I Can See in the Dark (16 page)

I didn’t answer. Margareth continued.

‘They went off early that evening in a van, and they never retuned.’

‘Did they abscond?’ I asked stupidly.

‘He killed her,’ Margareth said. ‘After the film. The van was parked in a copse, and they found her lying in the grass next to it. Most of her blonde hair had been ripped off. Frank was caught a couple of days later and immediately admitted the crime. But he never gave a motive for it. Presumably he’d made advances to her, and she’d refused, naturally. She could hardly have done otherwise. Lads with big muscles don’t like getting no for an answer. What on earth’s wrong with them? Everyone gets rejected now and then. I’ve been rebuffed more times than I care to remember. That’s life. Not everyone wants us, after all.’

That rings a bell, I thought to myself, and gave Margareth a sideways glance. If only I had a woman.

She took another raisin.

‘So you see,’ she continued, ‘after that affair, our managers have never dared to employ women again. That would have brought it all back again. And we couldn’t bear to be reminded of that. Yes, it was awful what happened to Linda. Truly awful.’

Margareth finished speaking and carried on with her work. She bustled about adding the final touches, mixing juice in two large jugs, and placing the beetroot in small bowls. I cast my eye over it all, and I thought that never before had colours seemed so bright and vivid and radiant. The beetroot was wet and dark as blood, and it dyed her lips red when she put a slice in her mouth.

‘Is Frank still on the block?’ I wanted to know.

‘No, he’s in Oslo Prison. So you won’t be bumping into him around here. The other inmates turned against him, he had to be transferred.’

‘What about your assistant?’ I remembered. ‘What’s happened to him?’

‘He’s on long-term sick leave,’ Margareth answered. ‘It seems to be a problem with his bones, he’s got pains all over his body. That’s the only reason you’ve been given this opportunity,’ she added. ‘Not because you’re special or unusual in any way, but because it means they don’t need to employ a stand-in and that saves them money. And if you work well, they’ll let you stay in the kitchen for a good while.’

MARGARETH.

I hadn’t registered her surname, only Margareth. I went about savouring the name, moving it around my mouth, rolling it across my tongue, letting it fill my head and heart. Margareth. The name was like a little tune, the name was pleasant and warm, and perhaps just a tiny bit lonely. Margareth, Margareth. With beetroot juice on her lips, and her light blue eyes fringed with black lashes. I imagined a simple juxtaposition. Margareth and Riktor. Didn’t that sound like a couple, like two souls that belonged together? There was something about the chime and rhythm of the names, they went so perfectly together: Margareth and Riktor. Suddenly, I fancied that there was a more profound meaning to my life so far. Everything I’d undergone, the many interrogations and the forlorn cell, the false accusations. The betrayal. All the time I’d been journeying towards Margareth. I was certain this was right, certain that the future held something, something I needed and wanted, had always wanted. As if in a vision I saw it: an entirely new perspective. Margareth and me in the park near Lake Mester, together on a green bench. I paced around my cell thinking of these things, thinking of Eddie and Janne, and the joy of being a couple.

At length I sank down on the chair. The sanatorium on the hillside opposite, which I could see through the bars, had four rows of windows, and there were twenty windows in each storey, I’d counted them. It was no longer used as a sanatorium, but was now a rehabilitation centre for heart patients. I thought of all the people lying in their beds behind the windows, with hearts that suddenly, and possibly without warning, had stopped beating. Or beat irregularly, or much too fast, and I thought of their fear of dying. I imagined them lying in their beds with hands on chests, checking. These continuous contractions that are so vital to us. There was nothing wrong with my own heart, it beat steadily all day long with energetic persistence. What was it Arnfinn had said about his heart? It beat like an Opel engine. But during those interviews with Randers my pulse did occasionally rise.

De Reuter worked tirelessly.

He often popped in to my cell, or we would sit in a visiting room, but he realised I was managing fine and would soon leave again. Janson took me out into the exercise yard so that I could feel the sun on my face. I sensed it was warming me in a new and promising way now after my meeting with Margareth; I could almost feel the vitamins penetrating my skin. Janson would sit on a bench and smoke a cigarette, while I made slow circuits of the yard.

‘How old is Margareth?’ I enquired, halting in front of him.

‘Well,’ said Janson, taking his time. ‘She must be getting on for fifty, wouldn’t you think? Or maybe forty-five? She’s from the north,’ he said, ‘and she’s a widow. Her husband was killed on the railway, many years ago now. Nasty business. Some shock that must’ve been.’

‘Killed on the railway?’ I said in horror. I put my hands on my hips and looked aghast at Janson. ‘How? Was he in a car? Or walking along the line?’

‘It’s all a bit vague,’ Janson said, flicking the ash off his cigarette. ‘Don’t try asking questions about it, or she’ll chuck you out of the kitchen. She won’t ever speak about what happened.’

I went on walking in wide circles. I stuck my fingers through the wire fence that surrounded us, and smelt the scent of grass from the other side, the tang of the freedom which had been taken from me. It never occurred to me that I might be found guilty of Nelly’s murder because I had some belief in justice. But the other thing, the thing that had happened to Arnfinn, was quite a different matter. I could defend myself there, too, if it came to it. I peered up at the prison wall with its rows of windows, each covered by a grate of rusty metal. The surrounding area was dominated by the building, old and grey and ponderous, and the netting fence was topped with great rolls of barbed wire. They were like huge birds’ nests. But I knew that people had escaped. I had no such plans myself, and I was eagerly anticipating the start of my case. Then I would rise to my feet in court, stand tall, and tell the truth.

Again I stopped in front of Janson.

He was smoking his roll-up and squinting at the sun.

‘I don’t suppose innocent people are often found guilty, are they?’ I asked.

‘No,’ Janson said, ‘but it does happen. And the guilty are sometimes acquitted.’ He drew on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke in big white clouds. ‘Either way, it’s equally bad in my opinion. But the system isn’t foolproof, and the law is the law. But Randers is notorious for getting at the truth,’ he went on, nodding towards the wing of the building where the inspector had his office.

I had to face the fact: I might have to serve years for a murder I hadn’t committed. While the other crime, against Arnfinn, remained undiscovered. The notion took my breath away, and I couldn’t whisper a word about it, to a living soul. I carried it with me in the same way as the secret about the skier who went through the ice. I couldn’t mention him either; people wouldn’t understand. I seated myself on the bench next to Janson. He exuded a friendly calm. As if life’s difficulties had never touched or troubled him. I enjoyed sitting there in the sun, with the cigarette smoke drifting slowly past.

‘You never get any visitors,’ he commented tentatively.

‘No, that’s right. And I’m not worried about it, either. I haven’t got that much to say to other people. Apart from Margareth, that is.’

‘There’s a system of prison visitors,’ Janson continued. ‘If you want, you can add your name to the list. Then you’ll have a visit every fortnight, or just once a month, if you prefer. That is, if we find someone.’

‘Prison visitors?’ I said, wrinkling my nose. ‘Who would want to do that?’

Janson trod out his cigarette. He retrieved the butt and put it in his tobacco pouch, which he slipped into his inside pocket.

‘Socially minded people. Often well into middle age. Or sometimes pensioners who’ve got a bit of time on their hands, they frequently volunteer for it. But there are younger people too, those who’re interested and prepared to give the time. The Red Cross organises the service for inmates who want it. So, what do you think, Riktor?’

I thought it over for a while.

‘What if I get someone I can’t stand?’ I objected.

‘Try to be a bit positive,’ Janson exhorted and gave me a slap on the shoulder. ‘Think about it.’

I stood up and began walking again. After a few circuits I stopped by the fence and gazed over at him.

‘At least Nelly lived to be old,’ I said. ‘And she died in her own bed. Because of some motive or other, I don’t know what. She also had a respectable funeral. Think of all those people who are never found. Who die in the forest without anybody knowing about it, or drown and end up at the bottom of a lake.’

‘It’s depressing all right,’ Janson replied. ‘It’s important to have a grave. D’you think about things like that a lot?’ He stood and felt his pocket. ‘Well, let’s be having you, then. Time’s up.’

I am innocent.

I lie on my bed, I sit by the window. I mooch around my cell, taking short paces, to and fro across the frayed, grey flooring. I splash cold water in my face and contemplate revenge. Revenge germinates down at my feet, and then rises, working its way through my system, sometimes I find it hard to breathe, because it’s thoroughly got the better of me. I plan to make someone pay for the misfortune that’s hit me so hard. The real culprit is sitting somewhere rubbing his hands. It’s unbearable. I count the hours and days and weeks, and de Reuter keeps me informed of the progress of the case. Every time he arrives he’s wearing a colourful tie. Mustard yellow with his dark suit, red or blue ties with the grey. Randers keeps fetching me for more questioning. He’s never going to give in, and I’m pretty worn out. I speak the truth for several hours and my lies are only white ones. I’m filled with righteous indignation. In my mind’s eye I see my own magnificent performance in court. And de Reuter explains about the layout of the courtroom.

‘The witnesses will give their evidence on your left,’ he says, ‘and the Public Prosecutor will be on your right. The judge and his two lay assessors will be directly opposite you, so you can look them in the eye. Do that thing, look them right in the eye. The courtroom is large and oval with blue, high-backed chairs. Windows right up to the ceiling. There are carafes of water, there are pens and paper and microphones so that people can hear. You must get there prepared, rested and well dressed. Don’t interrupt anybody, and don’t get worked up, make sure to keep your temper under control, that’s important. If something unexpected happens, it’s essential to keep calm. I’ll be with you all the way. Also, it’s possible I may correct you during the proceedings, if I think you’re breaking any of our rules or agreements. If I’m to get you off, I must be in complete control.’

MARGARETH RECEIVED ME
in her large, tiled kitchen every day. With its brushed-steel gadgets and gleaming work surfaces. At first she was fairly taciturn, but her tongue gradually loosened, and she told me about her early years in northern Norway and how tough it had been, with little money and a hard, rugged climate. The endless, freezing winter months when it was dark almost all day long. She never raised her eyes as she spoke, she hardly ever looked into mine; either she was very shy by nature, or simply unwilling to look at me, I was never quite sure. Her attention was always on her work. A piece of meat or a raw fish, whatever she might be working on. I’ve never seen hands so swift, they skinned, filleted and jointed with lightning speed.

Margareth, I mused, as I trotted at her heels like a puppy. Here come Margareth and Riktor. Every Friday we worked out a menu for the coming week. I loved these interludes, sitting close together at the table, pen and paper at the ready.

‘Monday,’ Margareth kicked off. ‘Start of another week. And hardly the best day for any of us, I shouldn’t think. The weekend’s so far away. Well, what do you think, Riktor?’

She spoke my name. She spoke it loud and clear. It sounded so fine when she said it, as if I were hearing it for the first time. She rubbed the corner of her eye with a knuckle, and a bit of mascara streaked her cheekbone.

‘Something hot,’ I recommended, ‘something to set the palate on fire, something Mexican, tacos for example, or chilli con carne.’

‘With bread and butter and salad,’ nodded Margareth. ‘Yes, I think that’ll be good. We’ll go for chilli.’

She noted it on her menu sheet. Her handwriting was messy; I could only read it because I knew what she’d written. Her bleached apron still had traces of beetroot juice which hadn’t come out in the wash, and she was wearing the mauve blouse which couldn’t have suited her less.

‘We’ll need a cool pudding,’ she volunteered. ‘What d’you think, Riktor? Ice cream?’

I proposed yoghurt with fresh berries.

‘I can see you’re not in charge of the budget,’ Margareth mumbled. ‘Well, we’ll just have to economise later in the week.’

‘We could have pancakes on Tuesday,’ I said, ‘they’re easy and cheap. Pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. Then we’ll have to serve up fish on Wednesday, I know you’ll agree with that.’

And so we sat working at the table. I dictated and Margareth wrote. We’d become a team. The thought that her kitchen assistant would one day return and push me out was unbearable. I didn’t want to lose what I’d found at long last, these moments with Margareth. Surely fate couldn’t be so unkind, I reasoned, wasn’t it my turn to have a bit of luck now, after all that had happened?

Janson often popped in. He wanted to check that I was behaving well. And where Margareth was concerned, everything I did was impeccable.

Then a most unexpected thing happened.

I actually had to put out a hand, searching almost for something to steady me, as I tried to comprehend a quirk of fate so astonishing that it left me speechless and only able to stand there dumb and irresolute. Janson had escorted me to a visiting room. For a meeting with a woman called Neumann. ‘A woman of a certain age,’ Janson had said. ‘She’s been an accountant all her life. And a prison visitor for many years at various institutions, she’s got lots of experience. She’ll be here at two.’