When the Devil Holds the Candle (18 page)

"I'll take care of it," he told the cashier.

She shrugged, and as soon as he had paid for his groceries, he ran in pursuit of the woman. By then she was quite a distance up the street, perhaps on her way to catch a bus. She was carrying the grocery bag in her right hand, walking close to the buildings. Skarre put the baby bottle in the inside pocket of his leather jacket and hurried after her. She didn't notice him. She cut across the street and started up the hill toward Prins Oscars Gate. He was close enough to shout, but he picked up speed so that he would be able to state his business without shouting.
Skarre was very considerate. She was halfway up the hill, and he was only five yards behind. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket and jogged a few paces toward her.

"Hello! Could you wait a minute, please?"

She lurched around to stare at him. Her fear was so apparent that Skarre stopped at once. He threw out his arms and waved the bottle.

"You forgot this! That's all."

She stood there for a few seconds, staring at him, then she turned and continued up the hill.

"What about the baby bottle?"

Finally she stopped.

"I was behind you in the shop. You left it on the counter."

He was quite close to her now. He could see her thin lips and her deep-set eyes. She had a heavy jaw and eyebrows that had grown together. Her face was pale, like something that had been locked up.

"I thought it might be important," he said as he smiled and held it out to her. She took it reluctantly.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "You gave me such a start."

"I didn't mean to," Skarre said with a bow.

"There are so many strange people," she said. "You never know who might turn up."

She gave him what passed for a smile. "You could have gone on your way and not done anything. This bottle is important."

"I thought so."

He turned to leave. She seemed to have calmed down.

"Have a nice day."

"A nice day?" She seemed to wake up. "You have no idea what you're talking about." Skarre hesitated. An expression of pure confusion appeared on her face. She turned abruptly and walked up the hill. Skarre watched her turn to the left, just short of a thick hedge. Behind the trees he could see glimpses of a white house with green trim.

***

I turned on the tap and let the water run. I was composed enough to show a little concern, and besides, I was responsible for him. I was all he had. The thought sang inside me, even though I knew that it wouldn't last; it was only for a moment that I would have a human being at my disposal like this: someone who had to listen to me. He started groaning when I opened the trapdoor. It was odd to stand there with a baby bottle in my hand; it had been so long since I'd done that. I had thought everything through. If I placed a pillow on his chest, the bottle could rest there. I couldn't stand the idea of holding it for him. I was surprised that he was still alive. There was something wrong with his legs and arms, and maybe with his lungs too. His voice was weak, and he was struggling to breathe. I stood there holding the bottle in my hand. To think that I'd forgotten it! I had trouble remembering what I'd said to that young man, and that made me nervous. Still, I had a lot on my mind. I went down the steps. He saw the bottle at once and opened his eyes wide. I put the pillow on his chest, on top of the blanket, and nestled the bottle on the pillow. He sucked down the water, not stopping. Bubbles rose in the bottle. I sat there, watching him, a few steps up so that his head was visible between my knees, like something I had given birth to on the floor. It was good that he finally had some water; tears ran down his face the whole time he was drinking. I was absorbed by that beautiful face and those bright eyes and the water that trickled and ran down his throat. I had used scissors to cut a bigger hole so it wouldn't be so hard for him to drink. When the bottle was almost empty, it was so light that it fell off the pillow and onto the cement floor, making a tiny hollow sound as it rolled away.

"Thank you," he whispered. Then he closed his eyes. I was touched. Wasn't he going to scream again? Curse me? Threaten me so I'd call for help? He looked as if he was sleeping. I waited,
in awe. He was having trouble breathing. I would have sat there all night if my back hadn't started to hurt. If I could have done it, I would have carried him up to my own bed. I would have done that for him, done it gladly. Nothing can compare with sitting there like that, looking at a person who is completely dependent on you. I decided there and then to take as good care of him as I possibly could. And the cellar, which was so familiar to me, gradually began to change. It was no longer dark and sinister, and I could see it properly: the light shining through the cobwebs on the ceiling, turning them to silver threads; the dim glow in the corners; the yellow lightbulb; the dull-colored floor; the dreary old furniture that seemed to have some dignity now, contentedly at rest against the cellar wall, having fulfilled its role; the worn steps on which I was sitting; the quiet room. Andreas had filled it with something. He was young and stupid. He had acted without thinking, the way young people do; they just barge forward. But surely he didn't deserve to lie here like this, freezing. I came out of my reverie.

"Are you in pain?" I asked.

A moment passed. He opened his eyes.

"No," he said, his voice feeble.

"Are you cold?" I asked.

"No," he said again.

He licked his lips. They had begun to split. The hair on the right side of his head was matted with blood. It was stiff and sticky.

"You're lying in such an awkward position. I'm going to move you."

"No! No!" he screamed. His eyes were filled with terror.

"But your legs are up on the steps—it looks as though it must hurt."

"No. Don't!"

I stood up and moved behind his head. Hesitated for a moment before I leaned down. He whimpered, begged me not to do it. But I hardened my heart and stuck my hands under his armpits. Counted to three and pulled him the last few paces away from the stairs. His shoes banged faintly against the floor. He didn't scream, which apparently surprised him. He looked better now, with his legs stretched out.

"I can't feel my body. I can't feel anything!" he said.

I was overwhelmed by what he said, by what I had done. What he had done, I corrected myself: he was to blame for all of this. I was struck with great force by how serious his injuries were. I had to squash the despair I felt, that I couldn't bear to feel! I got rapidly to my feet.

"You should have thought of that before!"

He opened his mouth to cry out in reply, but he couldn't speak; he didn't have the strength. I went back upstairs. Closed the trapdoor. Could he have broken his neck? Cut off all connections below, so that everything would stop functioning? Could he live like that? Was he getting enough oxygen? It was too late to turn back. I had burned my bridges the first time I closed the trapdoor. There was no going back. No going forward, either. I sat down at the table and put my head in my hands. His face would appear at regular intervals to disturb me. But then I felt good again, warm and pleased. I thought that next time I would fill the bottle with warm milk, maybe with a little sugar in it. Or a couple of sleeping pills, so he would sleep. These thoughts gave me a kind of peace. There was so much good you could do if you only tried. I leafed through the newspapers again, and I couldn't find a single page with no mention of violence or war or some other misery. A young man had shot his own girlfriend in the face. There were more kids like Andreas, there were lots of them. Each story was worse than the last. At regular intervals I would turn around or look over my shoulder. I was expecting something—a face at the window, a phone ringing. When the doorbell finally rang, my heart stopped beating. But it calmed down when I reminded myself that I didn't have to open the door. I am in charge of my own life and my own house. I let the doorbell go on ringing. When it didn't stop, I went over and looked through the peephole. A figure loomed on the top step, and I stared into a streaked face. It was my friend Runi. Andreas's mother.

Robert came out of the jail escorted by two officers. He was very pale. Several blood vessels in his eyes had burst and he hadn't eaten for days. He didn't mean this as a protest; he just couldn't keep any food down. He was living on Coke and coffee and cigarettes. He didn't want to escape or to make excuses, he only wanted to understand. He had nothing else to contribute. Now he had all the time in the world, and he had quickly realized that the best path to the rest of his life lay in his willingness to cooperate. Besides, they were perfectly nice; they treated him with kindness. And that was true of everybody, from top to bottom—this police lieutenant, for instance. Robert slowly sat down. What was the rush? Where was he going to hide? It would always be with him, the fact that he had killed Anita. It would drag behind him like a lizard's tail. He hadn't done many bad things in his life. He wasn't a very good student, but he had no shortage of friends. He was a pleasant boy; it said so in his school report. And he had believed, as most boys do, that good things lay ahead for him. That he wouldn't fall into any of the traps. But now here he was, charged with first-degree murder. Awareness of this fact kept pounding him like a sledgehammer, with relentless precision, again and again. He had grown used to the pain.

"Sit down," Sejer said. "You can smoke if you like. And let me know if you need anything else. Anything at all."

"Thanks," Robert said.

He looked at the gray man. Sejer's towering height was impressive, but he didn't seem threatening. First and foremost, he was here to do his job. That felt reassuring. He had done this before. Robert wasn't unique, not in this place; he was one of many. Sejer wished that were not so, that Robert were the first and for that reason would be remembered.

"Do you want the psychologist? He'll come if I call him, Robert."

"It's fine like this."

Sejer nodded, pushing back his gray hair. Robert sensed that behind his quiet demeanor slumbered mighty forces that might be aroused to anger if he didn't cooperate. The lieutenant wore a shirt and tie and discreet charcoal trousers with sharp creases. His eyes were gray; they scrutinized Robert calmly.

"There's one thing I want to emphasize regarding this conversation. It might not be easy, but I want you to try anyway." He pulled his chair closer to the desk. "Through the whole course of events, as we go over everything that happened, try to avoid referring to the fact that you had been drinking heavily all evening, or to how intoxicated you were. We both know that you were very drunk." He paused and looked at Robert, who was still staring back at him with his eyes wide open, nodding. "And we both know that this wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been drinking."

Robert lowered his eyes. Sejer heard his lashes brush his cheek.

"We're simply going to review what happened, as you remember it, without emphasizing that you were drunk. Placing the events in the context of your drunken state will come later. Your defense lawyer will take care of that. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

He rubbed his sweaty hands under the desk. Looked down at his shoes. Prison legs, he thought. Prisoner Robert.

"Let's go over the day that it happened. From when you woke up in the morning until the moment when Anita was lying dead on the floor. As detailed as you can. Take all the time you need," he added.

Robert began. "The alarm clock went off at ten to eight."
My voice,
he thought.
It's the voice of a child. So shrill and strange-sounding.
"I'm usually tired in the morning, but it was Friday. It's easier on Friday," he said, smiling, "knowing that it's almost the weekend. We were planning a party. The day before, at work. And Anita said yes. She had got out of a babysitting job. And the landlord was gone, so we had the whole house to ourselves. Otherwise," he took a deep breath, "it was an ordinary day. I was feeling good. Better than usual."

"Why was that?"

"Because of ... Anita."

It took great effort to say Anita's name out loud.
Anita. Anita.
If only the name could be erased from all the files in the world. There were lots of Anitas. Each time he heard the name, it all came back to him. And knocked him flat.

"All the same," he said, clearing his throat, "I had a suspicion that it wasn't going to last. Forever, I mean. And when I thought about that, I felt resigned. Sometimes I thought about that."

"Why?" Sejer wanted to know. "Why did you feel resigned?"

"Anita was ... great. I didn't need anyone better than her. But deep inside I knew that soon she was going to run off and find somebody else. Someone better than me. Sooner or later."

"How could you be certain of that?"

Sejer looked at the boy's shoulders. They were hunched up, as if against a cold wind.

"She acted the way most girlfriends do, but she wasn't exactly excited about me. It was a matter of time before she chose
Anders. Or Roger, or someone else. I guess that's the way it is when you have lots to choose from. I've never had lots to choose from. That's why this was so important to me—having a girlfriend. No, not just having a girlfriend; I've had them before. But having Anita."

Sejer leaned his chin on his hand. "Was Anita the prettiest girlfriend you've ever had?"

"I suppose she was. When I walked down the street with her she always attracted attention. People would look at her hair and everything. And then they'd look at who was with her—who the guy was who had a girl like that."

Sejer studied him intently. The narrow face, the thin hair that hadn't been combed in a long time and was now sticking out in every direction. Dark blue eyes, flitting all over the room. A streak of a mouth, almost colorless. Thin fingers with nails bitten to the quick. Practically a child.

"How did your day at work go?"

"As usual. There's a lot to do on Fridays. I called Anita during my lunch break. Not because I had anything special to say, but because I liked being able to call her when I felt like it. She worked at the department store. We talked for two or three minutes, then we hung up. I wanted to ask her to wear a dress, but I didn't dare. I didn't want to seem like the controlling type; girls don't like that. But she came in a dress anyway."