‘Do you play the trumpet well?’ he asked, and nodded at the instrument on the bed.
‘Yeah, pretty well.’
On the walls she had pictures and posters. He recognised some of them, Orlando Bloom and Leonardo DiCaprio among others. And she had a poster of the Joker. The white face with the red mouth. A few pictures of herself in her band uniform, dark blue with a short white shirt and a sailor cap with a silken tassel. On her bed lay a pile of cushions. One of them was a red, heart-shaped cushion with an elegantly embroidered message: I love Johnny.
‘Why do you think he wanted your plait?’
She threw her head back. ‘He probably has a collection, and now it’s stuffed in a drawer, with black and brown and blonde plaits. Maybe he sniffs them at night.’
Her response confused him. Was it some kind of girlish prank? Had she made it all up to get noticed? Girls did that sometimes. Girls who wanted drama and attention. But he didn’t believe this was the case with Else.
She rose, moved to the wall and removed a photo of herself with the plait still attached.
‘He’s got himself quite a trophy,’ Sejer said.
He thanked her and left the room, went back to Skarre and Meiner.
‘Someone slashed her bicycle tyres,’ Meiner said. ‘A few days ago. Up near the Sparbo Dam. What’s going on? How many pranksters are there? It’s one thing after another.’
‘What do you think?’ Skarre asked.
‘Someone has made it his mission to terrorise our lives. Some rotten little shit. Make sure you nail him, and make sure he gets a good whipping.’
‘Watch Else,’ Sejer encouraged him.
On the way back to the car, Sejer got a call from Frances Mold.
She spoke rapidly and feverishly. She was very concerned for her mother.
‘What happened?’ Sejer asked calmly.
‘It’s just been too much for her,’ Frances said. ‘She had some kind of reaction, and her heart began beating really fast and irregularly. Now she’s been admitted to the hospital. They’ve got to run tests.’
Chapter 22
While Gunilla Mørk went around and philosophised about life and death.
While Evelyn Mold attempted to recover.
While Astrid and Helge Landmark slowly reconciled themselves to how things stood.
Karsten Sundelin considered his life.
He thought about the choices he’d made and his motives.
Why did I fall in love with Lily? he thought. Why did we marry? I was smitten because she had French roots, and because her French attracted me. When she whispered to me in that exotic language — words I only suspected the meaning of — it made my blood run faster. Warmed me and filled me with anticipation.
My French lily.
We married, he thought, because we had been together for a long time, because we were adults, and because marriage seemed a natural consequence. I was alone, and I needed someone. People around me began to talk, my parents and friends who saw I was in need; they couldn’t bear to see my sorrow. I fell in love because she was petite and beautiful, because she moved through space with the elegance of a goldfish gliding through water. Why did we have Margrete? Did we think it through properly? Was it a matter of course? And what will she do with her life? Is it my responsibility? Fifteen-year-old Margrete? Thirty-year-old Margrete? Forty-year-old Margrete? If she doesn’t succeed in life, is it my fault? And how, Karsten Sundelin thought, how can I get out of all this?
The time that had lapsed since the incident with Margrete had left its mark on him in many ways. Cracks had appeared in the foundation, small fractures which continued to expand, and which meant his life was about to collapse. He had a more fiery temperament, which was manifested in his gait and other gestures — something testy and jagged — and he slammed doors more forcefully. Sometimes, when he was completely honest with himself — for example in the evening, after a few beers — he knew he wasn’t in love with Lily any more. No, it was worse than that: he had begun to dislike her. He couldn’t handle her femininity, her fear and vulnerability. Whenever he had these thoughts, despair filled him instantly, because maybe he was the one who had failed them.
He hadn’t been able to protect them.
A stranger had come from outside and blasted their relationship to smithereens.
Each time he reached this point in his flow of thoughts he tensed up, and immediately had to occupy himself with some project, something that would absorb his energy. He secured loose boards in the picket fence around their garden. Pounded nails with a hammer to use up all his strength. He got the axe and chopped until chips of wood flew. Lily watched him through the window. Just a flicker of her consciousness understood what was actually happening; she was, after all, absorbed by the child. Margrete had gained a lot of weight. The nurse had pointed this out when she visited. When this assertion was made, Lily Sundelin surprised both herself and the nurse by standing up so quickly that her chair crashed to the floor. Then she pounded on the table.
Karsten Sundelin had begun going out for drinks after work. He happily stopped off at a friend’s place, and sometimes they got a beer at the little bar next to the Shell station in Bjerkås. Then he would come home late, by taxi. Even though he was late, and quite drunk, he saw no sign of irritation in Lily.
She was busy with the child, after all.
Nights were the worst.
When they lay side by side with Margrete in the middle of the bed, now and then he would extend his hand and carefully touch Lily’s shoulder, or her hair, as had once been his habit. In return he got nothing. Just an involuntary shudder, as if the touch irritated her.
She had drafted a new set of rules.
And he struggled to understand them.
Sometimes he lay awake with his hands behind his head and imagined another woman and another life, a strong and independent woman, a brash woman who could fight for herself. Someone who laughed easily, who was able to push aside trivial matters, and get back on her feet if anyone knocked her down. Who moved on. Who ranted and roared instead of suffering in silence. Of course he could leave. Of course he could find such a woman. He was an attractive, broad-shouldered man with a deep voice, slender hips and long legs. But he was also a decent man. Moral scruples held him in their grip. They closed off the good life, the kind of life where there was room for his whole personality. He had been reduced to a caretaker for two fragile people. He had to tiptoe, always be ready, rush to them whenever one whimpered. Horrible thoughts whirled in his head, keeping him awake. They exhausted him. They led to a mix of self-loathing and anger, and he vacillated constantly between these feelings, tossing and turning while the mattress and bed frame squeaked under the weight of his heavy body.
‘Please lie still,’ Lily would say. ‘You’ll wake Margrete.’
Chapter 23
Jacob Skarre had come home from his shift, and it was afternoon when he opened the door to his flat. He had gone shopping on the way home. His bags stood on the kitchen worktop, jam-packed with food. There wasn’t much space. Against the wall sat all sorts of electrical appliances: a food processor from Braun, a coffee maker, a coffee grinder, a sandwich maker and a toaster, along with a plastic salad spinner which didn’t fit in the cupboards. Just as he was about to put the food away, his mobile rang.
He didn’t recognise the number.
‘Hi, Jacob,’ he heard. ‘It’s Britt.’
It was a bright and excited girl’s voice, but he didn’t know anyone called Britt. Still, Skarre had been raised in a vicarage, and had been taught to greet people in a mild, friendly manner.