It was not until then that Marion discovered that she wasn’t wearing her own clothes. How very strange. Hadn’t she had been wearing her light-blue nightdress earlier? The one with the tear in it which her mother wanted to throw out but Marion refused to let her; she liked putting her finger through the hole, feeling the soft fabric around her finger – it made it easier for her to fall asleep now that she had stopped sucking her thumb. She had done really well, stopping that. It had been very hard to begin with, she had missed the thumb terribly, had lied to her parents a few times and sucked it after all. But then Christian at nursery had told her only babies suck their thumb, and that had made her stop. Because she was no longer a baby. After all, babies couldn’t swim, could they? Indeed, could any of the others swim? Oh no, they couldn’t. But perhaps that wasn’t surprising, because none of them spent as much time in Tøyenbadet Swimming Pool as she and her mother did; she had certainly never seen anyone she knew there. She looked down herself and almost had to laugh. She looked as if she was going to a fancy-dress party. They had had a fancy-dress party at nursery. She had wanted to dress up as Frankie Stein, but her mother hadn’t let her so she had gone as a cowboy instead. Her second choice had been a princess, but it seemed to be important to her mother that girls didn’t just do girl things; she certainly talked to Daddy about it a great deal. About the washing-up and the hoovering and the lid on the toilet seat; it would appear to be very important. So she had gone as a cowboy with a gun and moustache and everything. It had been fine. Not perfect, but fine. Now she was wearing a big, old-fashioned dress, which made it hard to move about as it was rather unwieldy. Then she discovered the dolls on the shelf. There were five dolls sitting up there, dangling their feet. Not new dolls, not cool ones like DracuLaura, but old-fashioned ones with hard, white faces, the kind of dolls her grandmother had up in the attic. One of them was even wearing the same dress as her. A bright-white dress with all sorts of bits – lace, or whatever it was called. Marion climbed up on her bed and took down the doll. It had a sign around its neck. Marion knew what the sign said. It said ‘Marion’. Her name. She recognized her own name. She knew how to read and write it. It was on her peg at nursery where she hung up her coat. She looked up at the other dolls, which were also wearing dresses and had signs around their necks. She couldn’t read any of the names – oh yes, Johanne, she knew that one; a girl at her nursery was called that. Her peg was right next to Marion’s.
‘Mum?’ Marion said, a little louder this time.
There was still no reply. Perhaps she had gone to the loo? Marion realized that she needed the loo herself. Now where was the loo in this place? She walked up to what could be a door, grooves in the wall but without a handle, and ran her tiny fingers along the grooves, but couldn’t open it.
‘Mum?’
She really needed the loo now, she really did. How strange that the girl who lived here had a sign with her name on. Perhaps she was really nice. Perhaps she had known that Marion would be staying here for a while and maybe she had made the sign to say that it was fine for her to borrow her room, that she was welcome, like it said on their neighbours’ doormat, ‘Welcome’. I welcome you, I live here. Go ahead, do some drawing and learn the alphabet if you like.
She was close to bursting now.
‘Mummy?’ she called out at the top of her voice.
Her voice flew around the room and slammed back into her ears.
No, she could hold it no longer.
Suddenly, something happened to the wall. A buzzing noise and some squeaking. Then it fell silent again, only for the sound to resume, coming closer and closer, almost as if someone was banging two saucepan lids together. They had done that at nursery when they had made an orchestra out of the things they already had.
Marion kept staring at the wall where the noise was coming from. Now she could see a handle on the wall. She reached out and grabbed it. It was a hatch which opened. Marion pulled open the hatch and jumped when she saw what was behind it. She got goose pimples all over. Inside the hatch was a small monkey. A wind-up toy that banged two metal discs together to make a noise. There was a note with the monkey. She waited until the monkey had stopped moving before she stuck in her hand and quickly snatched the note.
It had letters on it. Some repeated more than once. E. She knew that one. A. She knew that one as well, they were in Elsa’s name, she worked at nursery. And O. She definitely knew that one. She really needed a wee now. She pressed her legs together and tried to read the note.
Peek-a-boo
She had no idea what it meant.
‘Mum! I need a weeeee!’
She shouted louder, but there was still no reply. She couldn’t hold it any more. She lifted up the cumbersome dress. She was wearing strange underpants, really big ones. She looked around the room. There, under the desk. She pulled down the big pants as quickly as she could and peed into the waste basket.
Chapter 67
Mia Krüger parked the car and walked the last stretch up to the church. Borre Church. The beautiful white brick building glowed in the sunlight and gave her palpitations. Four funerals in the same church. Three gravestones in the same cemetery. She wasn’t sure that she could handle seeing them again. That was the reason she had been procrastinating. And now someone had been there. Desecrated Sigrid’s gravestone. Forced her to return before she was ready. Mia looked out for the verger, who had promised to meet her, but couldno’t see him anywhere, and so she walked, almost reluctantly and with heavy footsteps, towards the graves.
She had stopped on her drive here. Bought flowers. She didn’t feel that she could turn up with nothing. The scent of the flowers made her nauseous. Flowers. A house filled with flowers. Friends and neighbours paying their respects. It was all she had left. Three gravestones and a house filled with flowers. She had sold the houses. Both her parents’ and her grandmother’s. Two nice white houses in the centre of Åsgårdstrand, not far from where Edvard Munch had lived. Her family inheritance. But she couldn’t cope with it. She didn’t want them. All she wanted was to forget. She passed a tap with a green watering can next to it. She felt a little ashamed now. Three stones. Four members of her family. Sigrid, her grandmother and her parents. All of her family was here, and she had not even bothered tending to their graves.
Sigrid Krüger
Sister, friend and daughter
Born 11 November 1979. Died 18 April 2002.
Much loved. Deeply missed.
It was exactly as the verger had said. Someone had sprayed over Sigrid’s name. Written hers instead.
Then she couldn’t take any more. She dropped the green watering can, slumped on to her knees and started to sob. Everything came out now, all the things she had pent up inside. She hadn’t cried for a long time, she’d been afraid to give way to such extreme grief. She stayed on the ground while the tears poured down her cheeks.
Come to me, Mia, come.
Sigrid. Lovely, beautiful, darling, Sigrid. What difference did it make that Mia had shot some junkie loser? Nothing. It made no difference at all. It had only triggered more tragedy. More grieving relatives. More darkness. She had never meant to. She had never meant to shoot him. She had really never meant to shoot. She should be punished. She didn’t deserve to live. She could feel it now. She deserved to die. All these years she had been weighed down by the guilt of the survivor, only she had never managed to put it into words, but it came to her now. She was guilty. Guilty of being alive. She should be with her family. That was where she belonged. With Sigrid. Not here on this bloody planet, where evil and selfishness had the upper hand; there was no point in fighting it any longer, trying to understand, trying to do good. The world was a rubbish heap. People were rotten to the core. She wanted nothing more to do with it.