Death of the Demon: A Hanne Wilhelmsen Novel (3 page)

Only the very worst cases landed up here. In Norway, children who for one reason or another were unable to grow up with their biological parents were expected to be placed in individual foster homes. That was the system. It was easy to find such homes for babies. Fairly straightforward as far as toddlers were concerned, up until about school-age. Then it suddenly became far more difficult. As a rule, however, they managed it. Except for the very worst cases. The ones that were so demanding, so damaged, so broken by their lives and their useless parents that no ordinary family could be expected to cope with the responsibility. These ended up with Agnes.

Smothering a yawn, she massaged the fleshy small of her back. Olav would probably get used to it. She had yet to give up on a child. Besides, strictly speaking, he was not the most difficult problem she had to deal with at the moment. Attempting in vain to find a more comfortable sitting position, she shoved Olav’s file down into a drawer and opened up another one, a folder with a
cardboard cover containing five sheets of paper. She sat staring at it. In the end she packed them away too, taking a deep breath, and locking the drawer carefully. The key was somewhat sticky, but she managed finally to release it from the keyhole. Stiff and sore, she stood up, lifted a potted plant from the built-in bookcase beside the window, and returned the key to its place. For a few moments she stood there, looking out.

The garden always seemed more extensive at night. The moonlight cast frosty blue shadows across the remnants of snow. Down toward the road, beside a low wire-mesh fence, she spotted Glenn’s bicycle. With a sigh, she made up her mind to get tough with him this time. No bikes on icy, slippery roads. Two days previously, Christian had been instructed to lock it in the basement. Either he hadn’t done so, or else Glenn had broken into the storeroom and retrieved it. She did not quite know which was worse, a slapdash employee or a totally disobedient youngster.

There was a draft from the old, rickety window. They had to prioritize, and the upper floor, where the children spent most of their waking hours, had been fitted with new windows first. God only knew when her office would reach further up the list of priorities. She sighed softly and crossed over to the door. Although it was by no means tempting to go home, the way things stood between her and her husband, her body longed for sleep. If she were lucky, he would have already retired for the night.

Before she left, she looked in on Olav again. A quarter century’s experience with children told her at once that he was sleeping, although she could make out only the outline of his heavy shape in the bed. His breathing was quiet and even, and she took some time to tuck the quilt around him before closing the door quietly behind her. By then she had already smiled a little over the disappearance of the food and milk. Keeping to their bargain, she let the crockery remain.

In the dayroom, Christian was sitting with his feet up on the table, half asleep. Maren sat with her feet tucked beneath her in a winged armchair, reading a crime novel. As the director entered the room, Christian banged his feet down onto the floor in a reflex action. He should have been long gone, as his shift had finished an hour earlier. But he was too lazy.

“Honestly, it’s difficult enough teaching the youngsters to have manners without you lacking them entirely as well,” she said, directing herself to the young student who was employed part time on evening and night shifts. “What’s more, I thought we had agreed that Glenn’s bicycle was to be locked indoors!”

“Oh, bloody hell. I forgot it.”

He looked shamefaced as he fiddled with a huge pimple on the left side of his nose.

“Listen, Christian,” the director said, sitting down beside him, her back straight and knees clamped firmly together. “This is an institution run by the Salvation Army. We do what we can to clean up the children’s dreadful speech habits. Why is it so difficult for you to respect my demand to avoid all that swearing? Do you not understand that you really offend me every time you utter all those words? Children are children. You’re a grown man who ought to have learned to show consideration. Don’t you see that?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled submissively, and suddenly the pimple burst. Yellow pus ran out, and he stared in fascination at his finger.

“Heavens above,” Agnes groaned, getting to her feet and making a move to leave.

As she put on her coat, she turned toward Maren, who, oblivious of the minor altercation, had continued to turn the pages of her book.

“I need to have a meeting with you soon, just the two of us,” she said, and with a glance at Christian who was still looking
incredulous at how much pus there was space for in a pimple, she added, “We must discuss the staffing roster for February and March. Can you draw up a proposal?”

“Mmm,” Maren agreed, glancing up from her novel for a second. “Okay.”

“It would be good if you could get it done tonight. Then we can discuss it tomorrow afternoon.”

Glancing up again, Maren smiled and nodded. “That’s fine, Agnes. It’ll be ready tomorrow afternoon. Perfectly okay. Good night!”

“Good night to you both.”

2

I
t was a beautiful villa. Although the funds for renovation had not extended to a more reverential restoration—they had simply replaced the original eight-paned windows by H Windows with crossbars attached—the house and its spires towered imposingly over nearly four acres of ground. The brick walls were painted beige, but with decorative timber in green, in the Swiss style. Two entire large floors had been divided five years previously, with two living rooms, a conference room, kitchen, bathroom, laundry room, and a room they named the library, though in fact it was a kind of records room, on the ground floor. On the upper floor there were six bedrooms for the children, but several of them were double rooms and a couple of the single rooms were now pressed into service as homework rooms and common rooms. In addition, there was a staff bedroom. At the end of the corridor, to the right of the staircase, lay the director’s office. Immediately across the hall was an enormous bathroom with a bathtub, as well as a smaller one with a shower and toilet. In addition to the good use of space on these two floors, there was an entire basement and a spacious, high-ceilinged attic. Following a fire inspection a few years earlier, ladders were installed at the windows at either end of the corridor, and there was a fire rope in every bedroom.

The youngsters loved fire drills. All except Kenneth. And now Olav. The former sat in the middle of the corridor, crying and
clinging to the wall-mounted fire extinguisher. Olav stood with his legs apart, truculent, with his bottom lip more prominent than ever.

“No fuckin’ way,” he said petulantly. “No fuckin’ way am I going down that rope.”

“The ladder, then, Olav,” Maren offered. “The ladder’s not so scary. Also, you must get rid of that swearing very soon. You’ve been here for three weeks already, and your entire allowance is disappearing because of that!”

“Well then, go on, Olav.”

It was Terje who was prodding him in the back. Terje was in his thirties and, on paper at least, the assistant director.

“I’ll go right in front of you. Underneath you, in a way. So if you fall, I’ll be there to catch you. Okay?”

“Not fuckin’ likely,” Olav said, taking a step back.

“Ten kroner says the idiot doesn’t dare,” Glenn shouted from outside the window, having already climbed up and down four times.

“What will you do if the place starts to burn down?” Terje asked. “Are you going to burn to death?”

Olav stared at him maliciously.

“You couldn’t care less about that! Mum lives in a concrete apartment block. I could just move there, for instance.”

Shaking his head, Terje gave up and let Maren take over with the stubborn child.

“What is it you’re frightened of?” she asked quietly, indicating they should move into Olav’s room.

He reluctantly shuffled after her.

“I’m not frightened.”

He flopped onto the bed so it groaned audibly, and Maren found herself checking the solidity of the furniture before sitting down beside him.

“If you’re not scared, then what’s holding you back?”

“I just can’t be bothered. I’m not scared.”

From the corridor they could hear Kenneth sobbing bitterly through the excited yelling and Tarzan howls of the other youngsters as they swung on the ropes.

She was no saint. The dumbest things she knew were expressions such as “I’m so fond of children.” Children were like adults: some were enchanting, some were charming, others were scumbags. As a professional foster worker, she thought that no one could identify when she did not like a child. She did not treat individuals alike, as individuals were not alike, but she was fair and did not have favorites. There was a subtle balance there she was proud of, but Olav
did
something to her.

No one had managed to break through to him since he arrived. All the same, there was something about his expression as he sat there, like a dressed Buddha trying to appear angry but actually only being sad; there was something about his entire macabre figure that drew her to him. In defiance of the ban on making physical contact, she calmly stroked his hair, and he allowed her to do so.

“What is it with you, little Olav?” she said quietly, caressing him again.

“I’m not exactly little, you know,” he responded, but she sensed the hint of a smile in his voice.

“Just a bit,” she said, laughing. “Sometimes, anyway.”

“Do you like working here?” he asked suddenly, pushing her hand away from his head.

“Yes. I like it very, very much. I couldn’t imagine working anywhere else in the whole wide world.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About three years . . .”

Hesitating, she added, “Since I left college. School of Social Work. Almost four years. And I’m going to be here for many, many years to come.”

“Why don’t you go and have some children of your own instead?”

“I might well do that someday as well. But that’s not why I work here, of course. Because I don’t have children of my own, I mean. Most people who work here do have children of their own.”

“How many pages are there in the Bible?” he asked abruptly.

“The Bible?”

“Yes, how many pages has it got? There must be fuckin’ lots! Look how thick it is!”

He grabbed the Bible that was lying on the bedside table, as on every bedside table, and slapped it over and over again against his thigh before handing it to her.

Maren began to flick through it.

“You can have a look at the last page,” he suggested. “You don’t need to count them, you know.”

“One thousand two hundred and seventy-one pages,” she concluded. “Plus a few pages of maps. And you . . . I mean what I said about that swearing of yours. Shall we try the fire ladder now?”

He stood up, and the bed sighed in relief.

“Now I’m going down. The stairs.”

There was nothing further to discuss.

 • • • 

I made contact with children’s services. Yes, when he was two years old. I was scared to death. I needed help. Someone had to look after him for a bit. Just a few hours a day. I had decided to phone several months earlier but kept putting it off for fear of what action they would take. They can’t take him away from me. There were only the two of us. I was still breast-feeding him, although he now weighed nineteen kilos and devoured five meals a day. He ate everything. I don’t know why I let him go on so long. For the ten minutes he was suckling, he was at least quiet. I was in control. It
became like small pockets of peace. When he began to lose interest, I was the one who was beaten. Not him.

They were friendly. After being at home with me a few times, two or three, perhaps, they granted him a kindergarten place. From quarter past eight to five o’clock. They said I shouldn’t leave him there so long, since I was a stay-at-home mum and could allow him to have slightly shorter days. It would be tiring for him, they said.

The boy was delivered at quarter past eight every morning. I never collected him before five. But never too late either.

I got a place at kindergarten, and survived.

 • • • 

Olav longed for home. It was like a craving in his body, something he had never felt before. He had never been away for so long. He tried to shrink the hole in his stomach by breathing hard and fast, but that only made him dizzy. His entire body ached. Then he attempted to take deep breaths again, but the craving, the painful hole, returned. It was enough to make him cry.

He did not know if it was his mum or the apartment or the bed or his belongings that he missed. He did not think too deeply about it either. It was one big jumble of loss.

He wanted to go home but he was not permitted to leave. He had to stay there for two months before he would be allowed a home visit, they had told him. Instead, his mum came to visit him twice a week. As if his mum had anything to do with the foster home. He saw the other children staring at her and the twins laughing every time she appeared. Kenneth was the only one who spoke to her, but then he did not have a mum at all, poor soul, so he was probably envious. An ugly and horrible mum was better than none at all.

She was able to stay there for two hours each visit. For the first hour, everything went well. They chatted a little, perhaps
went for a walk around the neighborhood. Twice they had gone to a café and eaten cakes. It was a long walk, however, so on that visit the excursion had consumed almost all their time. The one occasion they had returned half an hour late, Agnes had scolded his mum. He saw that his mum was sorry, although she did not say anything. So then he had vandalized his cloakroom peg, and Agnes had been furious with him as well.

When the first hour had passed, it was more difficult to think of anything. Agnes suggested his mum should help him with his homework, but that was something she had never done before, so he was not thrilled with that. Instead they spent most of the time sitting in his room, without saying very much at all.