The Whisperer

Chapter 5

She had started to count her steps.

Down to the rubbish bin by the road was forty-eight steps. From the house over to Irfan’s shop, sixty-four; to the bus stop, one hundred and fifty-seven. Counting gave her a sense of control, this was her territory and she paced it out precisely. Often when she went to the bus stop in the morning, she was surprised that the number was always the same. Never one hundred and sixty-eight, or one hundred and forty-nine. She looked down at her feet in their small shoes, to think that her steps were so precise. And what would she do if the number did change? Because that would mean that her overview was slipping, that her body had been knocked out of its natural, measured rhythm, that life was no longer safe. That external powers were taking over. She was walking back from the bus stop, her bag over her shoulder. It was heavy. She had taken four packets of twisted, purple candles, a goat’s milk soap and some cheap shampoo from the shop. Her purchases were written down and deducted from her pay. She stopped some distance from the driveway, stood there and looked around. She saw a big removal van in front of the Teigens’ house, and several men pushing and carrying. Going in and out of the old house, which was more or less identical to her own. The Thai family would be moving in before Christmas, with their own tables and chairs, and, according to Olaf, a massage table. Sooner or later she would bump into them, perhaps in Irfan’s shop, and she would have to embarrass them, as was the case with most other people she met. She would whisper her name, and then give them her well-practised tight smile, and if she felt like it, tell them about how she came to lose her voice. It would take no more than a few meagre seconds, then it would be done. But it never ceased to upset her. The fact that something so minor could knock her off course in this way. The Teigens had taken down the living-room curtains, she noted, and the rooms that were now being emptied seemed unnaturally bright. She compared them with her own windows, which had a warmer, welcoming glow. My house, she thought, and started to walk again. My own house. She got to the drive and opened the mailbox. There was of course something there. In fact, she could not remember it ever being empty. She took out the newspaper first, then the plain envelope addressed to ‘RIEGEL’.

She looked quickly up and down Kirkelina, to check if anyone had seen her, but there was no one there. She glanced over the road to Irfan’s shop — there was still light in the windows. And there was only a faint light in Olaf’s windows, so perhaps they were out. And the Teigens on the other side of the road were in the middle of moving. A car drove past, and then another, and the gust lifted the hem of her coat. She looked at the back of the envelope. The rubbish bin with its heavy lid was beside her. She should just throw the letter in without reading it. She was above all this nonsense, the letter belonged with the eggshells and leftovers, the letter was rotten. And she would slam the lid shut with such force that the removal men would think she had fired a shot. Then she would march quickly up to the house, forty-eight steps, put the newspaper on the table and demonstrate her defiance by pulling a face at whoever was trying to invade her space. Supper would be made. She would rattle around with the pots and pans and slam the cupboard doors. She would stride around the house like a general. She would read the newspaper. She had more important things to do than be scared of some idiot who was probably just bored and alone. He definitely had no friends; he was not someone who had anything to give. No one wanted to listen to him or go anywhere near him.

But what if she did all that? If she threw away the letter unread, how would she then manage to calm down? Would she just sit in a chair all night and wonder what the new message said? Would she lie in the dark under the duvet, her imagination running wild? No, she would not. She needed to keep up with him, know what he was planning. She would open the envelope, read it quickly and then throw it in the fire. Even though part of her brain said that would be basically the same as letting him in. She might as well open the door so he could step inside. She tore open the envelope all the same. She was agitated and flushed, angry and scared all at once.

The piece of paper was the same as the last one, folded double, the letters just as big and straight.

‘IT’S NOT LONG NOW.’

She stood there without moving for a long time, deeply regretting that she had been foolish enough to read the message. She crushed it into a hard paper ball, so it would burn better. Then she trudged up to the house, let herself in. She threw the letter in the burner, lit a match, held it to the paper and closed the heavy door. Watched the flames through the glass. The fire devoured the paper ball with impressive speed. Wonderful, she thought. She had quite simply cremated him and all that he stood for. Nothing could annihilate like fire could. She put two big logs into the burner as though to make a statement, and stayed there on her knees until they started to burn too.

It was perhaps something she should report to the police, she thought later, when she had finally sunk down into her favourite armchair. But she had destroyed both letters, she realised, so she had nothing to show. And they were not likely to do anything anyway, it was autumn, and dark, and people were roaming the streets with all their issues and anger. Women were being beaten up and abused by their husbands, children were being neglected, the powers that be had enough on their plates. And this person had not laid a hand on her. And anyway, she told herself, I’ve never been the hysterical type. I’m not the sort of person to waste valuable resources on this kind of nonsense, it’s below me. She put the dishwasher on, and tried to settle down in front of the television, but was overcome with regret that she had burned the letters. There would be a letter number three, she was certain of that, and she would definitely keep that one. Number three, and four and five. And what then? Where would it end? Should she perhaps inform everyone close to her that some madman was after her? What if he was one of the people in her small circle? What did he actually want? Her fear, her life? Better instead to curl up in a corner, turn up the volume on the television, close the curtains and not let so much as a strip of light in.

She went out into the hall to check that she had locked the door and that the security chain was on, even though the chain itself was so thin it could easily be cut with pliers. Sometimes if the doorbell rang in the evening, she did not dare to answer. Depending on how late it was, and this had changed over the years. When she was younger, she would open the door until ten, but now she became anxious if it was after eight, certainly in the autumn, when it was dark. Anyone who came by car usually parked by the roadside and walked up to the house. It was not easy to gauge if there was enough room to turn in the driveway, especially in winter. And when it came to clearing the snow, she was useless, a shovel full of wet snow weighed too much for her. She had never owned a car, so she trampled a narrow path down to the road, and tried to clear around the rubbish bin and mailbox as best she could. Sometimes Olaf took pity on her and would take a few turns on his Honda snowblower. But so far, there had been no snow, just darkness, and the lonely street lamp at the end of her drive. Every time she passed it, she noted the wear and tear. Sooner or later it would come down, but not in her time, she hoped, even though she could see that it leaned more and more for each year that passed.

She stood by the window. There were Olaf and Dolly going for a walk in their high-viz jackets. She noticed that he glanced up at her house, and she appreciated that. It meant he thought about her, that she was part of his universe, just as he and Dolly were a part of hers. He continued on to the Teigens’ house where the removal men were still busy. Maybe he wanted to say goodbye and wish them well, which was something she had not even thought about, just as she would never contemplate going over to the house to welcome the new family when they moved in. But of course Olaf did, because he was nosy. Oh, I’m being mean now, she thought, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to know the neighbours, I’m just a coward. Arrogant and uninterested. She sat down again and thought about the empty rooms in the Teigens’ house. How cold it would be when everything had been loaded into the removal van, how dusty and faded. The walls full of holes and the ceiling lamps giving off a garish light — perhaps the glass covers were full of dead flies, her own were. She could not imagine anything as wretched as an empty house. The walls would have their secrets. Daylight would flood in through the bare windows and reveal all the wear and tear, all the footsteps across the floors, all the doors that had been opened and closed, sometimes with great force. Worn thresholds, discoloured bathroom porcelain that could no longer be bleached clean, the odd mirror on the wall stained brown by the years. If anything of beauty had existed between the walls, it would not be visible. Only the decay would be visible, the damage, the bad days. A bit like an old skeleton, Ragna thought, which had even more to tell about a life once lived than an empty house. Man or woman, young or old, ill or injured. Lifestyle, diet. I want to be buried when I die, like Mummy and Daddy. My skeleton will lie there with all its bumps and wounds. And in theory, it would be possible to dig up the skeleton and re-examine it. The bones would be the proof that she had once lived and she wanted there to be proof. The alternative, the burning heat, meant total annihilation.

I will never move, Ragna determined. She looked at everything around her, the pictures, the furniture and rugs, the cushions on the sofa, carefully plumped and positioned in the same way every day, and the cosy, folded blanket. The large photograph of her parents from a time when they were Hans and Signe and did not know what the future held. At the point the picture was taken, they knew nothing about Ragna, because she did not exist anywhere, she was just a possibility they had chosen to explore, and, she believed, had not regretted. Nor did they know anything about Rikard Josef at that point. She was filled with melancholy when she looked at the picture of her parents. It really was possible to be that happy for a few brief, innocent moments. She had looked after the house, and it had not fallen into the hands of strangers. She could see that it was tired, but it was old after all. Her parents had never redecorated, they did not have the means, and she had only replaced the furniture and a few other things. But it was just her, padding quietly around — no one else really came to the house. Only Gunnhild, who had popped by a couple of times when she was ill. That’s how small my world is, Ragna reflected. Some travel to the other side of the world to meet new people, others make new bonds by arranging parties where they make a lot of noise, laugh, raise their glasses and spill their secrets. These thoughts made her look down at her body. She had taken the baggy green shop coat off and hung it on the back of a chair, but she was still wearing the sweater that almost reached her knees. It was machine-knitted from synthetic wool and had gone bobbly after several washes, even though she had done it on a delicate cycle. She wondered what Rikard Josef had thought when he received the letter, in an unexpected move so long before Christmas. Did he see it as a plea for contact or an accusation? Would he give something himself as a result? What if Hotel Dormero was doing badly and he was forced to find another job, would he let her know? She assumed not. If he had had a knock, he might feel ashamed and keep her at a distance. In the way that she was ashamed of the knock she had taken. Someone had sentenced her to death.

‘IT’S NOT LONG NOW.’

She had thick red curtains in front of the bedroom window that went all the way to the floor. There were lead weights in the hem so that they would fall properly and look good. When she went to bed in the evening, she opened the window — be it summer or winter, she had to have fresh air. It made no difference if it was freezing cold. She liked to lie under the duvet and listen to the world outside, feel the cool air breezing in. Sometimes, in autumn, wild storms made the small cluster of trees round the back of the house into an attacker, as the wind hurled cones and branches at the wall. She often hoped for a storm. She liked it when nature showed its strength, because she found the thought that people were the only controlling force too alarming. If the sun wanted to burn out, if the ocean wanted to flood the land and drown everything there, down to the smallest beast, that was fine. She would bow to that, bow with humility. Her bed was right under the window. On occasion, she had even felt the rain on her face. Some mornings she found dry leaves on the floor that had blown into the room, and in winter, she had even woken to tiny snow drifts against the skirting. Then she would make a snowball, drop it into the toilet, and stand there watching it melt.

Now she was standing by the window thinking. It was midnight, and she was about to go to bed. She decided that she was not going to open it, that from now on she would close the world out and protect herself against everything, even nature. She arranged the curtains, puffed up her pillow and crept in under the duvet. But after she had lain awake for some time, she realised that the unfamiliar silence made her edgy. She was used to hearing cars passing every now and then, or a kind of universal hum. So she opened the window again and looked down towards the road to see if anyone was there. Kirkelina was still, and the Teigens’ house stood empty and dark. She could not see Olaf’s house from this side, or Irfan’s shop. But the Thai family would move in soon enough and then she would have neighbours again. She lay down with her face to the wall. The cool air calmed her. Of course she had to have the window open. It was nonsense that she should change her habits because of some ridiculous messages from an anonymous idiot. And yet she was constantly plagued by questions. What would the third message say? She would no doubt receive one. She sat up in bed, gathered the duvet around her and listened to the night. She thought about how big the world was, seven billion people, cars, boats and planes, buses and trains, a deafening, thundering spectacle. But she heard nothing. That was strange. Where were they all, what were they doing, how could her little house on Kirkelina be so quiet, even if it was night? Did she live in her own little bubble? She curled up again and tried to sleep, closed her eyes tight. Had a firm word with herself, that’s enough now, Ragna. The cold draught from the window sent a shiver down her spine.

She woke much later and immediately thought that her alarm clock had not rung and she had slept in. She raised herself up onto one elbow, only to see that it was three in the morning. It was stiller and darker than ever before. She was wide awake. The idea that she might fall asleep again seemed impossible, she did not feel in the slightest bit tired or heavy, but she did not want to get up at this time of night. So she lay there and listened. Something must have woken her, something outside, an animal perhaps, or a car — after all, the window was open. Or she had been woken by something inside her, a dream maybe, though she could not remember having a dream. Whatever the case, the fact was that she had always slept well, and it was rare for her to wake in the middle of the night. It must mean something. She pulled the duvet to one side and with some reluctance made her way to the bathroom. She did not need to go there, but she had to do something, walk around a bit, think some thoughts. She turned on the light over the mirror and stared at her washed-out face. The scar on her throat was particularly visible in the harsh light, like a red, twisting worm. She was at a loss. Should she go back to bed, or should she go into the kitchen and make a cup of tea, sit in the chair by the window, let time tick by until morning?

She chose bed. She lay there thinking about Rikard Josef, who patrolled the quiet corridors all day long, making sure the guests were happy. Or he stood in reception, ready to help sort out any problems, however big or small, always polite, obliging and correct. And here she was, alone, sleepless and without a voice. Even though she had carried him everywhere as a baby, even though she had given him everything and always looked after him, he had chosen to leave her. No, she turned over in bed, that was not what he had done. He had simply chosen a career in another country. He had followed his ambitions. And there was no room for her in the new life that he had built for himself, which took up all his time and energy. What did she know, little Ragna Riegel who was a shop assistant in Europris, with its horrible nylon overalls and handheld pricing machines, and easy, undemanding tasks, what did she know about working in a five-star hotel with guests from all over the world? Nothing at all. He was of course totally absorbed by his work, he had an enormous responsibility, and lots of people to please, and some of them would complain. Perhaps they complained for no reason, but he had to smile all the same, smile and smile. And the considerable geographical distance between them had only served to widen the gap. Maybe he did not have much free time, and when he did, he did not want to spend it sitting on a plane. But she found comfort in one thing. Not once had he turned against her or behaved in a way that might suggest that he was bitter or had felt rejected. None of the Christmas cards had ever contained anything other than a friendly greeting. She got out of bed again, pulled the red curtains to the side. To her great surprise, she saw that there was a light on in the Teigens’ house. She found it hard to understand. The house had been dark when she went to bed. Surely the Thai family had not got there after midnight and were now wandering through the empty house. She stood there for a while watching, because she thought that sooner or later she might see a shadow in one of the windows. Or something else, that the light might go off again, or more lights come on. She could not see a car by the house, and the external light was on, so she would have seen if there was one parked outside. Someone had come on foot. Then it struck her, someone had come to check the house was secure, of course. Still no shadows in the lit house. What kind of people were going to move in? And would they keep an eye on her home, just as she would on theirs? She closed the curtains and returned to bed. The idea that someone was walking around in the empty house at this time of night disturbed her for some time.