He had to get out, and it couldn’t happen soon enough. And given that he had already moved some way through the living room, probably in the direction of the hall, he would continue that way. It couldn’t be worse than having to walk back past the fridge and the freezer. Roald cursed himself for having ventured so far inside the house; for even entering the house in the first place.
When his path was blocked by a big canvas sack and he tried to push it aside three startled rabbits hopped away and disappeared in the darkness. As he picked up the sack to move it he could feel its contents trickle out over one of his shoes from a hole in the bottom. He set it down, retracted his foot and looked at it. Animal feed had settled like a small mountain range across the path, and the now slack canvas sack collapsed to one side.
He straddled the mountains and continued along the narrow path. He felt the need to support himself against the bulging walls on either side, not least because he feared that something might come crashing down on top of him, but at the same time he didn’t want to touch anything. The thought of feeling a rat against the palm of his hand made him shudder. He held up his hands to each side, not touching anything, but ready to grab out for support.
And then they came.
Maybe he had knocked the sack into something when he moved it a moment ago, but whatever it was had triggered a collapse behind him. He jumped at the sound of things cascading and falling and sliding and crashing into one another. When he turned, he saw the whole of one side of the room cave in. The owl fell. A big old radio tumbled over the edge, pulling with it something from the other side as it did so. Some cardboard slipped down, and a sack… and a little light crept in. But only a ray.
An image of avalanches popped into his head. Mudslides. Would everything come tumbling from behind and bury him alive? Death by suffocation?
And then they came. The rabbits. From every hole and corner and crack. Roald clutched his head and screamed as he tried to outrun the panicking pets.
The path was widening slightly now. He had a choice between running up the stairs, where a narrow passage had been created down the middle, or following the route to his left, through the hall, across to the front door…
He skidded to a halt.
The rabbits had gathered in small clusters, most of them in the corner behind the stairs under a go-kart. The noise had stopped.
He realized that it hadn’t been an avalanche, just a minor collapse. All the fallen items had settled themselves again. Behind them, in a thick beam of liberated sunlight, the dead tree hung like a silent witness.
Roald looked about him. There was slightly more light at this end of the living room, thanks to a small window up on the landing. It must be the east-facing end of the house.
Then a short section of the wall between the hall and the kitchen caught his attention. Down by the skirting board there was a fairly large hole with a jagged edge. The furry inhabitants of this house must have gnawed their way through the wall. A cable with protruding copper wire stuck out, it looked like a confused caterpillar, and on the floor in front of the hole bits of insulation lay scattered between excrement and scraps of wallpaper. Something similar had happened to the wall by the stairs, and Roald dreaded to think what other surprises might be revealed if the walls were stripped. The wiring constituted a fire hazard. And how much more gnawing and nibbling could the house cope with before the whole place caved in?
His musings were brutally interrupted by the sight of a rat darting across the floor.
‘Out,’ he ordered it, pointing to the corner as if he expected the rat to obey his command. The creature disappeared in another direction, but he could still see the end of its tail sticking out behind a wellington boot.
And that was when he heard it.
A knocking was coming from the first floor. It wasn’t an animal making a noise or a bird pecking or the wind causing something to slam. It was a human being knocking. It was a human being who wanted to be heard.
The trip up the stairs was a nightmare. One of those where you try to run but can only move forwards in slow motion. Perhaps the dust was hampering him. The heavy air. The stench. Roald’s lungs were screaming for fresh air, but he had to go upstairs. He didn’t want to suffocate in this place, but neither, as a decent human being, could he walk away.
The boy might be up there and in need of his help.
When he reached the first-floor corridor, he saw a light flicker from the nearest room. From where the sound was coming. A couple of rabbits pressed themselves against some long iron girders as he passed them to reach the door.
Roald had never seen a human being that big before. She was lying on a bed. That is to say, Roald presumed that she was lying on a bed. He could barely see the bed for notepads, books, paper plates, foil trays, knitting, wax candles, matches, paper cups, filthy towels, holey blankets, food scraps, mouse droppings – please let them be mouse droppings, he prayed. And body, body, body.
The air was intolerable, but the stench coming from her was unbearable. An unmistakable smell of urine and excrement. And rot. Roald fought to quell his nausea.
She was holding an umbrella in her right hand. She was slamming its handle against the headboard, and he realized that was how she had made the knocking sound. When she saw him standing in the doorway she let go of the umbrella and allowed her enormous arm to fall on to some knitting with what looked like extreme fatigue.
On a bedside table, on top of piles of books and papers, a wax candle sputtered in a holder. Roald’s joy at finding a source of light was quickly replaced by horror at the state of the room it was illuminating.
Mostly, however, at the woman lying in front of him.
She was in a terrible state.
‘Maria Horder?’ he asked, in a voice he no longer recognized as his own. Perhaps it was the dust.
She nodded slowly.
‘I… you, I… what are…?’ Roald found himself unable to think straight. ‘I’m Roald Jensen from the pub in Korsted,’ he managed to say, eventually.
The woman’s features seemed tiny in the massive face, but he had no doubt that she was attempting a friendly smile. Nor was he in any doubt that she was crying, even though he could only just make out her eyes in the black holes. Her skin looked grey in the guttering candlelight and a grotesque shadow from her nose settled across one cheek like a small, trembling animal.
‘You need help,’ he stated.
She nodded again.
‘I’ll go and get someone. But where’s your husband… Where is Jens Horder?’ His brain was starting to work again.
She reached for a notepad with her left hand, pushed aside the novel lying on her stomach and started writing something. He saw Madame Bovary slide into a foil tray.
Roald stepped forward to read her note; that is to say, he stepped across a lot of things to get close enough.
COMING SOON, NEED MEDICINE, DOCTOR, she had written. It was clearly a great effort for her to write. That it used not to be, he could tell from the many loose sheets lying scattered everywhere. Some were covered in a beautiful curved handwriting, others were not quite so elegant. Her handwriting now was bordering on a child’s scribbles.
‘Yes, I’ll be quick…’
SAVE LIV, she wrote, and stared at him with pleading eyes.
He nodded, wondering if she had trouble spelling. Did she want him to save her life?
‘I promise, I’ll… I’ll be back as soon as I can. Be careful not to knock over the candle…’
She gestured to indicate it was very important that she gave him more information before he left. Her exhaustion was plain to see. It struck him that she might not have had anything to drink for a long time.