When The Devil Holds The Candle

ALSO BY KARIN FOSSUM

Don't Look Back

He Who Fears the Wolf

Calling Out For You

Karin Fossum

W H E N THE

DEVIL H O L D S

THE CANDLE

Translated from the

Norwegian by Felicity David

Copyright © J.W. Cappelens Forlag, A.S. 1998

English translation copyright © Felicity David 2004

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by

The Harvill Press Vintage

With thanks to Terje Ringstad and Tor Buxrud

If you had never existed, you wouldn't have read this.

And it wouldn't have made any difference. And when you no longer exist, it will be as if you had never read this. It makes no difference. But now, as you are reading , something happens: it eats up a few seconds of your time, like a tiny gnawing animal furry with letters, blocking the path between you and your next minute. You will never get it back.

Undisturbed, i t chews on the micro - organisms of time. It never gets its fill.

Nor do you.

– Tor Ulven

C H A P T E R 1

The courthouse. September 4, 4 p.m.

Jacob Skarre glanced at his watch. His shift was over. He slipped a book out of his inside jacket pocket and read the poem on the first page. It's like playing Virtual Reality, he thought. Poof! – and you're in a different landscape. The door to the corridor stood open, and suddenly he was aware that someone was watching him. Whoever it was was just beyond what he could see with his excellent peripheral vision. A vibration, light as a feather, barely perceptible, finally reached him. He closed his book.

"Can I help you?"

This woman didn't move, just stood there staring at him with an odd expression. Skarre looked at her tense face and thought that she seemed familiar. She was no longer young, maybe about 60, wearing a coat and dark boots. A scarf around her neck. Enough of the pattern was discernible under her chin. The design seemed a sharp contrast to what she most likely possessed in the way of speed and elegance: racehorses with jockeys in colourful silks against a dark blue background. She had a wide, heavy face that was elongated by a prominent chin. Her eyebrows were dark and had grown almost together. She was clutching a handbag against her stomach. But most noticeable of all was her gaze. In that pale face her eyes were blazing. They fixed him with a tremendous force and he could not escape them. Then he remembered who she was. What an odd coincidence, he thought, and waited in suspense. He sat there as if riveted by the probing silence. Any moment now she was going to say something momentous.

"It has to do with a missing person," was what she said.

Her voice was rough. A rusty tool creaking into motion after a long repose. Behind her white forehead burned a fire. Skarre could see the flickering glow in her irises. He was trying not to make assumptions, but obviously she was in some way possessed. Gradually it came to him what sort of person he was dealing with. In his mind he rehearsed the day's reports, but he could not recall whether any patients had been listed as missing from the psychiatric institutes in the district. She was breathing hard, as if it had cost her immeasurable effort to come here. But she had made up her mind, and at last had been driven by something. Skarre wondered how she had made it past the reception area and Mrs Brenningen's eagle eye, coming straight to his office without anyone stopping her.

"Who is it that's missing?" he asked in a friendly voice.

She kept staring at him. He met her gaze with the same force to see if she would flinch. Her expression turned to one of confusion.

"I know where he is."

Skarre was startled. "So you know where he is?

He's not missing, then?"

"He probably won't live much longer," she said. Her thin lips began to quiver.

"Who are we talking about?" Skarre said. And then, because he guessed who it might be. "Do you mean your husband?"

"Yes. My husband."

She nodded resolutely. Stood there, straight- backed and unmoving, her handbag still pressed to her stomach. Skarre leaned back in his chair.

"Your husband is sick, and you're worried about him. Is he old?"

It was an inappropriate question. Life is life, as long as a person is alive and means something, maybe everything, to another being. He regretted the question and picked up his pen from the desk, twirling it between his fingers.

"He's almost like a child," she said sadly. He was surprised at her response. What was she really talking about? The man was sick, possibly dying. And senile, it occurred to him. Regressing to his childhood. At the same time Skarre had a strange feeling that she was trying to tell him something else. Her coat was threadbare at the lapels, and the middle button had been sewn on rather badly, creating a fold in the fabric. Why am I noticing these things? he thought.

"Do you live far from here?" He glanced at his watch. Perhaps she could afford a taxi.

She straightened her shoulders. "Prim Oscars gate 17." She enunciated the street name with crisp consonants. "I didn't mean to bother you," she said. Skarre stood up. "Do you need help getting home?" She was still staring into his eyes. As if there was in them something that she wanted to take away with her. A glow, a memory of something very much alive, which the young officer was. Skarre had a weird sensation, the sort of thing that happens only rarely, when the body reacts on impulse. He lowered his gaze and saw that the short blond hairs on his arms were standing on end. At the same moment the woman turned slowly around and walked to the door. She took short, awkward steps, as if she were trying to hide something. He went back to his chair. It was 4.03 p. m. For his amusement, he scribbled a few notes on his pad.

"A woman of about 60 arrives at the office at 4 p. m. She seems confused. Says her husband is missing, that he doesn't have long to live. Wearing a brown coat with a blue scarf at her neck. Brown handbag, black boots. Possibly mentally disturbed. Left after a few minutes. Refused offer of help to get home." He sat there, turning her visit over in his mind. Probably she was just a lost soul; there were so many of them nowadays. After a while he folded the piece of paper and stuck it into his shirt pocket. The incident didn't belong in his daily report.

*

HAS ANYONE SEEN ANDREAS? That was the headline in the town's largest newspaper, set in bold type. That's the way newspapers express themselves, using an informal tone to address us directly, as if we were on first-name terms and have known each other a long time. We're supposed to break down the barriers of formality and use a straightforward, youthful tone, in this fresh, onward-storming society. So even though very few people actually knew him or used his first name, let's just cut right to the chase and ask: Has anyone seen Andreas?

And the picture of him. A nice-looking boy of 18, with a thin face and unruly hair. I say "nicelooking", I'm generous enough to admit that. So handsome that things came easily to him. He strutted around with that handsome face of his and took things for granted. It's a familiar pattern, but it does no-one any good to look like that. Handsome in a timeless, classic sense. A charming boy. It costs me a bit to use that word, but all the same. . . charming. On the afternoon of September 1, he left his house on Cappelens gate. He said nothing about where he was off to. Where are you going? Out. That's the kind of answer you give at that age. A sort of infinite guardedness. You think you're somebody so exceptional. And his mother didn't have the sense to press him. Maybe she used his obstinacy as food for her martyrdom. Her son was in the process of leaving her, and she hated that fact. But it's really a matter of respect. She ought to have raised the boy so that it would be unthinkable for him not to reply in a polite and precise manner. I'm going out, well, with someone. We're thinking of going into town. I'll be home before midnight. Surely that's not too much to ask, is it? But she had failed, as have so many others. That's what happens when you invest all of your energy in yourself, your own life, your own sorrow. I know what I'm talking about. And the sorrow was going to get worse. He never came home.

Yes, I've seen Andreas. I can see him whenever I like. A lot of people are going to be surprised when he's finally found. And of course they'll speculate, they'll guess, and write up reports, and carry on discussions and fill numerous files. Everyone with his own theory. And all wrong, of course. People howl with many voices. In the midst of that din I've lived in silence for almost 60 years. My name is Irma. At last I'm the one who's doing the talking. I won't take much time, and I'm not saying that I have a monopoly on the truth. But what you're reading now is my version.

A childhood memory comes back to me. I can summon it up whenever I like. I'm standing in the porch with one hand on the door knob. It's quiet inside, but I know that they're there. Yet there's not a sound to be heard. I open the door very quietly and walk into the kitchen. Mother is standing at the counter, lifting the skin from a boiled mackerel. I can still recreate the smell in my nose, a cloying, unpleasant odour. She shifts her heavy body a little, indicating vaguely that she has noticed my presence. Father is busy over by the window. He's pressing putty into the cracks in the frame to keep the draught out. It's an old house. The putty is white and soft like clay, with a dry, chalk-like smell. My two sisters are sitting at the kitchen table, both busy with books and papers. I remember that pale, almost nauseating light when the sun cast its yellow rays into the green kitchen. I'm maybe six years old. Instinctively I'm scared of making any noise. I stand there, all alone, and stare at them. They're all busy with something. I feel very useless, almost in the way, as if I'd been born too late. I often thought I might have been an accident that they were unable to stop. There are two years between my sisters. I came along eight years later. What could have made my mother want another child after such a long time? But the idea that I might have been an unloved obligation makes me miserable. I've had it for so long, it's a well-worn idea.

This memory is so real that I can feel the hem of my dress tickling my knee. I'm standing in the yellowish-green light and noticing how alone I am. No-one says hello. I'm the youngest. Not doing anything important. I don't mean that my father should have stopped what he was doing, maybe lifted me up and tossed me in the air. I was too heavy for him. He had rheumatism, and I was big and chubby, with bones like a horse. That's what mother used to say. Like a horse. It was just Irma who had come in. Nothing to make a fuss about. Their heads turning imperceptibly, in case it was someone important, and then discovering that it was only Irma. We were here first, their looks said. Their indifference took my breath away. I had the same feeling as when I persuaded Mother to tell me about when I was born. And she shrugged, but admitted that it had happened in the middle of the night, during a terrible storm. Thunder and a fierce wind. It made me happy to think that I had arrived in the world with a crash and a roar. But then she added, with a dry laugh, that the whole thing was over in a matter of minutes. You slid right out like a kitten, she said, and my good feeling drained away. I waited, my knees locked, my feet planted on the floor. I'd been gone for quite a while, after all. Anything could have happened. We lived near the sea, didn't we? Ships from other countries regularly docked in the harbour. Sailors swarmed through the streets, staring at anyone over the age of ten. Well, I was six, but I was as sturdy as a horse, as I mentioned. Or I could have been lying with a broken leg or arm on the pavement near Gartnerhall, where we often played on the flat roof. Later, three Alsatians stood guard up there, but before that happened we used to play on the roof there, and I might have fallen over the edge. Or I could have been crushed under the wheels of a big lorry. Sometimes they have 20 tyres, and not even my big bones would survive that. But they were never worried. Not about things like that. About other things, yes. If I was holding an apple, had someone given it to me? I hadn't pinched it, had I? No? Well, did I thank them nicely? Had they asked me to say hello to my mother and father?

My brain was churning over to think up some

kind of task. Some way that I could make my way into the companionship that I felt they shared. Not that they turned me away, just that they didn't invite me in. I'll tell you one thing: those four people shared an aura. It was strong and clear, and reddish-brown, and it hardly flickered at all, the way it does for the rest of us. It was wrapped around them as tightly as a barrel hoop, and I was on the outside, enveloped in a colourless fog. The solution was to do something! The person who is doing something cannot be overlooked, but I couldn't think of anything. I didn't have any homework because this was before I had started school. That's why I just stood there, staring. At the boiled mackerel, at all the books lying around. At Father, who was working carefully and quietly. If only he would have given me a piece of that white putty! To roll between my fingers.

For a paralysing second I was struck by something that I think is important; important in order to explain both to myself and to you, who are reading this, how it could happen. The whole thing with Andreas. I suddenly became aware of the tremendous set of rules governing that room. In the silence, in the hands that were working, in the closed faces. A set of rules I had to submit to and follow to the letter. I was still standing in the silence of the kitchen, I felt that set of rules descend on me like a cage from the ceiling. And it struck me with enormous force: within that set of rules I was invulnerable! Within that clear framework of diligence and propriety, no-one could touch me. The concept of "within" meant the possibility of being around people without anyone looking askance, without offending anybody, and at the same time feeling a sense of peace because you were like everyone else. You thought the same way. But in my mind I saw a narrow street with high walls. It was to be my life. And a terrible sadness overwhelmed me. Until that moment I might have believed in Freedom, the way children do; they believe that anything is possible. But I made a decision, even though I was so young and might not have understood it all. I obeyed a primeval instinct for survival. I didn't want to be alone. I'd rather be like them and follow the rules. But something departed at that instant – it rose up and flew off and it vanished for ever. That's why I remember the moment so clearly. There in the kitchen, in the yellow-green light, at the age of six, I lost my freedom. That silent, well-mannered child. In Christmas and birthday pictures I'm sitting on my mother's knee and looking at the camera with a pious smile. Now I have an iron jaw that shoots pain up into my temples. How could things have ended up this way?

No doubt there are many different reasons, and some of it can be put down to pure coincidence, the fact that our paths crossed on one particular evening. But what about the actual crime? The impulse itself, where does that come from? When does murder occur? In such and such a place, at such and such a moment in time? In this case I can share the blame with circumstance. The fact that he stepped into my path, that he was the sort of person he was. Because with him I was no longer Irma. I was Irma with Andreas. And that was not the same as Irma with Ingemar. Or Irma with Runi. Chemistry, you know. Each time a new formula is created. Irma and Andreas destroyed each other. Is that true?

Does it emerge over a period of years? Does the crime lie dormant in the body's individual coding?

Is the murder a result of a long, inevitable process?

Of necessity, I have to view my life in the light of the horrible thing that happened, and I have to view that horrible thing in the light of what has been my life. Which is what everyone around me will do. They'll look in my past life for something that could explain whatever part of it can be explained. The rest will be left to float in a grey sea of theories. But to get back to the past: I was standing there, in the silence of the kitchen. My wordless presence made the silence shrill. It had felt so beautiful, but now they couldn't stand it any more. Mother turned around and crossed the room. She bent down and sniffed at my hair.

"Your hair needs washing," she said. "It smells." For a moment I considered going to fetch my art supplies. I could smell the oily scent of the pastels I liked to use. But I left the kitchen, went out to the garden, over the fence, past the abandoned smithy and into the woods. Among the spruce trees there was a pleasant, grey-green darkness. I was wearing brown sandals, and on the dry path I came across an ant hill. I poked at it with a twig, gleeful at the chaos I was able to create, a catastrophe in that wellordered society that might take weeks to repair. The desire to destroy! The feeling of joyous power as I scraped inside that ant hill with the twig. It felt good. I looked around for something to feed them. A dead mouse, something like that. Then I could have stood there and watched while they devoured it. They would have dropped everything and

forgotten about the catastrophe; having something to devour would come first, I was sure of that. But I didn't find anything, so I kept on walking. I came to a derelict farmhouse, sat down on the front steps, and thought about the story of the people who once lived there. Gustav and Inger and their twelve children. Uno, Sekunda, Trevor, Firmin, Femmer, Sexus, Syver, Otto, Nils, Tidemann, Ellef and Tollef. It was incomprehensible, nevertheless true: none of them is now alive.

Yes. The God that I don't believe in knows that I've seen Andreas. I think back to that terrifying moment when I felt it coming, the desire to destroy him. At the same instant I saw my own face reflected in a windowpane. And I remember the feeling, a sweet pressure, like warm oil running through my body. The certainty that this was evil. My face in the bluish glass. The hideous, evil person you become when the Devil holds the candle.

C H A P T E R 2

September 1.

A boy was walking through the streets alone. He was wearing jeans and a Nike jacket, black with an olive green yoke and a red-and-white swoosh on the back. They were expecting him home by 6 p.m. He might make it. A faint glow from a hazy sky hovered over the town. The wind was picking up. It was September and perhaps a bit melancholy, but that's not what he was thinking. Up until now life had been good.

The boy was about seven, thin and nice-looking. He was walking along with his hands in his pockets. In one pocket there was a bag of sweets. He had been walking for 15 minutes and had begun to sweat inside his jacket.

He raised a hand to wipe his forehead. His skin was the colour of coffee. His hair was thick and curly and black, and his eyes flashed in his dark face.

Then, behind him, a car turned into the street. In the car were two men, peering out of the windows.

They both felt that right now life was very boring. This town wasn't exactly brimming with surprises. It just sat there, split in half by a grey river, content with its mediocrity. The car was a green Golf. The owner went by the nickname of Zipp. He was named for the sound of a zip opening in the fly of a tight pair of jeans, or more specifically, one being opened with trembling fingers and blazing cheeks. His real name was Sivert Skorpe. Zipp had blond, wiry hair, and his young face always had an

inquisitive expression. Bordering on sheep-like, some might say, though he usually had luck with the ladies. He wasn't bad-looking, and besides, he was gentle, playful and simple. Not entirely without depth, but he never turned his thoughts inward, and that's why he lived his life oblivious to what existed deep inside. His companion looked like a faun, or something else from a fairy tale. He didn't try to compete. He seemed to have set himself above the chase, as if the girls should come to him, or something like that. Zipp could never understand it. He was driving at a leisurely pace. Both were silently hoping for the same thing, that something would happen. Then they caught sight of the boy.

"Stop!" said the passenger.

"What the hell. Why?" Zipp grunted and stepped on the brake. He didn't like trouble.

"I just want to have a little chat."

"Shit, Andreas. He's just a kid."

"A little black kid! I'm bored."

He wound down the window.

"You're not going to find any money on that brat. And it's money we need. I'm as thirsty as hell." The car drew up beside the boy. He cast them a glance and then looked away. It wasn't good to look people in the eye. Or dogs. Instead he fixed his gaze on his shoes and didn't slow his pace.

"Hey, Pops!"

A young man with reddish-brown curls was staring at him from the car window. Should he answer? The man was grown-up. The car was following him.

"Helluva a nice jacket you've got." The man nodded with admiration. "And it's a Nike! Your dad must make good money, right?"

"My grandfather gave it to me," the boy muttered.

"If you were a size bigger, I'd swipe it from you," the man said, laughing. "But it'd be a bit tight on me.

The boy didn't reply, just kept his eyes firmly fixed on the tips of his shoes.

"I'm only kidding," the man went on. "Just wanted to ask for directions. To the bowling alley." The boy risked a glance. "It's over there. You can see the sign," he told him.

"Oh, yeah. I was only kidding, as I said." He gave a low, ingratiating laugh and stuck his head all the way out of the window.

"Want a lift home?"

The boy shook his head vigorously. He could see a doorway up ahead.

"I live over there," he lied.

"Is that right?" The man was laughing hard.

"What's your name?"

The boy didn't answer. He had said his name

often enough to know what the reaction would be.

"Is it a secret?"

"No."

"Well, then what is it, boy!"

"Matteus," he whispered.

Dead silence. The man in the car looked at his companion.

"What the hell," he shouted. "That's really cool!

Is it really Matteus? The Gospels and all that shit?" He clucked his tongue. "Where are you from?" Smiling, he looked at the black curls and brown cheeks. For a moment there was a flash of yearning in his eyes that the boy couldn't possibly see.

"Right over there," he said, pointing.

"No, I mean what country are you from? You're adopted, aren't you?"

"Give it up, Andreas," said Zipp with a groan.

"Leave him be."

"Somalia," the boy said.

"Why didn't they give you a Norwegian name like other children that are adopted? Not that it matters." He tossed his head. "I feel a little faint every time I meet black or Chinese children named Petter and Kåre. Shit, it's really starting to get to me."

He laughed out loud, revealing a row of sharp, white teeth. Matteus pressed his lips together. His name was Matteus when they found him, the people he called his mother and father, at an orphanage in Mogadishu. They didn't want to change it, but sometimes he wished that they had. Now he just stared at the doorway up ahead, clutching his bag of sweets in a brown fist and casting a glance at the car. Then he turned and took a few steps up the gravel path towards the house that wasn't his at all. He saw a rack holding rubbish bins. He slipped behind them and crouched down. A nauseating, rotting smell came from the rubbish. The car accelerated away and disappeared. When he thought they were out of sight, he crawled out and continued on his way. He was walking faster now. His heart, which had been pounding, began to calm down. The incident had made his stomach churn, giving him a vague presentiment of what awaited him in his future. A car was coming down the street. For an awful moment he thought they might have turned around and come back. They realised that he didn't live there, and they had come to get him! His heart was pounding hard again as he heard the car approach. It stopped on the other side of the street.

"Hey, Matteus! You off out again? You sure do get around, Pops!"

Matteus ran. The men laughed and the engine started up. The car disappeared, headed into town. It was 6.15 when he reached his front door.

Zipp and Andreas supposed that they knew each other pretty well. In fact, they were aware of little, insignificant things, such as one another's likes and dislikes, and something about how they functioned in the world. Apart from that, they were both too preoccupied with themselves to look to the other for anything new. Zipp knew that Andreas preferred brand of beer had a blue cap. That he liked The Doors and didn't like mustard on his sausages. And that no girl was ever good enough for him. This was something that Zipp couldn't understand. The girls were always looking him over. Andreas is too good-looking, thought Zipp. His looks had given him an indolent, sauntering demeanour that occasionally irritated Zipp. There was something intractable about Andreas, something invulnerable and sluggish that almost made you want to hit him, or stick out your leg to see him lose his balance. If that was even possible. Furthermore, Zipp knew where Andreas lived and worked. He had been up to his room and visited his workplace, at the Cash & Carry. He worked among racks of tins of paint, bread knives and Teflon frying pans. It was a place for old ladies. Andreas was the only guy who worked there.

Andreas knew that Zipp's father had died years ago, but he couldn't remember what his name was or why he had died. He also knew that Zipp was unemployed and was always bumming money from him. He liked having company and he owned a car. The car had, of course, belonged to his father. His mother didn't know how to drive, but she did pay for the petrol. Zipp's mother did shift work at some kind of home and was almost never around. She was either at work or asleep. In Zipp's basement they had a little room, a place where they could hang out when they were broke. It was pleasant to stick with the familiar. Zipp was predictable, and Andreas liked that. And last, but not least, being friends with Zipp felt safe. They didn't have much to offer one another, yet they still hung out together. Anything was better than solitude. If Zipp ever suggested including a third or a fourth person, Andreas would talk him out of it, saying that it would just complicate things. Besides, they didn't have room for women in the car, which was a good argument. They fell out a few times, but none ever developed into a fight. They agreed on most things and usually it was Andreas who managed to turn any conflict to his advantage. He did it so effortlessly that Zipp never even noticed. They had crossed a few boundaries. Insignificant things: once in a kiosk where they had stolen some cartons of cigarettes and money; another time when they stole a car. The Golf had a dead battery, and the idea of trudging through the streets like a couple of schoolboys didn't appeal to them. But they didn't drive far. Basically they were quite cowardly. They never resorted to violence, and they had never owned a gun between them, although Andreas had a knife that was given to him as a confirmation present. Sometimes it hung from his belt, hidden under his shirt. The knife made Zipp uncomfortable. Sometimes they drank too much, and the knife would swing like a pendulum on Andrea's narrow hips, readily accessible. Not that Andreas set out to provoke anyone, or let himself be provoked by others. He had just the opposite effect on people. They felt good in his company, they would relax and sit staring into his pale blue eyes. But when Andreas drank, he changed. A restlessness would come over him, and the lazy boy would develop an almost feverish agitation. His thin fingers couldn't keep still; they were in constant motion, plucking at everything. Zipp was always amazed by this. He, on the other hand, would become dull and sleepy if he drank too much.

Andreas was actually quite remarkable. He was more like a mood, as if he weren't entirely present. He didn't belch when he got drunk. He didn't cough, and he didn't hiccup. Everything around him was quiet. And he didn't have any particular kind of smell. Zipp used Hugo Boss aftershave when he could afford it, or he would steal a bottle from the Cash & Carry if he was feeling confident. Andreas never used aftershave. He always looked the same; his hair never got greasy, he was always clean, but not too clean. If Zipp happened to wake him up on a Sunday morning, and he appeared in the doorway wearing his bathrobe, he never looked tired. His eyes were wide open. His hair was always the same length. His shoes never looked worn out. It was strange.

Right now Andreas was waiting for his wages. Between them they were worth the princely total of 60 kroner. Not even enough for two beers.

"What are you thinking about?" Andreas said out of the blue.

Zipp grimaced, "I'm thinking about Anita."

"Shit, is she really worth thinking about?"

"What do you mean?" Zipp looked sullen.

"The girl's as dead as a doornail."

"You can say that again." Zipp had to look out of the window to hide his face. "How much buckshot is there in one cartridge?" he said tonelessly.

"Depends. Why do you ask?"

"I'm thinking about her face. How it looked afterwards. Anita was so pretty."

Andreas shrugged. "If you stand close enough, the shot comes out like one huge bullet. By the way, I talked to Roger. He said her nose was sticking out and her whole jaw was wide open. One of her eyes was gone." He took a drag on his cigarette. "And Anders," he said, "he was standing right behind Anita when the shot was fired. The top of his skull was totally perforated."

Zipp sat in silence, painting the picture in his mind. There was no end to the details. His brain was stuffed with images from films, X-rated, widescreen and with digital sound effects.

"Fucking hell."

Andreas rolled his eyes. "Why are you carrying on like this? It's not like she was your sister. That's life, Zipp. 'All these moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.'"

Andreas was quoting Roy Batty. But Zipp was still thinking about Anita. He thought about her laugh, her voice and her scent. He remembered the tiny green gemstone in her nose. Everything blasted to smithereens.

"Well, you know I've been in the sack with Anita. It's weird to think about it," he said in a low voice.

"Is there a single jam jar in the whole town that you haven't dipped your wick in?"

"Ha, ha. Not many." He snorted up the snot running from his nose. "The Devil must have got into Robert," he muttered. "I know Robert. Something must have made him go crazy."

"Okay, so that's what we'll say. He was possessed. But not by the Devil."

"No?"

"Good Lord, man. He was dead drunk! He was possessed by alcohol. His brain was pickled. Blotto, unpredictable and insane! There's your Devil."

"I think I'm going on the wagon," said Zipp gloomily. This made Andreas burst out laughing because the idea was preposterous. Then the moment passed, the mood lifted, and Zipp erased the bloody image from his mind. For a while they drove in silence.

"Were you with the Woman yesterday?" Out of the corner of his eye Zipp glanced at Andreas' thigh in the light-coloured slacks.

"Yes, I was," he replied. Zipp heard the smile in his voice, and the warning not to ask anything more. Not that it was a secret. He had plainly told Zipp that they were sleeping together. Or had he?

Maybe he was just pulling his leg. Andreas was so secretive, so difficult to work out.

"I can't understand why you bother," laughed Zipp.

"A few extra kroner," said Andreas curtly. His voice didn't sound annoyed, but there was a wariness to his tone. "You're always so thirsty." And then he added, with great pathos: "I'm doing it for us, Zipp."

Zipp tried to listen for everything he wasn't saying. Andreas was modelling for an artist. She painted him in the nude. Zipp tried to imagine what pose he took, whether he was lying on a sofa or sitting on a chair, or maybe standing up in some impossible position. He hadn't dared to ask. But Zipp was curious. The thought of taking off his clothes in front of a woman and letting her look at him while he stood there, passive, made him uncomfortable. Of course they had sex afterwards. According to Andreas. But the feeling, thought Zipp, of having to stand there, motionless, while the Woman examined his body in every detail. Not that he was shy of it. He wasn't fat or too small, or anything like that. But to be observed like that, by a woman.

"Isn't that damned painting ever going to be finished? You've been going there for months."

Zipp inhaled more smoke. Without understanding why, he sensed that he had approached somewhere dangerous. At the same time he felt compelled to go on. It occurred to him that he had never seen Andreas get angry. He was always calm, soft-spoken and reassuringly the same. For eleven years he had been the same.

"It takes a year to make a good painting," Andreas said firmly, as if he were instructing a child. He twisted the ends of his scarf. They matched his shirt.

"A whole fucking year? Well, then you've got a whole lot of shit ahead of you."

Zipp flicked the ash from his cigarette out of the window. "Just think if she gets famous and they hang the painting up so that God and everybody else can see it. In the bank, for example. Or at the Saga cinema. Shit, that would really do me in." Zipp put the car in neutral. Andreas patiently watched the red light.

"No-one will recognise me," he said, his voice calm.

"No? Is it one of those Picasso things with both ears on the same side of the head?"

Andreas uttered a weary laugh at his friend's boundless ignorance.

"It's going to be a good painting," was all he said.

"How old is this chick, anyway?"

Andreas winked. "Old enough to know more tricks than any of the schoolgirls you hang out with." This was the kind of remark that Zipp loved. Anything that referred to his performance in bed, of which he had the highest regard. Oh yes!

"You whoring pig," he sneered. "Is it possible for a choirboy like you to learn any tricks?" That was when Andreas turned to face him, just as the light went green. He looked Zipp up and down, from his bristly hair that refused to lie flat, to his turned-up nose and the cleft in his chin, to his plump thighs and the ridiculous tight jeans he always wore. Stretch to fit. But the small head and powerful torso reminded Andreas of what Zipp really was. A stud. He started sweating. Andreas sat there, assessing him, his body, every last detail. And he rejected it! Zipp wouldn't have a chance with the Woman.

Zipp regretted having started this conversation. This is how it always ended up. He would try, but he never got anywhere. If only he had some damn money for a beer! Surreptitiously he studied his companion. Andreas had style. He wore widelegged trousers and baggy shirts. Nothing gaudy. Moccasins on his feet, never running shoes. In the summer he rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt. But always loose clothing, light-coloured and lightweight. His clothes seemed to flutter about him, making him look slimmer and lankier even than he was. Zipp squeezed the exact same number of kilos, 63, into tight jeans and T-shirts that fit him like a second skin. Above them he wore a leather jacket. It was short-waisted and wide in the shoulders, but somehow it didn't give him the athletic look he was after. Instead it gave him a puffed-up look. This surprised him, because he wasn't overweight. He was slightly bowlegged and he had a ponytail, but his appearance was pretty ordinary. He envied Andreas his style and elegance, but he couldn't emulate it. The effect wouldn't be the same. Not that he was unlucky with the ladies. But even in that department Andreas had overtaken him. He ignored them. Except for the Woman. And Zipp still didn't know how old she was. Thirty? Or more? Forty, or fifty even? Zipp had an aunt who was 50. The thought gave him the creeps. A 50-year-old woman. With children and stuff like that. How did women look – down there – after they'd squeezed out a brood of children?

They had to look different from girls.

"Does she have any children?" the question slipped out.

"Quite a few," Andreas said, nodding. "Four or five."

"Shit, there must be plenty of room inside a bitch like that, huh?"

Andreas rolled up the window, and a sour little smile appeared on his face.

"I've seen things you wouldn't believe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"They're much, much deeper, Zipp." High above the town, with a view of the river, stood an imposing house from the early twentieth century. In need of repair here and there, but the green panelling was still holding up to all kinds of weather. This was where the artist Anna Fehn lived. One evening in early summer she was wandering around in the town square, observing people. She had a trained eye. Most people aren't especially attractive, she thought. Most of them are a random selection of genes from the two sets which served as the basis for their existence. Long arms and legs from the father, tiny hands and feet from the mother. Almost no-one comprises a harmonious whole. Almost no-one makes an impression. Yet she knew that it wasn't a matter of heavy or light, rough or fine, but how they carried themselves, how they moved. With a consciousness of who they were, and with pride as the dominant force, or squeezed into a nature, a form, they refused to acknowledge. But then she caught sight of Andreas. At an outdoor cafe with someone. Her first thought was that he looked bored. Life wasn't enough for him. There was something important that he had yet to find. Not original – the same was true of most people. But he wasn't sitting there with the usual gaping expression, forever turning his head to look at girls, or preoccupied with whether anyone might be looking at him. He sat there in utter peace, with his long legs stretched out under the table. Anna took in the leather shoes on the pavement, the cotton shirt against his pale skin. His hair moved very faintly; his slender fingers were wrapped around his glass. He was practically lying in his chair, which was tilted on to its back legs. To be able to sit like that, perfectly balanced, at risk of toppling over and banging his head on the concrete, and yet he looked so relaxed. So uninterested. So impregnable. It made an impression on her. She looked at his companion. They seemed an unlikely pair. Both of them had downed the best part of a pint, but they weren't yet drunk. Otherwise they looked like most young people their age. Didn't belong to any specific group, not headbangers or punks, but just ordinary boys of around 20 years old. Yet Andreas had a lazy elegance about him and a splendid head of hair reaching to his shoulders. She tried to define the colour. If she mixed carmine, burnt sienna, and a light ochre, and then added some ivory nuances, she might come close. Anna moved nearer. If she divided his face up into sections, the way artists do – the forehead, cheeks, eyes, jaw – it struck her that he wasn't strikingly handsome in the classic sense. His eyes were set a little too deep, his nose was long and narrow and crooked and at the tip it bent down towards his mouth, which was a bit too small, but evenly shaped and nice-looking. His chin was narrow and jutted out. Over his left eyebrow he had a birthmark, exactly on his hairline. Yet, taken together, his features made a strong impression. Impossible to ignore. He was thin, long-limbed and well-defined, in spite of his young age. She played with the idea of how he would look naked. There was something about young boys that disappeared as they crossed the boundary to become grown men. That moment when their bodies hesitated, just before that last step towards adult gravity. He was at that point right now. His skin had a sheen to it that reminded her of cream. He was either a university student or a young man in his poorly paid first job. Undoubtedly he needed money. For a moment she turned her back to him and stared at a lit-up window, at a dress that she couldn't afford. No, be honest, it's too short for you! She laughed at herself and then turned back. She didn't want to approach him as long as his friend was there, in case it might embarrass him. So she waited patiently. Sooner or later one of them would need to find the toilet below the square. While she waited, she placed him in the pose she instinctively thought would show him at his best. That lazy, casual expression was also a pose, a form of protection that he used. His friend hadn't seen through him. He looked younger, and maybe a little less shrewd. And then, abruptly, he got up and disappeared. Anna Fehn took quick action. She walked to the table and leaned towards him.

"I'm a painter, and I'm always looking for models. If you're interested in earning a few kroner, call me at this number. My name is Anna." She held out her card. He wasn't startled, just looked back at her with a certain curiosity. And then he took her card, and stuck it in the pocket of his baggy shirt, which was unbuttoned. She caught a glimpse of his boyish chest.

"Just to be clear," she added, "I'm talking about posing in the nude."

He nodded. He understood. That very evening he called her from a pay phone. She thought he must live at home and didn't want to involve anyone else. He was at her door the next evening. He undressed without embarrassment, but cast a quick glance at her, said he'd never done this before. Businesslike, she explained to him what to do, but she allowed herself to show a maternal warmth. She would have liked to show something else, but she was old enough to be his mother, for heaven's sake. On that first evening she made only a rough sketch, and assured herself that he could hold the pose for a reasonable length of time, without discomfort. He put his clothes on and left. After that he came back every week at the same time. They didn't really get to know each other.

Andreas never talked about himself, and he wasn't interested in knowing anything about her. He had no plans or desires for the future. Now and then he talked about his friend Zipp. Or occasionally, about a film that he liked. Or about music. Nothing else.

The impulse came unexpectedly. She was not prepared, she had never planned it. Dreamed about it, maybe, but who wouldn't? One evening, as she worked, he seemed to fall into a reverie. He was no longer holding the pose, and his gaze was lost in one of the big paintings on the wall. Something of the tension in his body dissolved. She wanted to point this out, but changed her mind. For a long time she was able to study him unobserved. She held her breath and stood still with the brush in her hand. She knew he wasn't thinking about her; she would have sensed it if he was. She walked over to him. He pulled himself together, moved back into his original position. But she had seen him, caught him unawares. He didn't like that. She wanted to tell him that it didn't matter. She gave him a quick smile and patted his cheek. But when she felt his skin under her hand, she couldn't stop. He had high cheekbones that were beautiful and prominent beneath his white skin. He did not turn away. He stood still and allowed her to caress him. The sharp light, which came from a lamp to the left, was meant for her work. She could see every pore of his skin, as well as the thin veins in his temples. And his eyelids, like tissue paper. His skin smelled like skin, his hair like hair. He acquiesced and let her have what she wanted. Her body had been asleep for a long time. She was overwhelmed by everything that awakened, that trickled and flowed. She wanted to surrender, to make love as if it were a matter of life and death, to shriek and scratch, but she controlled herself. She didn't want to frighten him away. Afterwards, when he left the house, she came to her senses. He lacked fire. She had thought that there would be a flood of passion, because he was so young. It must be there somewhere. But she never found it. Yet they continued. Every time she had finished her work, they would go to bed. He never took the initiative, she was always the one who did that. May this painting never be done! she thought. Without feeling any shame. They were both grown-ups. Deep inside she hoped that he bragged about it to others.

C H A P T E R 3

I sell curtains and bed linens and fabric in a very respectable shop. I'm home each day by 5 p.m. The rest of the evening I spend indoors, pottering around. Almost no-one ever comes here, once in a while my friend, or perhaps my son. Ingemar. I listen politely to whatever he says. He never asks me to visit or anything like that, it's too difficult for us. The visits are more like an obligation, when we check up on each other. Make sure that everything is all right. It's nice to be able to say at work now and then that Ingemar was here for coffee yesterday. So reliable and proper. Socialising, spending time with other people, noticing their smell, or the certainty that they notice my smell, is more than I can bear. I go shopping at regular intervals and buy what I need. Never more than that. Sometimes I go to the library, where I borrow biographies. Or I look through the newspapers. It doesn't cost anything, you know. I go there right before closing time, when it's quiet and there's never a queue at the check-out desk. The librarian is a man. He looks sad. What a burden it must be to have to read everything.

I don't talk to my neighbours. If they say hello over the fence, I say hello back, but keep walking. I'm not unhappy, but I'm not happy either. I don't know anyone who is. A doctor that I see once a year says that I'm as healthy as a horse. He says this in a stern, admonishing way, and I know what he's getting at, but he can't possibly understand. I don't feel like explaining. He's not being malicious or pretentious, he just sits there and looks at me. Wants to offer me something, but he doesn't really have the strength for it.

People are so different. It's easier to love things, or tasks, or animals maybe, but they smell and they leave hair everywhere, or something even worse. I spend the evenings tidying up the house. I wash and put things away and wipe and dust. Everything is clean. Finally I splash some bleach in all the drains. It kills bacteria and removes odours. Behind the house I have a beautiful garden and a small gazebo. If I sit outside in the summer I put up a windbreak made of canvas. If anyone were to stand behind the hedge and look in, they wouldn't be able to see me. Not that I'm sitting there wearing nothing but my underwear; that would never occur to me. But I like this enclosed space. I've never bothered anybody. Never made big demands or behaved unreasonably.

I don't cheat on my taxes, I don't shoplift, I pay all my bills a day or two before they're due. On Saturday evenings I sometimes drink a little wine, but never too much. I watch television. Read the newspapers. I know what's happening out in the streets and in Algeria and Rwanda. I sleep well, I rarely dream, and I'm not afraid of dying. In fact, I often wish I would die. Die suddenly, while I'm sitting in the red chair, without being aware of it. Next to the window, with the sun on my face. The last thing I felt would be a faint warmth. How sad it will be when I'm not here any more!

In short, I fulfil my obligations. What's wrong with obligations? Aren't they what hold society together? Every night when I go to bed, I can cross off one more day. That's a relief. I'm not ashamed. When I wake up in the morning, I'm always amazed that I'm still here. But I think that's great, and I do what I'm supposed to do. You mustn't think that I'm unhappy or anything; I'm doing fine. Or was. Until the incident with Andreas happened.

I was 16 when I left the yellow house. All the rules had closed around me like a cage. I didn't let anyone in. Behind the bars, I constructed a life, a state in which I could survive, one consisting of order and regulation, discipline and control. My parents regarded me with doubt and relief. There was something clearly legible in their eyes. Don't blame us, they said, if anything goes wrong. They didn't wave when I left. They wanted above all things to be left in peace. I never acquired a faith in God, either. There's more between heaven and earth, my mother would say, with her back turned. They passed on to me what they had learned themselves, the best way to make it through life. So I left, with the rules as a weight on my shoulders, and from behind the cage bars I observed the world. Everyone around me was vacillating and without purpose and disgustingly impulsive. Human beings have a tendency to just drift along, and that makes me nervous.

I have a friend. Did I mention that? Runi. She rarely visits me. Usually it is I who goes to visit her, and that's what I prefer. A guest in my house makes me feel like a prisoner. I can't get up and leave when I want to. She talks a lot and has all sorts of worries. No more than I do, but I'm not as eager to talk about them. Except for now, to you. Runi's a beautiful woman; in appearance, I mean. Modern without going over the top. She knows she's attractive. That's important to her. Most of the time she's gentle and talkative and lively. But she cackles wickedly about everything that's troublesome, and sometimes she's a downright nuisance. It wears me out. Occasionally there are things that I'd like to tell Runi, but I don't. Like when I use her toilet. I go into the tiny room, lift up my skirt and pee. Wipe myself thoroughly. Wash my hands. It costs me nothing. I can't tell this to Runi, because she wouldn't understand. You wouldn't either. Of course she's charming, but she lacks any connection with herself and with the ground she walks on. She never thinks things through. When something happens, she's never prepared. That childish attitude, thinking that nothing will ever harm her, where does she get that from? She's an adult now. And a terrible liar. One time – well, I have to confess it was in a fit of drunkenness – I was sitting in her living room, eating cake. With icing and green gumdrops on top. She started talking about how vigorously she always did the Friday cleaning, and how much her back hurt afterwards. I had my own thoughts on the subject. I could smell the dust in the room. I have a very keen sense of smell. When she went out to the kitchen to get something, I grabbed a gumdrop from the cake and tossed it under the sofa. And then I waited. At first for a week, but then I put my heart and soul into it and waited another week. And then, to really test fate, I waited one week more. Then I paid her a visit. When she went to the bathroom, I bent down and found the gumdrop. It wasn't green any more, and it was furry. I never confronted her with the furry gumdrop; I'm not a mean sort of person. I try to offer her something, since we're friends, for God's sake. And what is a friend?

Someone to spend time with, without too much discomfort? Because I don't really care for her that much. If she died I'd be extremely upset, but at the same time a lot would be over and done with. Grieve for her? That's not how I'd feel. It's good to be done with things.

She encourages me to go out, sometimes to a restaurant, or to the theatre. It takes an effort for me to do that. To sit there in a crowd of people, so close that you can hear what they're saying, is very stressful. One time we went to Hanna's Kitchen because it was Runi's birthday. That was a long time ago. We were sitting at a table right next to two young women, well, young compared to us, but definitely adults. They were howling and carrying on, giggling like a couple of teenagers. And they drank too much and got very drunk. I realised after a while that they were actually two streetwalkers. I'm no fool. Some of their conversation can't be repeated, it was so vile. And having them so close like that. Unable to get away! Runi makes all the arrangements if we're going to do something together. Sometimes I feel quite moved, when I hear her voice on the phone, when she asks me if I'd like to come along, and her anxiety that I might say no. She doesn't have anyone else. Life isn't easy for anybody.

If I'm ever brought before a court, they'll probably declare me guilty by reason of insanity. But I'm not. I remember everything, so I should be held accountable, shouldn't I? And you can see that my thoughts are coherent and orderly, can't you?

That I'm a normal human being and not mentally deficient? I'm sure of that.

I've pulled a plastic tarpaulin over the body. I don't plan on moving him. How could I manage that? He weighs a ton, so the most I could have done would be to lug him into a corner. I've hung an old potato sack over the window. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling. He's lying on his back with his arms at his side. He's no longer handsome. As I've said so often, physical beauty is a fragile gift. I myself have little to lose. I'm know that I'm ugly. No-one has ever said as much out loud, but I can see it in people's eyes when I meet their gaze: the dead look they give me. "Why can't you fix yourself up?" Runi asks me, annoyed. It scares her that I don't fight back. Let the young people be sleek in peace, is what I think now. Like Andreas, he's young and sleek. Well, not any more. My thoughts are with him. It's not that he's been forgotten or anything. He'll never be forgotten. But as for myself, I'm not so certain.

C H A P T E R 4

Andreas smoked Craven A cigarettes. Not Prince or Marlboro, like other people. Every time he was out of cigs he'd go to a kiosk, lean forward and say:

"Craven". And they would nod behind the counter and search the shelves. Not many people bought that brand. He sought attention wherever he went, but as soon as he got it, he rejected it. Zipp knew that he himself was not fussy, and had no specific preferences whatsoever. He couldn't really tell the difference, anyway, between a Prince and a Marlboro. Or between Coke and Pepsi. He had to look at the name on the label. He wondered if other people were lying, or whether they were actually more canny than he was. Maybe Andreas was lying. He wasn't altogether trustworthy. Something was lacking. He could never say: "One time last year" or "last Saturday" or "dammit, Zipp, guess what happened yesterday!" He never talked about anything in the past. Only about the present moment, or what was to come. And it wasn't because what had happened in the past was too awful to talk about; that wasn't it. And Zipp ought to know. They'd been hanging out together for eleven years. But had he ever heard Andreas say: "Do you remember that time?" No, that would never happen.

"In 2019," said Andreas, "we'll be 39 years old. Have you ever thought about that?"

Zipp shrugged. No, he hadn't, and he didn't feel like doing the arithmetic, but it was probably about right. Almost 40.

"What about it?"

Andreas studied the pavement ahead. "By then human beings will have colonised several of the planets. All the animals will be extinct. The air will be lethally polluted, and the first replicants will be living among us without our knowing."

"You've been watching too many videos," Zipp said. "We need money, man!"

Andreas read aloud what it said on a poster on a wall: "Saga Sun Trips. Clean air, crystal clear water. I know," he said. "Drive over to Furulund." He issued the order in a gentle manner, as if Zipp were a long way his junior. It did not occur to him that he might be contradicted, at least not with any seriousness.

"Furulund? Why there?"

"It's quiet out there."

"But what about the money, Andreas!"

"Just so," he said calmly.

Zipp made a U-turn, and Andreas pulled a comb out of his pocket. He started combing his unruly hair.

"Out to get the ladies?" Zipp teased. "Someone younger for a change?"

Andreas struggled with his curls. "Shut up and drive."

Zipp drove the Golf as fast as it would go, past Dynamite Industries and along the fjord. Andreas remained alert. After five minutes he told Zipp to slow down. A cyclist was coming in the other direction, a man on a racing bike. He had a touring rucksack on his back, he was wearing a helmet and cycling gloves, and he was moving at quite a speed. Andreas dismissed the man and stared through the windscreen. They were approaching a public park, which consisted of a decent swimming area, tables and benches and several large permanent barbeques which were always in use during the summer.

"Turn right," Andreas said.

"There's just a lousy kiosk down there, and it's closed for the autumn," Zipp objected.

"There are people here," Andreas said. "It's a tourist area. If we're lucky, we'll find an old lady with a handbag."

Zipp manoeuvred the car cautiously down

towards the sea.

"Slowly. We're strangers here, we're looking for something."

"Looking for what?"

Andreas shook his head in disbelief.

"We're going to stop someone and ask for directions."

"Who?"

"Whoever turns up," he said with a groan. His friend's simple-mindedness was unbearable.

"What a shitload of trouble it is to live in a society that charges 40 kroner for a pint. If it's going to be any fun tonight, we're going to need at least a thousand," Zipp said.

The ocean poured in over the shore. Greyishgreen, foaming, and ice-cold. They came to an old dilapidated clubhouse. Outside it, pieces of broken patio furniture had been piled into a heap, a midsummer bonfire that would never be lit. The summer had been very dry. They turned into the car park and surveyed the area. In the distance they saw a figure plodding along the shoreline. Andreas opened the glove compartment and took out a cap. He pulled it down over his forehead and tucked his curls underneath. Zipp grinned when he read the words on the blue fabric.

"'Holy Riders. On the Road for Jesus.' Shit, you're bad, Andreas!"

A strong wind was blowing. Andreas stuck one foot outside the car.

"A woman," he said. "With a pram. Excellent."

"Why?"

"Women get so helpless when they're pushing a pram."

He turned to look at Zipp. "Just think what's inside."

"What exactly are you planning to do?" Zipp was nervous. He couldn't very well object; they were friends, did everything together. But he often thought that one day they would cross a boundary too far. Andreas had his knife in his belt, under his shirt.

"First we have to see if she's got a handbag with her. If she lives nearby, she probably left it at home. Otherwise women always carry a handbag." They waited as the figure came closer slowly. She was pushing the pram along the beach, and the wheels were sinking into the soft sand. She was very tall, with a scarf round her head and a lightcoloured coat which flapped in the wind.

"She must be two metres tall!" said Zipp, who was 1.70 himself.

"Doesn't matter. Girls don't have much in the way of muscles."

The woman caught sight of the car. She leaned down to pat what lay inside the pram. They could see part of a blue quilt. Andreas strained his eyes.

"I see her handbag," he whispered. "It's on top of the blanket. That's great!"

"Why?"

"It's more difficult when they carry their handbags over their shoulders." He sat for a moment, squinting under the peak of his cap, going over his plan of attack. It wasn't a time for threats or violence, but for pure cunning.

"You stay here. Keep the engine running. Find something in the glove compartment. Pretend that you're sitting here looking at a map or something. I'll get out and ask for directions – to somewhere. The football field. I'll snatch the handbag and hightail it back."

"She'll get our registration number!"

"They usually don't. They get too damned scared."

Andreas got out and approached the woman.

She took stock of him and slowed her pace, casting an uneasy glance at the car.

Women are strange, thought Andreas. It's as if they can smell that something is up. Or maybe they just look at things in a different way from men. Because they have more enemies, maybe that's it. To be a woman and have to be on guard all the time, what a fucking strain that must be! She had actually started in the direction of the car park, but then she would have to pass the car. Suddenly she turned the pram around and set off in the opposite direction. The manoeuvre was pitifully obvious. He wondered where the idea came from. Whether on account of the foaming sea, because her path was blocked on one side, or maybe because of the child, the responsibility for someone other than herself. And because they were male. A sudden fear. In addition, the wind was fierce and the waves were slamming hard against the shore. No-one would hear her if she yelled. Andreas stopped, shook his head and stared after her. She turned around, wary. He reacted fast and made a helpless gesture with his hands. The light was white and harsh, making his face shine. She started up a path that rose steeply along a ridge above the sea. Possibly a way out. Zipp sat in the car and waited. He followed Andreas with his eyes, Andreas followed the woman. She quickened her pace, but then she heard his voice behind her and again she turned around. In spite of everything, most people found it difficult to ignore someone who was calling out in a friendly manner. And surely he couldn't be dangerous or anything like that! What a ridiculous idea! She had merely taken precautions, withdrawn from a potential danger. The baby in the pram had shown her so clearly how dangerous the world was. She hardly slept at night; when she fell asleep the child was erased from her consciousness, and she couldn't allow that to happen.

"Excuse me!"

Andreas called out in a paper-thin voice. The yellow shirt flapped around his slender midriff. His right hand held the shirt over his knife. He looked like a very tall kid of confirmation age. Zipp, still in the car, saw the woman stop at last. It didn't seem right to choose her, not a woman with a little baby. There was something about the way that she was clutching the handle of the pram that frightened him. A sense of desperation in those white hands tight around the handle. It wasn't because of the handbag, but because of the little bundle under the blue blanket. He realised that something might happen, that she was unpredictable because of the baby. He put the brake on and got out. He did this even though Andreas had told him to stay in the car.

Andreas was almost level with her. He stopped a short distance away so as not to seem threatening. And he had an air about him that was hard to resist. Zipp could see in her eyes that she had read what it said on his cap, that she had noticed the little white cross and the words underneath. Her shoulders relaxed. She even ran her hand over her scarf, almost coquettishly, and looked at him with a smile. Andreas opened his mouth and said something. The woman replied and started pointing, past the car park and up towards the road. Zipp stared at the pram and caught sight of the handbag.

A nylon bag, black and red. Andreas moved a few steps nearer as he looked the other way. He was backing up towards the handbag. Zipp kept walking. Then Andreas noticed him, and for a moment he looked confused. They were high up on the path now. There was no beach below, just a bare slope descending to the water that ended in piles of sharp rocks. Andreas made his move. He leaned and

grabbed the handbag, then ran hell for leather back towards the car. The woman screamed. In desperation she tried to make sense of the new situation, the fact that they had duped her, after all, just when she had decided that they were decent boys with good intentions. Something took hold of her, a violent rage, or maybe it was a sense of impotence. She kicked on the brake of the pram out of pure reflex, and started running.

"Get in the car!" Andreas shouted. But Zipp stood stock still. They came running towards him, but he didn't move because he could see the pram starting to roll down the slope towards the water. She hadn't set the brake properly!

Paralysed, he watched the little blue plush pram tip over the edge. He screamed as he ran like crazy and almost collided with Andreas. But the woman stopped in her tracks. She finally realised what was happening. She whirled around and saw Zipp leap over the edge and vanish. And then she gave a piercing shriek and started to run. Andreas stopped where he was and stared in astonishment. The handbag slipped out of his hands. In the distance he heard the roar of the waves, the sound of heavy swells that almost knocked him over. He heard several faint screams before Zipp's blond head appeared over the edge. His face was red with agitation.

"Run, for God's sake, run!"

"What about the baby!" shouted Andreas. He grabbed the handbag and ran after Zipp.

"The pram stopped against a stone and tipped over! The baby fell out! Oh, fucking hell!" They threw themselves into the car and drove out of the car park with a screech of tyres. Neither of them dared to look back. But they could still hear the roar of the waves, a loud thundering that rose and fell.

"Shit! The baby was screaming its head off!"

"Calm down, it went fine."

"Fine? That baby could have drowned!"

"He didn't drown!"

"But he definitely hurt himself. Shit, you should have heard him screaming!"

"It would have been worse if he didn't."

"Jesus Christ."

"Cut out the Jesus crap!"

The Golf roared along the road, sending up a shower of gravel and careening wildly. An ugly grinding sound came from the gearbox. Andreas had to hold on to the door handle. He tore off his cap and stuffed it into his pocket. His curls came tumbling out.

"She saw both of us. She saw the car. Do you have the handbag?"

Zipp was stammering.

"Do you think I'm an amateur?"

"We'll have the police at the door by tonight."

"No, we won't. She's too preoccupied with the baby. She'll forget about everything else."

"Are you out of your mind?" shrieked Zipp, as he struggled to hold the steering wheel in his trembling hands.

"I know what women are like. She'll be thanking God because the baby survived and she'll realise how unimportant the money is. Mothers have a whole new set of values in life. So shut up and drive!"

He bent over the bag and rummaged inside it. Pulled out a baby bottle.

"The milk's warm," he said in surprise. After that he took out a dummy, a mosquito net for the pram and a purse. He tore it open. "Her name's Gina," he said.

"Is there any money?" asked Zipp in confusion.

"A few hundred-kroner notes. Four. Shit, Zipp, let me tell you, I'm a genius of cunning and strength! According to the Tyrell Corporation. Nexus 6 fighting model!"

*

My mother was not really a mother, but rather a kind of corrective entity. That's why I'm a well-behaved girl. I say "yes, please" and "no, thank you". I have a firm handshake. Look people in the eye. Remember names. Remember little things, what people like and don't like, notice how attractively they blush. I'm not so dangerous. I take good care of myself, I do not lack for anything. It's no sacrifice. A person can argue his way through life and insist on having his own way or someone else having theirs, and live a life of pain. Why should I do that? Nothing is important to me, or not important enough. I don't mind standing at the end of the line, I'm a patient person. If others are in a hurry, I let them go ahead of me. It amuses me. I laugh at them when they're not looking. Laugh at their life-or-death expressions. It's only on bad days that I cry. But I don't have many bad days. Or didn't. Sometimes I do cry, almost astonished at the crack that opens without warning. When I look at pictures from poor countries. Children with flies on their lips, toothless old people with no flesh on their bones, scabs and sores, with no water; they look at me reproachfully. Maybe part of the blame is mine.

Somebody is to blame. But I've never done anything about it.

I'm glad that Henry disappeared. I saw it coming. Saw his expression when I got undressed at night. Not disgust, just a terrible embarrassment, and I didn't help him. That wasn't my job. Henry was supposed to help me. That's what the doctor said, let your husband help you. But he couldn't do it. It's easier to live alone. And this way he won't have to deal with everything that happens. That's good. My son Ingemar never mentions his name. I tell him that he doesn't have to, only that he has to try to understand. He doesn't love me, I realise that. He doesn't hate me either, I've never thought that he did, but the only life I know I've dumped on to his shoulders. He's a decent person too. Works for the Pricing Commission. He doesn't owe any money, and he doesn't drink. I don't know exactly what he does at his job, maybe he decides what things should cost. Everybody complains about the price of everything, and everybody's salary is too low. "Let's go on strike!" they all shout. "We're not going to stand for it any more, we've been passed over, we're not appreciated, the others have got something, why shouldn't we!" No-one ever grows up these days. Everywhere I go I see whining children. Runi, for example, she whines a lot.

Once in a while I wish that Ingemar would come over and we could go into town together. Arm in arm. Irma Funder walking along the street with her grown-up son. He's not tall or handsome, but quite nice-looking. He gets his heavy face from me, and it suits him. He's extremely serious. The kind of person who has thought things through. It's true that he doesn't have any great ambitions, but he fulfils his obligations, and he never complains. Walking through town with Ingemar. We go to a cafe. He pays and carries our tray to the table. Pulls out my chair. But he never comes. It's been a long time since he came to see me. If I suggested it – how about the two of us going into town? – he would look at me in surprise. But now I'm happy as long as he stays away.

The house is old. Henry said it was built on clay. That it was just a matter of time, or enough rain, before it would pull loose and slide away, slip unhindered down the slope and crash into number 15. He was always so worried, Henry. I love this house. I know every nook and cranny, the contents of every drawer. Each step on the stairs when I leave for work. Left for work. Everything is mine, and old and familiar and always the same. Ingemar once sat here at the table – that was a long time ago – and he'd got it into his head that the house should be painted. Red, Ingemar said. It's white now, with green paintwork. I would get so scared, every time I stepped through the gate. Scared that something huge and red would loom up, and I'd stand there screaming. I'm telling you these snippets of my life because it's important to me that you see that I'm clear-headed, that I remember things, that I'm not crazy. Of course people will judge me. But I prefer to be my own judge. There is no excuse. Nor would I want any. But there is an explanation. Andreas was just a boy. I didn't want him dead. What am I saying? I certainly did want him dead, in that one evil moment. I stood there and thought: Now I'm going to kill him, I have to do it! Was I all alone with that thought? That horrific moment when I destroyed him. I remember a strange light in the room. Where did it come from? Have you ever seen it?

*

The woman moaned and carried on. She was oblivious to everything, to the fact that she was shivering or that the child might get cold because she was standing there holding him. She was all alone with the little bundle with the wet mouth, the thing she loved more than anything else. Sobs! A faint bleating. She could hardly breathe as she listened. He wasn't breathing. She shook him and took a few steps, and finally air filled his lungs. And he started crying again.

She stumbled around among the rocks until the child calmed down. Carefully took off his hat and found a scrape on his bald head. With one arm she hugged the child to her breast as hard as she dared, with her other hand she struggled to pull the pram up the slope. She slid back, dug her feet hard against the ground to steady herself, gasping in desperation. Finally she reached the top, soaked with sweat. Her arms ached. She put the baby in the pram and spread the quilt over him. One of the wheels was bent and it was difficult to push. Luckily she had her keys in her coat pocket. When she reached home, she lifted the carrying cot out of the frame, put it on the back seat of the car, fastened it with a seat belt and drove to the emergency department. She cursed the two men who had robbed her. Hatred and anger came and went in her body like tongues of fire. May terrible things happen to them! May they crash their car on the way to town, suffer a head injury and be paralysed from the waist down!

The baby was sleeping. Safe and sound. But he had that mark on his head. A tiny scrape. It took her eleven minutes to drive to the hospital. She lifted him out of the carrying cot and took him inside.

A doctor examined the cut. Took off most of the baby's clothes and shone a light into the dark pupils of his eyes. The baby drooled and flailed his arms.

"He looks fine," the doctor said. "You should report the handbag snatching."

"No," she said wearily. "The only thing that's important is my baby."

"What's his name?"

She smiled shyly. "He hasn't been baptised yet. I'll know his name day when I find a name. None of them are good enough," she said proudly. The doctor wrote out a bill since her money had been stolen. It was really just a token amount. Forty kroner. Then she went home and nursed the baby for a long time. She sat next to his cot, couldn't make herself leave him. Then she changed her mind and carried him to her own bed. Spread the quilt over both of them and turned off the light. Tried to calm down, but couldn't. She didn't believe in God. She had formally withdrawn from the state church. But in the dark, lying under the quilt, she sensed the contours of some kind of purpose. It overwhelmed her. The fact that they did mean something after all, her and the baby, beyond what she meant when she thought clearly about her own life. Something was keeping them company as they lay there together. She felt herself observed. And later, another thought, that someday she would die. Or the boy would. That it might happen suddenly. She placed her hand on his head. It fitted perfectly in the palm of her hand. He didn't move. He was sound asleep.

Zipp and Andreas were busy drinking up her money. Zipp was hunched over like an old man; it had all been too much for him. Andreas was rocking his chair back and forth, silently making his point. Whoever mentioned the baby first would ruin the evening. That awful, unexpected event which had befallen them.

What they had planned was a quick and easy play, over in a couple of seconds. Wham! Four hundred kroner. No harm done.

Andreas studied the fan on the ceiling. It was revolving slowly, and it reminded him of a scene in a film that he liked. They drank some more, patiently waiting for the intoxication to spread over their brows like a cool rag. Life began to look better as time passed, the girls were prettier, the future brighter. Zipp wiped the foam from his upper lip. And then it slipped out.

"What do you think happened to the baby?" Andreas uttered a huge, world-weary sigh. He set down his glass without a sound.

"Babies are soft like rubber. The skull hasn't even grown together, it's elastic."

He met Zipp's frightened eyes. "It's made up of soft plates that slide over each other under pressure. Clever, huh?"

"You're making that up!"

Zipp's eyes flickered. Andreas always had an answer, but he could be a shameless liar. At the same time, that's what he wanted. To have an answer at all costs. The woman with the pram had been a bad choice. The beer tasted just as good as always, that wasn't it. But that baby, God damn it, he was just a tiny bundle. Zipp pressed against the edge of the table and tried to steady his heart. He could still see it. That ridiculous blue plush vehicle on its way over the edge. The way it shook and lurched downwards before ramming into a rock, tipping forward and toppling over. The tiny hands flailing helplessly. A deserted kiosk, an abandoned car, shit, that was nothing. But a live human being!

"If anything happened, it'll be in the papers tomorrow."

"Cut it out, Zipp. Just relax!"

Andreas stared up at the fan again. It was revolving in slow motion and did nothing to keep the smoke away. But he liked the way it moved, the steady pace, the big blades like a propellor overhead. The sight made him hum under his

breath that song by the The Doors, about never again being able to look into his friend's eyes. Zipp cleared his throat. "We'll watch a video later. At my house. Okay?"

He gave Andreas an imploring look. He needed to forget the episode by the sea. Three or four pints and an action film. And then to bed. Soon it would be behind them. They would stick to kiosks from now on.

"Blade Runner," said Andreas curtly. "If they have it."

"No, not that one. Not again!"

"You don't get it. Blade Runner is the best." Andreas was resolute.

"But I've seen it so many times," Zipp complained. "I know what's going to happen."

"Tonight something different will happen," Andreas said. "That film has a life of its own. Layer on top of layer. You can't take it in all at once." Zipp felt depressed and emptied his glass.

"You have to develop your mind, man. That's what's wrong with you," said Andreas, wiping off the wet ring left by his glass on the table. "You don't realise that time is passing."

Zipp grimaced. Andreas was obsessed with the film Blade Runner. He'd seen it a hundred times and could never get enough. He quoted from it at regular intervals. Zipp studied the other guests in the bar. Usually he could manage to attract the attention of some girl, if she wasn't sitting too far away. He would immediately feel a prickling in his crotch. He loved that prickling, it made his blood rush and his head feel giddy. A girl was staring back at him. Andreas followed his gaze and rolled his eyes. A little chick in tight clothes. A striped jumper, too short at the waist, so her midriff was on show. And a tiny little ring in her navel. Her tits poked out like two tennis balls.

"Silicon," Andreas said. "What a fucking bunch of shit girls have under their clothes these days."

"I don't give a damn," Zipp said with a grin. "As long as I get to touch them. You can't tell the real ones from the fake ones, not on young girls like that. What about your Woman?" he went on. "I'll bet she's got breasts that hang down to here. You have no idea what breasts look like on a young girl. It's about time you checked out the situation. She has a friend with her. See, there she comes. Been out to the bathroom to change her panty liner, that's what I reckon. I know girls like her. They get wet if you just look at them."

Andreas regarded the girl's friend with dull eyes. Zipp couldn't see it, but the girl did. The lack of interest in his pale gaze. She turned her back to him, clearly discouraged because she hadn't made an impression.

"They hang around like grouse," Andreas muttered. "They spread their legs before even a shot is fired."

"We're never going to get those ladies to watch Blade Runner," Zipp said, sounding worried.

"What about Independence Day?"

"Over my dead body."

Andreas went over to the bar. Pulled one of Gina's hundred-kroner notes out of his shirt pocket. He didn't so much as glance at the two girls. Come and get us, come and get us! their rounded shoulders begged. Unbelievable! He left a generous tip and carried the glasses back to the table.

"What's so bad about her friend?" asked Zipp.

"Everything," said Andreas. "Up in that head of hers there's only one thing going on."

"Jesus, you're so full of it!"

"There's one tape inside that keeps playing. It's been playing ever since the girl had tits the size of plums. It says: 'Like me, like me, for God's sake, please like me!' And every time that doesn't happen, she's so surprised. It's fucking incredible."

"You're incredible too," Zipp said. "What's the deal with those old bitches you like so much? What does their tape say?"

Andreas took a sip.

" 'I like you, I like you.' That's the difference." They gulped down the ice-cold beer. They had forgotten all about the baby, which was what they had wanted. Later they sat in Zipp's basement room and stared at Blade Runner. Andreas was totally infatuated. Zipp was thinking about the girl in the tight jumper.

"That guy there who's folding shapes out of paper," Zipp said, nodding at the screen. "He's one of the bad guys, right?"

Andreas groaned. "I thought you said you remembered everything?"

"I remember it now. The androids. Replicants. That only live for four years."

"Right, Zipp. So be happy with your allotted time."

Andreas tore off the corner of a magazine lying on the table.

"I can fold a little cock for you." He leaned closer to the screen. "Now he's ordering a Tsing Tao. Shit, this is good. Salome and the snake."

"I've seen it before," Zipp grumbled.

"The way she dies," said Andreas, waxing emotionally. "It's so fucking beautiful. The way she sails through the glass."

"That's called slow motion. Not especially innovative."

"You don't get it," said Andreas angrily. "Look at her! Wearing only a see-through raincoat. And the blood inside the plastic when the bullets hit – that's pure genius. Salome's death. It's magnificent, plain and simple. And that part's great!" he went on.

"'Can the maker repair what he makes?'" He looked at Zipp. "Pressing the eyeballs into the head of a man with your bare thumbs – could you do that?"

Zipp didn't think so. But it occurred to him that Andreas could very possibly be a replicant. Who only livened up at the sight of his own kind. With implanted memories and a built-in emotional response, like Roy Batty. An advanced design from the Tyrell Corporation, "Nexus 6 fighting model". Soon he'd fall victim to reversing cells. And he even wanted to sit through the music of Vangelis during the credits. By then Zipp was on the verge of sleep.

"Wake up," Andreas said, pounding Zipp on the shoulder. "Time to die."

*

I want to be left in peace. The price I pay is that I no longer count, I'm not seen or considered important. Wearing the brown coat I'm not taken seriously. And yet, if people only knew, God forbid, but the worst of all. . .

The doctor tells me that I'm healthy, there's nothing wrong with me. Strong as a horse. That animal keeps plaguing me. I have a brisk gait, move with ease, even though I'm big-boned. Some people would say chubby, but at least I've kept my figure. I'm not tall, which suits me fine because women should be petite. It's strange how different other people are from me. I'm almost invisible, no-one ever notices me. They veer aside if they're heading towards me in the street. But they don't notice who they're skirting around because I'm just a shadow at the corner of their eyes. It doesn't bother me, since I've never known anything else. Oh yes, I have a son. Ingemar. I carried him around when he was little, rocked him and caressed him. Felt almost astonished that he was mine. That he was dependent on me, that he would die if I dropped him. That made Irma blossom. She was needed by another human being. She was life or death! But it didn't last. Nothing lasts. He grew up, passed me by, and looked at my feet when he spoke. Then he moved away. That's how it goes. I'm invisible, so dreadfully ordinary, so terribly different. I know only a few people, I know them better than they know me. They think they know me, but they're wrong. By all reckoning, they're wrong.

Several days passed before they reported Andreas missing in the newspapers. His colleagues at work had come forward to say flattering things about him, as they always do. No-one wants to be embarrassed later, in case he should be found dead. That word hovers between the lines in the paper like toxic bacteria. No-one dares to say it out loud, since it might turn out to be true. Did they think he had committed suicide? No, no, for God's sake, not Andreas. He sauntered through life. He wouldn't leave it of his own free will, and he didn't have any enemies. Yes, it's true that he took chances, innocent kinds of things, the way boys do. A beer or two on a Saturday night. But that's not a crime, surely? We're terribly worried. They pose for the newspaper photographer, loving the spotlight, the fact that they know someone who might have died under mysterious circumstances. If he suddenly shows up, safe and sound, if he'd just been out partying on the Danish ferryboat, what a let down that would be, when it could have been something exciting. I haven't disappointed them.

I've turned off the lights in most of the house. But there's a light on in the bathroom. Soon Andreas will start to decompose. Like a piece of meat that's been left out on the worktop. It changes colour, gets soft and jelly-like, then it starts to smell. At some point the meat becomes poisonous. I'm poisonous now too, perhaps I've started to smell different. I, who am so careful about things like that. I always use soap and deodorant. Wash my hair frequently. And the floors. The windows are shiny. All the door handles are polished and clean. But I myself have become a piece of spoiled meat. I didn't want that to happen.

C H A P T E R 5

"Matteus?"

He heard the voice the instant the door slammed. He promptly reached for the bag of sweets in his pocket. Wanted her to notice it and clap her hands.

"Yes," he said in a low voice, rustling the bag. His mother came in from the living room. She pressed his cheek to her breast.

"Did you meet someone on the way home?"

"No, but my jacket was under all the others," he blurted out.

"Grandpa is here."

Matteus rushed into his grandpa's open arms. And then he flew up in the air, flew like the wind, almost up to the ceiling.

"Watch out for your back," Ingrid said to her father.

And then she smiled. After so many years alone, he had at last pulled himself together and grown from 96 centimetres to two metres tall, or so it seemed. Because of a woman.

"You're 17 minutes late," said Sejer, looking at his grandson.

"My jacket was underneath all the others," Matteus repeated.

"I see," said Sejer, smiling. "With all the buttonholes tangled up in each other?" A network of delicate lines appeared on his face as his smile grew. Nothing gave him as much joy as this child with the chocolate-coloured skin. He felt overwhelmed, tender, almost weak in the knees. It was unsettling, considering what life was like and everything that could happen. And that was something about which he knew a great deal. The boy slipped under his arm and grabbed his hands from behind.

"Teach me the police hold!" he begged eagerly.

"I'll give you a police hold," Sejer said, laughing, as he spun the boy around, bundled him up, and carried him to the sofa. "Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" Matteus squealed with glee. Ingrid stood leaning against the doorframe, watching them. Sejer looked up. Her back curved in a certain way that reminded him of her mother.

"You forgot about the time because you were having so much fun!" he guessed, looking into the boy's brown eyes. "You forgot your promise to your mother."

"No," shouted Matteus, wriggling on to his stomach.

"You met a stray dog on the street. You sat on the curb to stroke him, while you tried to work out how to get your mother to let you keep him. A scruffy-looking mutt. Am I right?"

"No, no!" he shouted again. He grabbed a pillow and put it over his head.

"You met a gang of bullies, and they wouldn't let you pass."

Silence. Ingrid looked at her father in surprise, and then at her son, who had curled himself up into a ball of corduroy and denim.

"They were sitting in a car."

"Who?"

Ingrid was at his side in an instant.

"Relax," said Sejer swiftly. "He's here, isn't he?"

"What did they do? Tell me!"

"Nothing."

He was talking into the upholstery.

"Don't play games with me!"

"I don't like my name! Matteus is a stupid name!" he shouted, throwing the pillow to the floor. He wasn't crying. He almost never cried. He had soon realised that he was different, that people expected other things from him. That it was best if he moved quietly and didn't make too much noise. With his kind of colouring it was almost too much for them.

"I want to know what they did," said his mother again.

"Ingrid," said her father, "if he doesn't want to tell you, he should be allowed to keep it to himself." Matteus cleared his throat. "They asked me how to get to the bowling alley. But they knew where it was. Afterwards they came back. They didn't do anything."

He took out the bag of sweets that he had been clutching in his hand, lifted it up to his nose and sniffed at it. It contained sour balls, jelly worms, and marshmallows.

"I'm sorry," said his mother softly. "I was just so worried."

Chief Inspector Konrad Sejer picked up his grandson and sat him on his lap. He buried his face in the boy's curly hair and thought about the years yet to come. Tried his utmost to decipher the shadowy images that lay ahead, far in the future.

"They said I had a cool jacket," said Matteus, grinning.

"What's inside is even cooler," Sejer said. "Walk me to the door. I have to go home."

"No, you don't. I know Kollberg isn't alone."

"I have to go home to Sara."

"Is she going to move in with you? Where am I going to sleep when I come to stay?"

"She's not going to live with me. She lives with her father, because he's sick. But she comes to see me, and sometimes she stays overnight. If she's there when you come over, you can sleep on the floor. All by yourself. On a foam mattress." Matteus blinked his eyes in dismay. He stood there holding his grandfather's hand, tugging at it. Ingrid had to turn away to giggle.

"She's not fat, is she? So that there wouldn't be room for all of us?"

"No," Sejer said, "she's not fat." He patted his daughter rather awkwardly on the arm and went out into the courtyard. Waved to Matteus in the open doorway. He drove slowly towards his apartment building. Later he would remember that, in those few minutes it took him to drive home from his daughter's house, life had seemed so orderly, so predictable and safe. Lonely, perhaps, but he had his dog. A Leonberger that weighed 70 kilos and was lacking in any manners. He was actually ashamed about that. Sara had a dog too. A well-behaved Alsatian. Sejer didn't like surprises. He was used to being always in control. He had almost everything. A good reputation. Respect. And, after many years as a widower, he had Sara. Life was no longer predictable. She was waiting for him now. They had invited Jacob Skarre to dinner. He was a younger officer whom Sejer liked and in an odd way counted as a friend, even though he was old enough to be Skarre's father. But he liked that. Enjoyed being with someone who was still young. And, he had to admit, it was good to have someone who listened, who still had a lot to learn. He had never had a son. Perhaps that was where his fondness for Skarre stemmed from.

He braked gently for a red light. Sara is standing in the kitchen. She's dressed up, but not too much. Probably put on a dress, he thought. She has brushed her long, blonde hair. She's not stressed. Her movements are measured and gentle, like the way I drive my car through town. The nape of her neck. A shiver ran down his spine. Those short, blonde hairs against her smooth skin. Her wide shoulders. She looks at her watch because she's expecting me home, and Jacob could turn up at any moment. The food is ready, but if it's not, that doesn't make her nervous. She's not like other people. She's in control. She's mine. He started humming a tune by Dani Klein – "Don't Break My Heart" – and then he glanced in the rear-view mirror. For a moment he was shocked at how grey his hair was. Sara was so blonde and slender. Oh well. I'm a grown man, thought Konrad Sejer as he pulled in to the garage. He took the stairs, even though he lived on the 13th floor. He was trying to stay in shape, and maybe he'd have time for a shower. He ran up the stairs without getting out of breath. As he pushed down the door handle, he heard his dog making a racket and coming rushing out to greet him. He opened the door a crack and whistled. Once Sejer was inside, the dog stood on his hind legs and pressed him against the wall. Afterwards he was wet all over. Now he definitely needed a shower. The dog sauntered into the living room. Sara called hello.

That's when he noticed the smell. He stood still for a moment, breathing it in. There were several different smells: nutmeg from the kitchen, and melted cheese. Fresh-baked bread from the oven. He could also still smell the dog, who had nearly devoured him. But the other smell! The unfamiliar smell coming from the living room. He took a few steps, peeked into the kitchen. She wasn't there. He kept going, the smell got stronger. Something wasn't right. He stopped. She was sitting on the sofa with her feet propped on the table. Soft music reached his ears from the stereo. Billie Holiday singing "God Bless the Child". She was wearing lipstick and a green dress. Her hair gleamed, blonde and shiny, and he thought: She's beautiful. But that's not it. He glared at her.

"What is it?" she said gently. There was no trace of anxiety in her voice.

"What are you doing?" he stammered.

"Relaxing." She gave him a radiant smile.

"Dinner's ready. Jacob called, said he'd be here shortly."

It smells of hash, thought Sejer. Here, in my own living room. I know that smell, it's not like anything else, I can't be mistaken. He was dumbstruck. He was a mute beast, a fish out of water. The smell was thick in the whole room. He cast a wild glance at the balcony door, went over and opened it. He was so unbelievably surprised, so completely bowled over.

"Konrad," she said. "You look so strange." He turned to face her. "It's nothing. Just . . . something occurred to me." His voice didn't sound normal. He tried to think. Jacob could be there any second. Sara didn't look stoned, but maybe she would be soon. Jacob would think he condoned it, and he didn't. What on earth should he do? She's a psychiatrist, she works with people who are very sick, many of them destroyed by drugs – heroin and ecstasy – and here she sits, getting stoned. On my sofa. I thought I knew her. But I suppose, after all, I don't. The crease on Sejer's forehead was deeper than it had ever been.

Sara got to her feet. She placed her hands on his chest and stood on her toes. He was still taller than she was.

"You look so worried. Please don't be worried." The only thing he smelled was the caramel scent of her lipstick. He swallowed hard, and there was an audible gulp in his throat.

Why do I become a child in the arms of this woman? he wondered. And then, out loud, his voice hoarse: "What's that strange smell?" She laughed slyly. "I put a whole nutmeg in the mousaka by mistake, and I haven't been able to find it."

He stared at his feet. He certainly didn't have time for a shower now. Jacob would be at the door any moment. The fresh September air came streaming into the room. Billie Holiday was singing. He didn't know if the smell was still there as the room gradually cooled off. Norwegian law, he thought. In accordance with Norwegian law. It sounded ridiculous. He could say anything to her, but not that. It occurred to him that this woman had her own laws. And yet she had higher moral standards than anyone he knew. He felt like a schoolboy. Realised there was so much he didn't know, so much he had never tried. He was curious about people, he wanted to know about them, who they were and why they were that way. But right now he felt something wavering inside him.

The doorbell rang. Sara went to open the door. Jacob was sharp, for all that he looked like a schoolboy. Was the smell still there? His eyes stopped at the picture of Elise on the wall in front of him. She smiled back. She had no worries. She disappeared for an instant, seemed more dead than usual. It was harder to summon her back, her voice, her laughter. He felt a new kind of grief that she was about to disappear in a different way. Would it never end? He went out to the balcony. He liked the crisp autumn air and the bright colours. Liked this time of year better than the summer. He took several deep breaths. He thought he ought to work out more; he wasn't getting any younger. There was plenty of life left. Matteus would grow up, black in a white world. He had to be there for him. Sejer shook his head, bewildered. Couldn't understand his sudden gloom. And then, there was Jacob Skarre standing next to him.

"Smells good!"

"What do you mean?" asked Sejer, on the defensive.

"From the kitchen," Jacob said.

They ate and drank and talked about their jobs. Sara told stories from the Beacon psychiatric hospital, where she worked as a doctor. She wasn't the least bit stoned, at least not that Sejer could see. But now and then he would glance at her surreptitiously, and he scrutinised Jacob more closely than usual. One of the things about Jacob was that he was so tactful. If he noticed anything he would never say so. Should he mention it himself when they were alone? He brooded over this as Jacob talked about a shooting incident. It was a bad case, but, even so, an old story that repeated itself with few variations. Jacob was determined to confer with his God, to find some meaning in something which had no meaning. Because there wasn't any meaning or purpose, it wasn't part of any higher plan that would lead to anything good. Sejer was convinced of that.

"It was a bunch of kids who were going to have a party. It happened the same way it always does. The guys bought the alcohol and then picked up the girls. One of the boys, called Robert, had a rented room. And a stereo system. The landlord was gone, it was perfect timing. The idea was to get drunk, get laid, and then brag about it the next day." Skarre looked up at Sejer with the bluest eyes in the world.

"Somebody also brought along some dope. They weren't really drug users, it's pretty much considered decadent to smoke a little hash at a party, and it's not exactly a major crime any more, not these days. To keep it short, the whole thing ended in the deepest misery. Drunkenness, then fighting. Robert got out a shotgun and shot his girlfriend right in the face. Her name was Anita, 18 years old. She died instantly."

He paused and stared into his glass of red wine. Held it by the stem, not wanting to leave any fingerprints on the bowl of the glass. It was amazing, Skarre's attention to detail.

"They were ordinary boys," he said to Sara. "I know it sounds as if they were nothing but the dregs at the bottom of society, but they weren't. They all had jobs or were students. They came from decent homes. Had never done anything criminal." He started swirling the wine in his glass. "In a way it's impossible to understand, don't you think?

Except to suppose that something took over.

Something from outside."

"You can't blame the Devil," said Sejer with a smile.

"I can't?"

"Hasn't he been officially excluded from the Norwegian church, as being non-existent?"

"That's a great loss to human kind," said Skarre meditatively.

"Why so?" Sara wanted to know.

"If we don't believe in the Devil, we won't be able to recognise him when he suddenly shows up."

"Blame the Devil? For heaven's sake. That would cut a lot of ice in court."

"No, no." Jacob shook his head. "Try to think of it like this. We encounter the Devil all the time. The question is, how do we handle him?" He fell silent for a moment. "I don't really believe in the Devil, but I have doubts now and then," he said, smiling.

"For example, when I saw the photo of Anita – what was left of her – or Robert's face through the bars sitting in his cell. He's a good person."

"All of us are both good and bad, Jacob," Sara said. "It's not an either/or."

"You're right. Some people are fundamentally good. Others are fundamentally cynical. I'm talking about a basic tone that exists in every person. And in Robert, it's good. Don't you agree, Konrad?" Oh yes. He agreed. And he didn't understand it. He didn't go to bed. Gave himself an extra hour. Sara and Jacob were going in the same direction, so they shared a taxi. He patted his leg, the signal for his dog to come and lie down at his feet. His thoughts whirled. Matteus, Sara, Jacob, Robert, and everything that happens. But life is not basically bad. The red wine had taken its effect, he had to admit. He'd drunk his fill, and a little more besides. Matteus would be fine, everyone was healthy, he was doing well in his job. And he would work out this thing with Sara. Later. He stared up at the picture of Elise. Since all was finally quiet in the building and anyway no-one could see him, he drew her a little closer.

Ingrid Sejer was also still awake. She had put Matteus to bed at 8 p.m., sung him a song and tucked him in. Later on she went to get his school bag to check that everything was there. Books and gym kit. She took it out to the living room and opened it. Glanced through his books, made sure the pencil was sharp, that the rubber and glue stick and scissors were there. A folded slip of paper fell out. The blue-tinted paper was not one she recognised. Perhaps it was a message from his teacher, intended for her.

"I'M GONNA CUT THREE GASHES IN YOUR BACK