Karin Fossum has won numerous awards, including the Glass Key Award for the best Nordic crime novel, an honour shared with Henning Mankell and Jo Nesbo, and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. Her highly acclaimed Inspector Sejer series has been published in more than thirty countries.
A mother and child are found brutally murdered in an old caravan on a remote piece of land. A bloody footprint is discovered at the scene, and Chief Inspector Sejer is called to investigate.
Meanwhile, another mother, dying of cancer, confesses to her 21-year-old son that he is adopted. The man who abandoned them, whom the boy has become obsessed by, is not his real father.
Why do we lie to those closest to us? Hellfire delves deep into the dark heart of family, and what drives people to commit the most horrific of crimes.
Broken
I Can See in the Dark
The Inspector Sejer Series
In the Darkness
Don’t Look Back
He Who Fears the Wolf
When the Devil Holds the Candle
Calling Out For You
Black Seconds
The Murder of Harriet Krohn
The Water’s Edge
Bad Intentions
The Caller
The Drowned Boy
My darling Finn.
Thank you.
Women and children sweated in the heat, but the men knew better and stayed in the shade with the peaks of their caps pulled down over their eyes. In a hollow in the fields up by Skarven, an old Fendt caravan stood in a cluster of dark pines. A torn curtain hung in one rusty window, a fine net of nylon threads and white lace where insects had got caught and trapped. A child was lying just inside the door, a child of around four or five. And on the narrow sofa under the window, a woman. She had a great gash in the corner of her mouth and the blood had run down her neck. The inspector stood in the doorway, his heart hammering.
The caravan was dilapidated; surely they hadn’t lived here, the mother and child? No, he thought, they couldn’t have. Maybe they were just here for fun. They had gone for a walk over the fields in the lovely weather, perhaps, and had seen the rusty little house standing there. Let’s sleep in the caravan tonight!
Geirastadir lay to the west and Haugane to the east, but here, in the dark cluster of trees, lay the mother and child. Sejer climbed into the caravan. The adrenaline made his mouth dry. He stepped over the child, careful to avoid the blood, then spotted a knife lying on the floor over by the sofa. A knife with a riveted wood handle and a long, thin blade – the kind of knife used to fillet meat or fish. There were streaks of blood on the shiny blade – it had clearly run thick and fast – and the air smelt raw. On the worktop he found a handbag with a purse in it; it was red, with several compartments. A backpack and a half-eaten pizza; some clothes on the shelves. A thousand kroner in cash in the purse. In other words, this was not a robbery, but then he had never thought it was. There was always some kind of relationship, he believed, a reason, a motive. A seed from way back. The person who had killed the mother and child knew who they were. And where they were. He had tracked them down, pursued them over the fields and found their hiding place. If it was a hiding place. It was certainly a dismal place to be found, full of stains and damp and that foul smell. Rain leaking through the roof, dead insects. The child was wearing a tracksuit in red, white and blue, the Norwegian colours. It wasn’t possible to tell if it was a boy or a girl. Lying on its back with its arms outstretched, as though it had been pushed back by something at the door. Some fair curls caked to its brow. The head twisted back at the neck, a thin, white throat.
Sejer opened the purse again and took out the driver’s licence. Bonnie Hayden. So that was the mother’s name. But for the moment, the child’s remained unknown.
‘Not yet,’ he said to the others who wanted to get in. ‘Don’t touch anything. It’s not long since this happened, it’s still wet. Call Snorrason at forensics and ask him to come immediately.’
He had to go out to get some fresh air; he stood for a while on the grass and breathed in deeply. He registered that some things were crystal clear: the birds were still singing, a light wind played with the black fringes on the branches, a thrush pulled and tugged at a worm it had found in the field. A huge area had been sealed off already and the plastic tape fluttered on the breeze like colourful bunting.
The men followed the dusty path up towards Geirastadir. Their conversation was limited to short, hushed comments. He had presumably walked this way, trodden this path after doing the deed. ‘One of them must have seen the other die,’ Sejer said, turning to his younger colleague. He didn’t know which was worse. If the child had witnessed the mother’s death, or if the mother had witnessed the child’s death. The most horrific thing possible had happened to them both. Evil incarnate had snuck across the field and stabbed them with a knife. There was something methodical about the murders, something determined; he couldn’t see it any other way.
I only hope to God it was quick, he thought.
He exchanged a few words with Randen, the farmer who had found the bodies. Robert Randen stood, frightened, at a respectable distance, unable to move forwards or back, didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to stay. He owned the caravan, which hadn’t been used for a few years; it had stood there empty and rusting among the pine trees.
‘We’ll need to take a statement from you later,’ Konrad Sejer said. ‘But for now, have you noticed anyone in the area in recent days? Anyone who doesn’t belong?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t seen a soul. I’ve got some Polish workers on the farm,’ he added, ‘and they knew that the boy and his mother were staying in the caravan. But it was only one night – they came yesterday. I refuse to believe that any of my men are involved. And if that is the case, it’ll break me, they’re my people.’
‘There’s a knife on the floor inside,’ Sejer continued. ‘Did you see it?’
The farmer caught his breath. Almost imperceptibly.
‘I want you to take a closer look at it. See if you’ve seen it before.’
‘Do I have to go in again?’
He was reluctant.
‘Yes.’
He climbed the two steps and peered in.
‘It’s not our knife. Can I go now?’
‘Yes, we’ll follow you up later. Don’t talk to the press.’
Sejer was about to go back inside the caravan when something in the grass caught his eye. It was an overturned cake plate by the narrow door. The cake had slid off the edge and was now lying on the ground, untouched. The discovery puzzled him, and he made sure that it was photographed. The fat crows would undoubtedly dive in and finish it off in no time if they didn’t take it with them. The technicians took their pictures. Bent over in the cramped caravan, hunkered down. There were several bloody prints on the linoleum floor, the sole of a big shoe; most were faint or incomplete, but one was clear. Sejer moved carefully between the dead bodies. The pungent smell of meat and blood tore at his nose. But his brain was clear. Through the window, he saw a thicket of ripe raspberries.
The snow finally came just before Christmas.
‘Do you really have to go out?’ Eddie asked. ‘There’s a storm blowing.’
They had said on the radio that it was icy, that driving conditions were bad and they advised people to stay indoors. Visibility was virtually zero.
Mass put her hand on his arm; her voice was calm and decided.
‘Eddie,’ she said kindly, ‘I’ve got winter tyres. And I’ll drive like a snail, I promise. I want to come home to you in one piece. But I have to go to the shop, we need food. Or do you want to try going without?’
Eddie shook his heavy head at the thought of having no dinner.
‘You stay at home with Shiba,’ she said. ‘What do you want from the shop? I’m sure you’re hungry.’
Eddie Malthe wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He was the shape of a giant pear, with thin, spindly legs, and he was wearing the same heavy boots that he always wore, which were narrow at the heel and broadened out towards the toes. He had the feet of a big goose. His hands were huge, white, with short, stubby fingers.
‘Cinnamon rolls,’ he said without hesitation.
‘Cinnamon rolls it is,’ his mother replied. ‘I’ll be off then. And be nice to Shiba: don’t pull her tail. I know that’s what you do when you’re here on your own.’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ Eddie said, as he planned with glee to do just that. When he pulled her tail, Shiba always started to whine and scratched the floor with her long claws as though she was trying to escape.
‘Remember your seat belt,’ he said with authority.
His mother pulled on her coat.
‘And don’t forget your mobile. If you run off the road you must call the emergency services. That is, if you’re not unconscious.’
‘Eddie, stop it. Now go and sit down on the sofa and I’ll be back in three-quarters of an hour, no more.’
Eddie looked at his mother long and hard.
‘When you go out, it’ll get cold in the house,’ he complained. ‘You know what it’s like. Don’t forget the cinnamon rolls. If they haven’t got them, get some biscuits. Lemon creams.’
He stared out of the window; the glass was shiny and clean – his mother kept things neat and tidy. His eyes felt sore. He watched the car reverse out of the garage and turn onto the main road. The snow was coming down and swirling around in the wind, ending in great drifts on the roadside. He said a quiet prayer that everything would be all right. That his mother would come back unharmed with the shopping. The dog was sleeping in front of the burner with her head on her paws. He went straight over to her and pulled her tail hard, as he always did. Shiba scrambled to her feet, whining, and ran out into the kitchen.
Eddie sat down on the sofa, picked up the newspaper and turned to the second-last page, where the crossword was. He normally managed to solve it. It wasn’t that he was stupid. He found a pencil and started to read. Across, possessive, seven letters. He wrote the word ‘jealous’ in the seven squares.
The burner was roaring, and the dog had settled down on the floor in the corner of the kitchen. She was an overweight, eight-year-old Labrador, and his mother had said she didn’t have long to live. Her body was full of lumps, he could feel them under her golden fur, but she wasn’t insured, so they couldn’t afford to take her to the vet.
‘We’ll just have to let life run its course,’ his mother would say. ‘Nothing lasts forever, you know.’
‘I know,’ Eddie would answer. Then he’d think about his mother’s death, because it was going to happen one day. And even though she was only fifty-six, and he was twenty-one, it still terrified him to think about her demise and he got all hot and bothered. He often had to put his hand on his heart to calm it down. Romany, he read, and he got the fourth letter ‘s’ from jealous. He wrote the word ‘gipsy’ in the five squares. He always did the easy ones first. Then he looked at the clock on the wall and watched the seconds tick by. His mother would be back with the cinnamon rolls in twenty minutes. He could already taste them in his mouth. He really, really hoped they had some! And that they were good and fresh! Direction, five letters; could be north. Or south. Either way, he had the next word for circle, five letters. It must be ‘round’. Then he got on to the more difficult clues, and decided to take a break. He went back to the window and stared out at the driving snow. ‘Let Mum make it through the storm,’ he prayed to Jesus, wherever he was. ‘Because I’m sitting here all alone waiting for cake. There’s only the two of us. You have to look after us!’
He went out to see Shiba in the kitchen, pulled her tail hard again, and then laughed when she shot up and ran into the living room, where she scooted under the sofa and collapsed, panting.
‘Stupid dog,’ he said, and laughed again. ‘You don’t fight back. Haven’t you got any teeth?’
Then he sat back down with the crossword, sucking on the end of the pencil. The clue cease made him uneasy, as the word had only three letters.
Forty-five minutes had passed and his mother had not returned. He grabbed his mobile and tapped in her number with his fat fingers. But all he got was a voice saying, ‘The person you are calling is unable to answer the phone right now.’ He paced over to the window again and stared out at the snow, thick and white, the sun only managing to produce a pale, modest light. He knew that his mother would send him out to clear the snow later, and if there was one thing he hated, it was clearing snow. He tried her number again, but once more heard the disembodied voice telling him she was unable to answer the phone. It was fifty minutes now. This is it, he thought in desperation, she’s driven off the road and crashed into a tree. She’s sitting with her nose buried in the airbag. For a moment he considered throwing on his jacket and walking along the road to look for her. But then, as he stood there by the window, anxiously wringing his hands, he saw her car swing in through the gate. The headlights shone into his face and he ran out into the hall and down the front steps.
‘You said three-quarters of an hour,’ he complained. ‘I was scared.’
‘Don’t be such a drama queen,’ she chided. ‘I can’t answer the phone when I’m driving, and I was almost home.’
‘Did they have cinnamon rolls?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I got two packets. See, here you are, plenty for you to enjoy. Put the milk in the fridge, I’ll have to clear the snow from the steps. And when you’ve finished, you can come out and clear the rest.’
Inside, she counted out seven cinnamon rolls and put them on a plate.
‘You can have some more this evening. I think you’re putting on weight, my love. I know that you’re a big boy, but a hundred and thirty kilos is too much. Being overweight is dangerous, Eddie. The milk and cake settle in your arteries like clay. And then a big clot comes loose and is carried towards your heart – or your brain, for that matter – and then there’ll be no more crosswords for you.’
‘But I can have the rest of the cinnamon rolls this evening, can’t I?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I promise,’ she said. ‘But you do understand that I have to be strict, don’t you? Someone has to keep an eye on you, we agreed on that.’
‘We have to go to the shopping centre,’ he said. ‘I need new clothes. I want one of those sweatshirts I saw in the paper. I Love New York.’
That night he dreamed about chicks. Yellow, fluffy and soft, running around on stick legs. He picked them up and dropped them in a pan with melted butter and garlic. He dreamed that they lay there simmering, then peeped and squeaked when he added boiling water. He woke up abruptly at the end of the dream, listened for sounds in his mother’s room. Sometimes she talked in her sleep, other times she moaned, but mostly it was quiet all through the night. He didn’t like it when his mum was asleep. When she wasn’t there to look after him, when she didn’t answer if he spoke to her, when she was out of reach, breathing in the dark.
He always woke up first and lay there listening for his mother, to hear if she was awake. He didn’t move until he heard the toilet flush, then he rolled out of bed and went into the living room, pulled open the curtains and looked out at the new day he was now part of. He walked into the kitchen, one hand down his pants, the other opening the bread bin. He cut two slices of bread, spread on a thick layer of butter, then reached for the sugar bowl. He wiped some crumbs from the easywipe tablecloth. His mother came out of the bathroom and saw him sitting there with the bread and sugar. Always the same thing: nag nag nag, how many times do I have to tell you to wash your hands before you eat? – you haven’t even been to the bathroom yet. Your hands have been everywhere.
Eddie kept his thoughts to himself. He knew that she often slept with a hand between her sweaty thighs; he could hear her moaning at night. I’m not a bloody idiot, he said to himself. And even though his mother chivvied him into the bathroom to wash his hands, he felt superior. His mother looked out at the snow that was still falling thick and fast. ‘We’ll take the bus today,’ she said, looking at her son. ‘It’s just as easy. And we really need to get you to the hairdresser’s, you look like a girl.’
Eddie snorted. How could she say that? He was one metre ninety tall and his voice was as coarse as a grater. There was no way he looked like a girl. His hair was curling at the neck, thick and brown and soft, but he didn’t like it when the scissors snipped around his ears.
Soon after she was sitting on the bus seat beside him, with her hands folded round her brown handbag.
‘We’ll go to the Suit Store,’ she said with authority. ‘They have XXL. You really must stop putting sugar on your bread,’ she added. ‘You’ll get diabetes.’
He didn’t answer. He sat on the seat beside her and breathed in the scent of soap. He liked sitting like this on the bus, swaying, the low, drowsy humming of the engine, the smell of the new red plush seats. The smell of strangers he didn’t need to interact with.
The Suit Store was on the first floor of the shopping centre, so they took the escalator up. There were racks of sale items outside the shop, old stock that had been reduced.
‘I want a pair of trousers and a sweatshirt,’ he said, loud and clear, to the young assistant who came over. ‘The trousers have to be black. With lots of pockets, front, back and on the legs. Not denim, it has to be some other material. I hate stiff clothes. Extra large, because I’m a big boy.’
The sales assistant smiled and showed her white teeth. Her skin was dark as chocolate and her hair was black.
‘You’re not Norwegian,’ Eddie said, more a statement than anything else.
‘I am too,’ she retorted. ‘My dad’s Ethiopian, but I was born and brought up in Norway. Look, these trousers have lots of pockets. Six in front and two at the back, how’s that?’
‘They’re not black,’ Eddie said, dissatisfied.
‘No, but it’s the closest I’ve got. In your size. If the pockets are so important. We do have other trousers that are black, but they’re jeans. And you just said you didn’t want jeans.’
‘Ah well,’ Eddie said. ‘I guess I’ll be going home with dark blue trousers today then. To think you can’t even satisfy such a simple request. And the sweatshirt,’ he continued. ‘Black as well. Have you ever been to Ethiopia to look for your roots?’ he asked out of curiosity.
‘Don’t be so nosy,’ his mother interrupted. ‘Why don’t you just go to the fitting room and try on the trousers? I’ll look for a sweatshirt. You shouldn’t ask people where they come from – it’s none of your business. How would you like it if people asked and went on about your origins?’
‘I wouldn’t mind; I’d like it,’ he said.
He pulled open the curtain and went into the narrow changing room, took off his old trousers and tried on the new ones. His mother came back with a sweatshirt she had found with I Love New York on it, but he didn’t even want to try it on, he could see it would fit. Mass paid 720 kroner for the clothes and Eddie carried the bag out of the shop.
They stood in front of the counter in Christiania Cafe on the first floor.
‘You can have a sandwich and a cake,’ Mass said. ‘I’m going to have waffles and jam. Listen, Eddie, you really mustn’t ask people where they’re from.’
‘But Ethiopia’s a nice place,’ he said. ‘It’s not anything to be ashamed of.’
They sat down at a table by the window. Eddie pressed his custard slice down on the plate, tried to break the top layer into small pieces.
‘Do you remember when we came back from Las Palmas? Do you remember the Negro who fell on the escalator at Gardemoen?’ he asked. ‘He broke both his legs. In several places. It was terrible.’
‘You shouldn’t say Negro,’ Mass corrected him. ‘What made you think about him anyway?’
‘Well, we have to go down the escalator too. We’d better be careful. Hold onto the handrail. I’ll carry the bags.’
He licked his lips.
‘I’m going to watch Tracker Tore tonight. I wonder who he’s going to help this time, and if they’ll find who they’re looking for,’ he said. ‘It always starts me thinking about Gran and Grandad. And all the others on Dad’s side. Where they came from. And everyone before them. And how they lived. And what they did.’
Mass took a sip of coffee.
‘But they’re dead,’ she objected. ‘It doesn’t matter any more. It’s you and me now, and I think we manage very well.’
She ate some of her waffle.
‘Perhaps you should get a girlfriend,’ she said. ‘After all, I’m not going to be here forever.’
Eddie looked up with a horrified expression on his face.
‘Why do I need a girlfriend when I’ve got you?’ he exclaimed. ‘Were you upset when Dad left?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Not really. I think I was expecting it. He was a womaniser, Eddie, just so you know. He found someone else – someone much younger than me, of course; that’s just the way men are. But then he got ill and died, so she didn’t get much joy from him either. I don’t know if they had any children, maybe they did. But we’ve talked about all this before, Eddie. There’s nothing more to tell.’
‘It sounds like you think it’s all OK,’ Eddie said, offended. ‘Didn’t you think about me?’
‘Of course I did. I just didn’t want you to grow up with a father who didn’t want us.’
Later that afternoon, Eddie sat on the sofa with the newspaper. He liked to read the deaths and obituaries, savouring them like sweets. Lots of old ladies who tasted like camphor. Some, like all the little children, were sweet as toffee. And some were stronger than Turkish pepper. It might be a murder or a suicide, or the many who lost the fight against cancer. His thoughts started to wander. Then he returned to the crossword. Corona, five letters, and the last one was ‘s’. He knew that Corona was a beer; he knew that it was a town. And it also had something to do with the sun. He went to look it up on the Internet and discovered to his great surprise that it was also a virus. The things I know! he thought to himself happily. I’ve got my eye on the ball.
Her son was asleep beside her, a damp lock of hair on his forehead. Four and a half years old, with big blond curls, and small white hands with nails like mother-of-pearl.
‘Simon,’ she whispered, ‘are you awake? The day has begun and we have to get up.’
The boy wriggled and turned over; he wanted to carry on sleeping.
‘I’ll get up without you then, and make the porridge,’ she said, with some resignation, putting one foot down on the floor. ‘With butter and raisins and sugar and cinnamon.’
What sounded like a sigh came from the child, as though the thought of buttery porridge had penetrated his sleep. She kissed him on the cheek; it was warm and covered in the finest down. Then she pulled on a thick sweater and crossed the cold floor into the kitchen. She poured some milk into a pan, added oats and a teaspoon of salt. And finally a handful of raisins. Then she went back into the bedroom and lifted the boy up from the bed. He opened his eyes drowsily and put his arms round her neck. He weighed next to nothing. She carried him out into the bathroom and helped him get dressed while he leaned against the sink. Eventually he sat down on his Tripp Trapp chair by the kitchen table. And like every other morning, he threw a tantrum. ‘I don’t want to go to nursery,’ he screamed, banging his spoon on the table and making the porridge bowl jump. Bonnie felt like crying.
‘But you’ll have a great time,’ she said as enthusiastically as she could. ‘You can play with Märta. And you might get hot chocolate with marshmallows.’ She stroked his cheek. He kept on banging the table with his spoon. All he wanted was to be with his mother, and more than anything, he wanted to be back in bed under the warm duvet. Bonnie poured milk onto his porridge and sprinkled some sugar over.
‘I’ll be home this afternoon, so we can have fun together then,’ she said. ‘We can make a tent with the blanket and two chairs, and we can pretend you live in the tent, and I can give you supper in there. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?’
At nursery, the children each had their own picture by their coat pegs. Simon’s was of a snail, carrying its little house around on its back, its tentacles standing up like two antennae. Simon sat down heavily on the pine bench as his mother took off his jacket, then his hat and scarf, mittens and toasty boots. He collapsed in a little heap, didn’t have the energy to protest any more; he knew that his mother had to go. She took him by the hand and led him into the other children, who were milling around.
This can’t be right, Bonnie thought, leaving him with others. Being away all day. It should be him and me all day long. Her child next to her body, her child within arm’s reach, so she could comfort him if anything should happen. They only had a meagre three hours together in the evening. Her guilty conscience gnawed away at her, but she had to work. She was a home help who washed, scrubbed and polished for old people; she beat carpets, shook out rugs and served food. Today she was going to Erna first, and Erna was always a challenge.
‘Good morning, Simon,’ said Kaja, who was the head of the nursery. ‘And what would you like to do today?’
He didn’t have an answer. The little boy wasn’t used to having his wishes fulfilled. He slowly wandered across the room, sat down on the big corner sofa, and picked up a picture book. He started to turn the pages with his thin fingers. He could read a few words – his mother had taught him – the word ‘ice cream’ and the word ‘ape’, and his own name. As his mother’s back disappeared through the door he got up and ran over to the window. He watched the tail lights disappear through the gate and down the road. Now he had to wait for nine hours. He walked slowly back to the sofa and started to look through the book. Kaja sat down beside him.
‘You’re on kitchen duty today,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’ll enjoy that, won’t you? We’re going to make bread rolls. And you can knead the dough.’
Simon didn’t answer this either. The sight of the unhappy little thing who was only four and a half years old nearly broke Kaja’s heart. No one should have to leave a crying child. It was wrong and she really felt for Bonnie Hayden. She tried to think about all the positive things: he didn’t go hungry or get cold; he was a much loved child. And that couldn’t be said for all the children in her care.
Once in the car, Bonnie took a moment to pull herself together. It was the same pain every morning, the same terrible feeling of guilt that she had to push back down. She drove out through the gate, on her way to Erna, who was incredibly demanding. She cursed her mean little life, the fight she had every morning with her crying son. Everyone else seemed so much happier than she was, had more energy and plans and dreams for themselves and their children. She often wondered if Simon would manage to get by in life, worried that he would also fall short and be left on the outside. Life was an endless succession of obligations and demands. He had to manage on his own at nursery, had to make friends. Get on with the staff and other children. Then he’d have to do well at school, get good marks and learn to socialise. He would eventually grow up and have to get a job – preferably a well-paid one – something secure. And she hoped he would get a girlfriend and that they would have children. And if they didn’t have children they would have to explain why. No, we don’t want children or we can’t have children. And if they did have children, they would have to manage the endless expectations of society. My little Simon, she thought with smarting eyes. How will things turn out for him?
The car spluttered when she changed up to fourth gear because there was a hole in the exhaust. It was about to fall to pieces, and if it did, she couldn’t afford to buy a new one. And if she didn’t have a car, she couldn’t keep her job as a home help. Her heart got stuck in her throat at the thought. She gritted her teeth and put her foot on the accelerator. She knew that Erna would be sitting by the window watching out for her.
Erna’s profile looked like it had been carved in stone as she sat waiting by the window. Bonnie could see the sharp ridge of her nose through the glass. The old woman took her time opening the door as usual, and only with great reluctance let her in: she always liked to make a point. As soon as Bonnie was through the door she breathed in the familiar smell of old people who are no longer able to look after themselves.
‘It’s cold today,’ Erna complained. ‘You’ll have to put the heating on. My legs are like ice. What about you?’
‘Thank you for asking,’ Bonnie said. ‘Simon was completely blue with cold when we left for nursery.’
‘You mothers today, you just abandon your children,’ Erna said sharply. ‘We didn’t do that in my day; we were at home with them all day. And why is it you don’t have a husband? Was he not getting what he wanted? You know what men are like.’
‘He left, I’ve told you before,’ Bonnie replied, upset. ‘He met someone younger, there was nothing I could do. You should have seen him, he was completely obsessed. And I don’t want another man, one was enough.’
Once she’d hung up her coat, she went into Erna’s bedroom. In the corner of the room there was a basket full of odd socks. Bonnie felt exhausted just at the sight of them. She stood for a while by the bed, her head hanging. If only she could lie down on the soft mattress. Her head ached with tiredness, but though she couldn’t bear the thought of starting to clean, she picked up the basket of socks and went back into the living room. On the way out, she looked up at the wall briefly to study a photograph that hung there. It was of Erna at her confirmation, wearing a long dress. Every time Bonnie saw the picture, she was astonished. Could that really be Erna? It was hard to believe because the young girl in the picture was beautiful and beaming.
Erna was sitting in a wing chair with a blanket over her knees, watching her every move; Bonnie could feel her gimlet eyes on her back. She took a sock from the basket and bent down, lifted the heavy oak coffee table and put the thick sock on one of the legs. Then put a sock on the second, third and fourth. She did the same on the armchairs, which were also heavy as lead. Erna had an enormous dining table and six chairs at the other end of the room. Soon all of Erna’s furniture was wearing white tennis socks with a red-and-blue stripe. Then it was time to get the heavy vacuum cleaner from the cupboard. The furniture was now protected from the vacuum head, which might otherwise bang against the legs and dent the wood. Erna was worried about wear and tear and the socks were a fixed ritual. Her eyes followed Bonnie as she worked. Her hands lay like claws in her lap and she moved her face from side to side like a bird of prey.
‘We have to wash the windows today,’ she commanded. ‘There are marks all over them. Will you never learn to use the squeegee without leaving stripes?’
Bonnie answered loudly over the noise of the vacuum cleaner.
‘It’s too cold, Erna,’ she said in a tired voice.
But Erna had an answer for that.
‘Put a little methylated spirits in the water,’ she said. ‘It’s in the cupboard under the sink.’
Bonnie didn’t have the energy to reply. She coaxed the head of the vacuum cleaner in between the table legs, terrified of hitting the precious woodwork. Because then Erna would flare up, call the office and complain, say that Bonnie was sloppy and didn’t care. Not that Ragnhild in the office ever listened to her, but it was still unpleasant. Erna’s radio was on; she was listening to the news. A case worker in one of the jobcentres in Oslo had been threatened with a knife.
‘It was probably a foreigner,’ Erna said. ‘An African, no doubt. Those people don’t know how to behave decently, they just come here to sponge off us.’
Bonnie straightened up to release her back. She had waited in a queue at the jobcentre herself when she was unemployed and on the dole, and had noticed that there were a lot of foreigners there. She was not proud of her bitter thoughts at the time. She bent down to carry on vacuuming. Simon, where are you now? Are you sitting inside the little house in the play corner, or are you on the sofa with a book? Or maybe you’re outside sledging with the others. Don’t cry, I’ll be there soon, I just have to clean. Every day I have to clean. And maybe if I work really hard and save as much as I can, we can buy a plane ticket. To the Mediterranean. And then you can swim in warm water and play on the soft white sand.
‘I hope the African is sent home,’ Erna announced from the wing chair.
‘If it was an African,’ Bonnie said. ‘Norwegians can threaten people too, if they think it’s necessary.’
She moved the standard lamp and a basket of newspapers, and glanced over at the windows as she did so: they were polished like a mirror. Methylated spirits in the water? She wasn’t going to get away with not doing it. She would have to stand on a stepladder in the snow to do the outside because the big living-room windows couldn’t be opened. She put the vacuum cleaner back in the cupboard, closed the door and sat down on a chair; she just wanted to rest a little. Organ music poured out of the radio. Erna had closed her eyes.
Now she had to wash the floor. She went to get the bucket, filled it with warm water, but not too warm as that might damage the sheen on the oak parquet. Erna was pernickety about that. Then she did the kitchen and the bedroom, and finally the bathroom. The grout between the tiles was grey and Erna had suggested that she use a toothbrush to clean it properly.
Bonnie shook out the rugs. She did the laundry and changed the bed. Then she sat down at the kitchen table and polished a five-armed silver candelabra that Erna had once bought in Egypt. According to her job description, she wasn’t supposed to do that kind of thing, but it was a job she liked, a welcome relief. She could sit still and rest her back. The candelabra sparkled when she was finished. But then she had to balance in the snow outside the living-room windows, while Erna stood inside and made sure she did a thorough job. She mustn’t leave any stripes from the squeegee, or she was done for. Her hands were freezing inside the rubber gloves, and her ears were cold. When she was finished, she carried the stepladder inside and put it away. She watered the plants and dusted, carried old newspapers out to the recycling bin, changed a light bulb that had blown in the kitchen, and put five white candles in the newly polished candelabra. Next she went through the food in the fridge. Quite a lot was past its sell-by date, including the milk, cheese and ham. Eventually she collapsed onto a chair. Half a day’s work done. Now she had to go to Marie’s, which was a lot easier, as Marie lived in a small flat in a sheltered complex for the elderly. Erna got up from the wing chair and shuffled across the floor to her bedroom. Bonnie thought about Marie as she sat and waited. After a while, Erna came out again with a shoebox, which she handed to Bonnie.
‘This is for you,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ve been saving it. I used to get them for Christmas. And I don’t have use for them any more.’
Bonnie looked at the box. It was quite light, the lid tied down with a piece of string. Erna had never given her anything. She was a real miser. The most she would do was gather up her crumbs and give them to the birds. Bonnie thanked her warmly for the gift and carried it to the door where she said goodbye.
Marie sat on a chair while Bonnie gave her a shower.
She had a plastic overall on over her clothes, but still managed to get soaking wet, as she always did. The hardest thing was getting the temperature right, as Marie was so sensitive. She had to test it on her feet first. First it was too hot, then it was too cold, then it was too hot again, but eventually she got it right. Afterwards, once she’d dried Marie’s thin body and she was sitting on the edge of the bed, Bonnie rubbed in some cream. Marie’s old skin was so dry that it flaked. While Bonnie massaged her, Marie sat and mused about how evil people were, as was her wont. A man had strangled his wife with some rope. Then he had rolled her up in a carpet and put her in the car, and driven to the edge of a quarry and thrown her over.
‘Do you think he’ll come here?’ Marie asked anxiously.
Bonnie had to smile. She had worked her way down to Marie’s feet, which were as small as a child’s.
‘No, dear Marie, why would he do that? They’d probably had an argument,’ she assured her, ‘and you never argue. Anyway, he’ll be sentenced to years in prison.’
‘But he’ll get out again,’ Marie said. ‘And then he’ll look for someone else. I’m not going to open the door. Give three short rings when you come so I know it’s you.’
*
Simon sat and waited for her by the window.
Bonnie swung in and stopped in front of the nursery. She was happy, because now it was just the two of them, all evening and all night. She would give him everything he hadn’t got during the day; she would buy a bottle of ginger beer and a bag of dinosaur biscuits. As soon as she opened the door he came running towards her. His cheeks were red; he must have spent a long time outside in the cold. He sat down under the snail picture straight away and she helped him put on his coat.
‘Shall we build that tent when we get home? We’ll make a big one, we can use a sheet and blankets and I’ve got lots of pegs.’
Simon climbed into the back seat of the car and she fastened his seat belt.
‘Marie asked me to say hello,’ she told him. ‘She never remembers how old you are, she thinks you’re already at school.’
‘What’s in the box?’ he asked curiously. Bonnie had put the box tied with string on the back seat. She got in and started the engine, and as usual the Opel had to cough and splutter a few times before it started.
‘No idea,’ she said. ‘Erna gave it to me. What do you think it could be? Shall we guess?’
Simon reached over and put the box in his lap. He shook it first, but heard nothing.