The Drowned Boy (22 page)

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the priest chanted as he threw three shovels of dry dirt on the white coffin lid. Nothing had been arranged for after the funeral this time either. In the death notice, it had said that the funeral would finish at the grave. Carmen just wanted it over and done with. Her mouth trembled as she clung to her father like an exhausted child. In part out of a sense of loss, but most of all out of panic. Because her life was out of control.

“Must be a message from above,” Skarre commented when the ceremony was over and they hurried back to the Volvo to seek shelter from the rain. “It’s been the driest and warmest autumn in memory. But today there’s a downpour.”

“What did you think of the priest?” Sejer asked. “Did he pass?”

Skarre closed the car door and dried the rain from his face.

“The priest was excellent,” he said. “A pillar of strength. Nicolai would have liked him. No avoidance or vague explanations, just the truth, and that’s the way it should be. Not even the pouring rain put him off his stride. To be honest, the stormy weather seemed quite appropriate today. What about you?” he added. “Do you feel guilty?”

“Yes,” Sejer replied. “I should have heard the alarm bells; I should have heard them and done something.”

He put a Fisherman’s Friend in his mouth and ran his fingers through his wet, coarse hair.

“He said it outright, that he wouldn’t be present at the court hearing. Then he left the apartment and went straight to the ever-after. I’ll never forgive myself.”

He stared glumly at his younger colleague. His eyes pleaded with Skarre for understanding.

“Console yourself with the fact that you would only have managed to delay it for a while,” he said in a comforting tone. “It would only have happened later. I believe that suicide is like a ticking bomb in the genes. Sooner or later it will explode and nothing in the world can stop it.”

“Thank you for that. I’ll still always feel guilty, though. But I’ll just have to live with that.”

“Everyone lives with guilt,” Skarre stated. “Welcome to the club.”

“Well, you’ll have to file a complaint with God,” Sejer commented.

“Come on, God can’t be responsible for everything. We humans have to take some responsibility too.”

“But isn’t He the almighty? Isn’t that the point of it all?”

“Yes,” Skarre conceded. “But I could talk forever about His inscrutable ways. I’m pretty unflappable, and you will never make me lose hope. The explanation will come,” he claimed.

“On the Day of Judgment, you mean?”

“Yes, why not? And you know, there’s an explanation for everything we wonder about, for all the mysteries. There is an answer. Does God exist or doesn’t He? Is there life after death or not? Everything can be answered with a simple yes or no. Imagine.”

“Good of you to simplify things,” Sejer said, “but I just can’t bring myself to believe it. We’ll never get those answers. When did you become so sure of God’s existence?”

“Oh, I’ve never been certain,” Skarre quickly assured him.

“But you said you believed?”

“I believe, but I don’t know; that’s something different. It would be easier, of course, if I experienced a miracle. It wouldn’t need to be a big one. But I’ve never really been the type for absolute certainty. And anyway, doubt makes us human.”

Sejer didn’t sleep well that night.

He tossed and turned, pushing the comforter away because he was too hot and pulling it up again because he got too cold. He kept changing positions and could not settle. And finally with the first light he sank into the restless world of dreams. He dreamed that he was running for his life through dry sand. Behind him, his pursuer had a gun; he could make out a figure in black with a hood and flapping coattails. He could clearly hear him breathing, and every now and then the man gave a kind of low, terrifying growl that scared the living daylights out of him. When he turned around to see who it was, he discovered that the white face beneath the hood was not a human face but a clock face, and that the hands were pointing to twelve. He kicked up clouds of sand in panic. But instead of moving forward, he just dug himself deeper and deeper into the sand dunes. A bullet would hit him at any second, through the left-hand side of his back, shredding his heart. Blood would flow and death would be upon him. But despite the panic, somewhere deep inside there was a rumble that this was perhaps just a dream and nothing to worry about. Still he scrambled to get away. Fascinating, all the layers between being awake and deep sleep, he mused once awake. Feeling agitated and tired, he leaned over the edge of the bed and looked down at Frank.

“That was a bad dream,” he said and groaned. Frank opened his eyes, stood up, and trotted to the head of the bed. He got a rub behind the ear and then went and lay down again. Sejer fell back to sleep, only to dream the same dream again. The feeling of kicking helplessly in the dry sand without being able to move made him panic. Later, when he woke up for the second time, he wondered what the dream might mean. There was something fateful about it, he thought, because the clock hands showed twelve. That meant that time was out—could that be it? Was his subconscious trying to tell him there was no hope? That the dizziness was his final fate? He tossed the comforter to one side and put his feet on the floor. I guess I’m ill, he thought disconsolately, and felt a sharp pain in his chest. And yes, it was the left side. Could there be something wrong with his heart? he wondered. Was his life about to collapse? He went over to the window and looked out at the town blanketed in darkness. And he was struck by a melancholy thought. He would never know the answers to life’s great questions, and God would never reveal Himself to him. But we’re modest, aren’t we? he said to Frank. I would be happy with a burning bush.

WHEN THE DAY
finally came that Dr. Chen called him with the MRI results, he was on his way back to the car after a short trip into the town center. His senses were so clear that day, as if everything was for the last time. November with its bare branches and soft drizzle, the smell of wet leaves, heavy leaden clouds, birds migrating south in great skeins across the gray sky. He noticed an Opel with dirty windows, an old man in an electric wheelchair whirring along the pavement, a teenager on a bike. He saw all these things with crystal clarity. He sprinted back to the car, let Frank into the back, and then settled in the driver’s seat. He put the phone to his ear, aware of his accelerating heartbeat.

“We’ve found something,” Dr. Chen said. “Are you sitting down?”

The words vibrated in the air. Her voice was remarkably neutral, which immediately made him nervous. That’s not what you were supposed to say, he thought. You were supposed to say everything is fine, that I’m perfectly healthy and that life will go on. You were supposed to say it was nothing more than a misunderstanding, and that it is all over now. That I can breathe out again.

“What kind of something?” he asked in a thin voice. He, the detective inspector who normally spoke in a clear bass, was whispering like a girl.

“Acusticus neurinoma,” Chen replied. As if the diagnosis was the most natural thing in the world.

“I see,” he said, “but I’m afraid I don’t speak Latin. What is that in everyday language?”

“I know,” she apologized. “I was just quoting from the letter from the hospital. An acoustic tumor is a benign tumor and is generally located in the inner ear. It presses against the vestibular, or balance nerve, which is why you get so dizzy. Have you noticed any hearing loss?”

He had to think for a moment. Yes, maybe, a little in the right ear, but his anxiety about the dizziness had overshadowed it.

“A tumor,” he hesitated. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, no, everything should be fine,” Chen reassured him. “It is in all likelihood benign. But it won’t be smooth sailing. You see, it’s not going to be easy to remove it as it’s in the inner ear, which is very delicate. In other words, it’s hard to get to it.”

“Do I have to have an operation?” he asked in alarm.

The electric wheelchair was approaching his car. The old man didn’t even bother to look at him; he was obviously on an urgent mission.

“Yes, you will have to have an operation—if you don’t want to go through life with your head spinning like a drunkard, that is,” she explained. “It is absolutely possible to remove it. In fact, there are several different ways in which it can be done. But it is a complex operation, so it’s not easy. The surgeon will have to decide which method is best for you, so I’ll get back to you.”

“But tell me one thing,” he said feebly. “Will I need an anesthetic?”

“My dear man,” Chen said with a laugh, “we’re not living in the Middle Ages. Of course you’ll be under general anesthetic, so don’t you worry.”

He thought about it and tried to calm himself. He looked at Frank in the mirror; he was lying peacefully with his head on his paws, blissfully unaware of how serious this was. You superficial little mutt, he mumbled to himself, as he held the cell phone tight in his sweaty hand.

“We could use what is called a gamma knife,” Chen continued. “In which case, we go in through the auditory canal and remove the tumor from there. It is the cleanest method, if you like. Then there is another more invasive method where we go in just under the temporal bone using a scalpel and remove it from there. Both methods are very successful, so we just need to determine which is best for you. We often leave the tumors where they are, believe it or not. But as it is bothering you, we must do something; don’t you agree? I’m afraid you will have to be prepared to be added to the waiting list. The system works well, but it is often slow.”

She paused. He could hear her breathing, fast and easy. The electric wheelchair had now cleared the car and the old man whirred on, eyes straight ahead on his steady course. The windshield was covered in small drops of condensation.

“But you must be a busy man, Detective Inspector, so I will try to bump you up the list,” she said.

The relief flooded through him, making him feel warm and light. I’ve got a few years left, he thought, how wonderful!

“So I’ll be hearing from the hospital then?”

“Yes, you’ll get a letter. And otherwise, you’re fit as a fiddle. All the tests were good. And there is no doubt that you will be living on this earth for a while yet.”

Then she said goodbye and he sat quietly in the car for some time. He couldn’t seem to get moving again. His pulse was back to normal and his breathing was slow and steady. Benign, she’d said, benign. What a relief! More left of life, after all. It was almost too good to be true. Then thoughts started to crowd his mind once again, just as the old man in the wheelchair disappeared around the corner. A cure was within reach. But first, they would have to stick a knife in his ear.

THE COLD WEATHER
arrived finally in December, with heavy frosts.

The puddles had a top layer of paper-thin ice in the morning, the grass stood like pins, and hoarfrost covered the bare silver branches. Tommy, Carmen, and Nicolai slipped in and out of his mind. The case was due to be heard on June 24, but new cases took priority. Because people never stopped; they flared up at the slightest offense. They shot each other with guns and stabbed each other with knives. Then they said that they hadn’t meant to. I didn’t want this to happen, he provoked me, fell onto the knife, it was him or me. In all honesty, it was self-defense. I plead not guilty, because it was all a terrible accident, and I deeply regret it. A couple of thousand people disappeared or were reported missing every year, but most of them turned up again safe and sound. They often gave vague explanations of where they had been and what they had done. Thousands of convicted criminals evaded prison, failed to return from prison leave, or simply went on the run before being convicted. Some were found floating in swimming pools, others under a tree in the woods. Always, he mused, almost always under a tree. And the circumstances were not necessarily suspicious. Many had made the same choice as Nicolai. A fast and dramatic exit from time.

He had his operation on January 20.

It took place at eight o’clock in the morning at Oslo University Hospital, and he was more nervous than he liked to admit. His heart was racing as they wheeled him into the operating room, ten milligrams of Valium having no apparent effect. He was a big man. The white light on the ceiling blinded him, so he closed his eyes. He said a silent prayer, and then immediately felt ashamed. He didn’t believe in anything, certainly not a higher power. But now he had no other comfort than his pathetic prayer. Let everything go well; help me get through this. And a wretched, embarrassed amen.

They had decided to use the gamma knife and he was grateful for it. When he came to, the first thing he felt was immense relief that it was all over. He had struggled with the dizziness for so long, and now his head felt clear and light. He was allowed to go home right away. Ingrid came to collect him and they went back to her house for something to eat. Frank was waiting there, and he was overjoyed to see him.

“Next time there’s something wrong, don’t wait so long,” Ingrid reprimanded him. “You’re impossible.”

He raised his hand and promised.

DETECTIVE CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT
Holthemann retired at the age of fifty-eight. He was not the sort of person who made friends and was not particularly good with people, but he was an extremely skilled administrator and was well respected in Søndre Buskerud Police District. He always managed to meet his budgets and the ranks were well disciplined from the top down. Despite Holthemann’s cantankerous nature, Sejer knew that he would miss the sound of his stick in the narrow, busy corridors and his reprimanding bass and piercing eyes. People pooled together to buy a cake. As if retirement was something to celebrate. Holthemann didn’t know what to think, what it all meant, now that it was over. But he certainly stepped down from his important position with high blood sugar. Skarre aspired to carry on Holthemann’s legacy, despite his young age, and even Sejer had been asked to apply for the position. But he wasn’t tempted by administration; he wanted to be out in the field. He had always wanted to be close to tragedy, in the front row of life’s drama, where he met people. And when it came to Carmen Zita, he still questioned what had happened. But he had gotten nowhere with the young mother. She was strong, proud, and stubborn, and she had kept repeating her story of a seizure and the ensuing confusion.