The House That Jack Built (11 page)

Chapter 24

“D
ad. Dad. Wake
up
.”

Maria was hovering over him.

“It's late. We're supposed to be at Grandma's in an hour.”

“A dream,” he whispered. “It was just a dream.” He grabbed her. Held tight.

“Dad, stop it. You're hurting me.”

He let go and Maria stepped back. She sat down on the bed.

“Sorry.” He raised himself on his elbows, looked down at his wrinkled clothes. Maria rubbed her upper arm; her face was drawn.

“Did you find him?”

He looked at her. What did she mean? “Oh. No. Well, we have a suspect in custody, yes.” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Did you see the flowers?”

She laughed. “Thanks, Dad. That was sweet of you.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “You're itchy.” Then she got up and danced into the living room.

Lars sat back, followed her with his eyes. A kiss. Maybe there was a way back after all.

“You'd better hurry if you're going to have time for a shower.” Her voice came from the living room. There was a clattering: Maria was trying to open the door to the balcony. The roar of engines poured in.

Lars took off his clothes. As he turned on the shower, he realized that he was whistling.

“You shaved,” she said when he emerged in the living room dressed and with dripping wet hair.

“Yes, if it means getting a kiss, then . . .”

“Oh, Dad. If you only knew.” She smiled, looking secretive.

“What's with the look? Do you have a boyfriend?”

She was swinging her purse. “Don't you think it's time to get going?”

Forty-five minutes later they were standing outside Anna's house in the Mozart Community Garden. Maria knocked.

“Good Lord, the two of you already? Is it that late?”

Anna was a tall woman in her mid-sixties, with piercing grey eyes that matched silver, tousled hair cut in a long bob that fell just above her shoulders. It seemed to Lars that her face had gotten more wrinkled from all the years spent outdoors in the community garden. Lars and Maria both got a hug before Anna led them through the house and out onto the terrace. A loose black pantsuit fluttered around her wiry frame.

“I've got white wine and elderflower cordial.”

The house consisted of two old portables positioned at right angles to each other so that they formed a large V. On one side were the bathroom and the sleeping area; on the other side were the kitchen, the dining room, and the study. The house had always seemed small but cozy to Lars. Like a summer cottage. The terrace filled the space between the two sides of the V-shaped house. Anna had arranged for a glass roof to be constructed over the innermost corner of the terrace with windows from floor to ceiling, so the house had become a good deal wider at the intersection. The terrace itself was built from used railway ties that were placed directly on the ground. The levels were uneven and standing there felt a little precarious. The rickety, rusty garden furniture went well with the comfortable, crooked house.

“It's so nice seeing you both again.” Anna filled their glasses and they toasted. Lars ran his eyes across the small garden, which was wild and unkempt, just as his mother wanted it.

“It's nice to see you too, Grandma.” Maria's eyes had a completely different glow to them.

The sun was about to set above the rooftop of the neighbouring house. The light dripped from the leaves of the gnarled birch that leaned over the terrace. The pale summer cloud cover had disappeared while he slept. The air smelled of grass and flowers. Somewhere in the vicinity, a barbecue was lit. A little further away, someone tried to play the guitar. Whoever it was, he or she couldn't play. It sounded awful.

He suddenly realized that Maria and Anna had gone silent. They were both staring at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Don't mind him,” Maria said. “Dad's been working all night. He only managed a couple of hours of sleep this afternoon.”

“Is it that rape case?” Anna asked.

Lars nodded, took a sip of wine. He had to be careful. He shouldn't have too much, considering how little he'd slept.

“Unfortunately, yes. We had a new incident last night. We have someone in custody, but we're waiting for the lab results before pressing charges.”

Maria shuddered. “I think it's horrific.”

“Well,” Anna said, “that's not something we should talk about anyway. What do you say to chicken and new potatoes and my nice bean salad?”

After they'd had dinner on the terrace, Maria went inside to look through Anna's bookcases. Anna had an infinite number of eclectic bric-a-brac: figurines from Turkey, North African pottery, and empty soda bottles from Mexico and India, as well as a small army of sculptures she had made from materials she had discovered on her many travels. Anna was also a keen photographer. Her photographs were cherished by some galleries. And then there were all the books. Maria could spend hours going through it all.

Lars and Anna were sitting at the table. He lit a cigarette while Anna sat with her elbows on the table, staring into her wine glass.

Suddenly she raised her head. “Do you have any idea how much she's missed you?”

Lars twisted the end of his cigarette in the ashtray, then moved the knife on his plate. “She's been busy.”

“She's been busy trying to figure out what's actually going on.”

“I've had this discussion with Elena already. I don't —”

“It's your child we're talking about. And you just disappeared.”

He didn't want to argue, especially not with Maria in the other room. But the anger bubbled up inside him.

“Elena left
me
.”

“But you're the grownup — or you ought to be. Your daughter, on the other hand . . .”

There it was: the anger. A surging storm that threatened to wash everything away. His fist hit the table before he realized it was moving. Cutlery and plates clattered, his glass tipped over. The wine flowed out, dripping onto the railway ties through the cracks in the table. For a while, they were both frozen. Lars was about to continue, to shout something he would come to regret, when Maria suddenly appeared.

“I got asked on a date today,” she said.

Something broke, soaked up the anger, the harsh words.

Anna reached out her arms, pulled her granddaughter close. “That sounds wonderful, my girl. You could do to be spoiled by someone.”

Maria kissed her on the cheek.

So that was it. Not the light, not him. Not Anna. He took a drag on the cigarette, which had been resting between his index and middle fingers, forgotten.

“When?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.” She looked happy.

He hated himself for it, but he had to continue. “Who is he?”

“Does it really matter?” There was a pleading tone in Anna's voice. She looked up at Maria. “Is he ni —”

“I —” he interrupted, then stopped himself. He lowered his voice. “Right now I need to know who you're with.”

Maria, still standing, looked first at Anna, then at Lars. She fiddled with her napkin, which was crumpled under the edge of the plate. The wine ran from the broken glass.

“It's someone from school. You don't know him.”

“What grade is he in?”

“He . . . grade twelve.”

Something singed; there was a burning pain in his hand.

“Ouch, goddammit —” The smell of burnt flesh. The forgotten cigarette caused the skin right between his index and middle fingers to bubble and burst. He threw the cigarette down, quickly dipped the napkin in his water glass, and dabbed the burn.

“Okay, but stay away from Penthouse nightclub.”

“Dad, do you really think I go to places like that?” Maria grimaced. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

He looked over at his mother. “What?”

She stared at him with dark eyes, shook her head.

Midsummer's Eve, 2006

T
he sparks from
the bonfires around the lake leap up toward the bright evening sky. Voices ring out across the water. Drunken shouts. Laughter. The noise from the traffic a heavy, incessant roaring over the water.

Every city has its witch,

and every parish has its trolls.

With our merry bonfires, we will keep them from our shores . . .

He slips in through the bulrushes, leaving the summer solstice celebrations behind. Dad's face is scarlet from highballs and red wine and an entire day spent looking at porn; Mom is the perpetual pale shadow in the corner — you're never quite certain if she's really there or not. The smell of burnt steaks, booze, and perfume fills the air. Someone tells a joke, and Dad laughs longer and harder than the rest. They're flying to Nice the next day to spend three weeks at Uncle's house. When they return, he'll be in grade seven. Soon he'll have to think about high school. But tonight is different; tonight there's a tingling inside him.

He looks back. Then the rushes close around him and he finds himself in a world of shadows and great stillness where everything is open. He slips forward, a shadow without scent or sound.

He steps onto the floating bridge, treading lightly across the pale boards. His blood is pumping. He turns away from the lake, onto the network of paths that lead to the back of the gardens. It's darker here under the brush. Leaves rub against each other, whispering; branches reach out for him.

The moon rises, its white beams sharp blades that cut through the thicket and force him to shield his eyes with his hand. He's drawing closer now.

He moves along the elder thicket, toward the fence by the big rotten tree stump — the one he'd discovered when he went to bury the cat and dug up a large bone — then squeezes through the gap in the decayed, peeling boards.

At first he sees nothing. His passage through the thicket has made green and red spots dance in the darkness in front of him. But slowly his sight returns and the old garden opens up before him. It's an enchanted, chaotic world, completely different from the straight-ruled, landscaped gardens and flowerbeds he knows from home. This place hasn't been looked after for years; everything grows wild. The red-brick house with the black half-timbering build on a low rise in the back of the garden. It is secluded from the road and far from the neighbouring houses. Is it lonely and abandoned?

No, he knows better.

He settles in the thicket at the back of the house and pulls out the pack of cigarettes he'd nicked earlier that evening. They were the neighbour's smokes, the one with the long tits, the one he saw Dad fucking in the sunroom last summer. She had squealed like a stuck pig. Dad had to cover her mouth. Long and hard, until she stopped shaking.

He fumbles for the lighter, holding one hand in front so the flame won't be seen from the house. He keeps the cigarette and the ember hidden behind his palm. It's only a matter of time now.

The nicotine seeps into his bloodstream, nausea and dizziness spreading. He leans back. A branch cuts his skin. The blood trickles from the wound on his arm, heavy, black drops against his white skin. He brushes the blood off with his index finger and sticks it in his mouth. The warm, salty taste of himself.

There is life around him: the nocturnal insects crawl in the undergrowth under the cover of darkness, the birds' black shadows cross the sky. He inhales once more; his head swims.

A streak of light escapes by the stairs leading down to the cellar. Now's the moment. He holds his breath. Then the light disappears. He leans back, annoyed.

He counts to ten. He's about to take another drag on the smoke when he hears something passing through the long grass. Is it a sound or a flash that makes him react? At once he sits bolt upright, all senses alert. He looks forward, following the lines between light and shadow.

A figure floats out of the shadows, dragging something behind it — a rolled-up carpet. He sees the white in its eyes; he doesn't dare to breathe. Right in front of his hiding place the figure stops and clutches its back. Something heavy falls to the ground. The figure stoops down and picks up a shovel that's been left in the grass by the old elder tree. As the shovel is raised, the handle knocks aside a corner of the carpet.

A blurry white face. Dark empty eye sockets stare straight at him.

The figure lifts the spade.

He is still holding the cigarette by his mouth, in full view. With a silent movement he turns it, conceals the ember in his hand. The figure twitches, barely twists his body. The stroke of the spade changes direction, shoots across the ground and into the thicket toward his face.

Without a sound, he crawls backwards, away. The edge of the spade passes millimetres from his face. His back, neck, arm are grazed. He presses himself further back. The abandoned cigarette is still glowing on the ground. Only when he squeezes through the gap in the fence and feels the boards behind him does he turn around. Then he starts running, back the way he came. Blood pumps in his head, pressing against the back of his eyeballs in hot, throbbing rhythms. All he hears is the sound of snapping branches, the hissing of his pursuer, right on his heels.

A blurry white face, dark, empty eyeballs.

Out of the thicket. He jumps up, runs back along the path. The moon is cold and clear just above him; everything vibrates. Then come the footsteps from behind.

He runs onto the floating bridge. It bobs up and down beneath him, gives way on the water as the other reaches it. A swan looks up startled, takes off noisily across the water. He barges into the rushes on the other side. He can no longer hear the pursuer behind him. He tries to speed up but the reeds clutch at him with their tough stalks. The soggy earth sucks his shoes. And now he hears the man barging through the rushes behind him. Hissing, swearing.

Then he's out.

The bonfire is no more than fifty metres away, forty metres to the circle of light and the adults standing around it with their backs turned to him. They're singing. Dad stands out. His right hand is on the neighbour's wife's ass. The other rests lightly on Mom's shoulder. There is something about the neighbour's wife's posture. It's rigid, unnatural. There's a rustling behind him. The pursuer emerges from the rushes. He throws the shovel down when he sees the group by the bonfire.

The figure catches up just before he reaches the circle of light and grabs him by the arm.

“You.”

Narrow yellow slits hover centimetres from his face. He senses the hand rising behind the contorted face that glows in the light of the bonfire.

Sudden sounds behind him.

“Christian?” It's Dad.

The eyes narrow even more, scan the row of adults between him and the bonfire. The hand drops limply, but the grip around his arm tightens.

The pursuer hisses, “Your parents are next, if . . .”

He tightens his grasp one final time. It hurts so much he thinks he is going to pass out. Then the man lets go, turns around, and disappears through the rushes with one last piercing glare.

“What was that?” Dad is already on his way, craning his neck to follow the movements in the rushes.

“Nothing, Dad. Come on. Isn't it time to go home?”