Fear Not (36 page)

‘Stop,’ Johanne whispered, quickly drawing the girl close. ‘Stop now.’

It was exactly twelve o’clock, and a cloud drifted across the unforgiving January sun. A pleasant darkness filled the living room. Johanne closed her eyes as she held her daughter tightly, rocking her from side to side.

‘I am the invisible child,’ Kristiane whispered.

P
erhaps he should never have had children.

The very thought made the acid in his stomach eat away at his duodenum. He drew up his knees and placed both hands on the spot where in his younger days he had been able to feel the end of his ribs and the beginning of his stomach. Now it was all just one soft mass, in spite of the fact that he was lying on his back: a flabby belly that was far too big, with a stabbing pain deep inside a layer of fat.

Marcus Koll’s entire life revolved around his son.

His work, his company, his extended family – it was all meaningless without little Marcus. When Rolf came into their lives they were already a twosome, but the three of them soon became a family, and Marcus would do anything to protect that family. But the boy remained the very hub of Marcus Koll’s family wheel.

Little Marcus quickly accepted Rolf, and the love was mutual. After a while Rolf had tentatively raised the question of whether he might adopt his stepson.

As time went by, he dropped the subject.

Marcus had never told anyone about the dreams he used to have when he was young.

He wanted children.

He had been a strong boy; breaking with his father had taken real courage. It had cost him surprisingly little to come out as what and who he was. As a teenager his wilfulness could sometimes make him appear stubborn, but as an adult he became cleverer and more skilful. His obstinacy turned into purposefulness. Arrogance turned into pride. He took the sting out of his unconventional inclination with self-irony, and had never felt the need to seek out the gay haunts he knew existed in both Bergen, where he attended business college, and
in Oslo when he returned home after completing his studies. On the contrary, he had always regarded seduction as a challenge. Until he met Rolf, he had seduced only heterosexual men. He was quietly proud of the fact that before him they had slept only with women. He wasn’t quite so thrilled when they then returned to their straight lives.

Marcus Koll Junior hadn’t exactly been a typical gay man of his time.

In addition, he wanted a child more than anything. His only sorrow – when, aged sixteen or seventeen, he had decided to stop pretending to be something he was not – was that the future would not bring him any offspring. He had never shared this sorrow with anyone, although his mother had been aware of it in the way that mothers can sometimes read their child better than the child himself. But they had never talked about that little empty space in Marcus’s heart: the lack of a child of his own to love.

However, for many years Marcus Koll had been a contented young man anyway.

Things went well for him, and he never felt that his sexuality was being used against him, neither professionally nor among friends and colleagues. For a long time he served as their politically correct alibi. During the late eighties and early nineties, open homosexuality was not at all common, and his presence in the lives of other people somehow gave them something to show off about.

He was so happy with his life that he didn’t even notice he was starting to burn out. He became so popular that he didn’t realize he was putting too much energy into dealing with his status as an outsider. In the entirely heterosexual life he was leading – with the minor difference that he went to bed with men without lying about it – his soul slowly crumbled until he collapsed with exhaustion; he hadn’t even seen it coming.

Then his friends started to have children.

Marcus Koll wanted children, too.

He had always wanted children.

He made the decision.

When he travelled to California to sign a contract with a surrogate mother and egg donor, he had recently taken over the running of his father’s old company. The future lay before him. He had been blessed
with money, and was able to explain away his frequent visits to America over the following year as essential business trips.

One evening in late January 2001 he had simply turned up at his mother’s apartment with the boy in his arms. As soon as she opened the door she understood everything, and burst into tears. Gently, she took her new grandchild, held him close to her breast and carried him into the spacious apartment which her children had bought her when they suddenly became wealthy. She had never quite got used to the apartment, but when Marcus arrived with the child she sat down right in the middle of the sumptuous sofa that no one had ever used. With her nose against the boy’s cheek she whispered almost inaudibly: ‘Grandma’s home, little one. Grandma’s home at last. And you’re at home with Grandma.’

‘His name is Marcus,’ Marcus said, and his mother had wept and wept. ‘Not after me, after Grandfather.’

The idea of losing little Marcus was unthinkable.

Perhaps he should never have had him.

‘Are you awake?’ Rolf murmured, turning over in bed. ‘What time is it?’

‘Go back to sleep,’ Marcus whispered.

‘But why aren’t you sleeping?’ He turned on his side, resting his head on his hand. ‘You lie awake almost every night,’ said Rolf with a big yawn.

‘No I don’t. Go back to sleep.’

Only the glow from the digital alarm clock made it possible to see anything in the room. Marcus stared at his own hands. They looked green in the darkness. He tried to smile.

The fear had arrived with his son. The fact that he was different; the incontrovertible fact that he wasn’t like everybody else and never could be became much clearer. He had always believed it was easy to protect himself. When his son came into his life, he realized how helpless he sometimes felt when he encountered prejudices that he would have ignored in the past and dismissed as the attitudes of a bygone age. He had always thought the world was moving forwards, but when little Marcus arrived he sometimes had the feeling that the development of society was actually describing an unpredictable, asymmetric curve, and that it was difficult to keep up. The joy and love he felt for his son were all-encompassing. The fear of not being able to protect
him from the evils and prejudices of the world tore him apart. Then Rolf came along, and many things became much better. Never perfect. Marcus still felt like a marked man in every sense. But Rolf brought strength and happiness, and little Marcus had a fantastic life. That was the most important thing, and as time went by Marcus chose to keep the periods of helplessness and depression to himself. They became more and more infrequent.

Until Georg Koll, his own deceased, accursed father, had played one last trick on him.

‘What is it?’ said Rolf, more fully awake now.

The duvet had partly slipped off his body. He was naked, still lying on his side with one knee drawn up and the other leg stretched out. Even in the faint light the contours of his stomach muscles were clearly visible.

‘Nothing.’

‘Come on, I can tell there’s something wrong!’

The duvet rustled as Rolf impatiently pulled it over his athletic body.

‘Surely you can tell me! You just haven’t been yourself recently. If it’s to do with work, if it’s something you can’t talk about, then at least tell me that’s what it is! We can’t—’

‘There’s really nothing wrong,’ said Marcus, turning over. ‘Let’s get back to sleep.’

He could hear that Rolf wasn’t moving, and he could feel Rolf’s eyes burning into his back.

He should have talked to Rolf as soon as the problem arose. Now, so many months and so many worries later, it struck him that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of sharing his troubles with his husband. That frightened him. Rolf was one of the most sensible people he knew. Rolf would surely have found a way out. Rolf would have calmly analysed the situation and talked things over until he came up with a solution. Rolf was a positive person, an optimist with an indomitable belief that everything – even the darkest tragedy – has a silver lining if you just take the time to find it.

Of course he should have talked to Rolf.

That was the first thing he should have done.

Together they could cope with anything.

Rolf was still lying there in silence. Marcus kept his eyes fixed firmly on the clock. He blinked when the numbers changed from 3.07 to 3.08. Suddenly, he took a quick breath and searched for the words that could support the weight of the painful story they should have shared long ago.

Before he could find the words, Rolf turned over.

They were lying back to back.

Just a few minutes later, Rolf’s breathing was once again heavy and even.

Suddenly, Marcus realized why it was too late to say anything to Rolf: he would never forgive him.

Never.

If he confided in his partner, their life as Marcus knew and loved it would be over. He wouldn’t just lose Rolf; he would lose little Marcus. The fear shot through him, and he lay there wide awake until the numbers switched from 06.59 to 07.00.

*

When Johanne woke with a start, she was soaked in sweat. The bedclothes were sticking to her body. She tried to escape from their damp embrace, but merely succeeded in getting her feet caught in the opening of the duvet cover. She felt trapped, and kicked desperately to free them. The duvet fought back. In the end she was free. She tried to remember what kind of nightmare she might have had.

Her head was completely empty.

Her hands were shaking as she reached for the glass of water on her bedside table and emptied it. As she was putting it back, it fell on the floor. She screwed up her eyes and pulled a face until she remembered that Kristiane was at Isak’s. Ragnhild never woke up this early.

She was still having some difficulty breathing as she flopped back against the pillow and tried to relax.

Despite the fact that she had spent more than twenty minutes talking to Adam on the phone the previous evening, she hadn’t mentioned the conversation with Kristiane. Nor had she said anything to Isak when he turned up after school, feeling rather annoyed. She had forgotten to tell him that she had picked Kristiane up, contravening all their plans and agreements. When he came up the stairs
with an uncharacteristically angry expression on his face, she simply said that she had taken some time off work and for once had seized the opportunity to spend some time alone with Kristiane.

She naturally apologized for forgetting to let him know.

As usual Isak accepted everything, and when he set off home with his daughter he was just as good-humoured as always.

Kristiane had witnessed something in connection with the murder of Marianne Kleive. That much was certain. She must at least have seen the dead woman on the evening she was murdered. But still Johanne hadn’t really known what to say to Isak and Adam. Her daughter hadn’t actually told her what had happened. It was her body language and facial expression, her choice of words and the tone of her voice that had been crucial.

Exactly the kind of thing that made Isak laugh at Johanne, and made Adam try to hide how exhausted he was.

And if either of them had believed – against all expectation – that she might be right, then Adam, at least, would have insisted on contacting the police straight away. Isak, too, probably. He was a good father in many ways, but he had never understood how infinitely vulnerable Kristiane was.

If there was one thing she wouldn’t be able to cope with it was strangers trampling about in her own little sphere, asking her questions about something she had obviously managed to lock away, somehow. Clearing up a murder was important, of course, but Kristiane was more important.

This was something Johanne would have to tackle by herself.

Her pulse was steadier now. She was beginning to feel cold because of her night sweat, and decided to change the bed. She got out clean sheets and a duvet cover, and with practised hands she had a dry, cool bed in just four minutes. She hadn’t the energy to change Adam’s duvet. The bed looked odd with covers that didn’t match, but it could wait until tomorrow.

She settled down and closed her eyes.

She was wide awake. Turned over. Tried to think about something else.

Kristiane had seen something terrible. A crime, or the result of a crime.

Someone was watching Kristiane.

She flung herself on to her other side. Her pulse rate increased.

Suddenly she sat bolt upright. Things couldn’t go on like this. Right now there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t ring anyone at this time of the day, besides which Kristiane was perfectly safe with Isak. Somehow she had to get through the night.

Tomorrow she would talk to Adam.

The decision made her feel calmer.

She would ask him to come home. She didn’t have to say why. He would know from the sound of her voice that he had to come. Adam would return from Bergen, and she would tell him everything.

She couldn’t tell him anything.

If he believed she was right, it would destroy Kristiane.

This was impossible. She grabbed Adam’s pillow, placed it on her stomach and hugged it close, as if it were some part of her child.

She could get up and do some work.

No.

There were three books on the bedside table. She selected one of them. Turned to the page with the corner folded down and began to read.
The Road
by Cormac McCarthy didn’t make her feel one jot calmer. After three pages she closed both the book and her eyes.

Her mind was racing, and she felt physically ill.

For a long time Adam had wanted to have a television in the bedroom. Now she regretted not giving in. She was incapable of watching anything attentively, but she had an intense need to hear voices. For a moment she was tempted to wake Ragnhild. Instead, she switched on the clock radio. It was tuned to NRK P2 and classical music filled the room – music that was every bit as melancholy as McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel. She moved the dial until she found a local station that played chart music all night, then turned the volume up as loud as she dared; the neighbour’s bedroom was directly below theirs.