The Whisperer

Chapter 27

Whoever it was outside continued to knock. At first it was just one knuckle, but then he used his whole hand. He was insistent. Why did he not draw the conclusion that she was out? To be fair, he would have seen from the road that all the lights were on, but still, when no one answered, there was a reason. It was a Sunday, so he was not a salesman. Ah, she thought, maybe it was some children selling raffle tickets, it was soon Christmas. She might win a cake or some smoked salmon. But a child would not hammer on the door like that, it had to be an adult. A man. Who was not going to give up. He stopped at intervals for a few seconds, then started again. She would just ignore him. This was her house, her castle, and he was not even a friend, she had no friends. And the people who did know her would never show up unannounced on a Sunday. But he kept knocking. It might be the minister. What if Rikard Josef was dead? Perhaps he had been killed in a car accident in Berlin — that was why she had not been able to get hold of him. Strange that she had not thought of that before. A cold hand gripped her heart and she found it hard to breathe. She tiptoed into the hall; the man out there must not hear her, must not hear her heart that was pounding as loudly as he was knocking. She could see a dark shadow through the frosted-glass window. When he knocked again, she thought it sounded weaker. Perhaps he was about to give up. But if she did not open the door, he would only come back, she was sure of that, maybe later in the day or the following day, or the following night. He was out to get her. She could open the door, look him straight in the eye and ask what he wanted, in a sharp, deadly voice. She had to laugh at herself. She could never come across as sharp and deadly. She put her hand on the door handle and wondered if he could see her shadow through the glass, as she could see his. She guessed so, he had stopped knocking and was waiting now. She thought about the minister again. Perhaps he had come to tell her that her son had had a heart attack and that he was in intensive care. It was not surprising really, given how much responsibility he had in the hotel. She opened the door ever so slightly. She hardly dared look out through the narrow gap allowed by the security chain. She would let him say what he wanted first, then she would shake her head and wave him off. She would close the door with a bang, just to make the point. He moved closer and tried to make eye contact through the gap. She could not see any white around his neck to show that he was a minister. He was definitely dressed in black, a young man in a good suit, with pale skin and short hair. It was the Agent.

‘The dog,’ he said with a nervous smile as he pointed at the Rottweiler. ‘Will it bite me?’

A flood of thoughts and suspicions rushed through her head. Her mind was working overtime to make everything fit, a logical explanation for what was happening, for all the things that had been happening for a long time now. There had to be a logical explanation. That face, she thought, those black eyes, she had seen them before. Not just in the aisles of Europris, she had also come across him in another context. Her hand kept a firm hold of the door. She saw that he had a folder under his arm, that must be where the explanation lay. She undid the security chain and opened the door a bit further. The Agent took a step back. And a new explanation overrode everything else in her head. She realised why he had come. He had forgotten the Casio watch at the till. Perhaps he thought she had taken it home with her. Had he come to collect it? But then how did he know where she lived? She opened the door a little wider, it was almost halfway now. He took a step closer again, looked past her and into the hall for the Rottweiler. She wanted to tell him that the watch was lying in its white box at the shop, but he spoke before she could.

‘I have good news for you,’ he said.

He was very enthusiastic now, the half-open door had encouraged him, and there was a vigour to his young body and a light in his eyes.

‘News?’ She frowned. Had something happened to Rikard after all? Her letters had been returned, and she was quite sure something was going on down there in Berlin. She did not open her mouth, but just stood there staring. He would have to do the talking.

‘Do you have a minute or two to spare?’ he asked. ‘I have something important to tell you. But the dog...’ He squirmed. ‘Does it attack people?’

He pointed at the Rottweiler on the wall again, and forced a laugh, but she held her mask.

‘Only if I ask him to,’ she whispered.

Her cheeks were getting cold. The snow was drifting into the house and, as she breathed it into her lungs, she felt every cell in her body freeze. He was no doubt cold too. He had no winter jacket on over his suit, which actually looked rather cheap close up. The material was shiny with wear in places, and it was too big for him, the sleeves were too long. The jacket was not buttoned. He did not appear to have much muscle and he was no taller than her. But those eyes, she thought again, so deep in their sockets, they wanted something. She had seen the same inscrutable look so many times when the Jumper stood up after his fall. She realised that he would never get up again, that the last jump had been too much. She studied the Agent in more detail. There was a unique intensity to his voice, a faint trembling, and his hands fidgeted as he held the brown folder. His nails were incredibly long, she had never seen a man with nails like that, they were thick, yellow and pointed. She had revealed her secret now, the fact that she had no voice. She was not sure he remembered the moment when she gave him the receipt for the watch and whispered that it was also a guarantee. She guessed he was like most people and would continue to talk nervously when there was no response, there was something intimidating about people who did not speak. Those who just watched and waited. It dawned on her that she was wearing the green overall from Europris. She often hung it on the back of a chair and put it on when she could not be bothered to look for anything else. Her grip on the door handle was so tight that the tension spread up her arm.

‘News?’ she said finally. ‘What kind of news?’

He leaned forward in order to hear her better, he was now less than a metre from her face. She had asked a question — that was an invitation, he could go on.

‘It’s cold,’ he said, and shivered.

It was obvious that he wanted to come into the warmth. Ragna stared at his long nails, his unbuttoned jacket. If he jumped from a great height, it would flutter like the wings of a bird.

‘Your watch,’ she whispered, ‘we kept it to one side.’

He did not understand, shook his head.

‘Watch?’

‘The Casio watch you bought at Europris. You left it by the till.’

‘Oh yes,’ he exclaimed. ‘The watch!’

He nodded several times and suddenly seemed like a normal, polite young man with no hidden intentions.

‘The watch was a Christmas present for my brother,’ he explained, ‘I’ve been looking for it all over. I’ll come and get it tomorrow.’

She immediately regretted mentioning it. Now they shared something, the start of a conversation, there was recognition. It would be hard to interrupt that now. She should have closed the door straight away, or she should not have opened it at all.

‘Your doorbell doesn’t work,’ he said, nodding at it. He had obviously pressed the bell several times. ‘Something must have happened to it. A broken wire, or something. Or is it battery-powered?’

She did not answer. Just stood in the doorway and waited.

‘I’ve been here a couple of times before, and it worked then. But you didn’t come to the door.’

‘I know you’ve been here before,’ she said.

‘So you heard me then? Well, I guess it doesn’t always suit. You’re not obliged to open the door to everyone.’

She wondered if he thought he was more special than others who might ring at the door.

‘What’s your news?’ she asked again.

She closed the door a touch, felt he was taking too long to say why he was there.

‘Why don’t I come in for a moment?’ he suggested. ‘It’s so cold outside. I’ve got the papers here.’ He pointed at his folder. ‘We could look at them inside.’

‘Papers?’ she said.

He made a show of shivering, his cheeks were white with cold. Goodness, it could absolutely be the case that Rikard was dead, she thought again. The Agent was a lawyer, of course, he had come to tell her about the will. The flat in Landsberger Allee and perhaps some other things she knew nothing about.

‘What’s in the folder?’ she wanted to know.

He did not hear her and she had to try again.

‘Your folder?’ she repeated, and pointed.

‘A unique chance,’ he replied, full of enthusiasm. ‘A fantastic opportunity!’

‘Opportunity? Are you selling something?’

‘Not at all!’

He shook his head.

‘This is something you can have for free.’

Dear God, his black eyes pinned her to the spot. Ragna pulled her overall tighter, held the slippery green material close to her body. She put one foot out on the step, so that he would pull back, then peered down towards the road.

‘You don’t have a car?’ she said.

‘Oh yes, but I parked it further down Kirkelina, at the turning place. The snow wasn’t cleared here.’

She tried to think quickly, looked down towards the road again. No cars, no people, no one had seen him standing there at her door. A fantastic opportunity, he had said, a unique chance. And it was free.

He followed her in. Down the hall and into the kitchen. He was extremely polite, bowing and grovelling like a servant. He had said he was not a salesman, but he behaved like one. He had something to offer, good solutions, intelligent suggestions as to how she could change her life, possible profits, wise investments, or a product that would give her improved health, or supplements, or a share in a house in Spain, her imagination ran away with her. The fact that she had invited him in did something to him. The besuited young man seemed to change gear, his movements were quicker, filled with a new energy. He had had a plan all along, she realised, and now he was going to put it into action.

‘And the dog?’ he asked, again, as he glanced nervously into the living room as they passed.

‘He’s sleeping,’ Ragna whispered. ‘He’ll come if I whistle.’

‘Let’s hope you don’t whistle then,’ he said.

‘We’ll see. He’s well trained.’

‘Can I sit down?’

He had already pulled out a chair, but he was still standing holding the brown folder that contained the news, the unique chance. She suddenly noticed that he only had long nails on his right hand, and that the ones on his left hand were short. Perhaps he played the guitar.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, with interest.

‘You already know,’ she responded.

He gave her an apologetic smile.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Riegel. I forgot, you have a nameplate on the door. Ragna Riegel. Why don’t you sit down, Ragna?’

He nodded at the empty chair on the other side of the table, talked as if she were a guest in her own house. So she remained standing in protest, at a slight distance, leaning back against the worktop with her eyes on him all the while.

‘So,’ he said, with the same intensity as he pulled out the chair, which scraped on the floor. He put the folder down on the table and put his hand on it, as if to emphasise the importance of the contents. ‘So, Mrs Riegel, you know what kind of times we’re living in.’

She raised her thin eyebrows.

‘The signs,’ he said, and looked at her. ‘Have you seen the signs?’

Signs? She thought about the letters she had received. The anonymous letters, the note on her bedside table.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked, staring at him.

‘Bennet,’ he quickly replied.

‘Yes, Bennet,’ she nodded. ‘I’ve seen the signs.’

He seemed happy with this answer. He nodded several times as though she had confirmed something important — his own importance in the world, perhaps, or the value of what he was about to show her.

He’s here now, Ragna thought, in my kitchen, just a couple of metres away. She had lost most of the feeling in her lips, as she often had on the rare occasions she had had too much alcohol, like the night with Walther Eriksson when she had drunk the peach wine.

‘Then you know what I want to talk to you about,’ Bennet said. ‘Then you know why I’m here.’

It was Ragna’s turn to nod. She could feel a drawer knob in the small of her back, it cut through the thin material of the overall like a sharp edge.

‘I’m sure that you’re looking for the truth,’ he said. ‘Having stumbled around in the dark for so long, you deserve some answers. Good answers.’

‘Yes, I do,’ she whispered.

She was like an eagle, alert, ready. She pressed herself back against the drawers, her heart racing, her blood pumping, everything working together.

‘Well, I have come to tell you the truth,’ Bennet said. ‘And I can see that you’re searching. That’s why you let me in. Perhaps you’ve been waiting for me.’

The truth, Ragna thought. Everyone is searching for the truth. But she was no longer so sure that she wanted it. She did not nod, she did not smile, instead she listened to his breathing and realised they were in rhythm. She heard the rustle of the cheap suit fabric when he shifted position on the chair, it sounded like her own nylon overall.

He leaned forward over the table.

‘We have to start with an uncomfortable fact,’ he said, ‘but I can tell that you’re prepared. You have thought long and hard about many things.’

He folded his hands on the table.

‘Fact?’ she whispered.

‘That you’re going to die, Ragna,’ he said in a grave voice.

She felt the drawer knob again, it was sharper, it dug into her back like a claw. She felt the adrenaline surge, and the fury — this man had invaded her life and destroyed her mind, caused her brain to melt so that it ran down her spine. He had robbed her of sleep, he had made her face unravel like an old sweater.

‘And so are you,’ she replied. ‘You are going to die. And it won’t be long.’

Her response took him aback. It was not what he had expected, not what he was used to hearing. So he was lost for words, and needed a moment to plan his next move. He chose to smile. They were in a part of the world where a smile could disarm an enemy.

But she gave him no more chances. She turned her back to him, and opened the top drawer, studied the contents, rattled among the plastic and metal. She ignored the spoon and the ladle. She considered a big pair of scissors for a moment, but then chose a knife instead, with a long, jagged edge. Pulled it out of the drawer, gripped the handle and turned to look at him. His eyes started to dart this way and that when he saw the knife. In the blink of an eye he abandoned his role. He had no strategy for dealing with this. She liked the fact that he said nothing. He scrabbled with the folder, with his right hand, the one with the nails, as though that might protect him, grabbed it and held it up like a shield. It did not occur to him to run, out of the kitchen, out into the snow.

‘My name is Ragna Riegel. I don’t threaten people anonymously. Do you hear what I’m saying?’

The Agent nodded. For some reason he was still smiling, and it made him look like an idiot. While his mind worked furiously to understand the situation, he looked at her properly for the first time. But he did not get up and leave.

‘The news,’ she said as she approached him with the knife. ‘I want it now.’

He raised his hand to ward her off.

‘If you would just listen to me a moment.’ It was his turn to whisper now.

‘Oh,’ Ragna continued. ‘So you’ve lost your voice now as well. Then you know what it’s like. Now I’m the one sending the messages. No one will hear you.’

Finally he felt the urge to get up and leave. But doing so would only make the situation worse, and he suspected that the woman in front of him was totally unpredictable. He chose to stay in character. Do what he had come to do, cling on to that remnant of control. But his strength failed him, and all Ragna could hear was a faint mumbling.

‘I’ve come to offer you a place in the Thousand Year Reign,’ he stuttered. ‘Before it’s too late.’

The Thousand Year Reign? She was still holding the knife, pointing it towards him. The tip was no more than a metre from his torso. She took a step forward, then another. She thought it was strange that he remained seated, that he didn’t push the chair back and try to get away. He was holding on to the folder for dear life. When she suddenly leaned forward and thrust the serrated knife into his stomach, he looked astonished. But he was still only concerned with staying upright on the chair, as though falling over would be an admission, a final defeat. She pulled the knife out again. It was not easy as it had gone in all the way to the handle. He fell forward over the table, one hand still holding the folder, the other over the stab wound. It looked like he had completely forgotten her. He turned his face to the window, where the low winter sun shone in. She heard a faint wailing, then all was quiet for a long time. She did not like the fact that he was still sitting on the chair. It meant that she had not asserted herself enough, she wanted him on the floor. So she stabbed him again, and again, randomly. Then she heard a long, hissing sound and she knew that she had punctured his lung. He must have had a lot of air in his lungs, because the noise went on and on. He started to cant to the side; she pulled back and waited for him to fall to the floor. He was bleeding heavily onto the linoleum, which was cream-coloured, and she was amazed at how quiet it was. Finally he fell all the way. With a great sigh, he lay curled around the table leg.

She was still clutching the knife so hard that she felt it all the way up to her shoulder. She turned away from him and went over to the worktop, dropped the knife in the sink, turned on the tap. The blood and water disappeared down the plughole and she washed her hands, which were clean and white again in an instant. She turned back and looked at him. The Agent. Bennet. It was all so clear now. He was the one who had jumped from the roof of the high building. He was the Jumper. She could see that now, it was him; he was wearing the same clothes, his black jacket open. Now he would never get up again, never look at her with those inscrutable eyes. The sign she had been given so clearly only moments ago. He had jumped for the last time, and now he would stay on the ground. He had forgotten his watch at the till. She had held his time in her hands. She knew that the watch had stopped now as well, lying in its white box, she was absolutely sure of it. She nodded to herself as she had these thoughts, and reflected on all the obvious signs. Of course there was a pattern, an order.

She dried her hands on the dishcloth and stood looking at the bent body under the kitchen table. The fluorescent light on the ceiling was reflected in the blood and it looked shiny like oil. His body was no longer receiving signals from his brain, and now he looked like a broken doll that someone had thrown away. She watched him in silence, the fluid pouring from his wounds, spreading out into a big pool. She realised that she had to do something. She came up with a temporary solution. She walked resolutely into the hall, pushed her feet down into some boots and went round to the back of the house, to the woodpile under the bathroom window, and pulled off the green tarpaulin. When she gathered it up into her arms, she could feel the cold seeping in through her overall. It was covered in frost and snow. She carried it back into the kitchen and started to spread it over him, tugged at the corners. She covered him as well as she could, made sure that the water-resistant fabric covered everything, his head, hands and feet. So she did not need to look at him. What cannot be seen does not exist. Sometimes you had to buy yourself time.

When she had finished, she realised how thirsty she was. She turned her back on him and opened the fridge, found a bottle of Uludag Frutti that she had bought from Irfan before he closed the shop. She ignored the Agent and took the bottle with her into the living room. The lemon drink was cold and sour, just as she liked it. She took small sips, swallowed and closed her eyes. Oh, she was so tired, so tired of it all. She could not even think. Not back, not forwards. Despite what had happened out there in the kitchen, she felt calm. She had erupted, and now she was sitting in the ash rain. The great machinery that had whirred in her head all autumn had finally fallen quiet. It felt so good just to sit still in the chair, with her hands in her lap, and drink the cold Turkish lemon fizz straight from the bottle.

When she came to herself again, her head was heavy and her feet were numb. She had fallen asleep, or perhaps just dozed, she was not entirely sure, she only knew she had been far away and now, with a jolt, was back again. She reluctantly opened her eyes and had the vague feeling that something terrible had happened, which scared her. But it may not have happened at all; she had had terrifying dreams before. The first thing she saw was the clock on the wall. She remembered something, but pushed it to one side. What was the last thing she did before she sat down in the chair? She leaned forward and looked at her knees. Her body felt remarkably disconnected, as though all her joints had come loose. When she tried to stand up her legs would not hold her, her hips felt dislocated, but she pushed herself up with her arms, forced herself to stand upright. After a few unsteady steps, she found her balance. She saw the empty Frutti bottle on the table. Why had she been so thirsty? She had exerted herself, she had been terrified. Or furious, or distressed, the adrenaline had dried her out. She crossed the room and went into the kitchen, where the light was still on. Everything was clear and sharp. Something had happened out here, she realised, but her brain had not stored it, her brain often made strange choices. She saw the green tarpaulin. It looked like she had carried the whole woodpile in and stacked it on the kitchen floor. But then she recognised the shape of a human body under the tarpaulin. So that was it. The Agent had knocked on the door and she had let him in. Bennet, he had said, that could be a first name or a surname, not that it mattered now.

She put her hand to her heart, stood there looking at the mound on the floor. She did not feel much. Mostly just amazement that she had ended up in this situation. It was hard to think, so she used her eyes instead. She stretched out a hand and supported herself on the worktop. Was that not a slight movement under the tarpaulin? She had not expected that, she took a step to the side, felt that her hips were not in place, held on to the counter with both hands. He was moving. Her eyes had not played a trick. It must be a hand, because there was no movement where she knew the feet were; if she remembered correctly, the hands were under the table. She heard no sounds — there was not much life left in him — but there, she saw the movement again, it was obvious now, he was scratching at the floor with his long nails. It was the right hand. She had heard his lungs collapse. How was that possible? She could not understand, or was it perhaps just death cramps? She had heard about things like that. Headless chickens that ran around the yard. It annoyed her that he would not lie still. It meant there was still life in him, and if there was life in him, it made everything a lot harder. She would have to make some decisions and think through what had happened again. And she could not face thinking about it. She had finished something, it could not start again, not now that everything was so blissfully still. She turned to the sink, picked up the knife she had left there, with its shining, clean blade. Then she bent down over the tarpaulin and thrust the knife through the green fabric, not caring where she stabbed him. There was absolutely no movement now — she stood watching for a while to be sure. She dropped the knife into the sink again, the sound of steel against steel, and turned on the tap. More blood and water washed down the drain. She looked over her shoulder to check on him, she did not want to see even a tremor. And there was none.

She paced back and forth on the kitchen floor, stamping like a sulking child, she had to get her hips sorted, get the joint back in the socket. She thought she heard a click, and then another, and everything fell into place and she could move freely again. She washed the knife properly with the washing-up brush and liquid, then put it back in the drawer. It was a good knife, and useful for so many things. She noticed the folder lying on the table. He had not had the chance to open it. And it held the truth, he had said, the good news, the unique offer. It was a brown leather folder, no, not leather — she held it to her nose and it smelt of plastic. She went back into the living room and sat down with the folder in her lap, she could feel there was some weight to it. It belonged to her now, she had the right to its contents. She had just won a long battle, and this was her plunder. It had a solid zip, which she opened and then pulled out the contents, and rested them on her lap while she threw the folder down onto the floor. A pile of magazines, lots of them, maybe as many as twenty, and they were all the same. On the cover was a colourful picture of a woman and a small boy. Mother and son, Ragna thought, mother and son! They resembled one another, both had dark hair and skin, and brown eyes. The mother was wearing a beautiful headscarf and the boy had a blue hat on, which might have been crocheted. The photograph had not been taken in Norway, but in another country, at the market, there were stalls with colourful fruits, piles of baskets and lovely fabrics. The boy had an orange in his hand, and he was running for his life. Behind him came an angry man, shaking his fist, and the woman, the mother, had her hands to her cheeks. Ragna understood the picture immediately. The boy had stolen an orange from the fruit seller and was trying to run away. Only now, after she had studied the image, did she read the title.

AWAKE!

She opened the cover. The magazine was published by the Jehovah’s Witnesses and this was the December issue. The topic for the month was parenting and criminality. She carried on, reading snippets here and there, running her eyes down the pages. One article was about Armageddon and Judgement Day, and there was another about the Thousand Year Reign and the Chosen Ones. All the signs, the truth. The man lying on the kitchen floor, the man with the long nails, was a Jehovah’s Witness. She felt leaden and utterly exhausted. She had clearly misunderstood. She let the magazines fall to the floor, there were so many of them, and they slid out into a colourful fan. There was so much to take in, so much she had to sort out. She should probably ring someone and explain, but she had no energy left and no one could hear what she said on the phone anyway. All she wanted to do was sleep. And the man out in the kitchen was not going anywhere. So she went to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. Oh, the air coming through the window felt so good, it cooled her down. All she had to do was wait. Someone would come. They would know what to do. It’s impossible to do everything alone, and I have no voice. I have to rest. You must rest, Ragna.

She closed her eyes. Her heartbeat was calm and light, because her heart did not know what to do, and carried on with its job of keeping her alive, without judgement. The boy had stolen an orange. Did that mean that the mother had failed, she wondered, or did it mean that in some faraway land that she knew nothing about, a juicy orange was such an irresistible temptation for a poor boy that he could not stop himself? Would they chop off his hands, did he live in a country where they did things like that? She lay for a long time thinking about the picture. In her imagination, she was the woman and Rikard Josef was the boy. He had once, when he was eleven, stolen a big hunting knife from a sports shop, but the staff caught him red-handed. She had had to go and collect him and apologise on his behalf. She remembered the shame. She had had to promise the shop assistants that she would give him a serious talking-to, and she tried to recall what she had said. That he must never do that again, that he was not that kind of boy and she was not that kind of mother. And when she asked him why he had stolen it, he said that it was a good knife. I wanted it. Did the Agent know that? Was the picture a sign? The topic of the month was parenting and criminality.

She changed position several times before she finally settled and fell asleep. She dreamt that she was walking through an exotic market in a foreign country, buying fruit. And it was Irfan who owned all the stalls. Irfan stood there in a long white tunic, and she stopped and talked to him for a long time, she had a voice, and it was bright and clear as a bell, and Irfan clapped his hands in delight. He gave her a basket for the fruit and she picked out all the things that tempted her, plums and apricots and dates and other treats. She paid for an extra orange, the one her son had stolen, and put the coins in Irfan’s hand.

She did not know how long she had slept, curled up in the dark room. Maybe one hour, maybe four, time stands still when you sleep. But she thought it was still Sunday, and through the gap in the curtains she could see that it was still light. There was not a sound in the house, she could hear no traffic on the road, where was everyone, had everything stopped? She got up and walked slowly to the bathroom, as though there was something wrong with her legs. Not even Walther Eriksson would have been able to find anything alluring about the face that stared back at her from the mirror, not even with the best camera in the world. She thought her eyes looked darker, like the eyes of the woman at the market, the mother of the orange thief, a mother who had perhaps not fulfilled her duties as a good parent. She had not managed either, she realised, as Rikard Josef had just vanished. She looked around for some clothes but could not find anything other than an old nightgown that had been thrown on the floor. It had thin straps and a lace trim around the neck. She pulled it on over her head and went into the kitchen where the Agent was lying. She gasped when she saw the tarpaulin, as she was sure it had slipped. While she was asleep he had moved again, the mound was a different shape. This time he had without a doubt moved his arms and legs in an attempt to get across the floor, perhaps even to stand up. She went over to him, bent down and listened to see if he was breathing. She kicked his body gently, then again, and a third time, with no result. The initial gentle nudge with her foot became hard kicks, she had to be certain. He was down and she kicked him all the same, as people have always done. She was no different from anyone else, no better, and it was easier than when someone was standing.

She needed to put some more clothes on, she felt that it was cold. And she should put some wood in the burner. The woodpile under the window at the back of the house was no longer protected from the wind and weather, as the tarpaulin was in front of her on the floor. She looked up at the clock and discovered that she had been asleep for hours. Her hand-knitted cardigan was hanging on the back of the chair by the computer, she put it on, wrapped it tight around her and turned on the television. She switched to the news channel, sat on the edge of her chair and stared at the flickering screen. Perhaps they knew already. Maybe Agent Bennet had been reported missing. Could she stab someone with a knife without anyone noticing, could she cut a string forever, not just the thin thread of a conversation, but an entire physical entity, without any consequences? No, she could not. There were cameras everywhere on the street, maybe even in her own house, someone would have noticed something. She looked around and saw the two smoke alarms on the ceiling. They looked like beautiful UFOs, plate-shaped with a small mesh that looked like a window. They might have tricked her and installed a camera there instead; that was what society had become, everyone was being monitored. She noticed a small flashing red light in both of them, which she had not seen before. This made the UFOs even more alive, somehow, as if they were inhabited. She remembered there was also a detector installed in the kitchen, and if that was actually a camera, then the whole thing had been filmed. She went out and stood under the detector; the red light was flashing. That could be a sign that someone was sitting in the control room up there at this very moment watching her on a screen. Little Ragna Riegel in her nightgown and cardigan. She raised her hand and waved. Looked down at the green tarpaulin, smiled at the camera again, waved and pointed, waved and pointed. Then she pushed her bare feet down into a pair of boots and went round to the back of the house to get some wood.

The logs were covered in a fine film of frost, in beautiful tiny crystals. If she was going to do all that she had to, she at least needed some warmth, and perhaps also some food. And she did not want to greet people in her nightgown, even if it did have a lovely lace trim, and everything had to be in order when they came. As she knew they would, several of them. Or would they? Had she not already asked them for help several times, and yet no one had come? She got angry again. She stacked as much wood as she could balance on her arms and went back in, put it in the burner. When the fire was blazing, she sat down on the floor and stared into the flames. Her cheeks got even hotter, and her shoulders and chest. What need was there for anything else when you had a fire? The flickering tongues transported her elsewhere, they crackled and danced, became a living being that she had to keep alive. As long as the fire burned, time stood still. For a while she looked at one log, then at another. The glittering snow crystals had long since melted and evaporated, the living room was as hot as a baker’s oven, she had to take the woolly cardigan off. She did not want to hear another sound from Bennet now, but snuck out to the kitchen to make sure, tiptoeing closer. She thought once again that the green nylon fabric had changed shape — now the mound was spread out over the floor like some great, formless single-celled organism, an enormous amoeba. Her father had explained this to her when she was little, that this happened to all of life. And it would happen to her, she too would take on another form. She would die and then she would come back as something else.

‘As what though?’ she had asked. With her small hand in his big one.

‘A small animal, maybe,’ her father had replied.

‘Oh!’ she had exclaimed. ‘Can I choose which animal?’

‘I’m sure you can,’ he had said.

She had squeezed his hand and said that she hoped she would be a small squirrel, and he said that he could picture that squirrel perfectly. Quick and bright, with a shiny coat, just like her. He winked at her, and she asked if it took a long time to change shape, and come back again. Oh yes, he thought, it took a long time. It takes a thousand years. But the trees will still be here, so you can play in them and hunt for nuts.

‘And what about you, Daddy?’ she had asked. ‘What do you want to be when you come back?’

‘I want to be your father all over again,’ he had replied. ‘I want to be your father until the end of the world.’

‘Father to a small squirrel?’

‘I can carry you in my inner pocket,’ he had said. ‘The pocket here, closest to my heart.’

Since then, she had never feared death.

She opened the fridge and looked in to see if there was anything she could eat or make quickly, but there was not much there. She took out a packet of salami and ate a few slices, which of course made her thirsty. She did not have any more Uludag Frutti, just a bottle of juice that was mouldy. She could not understand why her fridge was so empty. She went over to the sink and drank some water straight from the tap, even though her mother had often told her when she was a little girl that she risked getting a tape worm that could grow up to several metres long in her tummy and steal any food that she ate, so she would be thin as a rake. And I always have been, she thought suddenly, so the worm has always been there. Once she was back in front of the wood burner, she thought she could feel something wriggling inside her, demanding space, it twisted and turned like a metre-long piece of spaghetti. But she had worse things to deal with now than a worm in her stomach.

She went out several times to collect wood. In and out in nothing but her nightgown, in the end she could not even be bothered to put on her boots. It was actually all right to walk barefoot in the snow, she had never done it before. She spent some time and a good deal of care piling the logs up on the floor, it might be a while before anyone came to her assistance. She would rather not have to go out and get wood in the dark, so she stockpiled enough now to last her until morning. Every so often she glanced at the TV, which was still on. She reckoned that sooner or later the Agent’s face would look at her from the screen, because he had been reported missing, or, even worse, her own face would appear. No, how on earth would that happen, no one other than Walther had any photographs of her. But she had to follow what was happening, she had to be prepared. She kept the fire going in the burner until the glass was black with soot and she could barely see the flames, only a few glowing points in the depths of the burner. She needed to rest again. She turned down the volume on the television and curled up on the sofa, pulled a blanket over her, and listened out for footsteps and voices, or cars pulling up outside and doors slamming. Looked up at the UFOs’ red flashing eyes.

The fire had died down a long time ago, and there were only a few embers glowing in the blackened logs. She saw the Agent’s magazines scattered on the floor, they would burn well. So she got down on her knees in front of the burner and tore off the pages one by one, and watched the young orange thief being eaten by flames. The boy’s body curled up as it would in a crematorium oven. As she sat there staring into the flames, she realised that it would probably be a long time before she had the opportunity to visit her parents’ grave again. She had always enjoyed going there, and no one could say it was not well looked after. Which would not be the case with her own, when the time came, and that might be soon. But it was Sunday, she remembered. No shops would be open so she could not buy flowers or candles, and she could not go to the grave empty-handed, in the same way that one does not go to a party without a gift. She closed the door to the wood burner, steeled herself and ventured out into the kitchen to see if she had anything suitable. She avoided looking at the Agent. She might have something she could give them that would look nice on the white snow. She rummaged through the drawers and cupboards. She found the twisted advent candles that she had not used yet, but they would blow out straight away. Eventually she found a packet of serviettes that were cream-coloured, with pink roses and green spiky leaves. They were exceptionally beautiful, she thought. She popped them into her handbag. Then she put her coat on over her nightgown, found some gloves and pulled on a pair of wellies that were standing in the hall. They were not warm, but they were closest to hand.

When she opened the door she discovered it was dark outside. Perhaps she would need a torch, but then she remembered all the spotlights in the graveyard, and one of them was not far from her parents’ grave. She did not bother to lock the door, did not know whether it was evening or night, as she had not bothered to look at the clock. But there were still lights on in Olaf’s house. As soon as she was out on the road, she realised how slippery the boots were and how cold it was. She was not wearing tights and her coat was short, so her legs were bare. Struggling to stay on her feet — as there was ice everywhere and the gritters had obviously not been out — she looked to the right and the left, then crossed the street. She walked quickly past the closed shop and remembered once again that it was Sunday, so there were not many buses. She never took the bus on a Sunday, but guessed there was only one an hour, or two if she was lucky, and she was never lucky. She waited and listened. The bus had a special drone that she would hear long before it appeared. She kept looking in the opposite direction, where she knew the police would come from when they got the message. But she saw no blue lights. She tried to curl her toes in the wellies, stamped up and down on the icy road, to keep the blood circulating in her body. Olaf’s house looked so warm and inviting. She could clearly picture Dolly, curled up in front of the fire. After a long wait, the bus came rumbling up Kirkelina, it was almost empty and she slipped into her usual seat. When the bus passed her house, she looked up at the light in the windows and found it hard to believe that it could look like such an ordinary house. No one knew anything about the Agent under the green tarpaulin, all they would see was the light, which they might associate with warmth. She opened her handbag and took out the packet of serviettes and admired them through the plastic. Her mother had taught her numerous ways to fold a serviette, she could make a fan or a rose, a bow or a heart, a lily or a pyramid. But she noticed these were three-ply and soft. The more expensive the serviettes were, the harder they were to fold.

Her cheek against the window, her bag in her lap. No flashing blue lights coming towards them, and she could hear no sirens. She looked up at the black sky over the town. They all believed that it stretched on for eternity, whereas in reality, the atmosphere was as thin as a bride’s veil and the sky stopped just beyond the tallest skyscraper, or after twenty minutes in a rocket. Twenty minutes, she thought, and then nothing. Beyond was just dark and cold, and beneath the veil, tiny people lived inside a glass cloche.

She slipped several times on the narrow path up to the church. The ice lay like a clear film on the paving stones and she moved as carefully as she could, bent over like an old lady. The boots were too big because she had no tights on, and the soles, although ridged, did not provide much grip. She turned to the left by the entrance and followed a well-trodden path round to the back of the church. When she saw her parents’ grave up against the wall, illuminated by the nearby spotlight, the sorrow sank through her like a heavy stone. It weighed her down. The feeling of loss was more acute than ever. Here they lay, as close together in death as they had been in life, but it was only she who thought of them, only she who offered kind thoughts. If I was God, she thought, I would breathe life into them again. But there was no God, not up there, nor down here. She fell to her knees, no longer cared about the cold, the snow on her bare skin was nothing. She glanced quickly over her shoulder to see if anyone else was around, but there was no one there that cold Sunday evening, she was alone with the dead.

She opened the packet of serviettes, felt the soft paper, and considered her options. What could she make with these? She ran quickly through the steps that she had learned as a girl, and then started to fold a swan with beautiful tail feathers. She had not forgotten how to do it, the folds were in her fingers. Despite the soft paper, the magnificent bird with its long neck stayed upright. She folded another one, identical to the first. Put them down in front of the gravestone, facing each other like two lovers, because they had loved each other, for better and for worse, though often it had been for worse. No, not worse, it had just been difficult. What is it about us? She felt miserable. Why can’t we cope? What is the point of that? She kneeled in the snow for a long time looking at the swans, they were proud and beautiful, just like her parents. The wind would catch them soon, and the snow, maybe even the same night. They would be blown away and chased from grave to grave until one of the workers noticed them and picked them up because he thought they were rubbish, just some wet paper, not a declaration of love. She stayed there for a long time. She burned the image into her mind, until she was sure she could recall it whenever she needed it.

By then she was stiff and cold. She managed to stand up and was about to leave when a gust of wind raced through the graveyard, lifting up one of the swans. It flew a couple of metres and she ran after it, but just as she was about pick it up, there was another gust of wind, which was stronger than the first. She felt desperate as she watched the bird disappear between the gravestones, into the dark where there was no spotlight. She went over to look. She checked behind each grave, went to the right, then the left, further and further into the graveyard. It could not just disappear like that! She continued to search, walked in the other direction, towards the front of the church, even though that was not the way the bird had flown. No one saw her as she wandered around bare-legged, no one would understand her desperation, it was just a serviette. Then she suddenly found it, it had settled next to one of the rubbish bins by the wall. Relieved, she took it back and placed it in front of the grave again, listened to the wind, which had dropped. When she came out onto the slippery path down to the square, she lost her balance and fell forward, and her right knee hit the paving with force. Tears sprang to her eyes as the pain shot to her head and she let out a despairing howl, which no one heard. For a moment she lay there and tried to move her leg. Maybe she had broken her kneecap, maybe she would never make it down to the square, and if she was not able to do that, she would freeze to death. No one would come to the church until morning. She scrabbled around for her bag, got hold of it and pulled it to her, then managed to get up, and gingerly put some weight on her right leg to see if it would hold her. It was extremely painful, but she hobbled slowly down towards the bus stop, dragging her leg behind her. All she wanted now was to get home and sit down in the chair in front of the stove. Maybe someone had been to her house and sorted everything out, given that the door was open. While she stood waiting, she put all her weight on the left leg. The injured one throbbed and ached intensely and she was afraid that she would not be able to get onto the bus as the steps were so steep. When it finally came and the doors slid open, she grabbed hold of the handrail and used all her strength to haul herself up. Once she was sitting in the warmth and light of the bus, she pulled up her coat to look at her knee. It was very red and much bigger than the left one.

She was surprised when she opened the unlocked door and went into her house, limping in the heavy wellies. She thought it strange that no one had come, that she was back in the same incomprehensible situation. This was her own little world; the others were all elsewhere. But she was happy. She thought of the swans as good work. Her mother had taught her a lot about duty, dignity, patience and humility. Her father had taught her many other things, but his was a wisdom she could not put a name to. It was all about being in the moment, opening your senses. Taking each second as it comes, not fighting it. She was in the moment now. Her bare legs were blue with cold and her knee was red and swollen, but she was still in one piece. Her bones were rattling, she could hear that, but she managed to cross the room. There was not even an ember in the wood burner now, just soot on the glass. She stood in the kitchen doorway to check the tarpaulin. There was no noticeable change in the shape, but she thought that the fabric was vibrating with life. Perhaps the warmth in the Agent’s body had been transferred to the tarpaulin, where it had woken to life thousands of microorganisms. Maybe, given time, they would eat him up. In her mind, she set fire to it all. Bennet with his long nails and prophecies of death. It occurred to her that the tarpaulin might not burn as it was synthetic, and would probably just melt into his cheap suit, and deposit chemicals on his pale skin. They would have to bury him in it, a hard, synthetic shell that could not be removed.

She put some wood in the burner. It was dark outside, and there was no traffic on the road. She thought about the night ahead, and the day that would follow, Monday. Because it was Monday tomorrow, wasn’t it, or had she got confused? She thought she had an early shift. Gunnhild would phone as soon as they opened, if she did not show up.

I feel so heavy, Ragna thought, my joints feel loose, and my knee hurts. There’s a great stone inside me, I’m cold and I haven’t eaten and I don’t know why all this has happened. I just know that it started a long time ago. I can’t wander around in the aisles at Europris with the pricing machine in this state. It was not the bones in themselves, she realised, it was the ligaments that held them in place that were about to snap. I’ll come apart at the seams like a ragdoll. The fire was soon burning merrily and she felt warm and peaceful. She saw some white letters on the TV screen. She had forgotten to turn it off before she went out. There was no picture any more, just a message that appeared when the television had been left on for too long.

NO SIGNAL.

She turned it off, and then on again, and got the picture back. It was good to watch the news, to see how everyone else was living their lives. The seven billion people beneath the veil that she would soon be cut off from for a long time. From now on, she had to live each minute in her own head. As if she had not always done that anyway.

She spent the night on the sofa. The pain in her knee kept her awake, but she was all right with that, she wanted to be awake when they came to the house. With the daylight came a message from Gunnhild, asking if everything was all right.

Ragna thought about the Agent in the kitchen. She did not want Gunnhild to come to the house. Someone else had to come, a man, several men, people who would not lose their heads, who would act according to set procedures, who had been into similar kitchens before. She sent a message back to say that she had all she needed, that she just wanted to rest. But after a while she got up all the same, dragged her sore leg behind her. And sat down to wait. She had pulled the chair over to the window, so she could see them as soon as they came. Every now and then she cried a little when she thought about what lay ahead, all that she would have to explain, without a voice. At other times she was overwhelmed by exhaustion and dragged herself back to the sofa, and when it started to get dark, and still no one had come, she went to bed. She wanted it to be Tuesday, because she was sure they would come then. She ate nothing and drank nothing, she was so weak it was almost like being intoxicated. She rose and sank, hovered and floated, there was a rushing in her ears. She thought about the two serviette swans, saw them clearly in her mind’s eye and was glad that her brain had stored that important memory. She thought about the empty flat in Landsberger Allee, where Rikard Josef no longer lived. She thought about the young orange thief and the pictures of him she had burnt in the fire. Who was to blame for him stealing, was it anyone’s fault at all, and what was guilt, and what should one do with guilt, could it be washed away or forgiven, was it a coating that would always stick with her?

After long periods of rest, she got up again and sat by the window, as patient as an old woman who had nothing to wait for, other than death. There was a steady flow of traffic outside, but no one stopped by her house, only the Agent had stopped and he had not had good intentions. All her life she had watched the world through this window. When she was little, she had had to stand on a stool to see out, but the picture was always the same. Only the colours were different. The street light was still on, so her helpers would be able to find their way to her house. What is the first thing you remember? they would ask. Daddy, she would say. He saw me clearly. He saw everyone else as well, the vultures. The predators. Daddy was always frightened. He died from it, he died from fright. I’m going to die from fright too, and that’s fine, because then I’ll end up in Daddy’s inner pocket, the one next to his heart, and that’s where I want to be. And your mother, do you remember her? She always got up early, long before the rest of us, she had to be ready. Each morning she put up her long hair, she dressed nicely every day, there were so many authorities to deal with. They all came to our door and confronted her with everything we were unable to do, everything we struggled with. Our duties, tax, the bills, which were not always paid. Rikard Josef and his upbringing, Daddy’s illness. They were constantly coming to get Daddy, they took him away without a word. He was not big and strong, he was thin as a fencepost. He did not eat much, there were more important things to do in life. Why did they come to get him? her helpers would ask. Because he knew so much, he had his own vision, an intuitive understanding that the rest of us shut down, because we cannot take it all in — we have to lie, to ourselves and to others, to adapt and survive; the space we operate in cannot be too big and bright, because then we lose control. But Daddy went out and was open to it all — that was why they came to get him. All they could see was a madman wandering out into the road to stop the traffic.

It was me who found him, she would say. He had hanged himself sitting down, from one of the handles on the cupboard door, all he was wearing was a pair of old underpants. His legs were as black as ink, the blood had sunk and gathered at the bottom. He sat stooped with his chin on his chest, it looked like he was praying, but I know that he didn’t pray. What did you think? they would ask. That he was right. That we were all frightened, deep down, of life, that is. Of every day. Just not the last day, not for what would come after it.

Following this long sequence of thoughts, she came to herself again. She wondered if she had heard something out in the kitchen. The sound reminded her of the scratching up in the loft at night, when the mice were scurrying about. If only he could lie still out there, she had no more energy. But she hauled herself up and limped into the kitchen. She took hold of one of the corners of the tarpaulin and lifted it to one side. The Agent’s eyes were open. He was staring at something in the distance that she could not see. She was sure that it was the Thousand Year Reign, that he finally had a place as one of the chosen few, and that was what he had wanted. But if that was the case, if he was staring into the Thousand Year Reign, it was not a beautiful place. The Agent looked horrified, disappointed, terrified. She put the tarpaulin back with care, waved to the camera again to show them she was still waiting, and pointed towards the hall to indicate that the door was unlocked. Then she returned to the sofa and rested for a while. She could feel that her body needed food and water, but she could not face it. She was floating, rising up to the ceiling, was light as a feather. They could come and lift her up, carry her away, lock her up, if only they could find her son and let him know. At regular intervals, she tottered out into the hall to make sure the door was still unlocked, opening it and looking down to the road, and then closing it again. There was another message on her mobile phone from Gunnhild. This time she could not bear to answer. She no longer checked the time, only noticed the light fading, then it was dark, then it got light again, then it was dark, as the days passed. It must be Wednesday now, or Thursday. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth and everything, not just her knee, ached now. There was a flickering in front of her eyes, like a fluorescent tube just before it breaks. She struggled out to the bathroom to get some paracetamol, but all she found was the box of Apodorm. What did it matter if she was asleep when they came? They just had to wrap her up and carry her out. And she so desperately wanted to be carried. She pressed the tablets through the foil, took out another tray and continued until she had a handful.

She was lying at the bottom of a boat, she could feel the movement of the sea, and it was stormy. She rolled back and forth on the long, heavy waves, her body knocking against the sides, sometimes soft, sometimes hard. No, it was something else. Someone was shouting and shaking her, she wanted to answer but her mouth was dry and she could not form the words. All feeling had run out of her in the same way that the blood had run out of the Agent. She just wanted to be left in peace on the rocking boat. But whoever was calling would not give up, the voice was right next to her ear, she could feel the breath, it was warm.

‘Ragna! Wake up!’

She wanted to open her eyes, but they were dry too. Wake, awake, there was something familiar about the words. She had heard them before, read it somewhere. Gradually her sight returned, but all she could see was her hand, which she lifted shaking to her face.

‘I’ve hurt my knee,’ she managed to whisper.

‘Did you faint?’

It was Gunnhild.

Ragna realised she was lying on the floor and was wearing only the nightgown.

‘He’s lying in the kitchen,’ she said.

‘What did you say? Maybe we should call a doctor.’

‘No, he’s dead.’

There was a short silence.

‘Not Rikard?’ Gunnhild asked. ‘Has something happened to Rikard? Has someone called from Berlin?’

Ragna would have given her arm to be able to scream. To scream from the bottom of her lungs, the depths of her life, a scream that would shatter windows. But she could do nothing but repeat herself in a whisper.

‘I think he’s dead. Can you not smell it?’

Gunnhild went reluctantly out into the kitchen and stayed there for a long time. Ragna crawled across the floor to the sofa and hauled herself up. When Gunnhild came back in again, she stood there with her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.

‘Who did that?’ she asked.

‘Me.’

‘No,’ Gunnhild said, petrified.

‘Yes,’ Ragna said. ‘I had to.’

‘Have you killed him?’

‘I think so.’

Gunnhild collapsed into Ragna’s favourite armchair.

‘But why?’

She did not get an answer. She went to the telephone to ring. She did not say much, she had to give her name, that she was at Kirkelina 7 and it was in connection with a death. She opened the veranda door and let in the freezing air, then stood by the window, staring down towards the road.

Ragna propped herself up on her elbow.

‘Did they believe you?’ she whispered.

‘Who?’

‘The police.’

‘Of course they believed me.’ Gunnhild looked bewildered. ‘Why would they not believe me? Who is he?’

Ragna sat up straight on the sofa, leaned back against the cushion.

‘Don’t know him at all.’

‘But,’ Gunnhild stammered, ‘why did he come here?’

‘He’s been pestering me all autumn.’

‘Pestering you? Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

Gunnhild glanced down at the road again.

‘Did he come here to get you?’

‘I think so,’ Ragna said. ‘Will they be here soon?’

‘It won’t take them more than ten minutes,’ Gunnhild said, ‘they’re just across the river. We mustn’t touch anything,’ she added. ‘Have you touched anything?’

‘I live here. Of course I’ve touched things.’

Gunnhild went over to the sofa, found a blanket, and laid it gently over Ragna’s knees.

‘But why didn’t you ring anyone?’

‘I’ve tried several times, but no one comes. You don’t know what it’s like.’

Gunnhild went back to the window, watching just as Ragna had done all autumn.

‘I can’t get hold of Rikard,’ Ragna said.

‘Why not?’

‘I can’t find anyone. Everyone just disappears.’

‘Not everyone, surely?’

‘Walther,’ she whispered. ‘Mummy and Daddy. Rikard Josef. William. And Irfan.’

‘Irfan?’

Ragna pointed at the window.

‘He had the shop over the road. I went there every day.’

‘Have you taken anything?’ Gunnhild asked. ‘Pills? Why do you have that picture of the dog by the door? You’ve never had a dog.’

‘You’re asking too many questions,’ Ragna complained. And then she wept. Time had started up again — she noticed that the second hand on the wall clock was ticking.