to sink back down into the water. She had no idea what time it was, and she was exhausted, but not sleepy. She remembered it was December. People would come knocking at the door until Christmas now, selling smoked salmon and Christmas biscuits. Beware of the dog, she thought. Whoever had been at the door was not afraid of dogs.

The water was cold and opaque. Ragna opened the window so the steam would evaporate, put on her clothes and crept into the hall, where she turned the key as quietly as possible and opened the door. The air was ice cold. She looked to see if a folder or brochure had been left on the step. ‘We came, but you were not home. We would like to remind you of our services and hope to see you next time.’ But there was nothing there. She looked down at the road. Maybe whoever had been at the door had left something in the mailbox.

She went back in, locked the door, and attached the security chain. She should be tired and relaxed after the hot bath, but she felt agitated. She swept through the house, turned on the television and the computer and all the lights and lamps, and looked out at the street light on the road, but there was no one there. She popped four Apodorm out of the tray and swallowed them, then four more. What did it really matter if she was awake or asleep, or something in between? The time would pass all the same, the days, weeks and years, until she was with her parents again. She actually longed to be there. As she washed down the pills with some water, she laughed silently, at herself and her own indifference. She laughed at all the others too, all the effort and fuss they put into being something or getting noticed, and living as long as possible, please dear God. If only she could make a noise, just once. Go out onto the veranda and cup her hands round her mouth and wake all of Kirkelina, screaming so loud that the windowpanes exploded. But if she tried, it would be no more impressive than a snake’s hiss. She took off her clothes again and turned in. The pills had an immediate effect, and she barely managed to find a comfortable position before she was hurtling down a deep shaft, falling and falling, her arms and legs out in every direction like a cat that had to land on its feet at any cost. As she fell, she dreaded the moment she would reach the bottom, as she had never fallen at such speed from such a height, and she did not believe for a moment that someone would be there to catch her.

There was nothing in the shaft. It was dark and hard to think, and it got narrower and tightened into a funnel. There was barely room to move, she had to press her arms into her body, she was caught, the shaft closed in around her, until she finally stopped. There was not a sound, not a glimmer of light that reached her. The dark was damp and green, like a well, she had no feeling of time, could not feel her own body, the only thing she registered was that something was preventing her from moving, a clamp or a band. A week passed, a month, a year. A whole life passed. And then finally, she started to rise again, slowly to a higher level, and gradually there was more space. It was no longer so quiet, there was more and more noise. A clanking, rattling and banging in her head, and she rose and rose. After an eternity she broke the surface, but the ascent did not stop, she continued to rise up into a tower to new, dizzying heights, and the sounds that reached her were no longer in her head, they were outside. It was the traffic on Kirkelina. A bus, someone honking their horn. And broad daylight.

She discovered it was eleven o’clock and there were three missed calls on her mobile phone. Gunnhild had rung. Slowly she recalled everything that had happened. She was in a new day and everyone else was far ahead of her. She realised that in the hours that followed she would pay for falling down that shaft and climbing the tower. The price would be a heavy head, and a body that she could barely drag across the room. The silence and dark had enveloped her in a protective embrace where no one and nothing could reach her, not the shrill ring of the alarm clock, not her mobile phone and Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. But it did not last for ever. She had forgotten to open the bedroom window and the air in the room was saturated with her breath and fear. She turned over on her side and for a moment hung over the edge of the bed, staring down at the synthetic rug with a Persian pattern. Decisions had to be made. Messages had to be answered. Lights had to be switched on. Somehow or another, her feet had to get to the floor and she had to take those arduous steps to the bathroom. She had never weighed more than fifty kilos, but now it felt like she weighed a hundred. Most of that weight was in her head, she reckoned, her brain was like a solid block of cement. Even her spinal cord fluid was thick and infected, like the bathwater the evening before, and there was no longer any contact between her brain and body. Not so strange then that her feet were not behaving. There was no earthly reason to get up. All the day would bring was either an empty mailbox with no card from Rikard Josef, or a mailbox with a threat. So she turned back to face the wall and closed her eyes. In her head, she heard scornful laughter, directed at her, Ragna Riegel, the Ugly, the Miserable, the Persecuted. The Lonely, the Abandoned, the Wretched. The coward who could not get out of bed, who crept around like a thief. She was also very thirsty. She had never been so thirsty. The tablets had dried out her mouth and tongue, she would not be able to say a single word even if she had to. She turned on the bedside lamp, the poisonous red toadstool with its 25-watt bulb, and pushed herself up onto her elbow. And then she saw the folded piece of paper. Someone had left a note, there, at the foot of the toadstool. A message. She lay for a long time staring at the piece of white paper. Closed her eyes and opened them again, but it was still there. She did not touch it. Instead she tried desperately to remember what had happened the previous evening. She froze in that uncomfortable position, resting on one elbow. Looked around the room to see if there was anyone there, if the door out to the hall was open, anything. But she saw nothing, heard nothing, not even a puff of air. She had been lying in a well all night where no sound could reach her, not the alarm clock, not her mobile phone. Someone had managed to come into the house, into her bedroom, while she lay at the bottom of the shaft and was deaf and blind. He had stood by her bed and looked at her in the dark, listened to her breathing. He had perhaps noticed that she was breathing heavily.

The connections in her body short-circuited again. The orders from her brain were not getting through. Her hand would not listen. It took a long time before she finally managed to pick up the piece of paper and read the message.

‘I AM CLOSER THAN YOU THINK.’

It did not matter that she had no voice, she would never have dared use it anyway. She was more concerned about listening to what was going on in the room, outside the door, in the hall.

If he was still there. All she could hear was the noise from Kirkelina, the steady hum of cars heading towards town, and every now and then the heavier throb of a lorry or bus. Her eyes moved around the room, looking feverishly; nothing had been moved, no one had touched the curtains, the bedroom door was shut, as it should be. She tried to work out how he had got in. She understood why she had not heard him, she had taken eight Apodorm. All the same, breaking open a door or window would make quite a noise, even if he did have good tools. She was sure that she had locked the door and that the security chain was on, as usual. He might still be in the house, maybe he was standing in a corner waiting, in the living room or the cellar. She had another thought, an important one. She remembered the telephone conversation with the police officer on duty who had not believed her. The note, the handwritten note that she was holding in her hand, was indisputable evidence. Someone was threatening her. And he was becoming dangerous. The thin paper was presumably covered in the secretions from his fingers, his unique loops, whorls and arches that no one else had. If the fingerprints matched any of those they already had on record, they could arrest him. Confront him, punish him. She held the note with great care, was not going to destroy it or burn it, but instead take it with her. Go to the police station and put it down on the counter.

That was the most important thing she had to do. The other was to let Gunnhild know that she was ill, that she had taken some sleeping pills and had therefore not heard the phone. She got out of bed, and tiptoed over to the door, opened it, stood there, listened. Nothing, bar her own breathing, her own heart. She tiptoed to the bathroom door, peeked in, and immediately felt the freezing cold air. Slowly, it all came back to her. She had had a hot bath the night before and had as usual opened the window to let out the steam. But she had forgotten to close it again, it had been open all night, fixed only by the hasp, which was easy enough to lift. When she was in the bath she had heard a hammering on the door. She went over to the window and looked out. Of course, he had climbed up onto the woodpile, and from there it was easy to swing up onto the window ledge and lower oneself onto the floor. He had stood there listening to the house, the smell of bath salts still lingering in the air. He had then opened her bedroom door very, very carefully, and stood there looking at her, the little he could see in the dark.

He had written and folded the note in advance, so his errand was done in a moment. Then he crawled back out of the open window, lowered his feet onto the woodpile. Jumped down into the snow and disappeared.

She struggled a bit with the hasp, it was tighter than usual. She had no strength in her fingers and she was shaken. She eventually managed to close the window and, with trepidation, approached the living room, then went on to the kitchen. She studied the windows. They were intact, everything was in its place. She looked into the hall, made sure that the door had not been tampered with and the security chain was still fastened. Then she threw on some clothes and ordered a taxi. She hurried down to the road to wait, stood there freezing, with the folded piece of paper in her hand, and her handbag over her shoulder. She did not open the mailbox, as he had left his message on her bedside table. She waited and waited and got colder and colder. The taxi would come from the left, she thought, from the rank by the square. The cold made her clear and sharp, and with this clarity, came rage. She was going to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all. She wanted her life back, the security and peace, a good life where she knew what was happening and was in control. She noticed a car that was driving slowly, some way down the street. She stepped out into the road and waved, saw the indicator blinking. Got into the back seat, the note still in her hand. The driver turned and looked at her, a familiar face. It was Irfan Baris. She wanted to smile, but then remembered she was angry with him for moving without saying a word. So she leaned forward between the front seat, her face close to his.

‘Your shop,’ she whispered, ‘the new one. It’s probably much bigger and nicer than the one you had here.’

Yes indeed, he told her, it was.

‘But now you’ve closed that shop too, so you can drive taxis?’

‘My cousin is in the shop. We run it together.’

She leaned back.

‘But when do you have time off then?’

‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘The police station.’

‘Oh.’ He looked surprised.

He kept an eye on her in the rear-view mirror, and she felt his usual nervous energy, eyes constantly looking around, fingers drumming on the wheel.

‘Why did you have to close the shop on Kirkelina?’ she asked resentfully. ‘Did it not make any money?’

He hesitated, made eye contact in the mirror.

‘Someone from the tax office show up,’ he explained. ‘They wanted to look at the accounts.’

‘And they weren’t in order?’

He said nothing, just looked at her. It crossed her mind that he was looking at her more than the road.

‘I suppose someone called them,’ he said.

‘Someone called them? And reported you, you mean?’

‘Why would they otherwise suddenly show up?’ he replied in a bitter voice. ‘They had never come before.’

There was silence for a while.

‘Has someone stolen something from you?’

It struck her that that was not the case. Not even a bicycle had been taken. Not that she owned a bike, the traffic on Kirkelina was too heavy and there was no cycle path. She closed her eyes, she was cold, tried to plan her entrance to the police station, going to the counter, what she would say. She had to assert herself, somehow.

She leaned forward again and whispered in his ear. ‘Could you wait outside? Could drive me home again afterwards?’

He nodded. He nodded several times, his eyes either in the mirror or looking at the taximeter, which showed 149, then 150.

‘Cold today,’ he said. ‘Very cold.’

He pretended to shiver, hugged his slim body. Flicked some switches on the dashboard and she heard a fan starting up, then a current of warm air reached her face. She closed her eyes, listened to the engine, liked the feeling of being on her way somewhere, of taking action. Finally something was going to happen. She was no longer someone who curled up in a corner. She knew her rights, and she would demand support.

Irfan kept his beautiful, alert brown eyes on her in the rear-view mirror. All the way to the market square, over the bridge to the south side of town, then up along the river. After about fifteen minutes he turned into the street where the main police station was, a big red-brick building with lots of glass. It was not possible to drive up to the entrance, as this was guarded by some large blocks of stone, a bit like a row of teeth, so he stopped a short distance away and explained that she would have to walk the rest. He pointed down the street to a kiosk that sold coffee and newspapers.

‘I’ll wait for you there,’ he said.

She started to walk towards the entrance. She walked with a determined step and her chin up. She felt his eyes on her back. Was he one of the people who had sought refuge in Norway, who lived well on all the benefits, but who hated Norwegians? Some of her rage gave way to fear, perhaps she would not be able to report her case with as much authority as she intended. When she got to the double glass doors at the entrance, she noticed the cameras high up on the wall. So, they had already seen her. She stood looking at the cameras for a while, one to the right of the entrance, the other to the left. There was no one else there, the area in front of the building was empty. The row of stones, or teeth, had swallowed her, and she was in. To her surprise, the door slid open as she walked towards it, and she came into a large reception area with several counters, and a seating area with sofas and chairs. The counter for passports was to the left, beside the lift. And to the right was the station duty officer’s desk, in a closed room, but the walls were glass, so she could see in. The uniformed officer who was inside looked up and she mustered her courage. She looked around for a queuing system, just to make sure, but it seemed they only had one for passports. She went into the small glass room, holding the note tight. The duty officer was a slightly older man, who was bald, well built and presumably strong, but not particularly friendly. Strong in a physical sense, she thought, and because he represented an indisputable authority. All she registered, however, was indifference and a total lack of interest, as though she was interrupting something important. And even though there was no one else there, even though there was only the two of them in the glass room, he sat hunched over some papers and let the seconds tick by. Her knees felt weak and like jelly, and she was unsure of where to start. How to begin, would he help her, was he not there to help her, is that not what they learned at police college? Eventually, he looked up. His attention did not last long, as if she were something he just happened to notice, a passing insect. She put the folded note down on the counter in front of him.

‘This note,’ she whispered, ‘was lying on my bedside table when I woke up today. Someone was in my house while I was asleep.’

The seconds passed again, good God, they went fast, ticked by as fast as the numbers on Irfan’s taximeter. The officer took his time, his eyes gave nothing away, and he did not touch the paper. First he had to establish who she was and why she was whispering. She valiantly straightened her back, wanted to show him that she was clear-headed and sober, that she was all there, in every way.

‘Is there any reason for you to whisper?’ he wondered.

She swallowed, pulled the collar of her blouse to one side and pointed at the red, jaggedy scar.

‘You’ve been assaulted?’ he said.

‘No, no. The doctor made a mistake,’ she whispered.

He stared at her white neck with curiosity.

‘Do you have any ID with you?’ he asked.

She nodded, taken aback, nodded and nodded again. Then she fumbled around in her bag to find her Visa card with the awful photograph. It certainly had not been taken by Walther Eriksson, but rather one of the photo booths in the post office. He studied it, turned it over, looked up at her to compare.

‘And who was in your house?’ he said.

‘Don’t know.’

‘Was the door forced?’

She shook her head.

‘He came in through the window. It was open all night.’

‘Open? In the middle of winter?’ His mouth fell open. ‘Do you know how cold it was last night? It was well below minus ten.’

‘The bathroom window,’ she stammered. ‘I forgot to close it before I went to bed.’

He had not even looked at the note. She could not understand why he would not read it. She heard a powerful, steady hum in the background and realised the lift was moving. She turned round and looked out through the glass. There were more people out there now. Several who wanted a passport, and others who were waiting to come in here, who wanted the officer’s attention, while she stood there, bewildered.

‘Has anything been taken from the house?’ he asked. ‘Any valuables?’

‘I haven’t checked properly,’ she had to confess. ‘But that’s not what he’s after.’

‘I see.’

‘He’s after me.’

He made no reply, just raised his eyebrows.

‘He’s been after me for a long time,’ she added. She tried to lean forward on the counter to make him understand how serious it was, but could barely reach with her elbows.

‘So we’re talking about someone you know?’

‘Not really,’ she said.

She felt herself shrinking. She could hear that she was making a hash of it, could see it in his eyes. And he was talking more loudly than he needed to; he automatically thought, like so many other people, that she must be hard of hearing as well. She tried to think of another way of saying it.

‘He leaves things in my mailbox as well,’ she whispered, ‘Threats and messages. He’s been doing it all autumn.’

The officer was silent for a long time. There was something disconcerting about the way in which he looked at her. Her heart started racing and her cheeks were hot even though it was cold.

‘And do you have these other messages with you?’

‘I’ve burnt them,’ she said. ‘I only have this one that I found this morning.’

She put her finger on the folded paper in front of him. Finally he picked it up and studied it carefully.

‘On the bedside table?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

Were the corners of his mouth not twitching?

‘So, did someone stay the night with you? And maybe left before you woke up?’

Ragna was so stumped that she almost burst into tears. At the same time, she knew that she had to keep her composure, that she had to get this uniformed, arrogant oaf to understand how serious it was, and if she started to cry he would assume that she was anxious and depressed and advise her to see the doctor. Not that that was entirely untrue.

She leaned as far forward on the counter as she could and rapped the woodwork with her knuckles.

‘Read the note!’ she begged.

He read it.

‘I want to report it,’ she said with determination.

‘You want to report it? This?’ He waved the note.

‘Breaking and entering,’ she whispered. ‘Harassment.’

He hesitated, then shrugged. Turned round, picked up a form from the shelf and put it down on the counter in front of her. Then found her a pen.

Ragna studied the questions on the form, there were a lot of them. An endless list. The lift started to hum again. She glanced over her shoulder, some people were coming in, others going out. The reception area was full of people and there was a constant babble. But it was her turn now. She wrote as precisely as she could. She had worked herself up into a great fury and her hands were sweating, but she wrote. Filled in the form and pushed it back over the counter towards him.

‘Will you send someone out?’ she wanted to know.

He read through the form, carefully, from start to finish.

‘You say here that nothing is missing and the door had not been forced. Was the window broken?’

‘I told you, I left it open.’

He nodded.

‘And otherwise, there was nothing that was broken, no overturned furniture, or anything like that?’

‘No.’

‘That doesn’t give us much to go on,’ he told her. ‘Initially, at least.’

‘But he left that message!’ she whispered. ‘That’s proof! He was in my house last night, surely that’s a breakin?’

‘Who was in your house?’ he asked in a calm voice, looking straight at her.

‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m standing here now!’

He studied the handwritten message for a third time. Again, she saw a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

‘I’ll attach it. It would be good if you could go home and make sure everything is there and intact. And contact us again if anything else happens. Then we’ll investigate more closely.’

‘More closely? He can’t get any closer. My bedroom!’

A sob escaped, which she quickly swallowed.

‘He was standing at the side of my bed,’ she added.

The officer said nothing more, just gave her a short nod to end the conversation, in the same way that she did. Ragna saw her report and the folded note disappear onto a shelf.

But she stayed where she was. She thought, I have to stay here until he asks me to leave the station. But then she collapsed, was drained of any strength. These people saw everything in the course of their work, rotting bodies, raped women, abused children, car accidents, charred people. And here is Ragna Riegel. No one has laid a hand on me, it’s just an evil game, and I’m too sensitive. She turned and snuck out like a guilty dog, slowly crossed the reception area towards the door. But then she straightened her back, and was pleased with herself after all. She had reported it. She had followed the rules and the officer had not chased her off. Her case had been given a place in the system.

She found Irfan’s taxi a bit further down the road. He was reading the newspaper and the car smelt of coffee. She settled in the back, and the car swept through the city, the river to the left of them now, with all its currents, eddies and waves. Irfan watched her in the mirror again.

‘I’ve got the heating on full blast,’ he said.

She nodded. Ran a hand through her hair. Had she even brushed it today? Goodness, what must she look like, what was she wearing, and why was he staring at her like that?

‘I didn’t phone the tax office,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know anything about your accounts. But I liked the food. Now I have to go to the big supermarket in town.’

He did not reply, just continued to watch her. She looked at his hands. They were golden brown, the right index finger tapping impatiently on the wheel, whatever that meant.

‘So now there’s two of you doing the sums,’ she said. ‘Two of you sharing.’

‘What did the police say?’ he asked, curious.

‘Papers,’ she mumbled. ‘I had to fill in some papers. They weren’t very interested, but they put the form on a shelf. I’ve always been on a shelf,’ she added. ‘Just drive me home.’