It took less than five minutes to walk to the small path at the top of Langnesbakken. He knew that, of course, as he’d been here before. He knew her habits. Knew that she was always at home on the last Sunday of the month. Her mother would come at five o’clock sharp, as she always did. Just to check. To check her property. Disguised as a family meal. Sunday roast, a good glass of wine and beady eyes. Clean enough? Nice enough? Has the grouting in the bathroom been redone?
He knew what would happen. He had been here three times in the course of the spring. Had a look around. Made notes. It was five to three. He walked around the corner and looked over his shoulder. No one. It was raining, but not heavily. The clouds drowned the mountains on Kvaløya; they were darker to the west and the weather would worsen toward evening. He quickly crossed a garden with a light step and disappeared behind a bush. It was thinner than he’d hoped. Even though he was wearing gray and dark blue, he would be easily spotted if someone cared to look. Without looking back, he ran over to the house wall. There were no neighbors to the northwest. Only small winter-worn birch trees and dirty remnants of snow. He was breathing heavily. This was not how he had anticipated feeling. Nervousness constricted his throat and he swallowed quickly several times. He hadn’t felt like this before. He held tightly onto the small pouch on his belt. Elation. That’s what he should be feeling. A certainty that made him sing inside. This was his moment.
This was his moment.
He could only just hear her. Without looking at his watch, he knew that it was three o’clock. He held his breath. All was quiet. When he peeped around the corner, he saw that he’d had more luck than he dared hope for. She had left the carriage out on the grass. An old hammock was lying on the terrace, so there wasn’t room for the carriage. The world was silent except for his shallow breathing and an airplane that had started its descent to Langnes. He opened the pouch. Got ready. Approached the carriage.
It was standing under the eaves, out of the spring rain. But the child was covered up as if winter storms still raged around the house. The hood was up. A rain cover was buttoned over the carriage. The mother had also put a net over it, to keep stray cats out, perhaps. He struggled with the cat protection. Unbuttoned and pulled back the rain cover. The baby was lying in a blue sleeping bag and wearing a hat. The end of May and the baby had a hat on! Close to the head. The strap under its chin disappeared in a fold of skin on the chubby neck. There wasn’t much extra room in the carriage. The baby was fast asleep, with its mouth open.
He mustn’t wake it.
He would never manage to get enough clothes off the child.
“Shit!”
Panic washed over him like a wave, starting at his feet and then up through his body, winding him. He dropped the syringe. He had to have the syringe. The baby gasped and gurgled. The baby was a great big gaping breathing hole. The syringe. He bent down, picked it up and put it in the pouch, pulled out a piece of paper. His hands were shaking; he dropped the plastic cover. Bent down, picked it up, put it in his pouch. The sleeping bag was filled with down. He pulled it over the breathing hole. Held the dark blue material firmly between his fingers, his gloved fingers, the child twisted and thrashed, tried to turn away, it was amazing how easy it was to stop it, he held on, pressed firmly and didn’t let go, until there was no resistance from under the down and the blue material. But still he didn’t let go. Not yet. He kept pressing with a firm grip. The plane had landed and it was quiet everywhere.
Luckily, he remembered the piece of paper.
“I remembered the message,” he said to himself, once he was in the car. “I remembered the message.”
Even though he fell asleep at the wheel twice-he woke as the car veered over onto the dirt siding, just in time to pull back-he managed to drive as far as Majavatn without stopping, other than to piss and fill gas from the jerry cans on hidden side roads. He had to sleep. He found a blind spot for the car on a track by a deserted camping site.
It shouldn’t have happened like that.
He should have been in control. It should have been carried out as planned. Suddenly it was impossible to sleep, even though he felt sick from lack of sleep. He started to cry. It shouldn’t have been like that. It was his moment. Finally. His plan, his wish. He cried so loudly that he felt ashamed; he swore and hit himself in the face.
“Thank God I remembered the message,” he mumbled, and dried the snot with his fingers.
THIRTY-FOUR
The doorbell jerked her out of a dream. Short rings, as if someone was trying to wake her without disturbing Kristiane at the same time. The King of America was whining in Kristiane’s room, so she let the dog out before going to open the front door. Fortunately it looked as if her daughter was sleeping undisturbed, and the air in the room was heavy with sleep and dog piss. The dog jumped up at her again and again, its claws painfully scratching her bare legs. She tried to push it away, but tripped and stubbed her toe on the door frame on her way out into the hall. Afraid in case the person outside might ring again, she limped, swearing, to the front door and opened it.
It was hard to see his eyes. His whole body seemed smaller, his shoulders bent forward, and she smelled a faint trace of sweat when he lifted his hand to ward her off. He had a flight bag tucked under his arm. The handle was broken, so he carried it like a box, open and misshapen.
“Unforgivable,” he muttered. “But I couldn’t make it before now.”
“What time is it?”
“One. In the morning.”
“I realized that,” she said drily. “Come in. I’ll just go and put something else on.”
He was sitting in the kitchen. The King of America was chewing his hand. It was slavering and whining and presumably hungry.
“Hmmm. Recent acquisition?”
She grunted in response and fumbled for the coffee machine. She should have known it was Adam. When she woke up, all she thought was that she had to stop the ringing. If Kristiane woke up in the middle of the night, it would be the start of a long day. She pulled at the faded sweatshirt. She had better sweaters than this in the closet.
“If you’re going to come again at night, please don’t ring the doorbell. Use the phone. I turn the phone off in the living room. The one…”
She nodded toward the bedroom and measured coffee into the filter.
“It rings quietly in my room. It wakes me, but lets Kristiane sleep. It’s important for her. And for me.”
She tried to smile, but it turned into a yawn. Groggy, she blinked her eyes and shook her head.
“I’ll remember that,” said Adam. “Sorry. He’s done it again.”
Her hand felt leaden as she lifted it to her hair, so she let it fall again until she had a firm grip on a drawer handle instead.
“What?” she said, flatly. “What do you mean, done it again?”
Adam covered his face with his hands. His voice was muffled.
“An eleven-month-old boy from Tromsø. Glenn Hugo. Eleven months! You hadn’t heard?”
“I… I haven’t watched TV or listened to the radio tonight. We… Kristiane and I were playing with the dog and went for a walk and… Eleven months. Eleven months!”
Her outburst hung in the air between them for a long time, as if the young victim’s age held a hidden explanation, a code or solution, for his meaningless death. Johanne felt the tears in her eyes and blinked.
“But…”
She let go of the drawer and sat down at the table. His hands were clasped in front of him and she had a strong urge to put hers on top.