When the time was ripe.
Winter arrived and held everything in its icy grip, and the mercury sank towards minus twenty. I feared that the pipes in my house would freeze, and later burst, causing leaks in the spring and then damp problems, as well as bills I wouldn’t be able to pay. So I was given leave to go and switch on the heating. Of course, I thought of Arnfinn lying under his rhododendron bush. Everything was covered in a blanket of snow, even that chapter of my life. I considered that the long year I had to spend alone in my cell would be sufficient punishment for it all. Of course I wasn’t perfect. But I felt that I’d have paid for my sins at last.
The asylum seeker from Somalia had become pals with the big Russian, and they made quite a pair as they sat together in the common room. Two great hunks of brawn and sinew. Now, at least, he’d found his niche, and no longer had to spend his days playing table tennis. Instead, he went to the gym and got even bigger and stronger, if that was possible. His physique was so muscular that he seemed about to explode. He didn’t recognise me. We’d bump into one another occasionally, in the corridor or in the common room, but he looked right through me, his expression vacant. And then, very cautiously, I began to flirt with Margareth. I had to, because time was running out; if I wanted to win her, I’d have to act. Soon she’d understand my motives, and realise they were good. All through the winter they were good.
Chapter 36
Now things are gathering pace.
My release is getting nearer, and the time is ticking towards a new life. To date, Nelly Friis’ murder remains unsolved, and I search my mind for a possible explanation. For who’s responsible for making a fool of me. For who has committed a crime and then conveniently framed me for it. Because that’s clearly what’s happened. But perhaps this isn’t even a murder. Perhaps the prosecution service is wrong and she died of natural causes, with nothing more than a sigh, and then it was all over.
Blindly and painfully over.
There are various reasons why people can have blood leakage in an eye; I, who stuck a cannula into one, know that only too well. It’s no proof of suffocation as the doctor maintains.
I think a lot about Sister Anna, my delightful swan, Anna. And whether she’s hoodwinking us. What if her good nature is a camouflage for something else, something that has been going on for years, maybe several patients at Løkka have been dispatched. I’m not stupid. If I’ve pulled the wool over other people’s eyes, they can do the same to me. I know that Nelly had money. Property, shares and personal wealth. What if one of the grandchildren, a nephew, a son or daughter, got tired of waiting for the big prize? The final word has not yet been spoken in Nelly’s case. But I know it will be one day. The truth is an unstoppable force, it will out.
I’m promoted to block monitor.
On account of my exemplary behaviour, because now I’ve learnt. I wash the floor of the corridor in front of the cells and hand out the post. Keep the noticeboard announcements tidy. Pass on messages and take care of small repairs, help shelve books in the library, go on errands from cell to cell, liaise between the prisoners and the prison staff. In short, I’m useful. All day long I help others. I work in the kitchen. I bind Margareth to me with every ounce of zeal and intensity I possess, and I really think she is predisposed towards me. Wasn’t opening up about that brother who dived to his death a vote of confidence? Intimate, almost affectionate, that’s the way I choose to view it. A green light, so I can advance; perhaps she’s waiting even now. She wouldn’t have told just anyone, she chose me. There’s no doubt in my soul. Margareth is within reach, and I’m as excited as a child, when I think of all that’s in store. All that will be mine.
Just as soon as this winter, this long winter, is over.
Just as soon as I’ve made amends.
The snow melts and runs away.
It gurgles grey and dirty down the drains, taking with it leaves and mud, and scouring the roads clean and smooth, and now everything is easier.
January, February and March come and go.
And so the months pass slowly by.
Easter arrives, the place on my calendar where I’ve sketched a chick in the margin. The spring months with all their trickling water, early summer with its shoots. Thus I atone for the hurt and injury I’ve done the patients at Løkka, I pay the price for my frustrated nature. My lack of control. But I don’t complain. Never once have I complained during the long, cold winter. Eventually the snow melts. Summer comes at last, and I’m going to be free again. During the whole of this never-ending year I’ve been consummate in all my behaviour, and he who has paid the price has surely regained his credit. At least, that’s my opinion.
I thank Janson for his encouragement, and Ebba for the many good times. I walk quietly out of my cell, look over my shoulder at the sanatorium.
I take my clumsy farewells.
The Russian wishes me luck. Margareth doesn’t seem particularly affected, but I know her well enough to guess the reason. She’s just shy. I manage to stammer something about wanting to stay in contact. She doesn’t react to this either, but thanks me for my help throughout the year, thanks me in her dour, bashful way. Janson, too, wishes me luck. ‘Watch yourself, now,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to see you in here again. Get a drawing pad and pencil, get a proper life!’ I present him with all my drawings, a thick wad of them. I walk slowly out through the prison gate. Down the road and over to the bus stop, I don’t turn to look back, because now I’m free. I take a seat in the bus and lean my head against the window. I can feel the engine’s vibration through the glass, a droning at my temple, it reminds me of swarming insects. Familiar, but new all the same, I’m used to my teeming head, I’m sensitive by nature. Now the day has arrived, and the hour, when I’m to begin a new chapter, and I ought to succeed. I enjoy the long bus ride through the streets, the driver’s solid presence, the reassuring hum of the engine, and a scattering of raindrops on the window, like mournful tears.
I get off the bus at the Dixie Café, I want to do the last bit on foot. I hesitate as I pass the door of the café, with its two plastic palms in blue pots, a pathetic sight all things considered, why doesn’t someone mention that the decor in front of the premises is cheap and ridiculous? I have a sudden whim and give in to it. I go up to the door, open it and peer inside. And there they are, the two of them, in the far corner. Miranda and Lill Anita, each with a Coke. Miranda’s hair is loose, it reaches to her shoulders. No hairbands, no brightly coloured plastic clips. She’s got older. She’s wearing trousers with roomy legs, you can’t see the leg braces, but I sense their presence, because I know they’re there. Her legs are stretched out under the table. I retreat before they catch sight of me, and I stroll on. I return to my house. I stand for a moment in the drive taking everything in, the cherished and the familiar, all that’s mine. I hear my neighbour’s children shouting and screeching, they’re on the trampoline. Then I take a quick look round the back of the house to see the grave. The rhododendron bush has grown enormous. It’s benefitted from the sun and rain and is really impressive now. I regard it as a good omen. But one thing troubles me. A narrow path has been trodden from the front steps and round to the grave, as if someone has been walking to and fro, checking the terrain. I can’t understand it. Perhaps fate is playing a trick on me. Perhaps there’s a badger about, or a feral cat. But the path is obvious. A telltale little track from the steps to the grave. A narrow, paler outline in the grass. I dragged a corpse along here. It was heavy. But now that’s behind me for ever. I let myself in, walk to the window and look out on the road. I switch the coffee machine on, see the small red lamp illuminate, hear the water grumble as it heats up, smell the aroma of newly filtered coffee. I have a large cupful and phone the owner of the Shell service station, where the prison has found me work. He’s terse and brusque and rather sullen, but I don’t have to like him, I like hardly anyone, except Margareth. And Janson. And Anna Otterlei, even though she lured me into a trap. I tell him that I can start whenever he wants, I’m as free as a bird. We agree on the following Monday. He knows something of my history, but was chiefly concerned that my sentence didn’t have anything to do with a financial misdemeanour. Once reassured on that point, he felt satisfied and offered me a job on the till at the service station. I’m perfectly happy about this. I’ll have to deal with people all day long, but only on a superficial level, only ‘yes please’ and ‘there you are’ and ‘see you again’. No whingeing and whining, no cares and carping and complaint. Just fleeting nods and quick smiles across the counter. I’ll be serving freshly baked items plus hot dogs, and taking the money for newspapers and petrol. Now I can only think about one thing. My first payday. As soon as it arrives I’ll ring up the prison and ask for Margareth. I’ll finally find the courage to ask her out.