Johnny turned off his mobile. Seconds later the woman returned, a little confused because someone had fooled her into leaving. She was back quickly, stroking the man’s arm. Johnny hopped on to his moped and rode off. The man’s helplessness and the woman’s anxiety had put him in a different mood.
On the way home, he stopped at the Sparbo Dam.
He pushed the moped the final stretch through the woods and leaned it against the trunk of a spruce. He had begun walking to the dam when he caught sight of something between the trees. Someone had beaten him there. Whoever it was had gone out on to the wall of the dam where he liked to sit. He was so furious that he wanted to scream, because that was his spot, his secret place at the water, and he had never seen anyone else there. Then he saw a blue bicycle lying in the heather to his right. He hid behind a tree, and stared with stinging eyes. The bicycle was a Nakamura. It was Else Meiner, that nasty little girl, the one with the big mouth. She was reading a book, and didn’t realise he was watching her. He glared at her red plait. The sun made it shine like a thick copper wire. A little shove, he thought, and you’d fall face first into the water. I’ll come back for you, he thought. I’ll find the right moment, and you’ll get it. He stayed a few minutes longer observing her narrow back, and then carefully returned through the heather. He pulled his army knife from his belt and slashed up both of her tyres. The sun had warmed the rubber, and the knife sliced easily. He rolled his moped on to the road and walked a good while before finally starting the engine. With the wind in his face, tears formed in his eyes and exultation in his heart!
His mother was still out when he got home.
He went straight to his room, opened the door to the cage and carried Butch over to his bed. He was smaller than Bleeding Heart, his body fatter, but just as lively as the guinea pig had been. He let the hamster crawl across the duvet, and before he knew it, it had dropped some tiny turds. They were dry and hard, and easy to pick up. Maybe I should keep them, he thought, so I can mix them with the hyena’s food. Later he sneaked into his mother’s bedroom, and stared at her mess. The hyena lives here, he thought, this is her lair. I should get a fox trap, and I should put it outside her door. So she’ll head right into the trap when she gets up to go into the hall. Then she’ll have to stagger around with that trap until the iron rusts and her foot rots.
People will hear her howling throughout the entire Askeland housing estate.
He closed the door and headed into the living room. After deciding to watch a film, he riffled through the selections and finally chose a horror film called The Living and the Dead. He got comfortable on the sofa. The film had a promising subtitle.
‘A nightmarish descent into hell.’
Chapter 17
Her name was Astrid Landmark. She had recently turned fifty-three. At fifty-nine her husband, Helge, seemed much older sitting in his wheelchair. She had wheeled him in front of the television, but he couldn’t follow the programme; he just sat there dozing, in the blue flicker of the screen. The light made him morbidly pale.
Astrid stood with her back to him. She held clothes that needed ironing. Because the paralysis rose in his body relentlessly, like tidewater, it was difficult to look him in the eye. Soon he wouldn’t be able to swallow, or talk or breathe. They understood this; they knew what to expect down to the smallest detail. The fear of death had sunk its claws in him, but he didn’t have the strength to fight back. She couldn’t stand it. She didn’t know where to look, what to say. Almost everything was taboo, almost nothing could be discussed. Phrases like until spring, or next Christmas, or another time had become impossible to utter; there wouldn’t be another time. They ought to discuss many things, important things about death and burial. And the cabin at Blefjell which he’d named El Dorado because it was such a money pit. Should she keep it? What about the house? Would she be able to maintain it? Would she be able to start the lawnmower? Manage the snowblower in the winter? Who would stain the house — it was already dry — or prune the fruit trees? Standing there with the iron, she was boiling hot. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t necessary to iron at all, because the shirts had gone into the dryer, and they were soft and smooth. But she preferred this kind of pottering, because it made her feel busy. As long as she stayed busy, he was quiet, and the truth, the awful truth, could be kept at bay. Now, with her back to him, he wouldn’t disturb her, she felt safe. Afterwards, she would have to make another trip to the cellar to load the washing machine again. She’d made plans to knead bread dough, wash the front-door window and sweep the kitchen floor. All while he sat in his wheelchair. As the fear crawled through him like ants. When she finally settled in beside him, on a recliner, he felt her despair, and he couldn’t bear it. When he asked her for help to lie down, she got an hour’s reprieve in the semi-darkness. There he lay crying against the wall of the bedroom as she watched television, sobbing.
She hung the newly ironed shirts on hangers. She heard him hawk and clear his throat — mucus in his airway — but he didn’t have the energy to cough. So it remained there gurgling in his throat. She was distracted by the gurgling; it was horrible. You would think he was a hundred years old instead of fifty-nine. She gripped the ironing board. She had to be strong and encouraging. She was supposed to stand by his side until he died, indefatigable, gentle and patient. She was supposed to help him die with dignity. But she couldn’t. Parts of herself she didn’t know existed had risen to the surface like poison. She cursed God and life, she cursed herself and her shortcomings, and she cursed death. But worst of all, in the blackest hours, she also cursed her husband, who was succumbing to this illness, to this miserable decline. It wasn’t part of the plan. He had always been big and strong, in charge, playful. He had taken care of things. Now his legs were useless, his skin no longer resembled skin; his skull looked as though it was covered with an old oilcloth. When she had these thoughts and admitted her own wretchedness, her own boundless cowardice, she fell apart even more. What if he knew how things really were and what she was really thinking? Could he feel it? Could he smell it? Was her betrayal perceptible in the room, did he hear it whispering in the corners? Was that why he’d stopped talking to her, even though he still could speak?
What was going through his mind?
When I’m dead, they’ll put me in the freezer, Astrid. I’ll have to lie there for several days. Then my cheeks will stiffen and turn cold as ice. Then I’ll burn, Astrid, in two-thousand-degree heat. It’s so hot the skeleton curls in the casket. I’m so scared, Astrid. Can’t you find a solution? Can’t you arrange a miracle? Can’t you slap my cheek and say, Wake up, Helge, you’re having a bad dream!
She pulled another shirt from the pile.
A blue shirt with a white collar and white cuffs, perhaps one of the best he owned. Even though she knew it would never be worn again, she ironed it as best she could; with all the buttons it was difficult. His throat no longer gurgled, and she didn’t like the silence either. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that his head had fallen to his chest, as if he was sleeping. Maybe he died, she thought, without my noticing. Then she heard him fumbling with something on the table, probably the remote control. No doubt he wanted to change the channel; there were many programmes he couldn’t watch. He couldn’t stand laughter and shouting, or loud music. His life was solemn, his world having narrowed to a dark passage where there was room only for himself: his fear, pain and sorrow.