enormous tangle of intestines. Look here! Then I woke up. I hadn't forgotten about the horror in the cellar. I had only pushed it aside for a while, like a mean-spirited dog some distance off, which couldn't get at me because it was chained up. But now it was growling. I opened my eyes and stared dead ahead at the flowered wallpaper. It growled again, this time louder. At the same time I was quite sure that I wasn't crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm perfectly sane, I'm describing everything exactly as it was, down to the last detail. Are you still reading this?
Then it was quiet again. Maybe the sound was the relics of a dream. Then it started howling. At first a long, drawn-out, faint howl, then it got louder. I've never heard such a sad howl before, it was coming from a creature in dire need, in the utmost pain. An insane thought occurred to me, but I pushed it away. It wasn't possible. The world couldn't be that evil! Things were bad enough already. But the sound was indeed coming from the cellar. A muffled cry, as if he didn't have much strength, and it had cost him everything to scream. I sat up in bed, shaking with terror now, and stuffed a corner of the pillow in my mouth. The man was alive! He was lying there in the cold cellar and screaming for help!
I threw myself on to my stomach and pressed the pillow over my head. I couldn't bear to hear those screams, as if they came from a wounded animal. He was calling to me. Maybe other people would hear him. The neighbours? People passing on the street?
They would stop and listen, make a note of my address. Maybe they would think I was hurting someone. I was going to be sick. What business had he coming here in the first place? If only he would shut up! Finally I got up and tip-toed across the room. I didn't want him to hear my footsteps overhead. Obviously he was in terrible pain. And he was only a boy. Imagine that he could scream like that. I've never heard anyone scream so horribly, with so much fear. A young boy. All alone in the dark down there, lying on the ice-cold floor. I stopped in the kitchen. Turned on the light over the counter. I couldn't do anything without him hearing me. Turn on the water or open the door to the refrigerator. I pulled out a kitchen chair and sank down. Sat there with one hand on my stomach, feeling the warm contents in the bag through the material of my nightdress. It was quiet again. Maybe he had fainted or something, or maybe he was gathering his strength to scream even louder. I don't know how long I was there. Then he started again, this time louder. I stood up abruptly, went to the radio on the counter, and switched it on. Night-time programming. They were playing music. I turned up the volume. Found a level that blocked out his howls, so that I couldn't hear him. I listened in amazement to all the passion flowing into the room.
'I will always love you.' 'Hold me baby, hold me now.' I sat hunched over the table. I didn't belong in this world, I was an unloved human being. And now here I was, an old woman with a bag of my own waste at my stomach, taking up space. I suddenly started to retch, but nothing came out, just the taste of sour port wine. He had stopped screaming. Did I dare to open the trap door? Just take a quick look and shut it again? I began rolling up the rug, uncovering the door. I listened, holding my breath, didn't hear a thing. He must have lost consciousness. I could go back to bed, postpone the problem for a few hours more. I stared at the wall, at the calendar that showed September. It's autumn, I thought. It's going to get even darker and colder. Then I grabbed the ring and raised the trap door. Peered down at the pale face. The eyes above the scarf stared back at me, and I heard a scream so heart-rending that I almost fell down the stairs. But I regained my balance and dropped the trap door, dropped it with a bang. He was far from dead. He was going to stay alive for a long time; he had strength. He knew that I was up here, that I could save him. I turned the radio up again. Went back to bed. I could hear the music through the open door. A man was screaming in the most terrible despair.
'I lied for you, and that's the truth.' I sat up in bed until it got light outside. The grey light came through my window like dirty water. Someone like me, who is so meticulous, yet I couldn't stop it. He wasn't screaming now.
C H A P T E R 8
September 2.
A slim, well-dressed woman came into the reception area. She paused halfway to the glass-enclosed booth and looked around. Then with swift, purposeful steps she moved towards the little window. Seen from the main entrance, there was something ridiculous about that little booth. But Mrs Brenningen felt entirely comfortable sitting inside it. She was protected there, didn't feel so much as a puff of breath from those questions she had to deal with. Didn't have to touch them. She was a sort of traffic light. Red or green. Usually red. Most people were told to sit and wait until someone bothered to come and get them. The woman was out of breath, making Mrs Brenningen think she was here to report a break-in or robbery. Something had been taken from her, and now she was indignant. She had bright red blotches on her cheeks and her lipstick at the corners of her mouth looked like dry crumbs. Mrs Brenningen smiled brightly through the glass.
'I need to talk to a police officer.'
'And what is it about?'
The woman was evasive. She apparently had no desire to tell a lowly receptionist what her business was. But everyone had specific areas of expertise at the police station, and it was important that she was sent to the right department. And above all, it was important to ensure that the woman did in fact have a good reason for being there at all. For example, the passport office had moved to further down the street.
The woman seemed to sink into herself. She thought about the oppressive silence in her house. Even though there was never any noise this early in the morning, she could sense at once that something was missing. Something quite essential. She approached the door to his room, moving sideways, like a crab. Opened it and peeked inside. He wasn't there. Confused, she shut the door. Stood there, biting her lip. On the door he had hung a poster. It had been there for years. But this was the first time that she had really taken it in.
'Kneel in front of this brilliant genius,' it said. She was pulled out of her reverie because the woman in the booth cleared her throat, but still she didn't answer the question.
Mrs Brenningen represented an organisation serving the public and she didn't want an argument. She called Skarre's office and nodded towards the glass double doors. The woman disappeared down the corridor. Skarre was standing in his doorway, waiting. She looked him up and down, clearly not encouraged by what she saw.
'Excuse me, but are you just a trainee officer, or whatever?'
'I beg your pardon?' he said, blinking.
'This has to do with a very serious matter.' I assumed as much, since you decided to come here, Skarre thought. He smiled, after reminding himself of a passage in the Bible about patience.
'It's called an 'officer candidate',' he said gently.
'No, I'm done with my training. Now tell me what this is about.'
'I want to report my son missing.' He invited her to sit down.
'Your son is missing. How long has he been gone?'
'He didn't come home last night.'
'So we're talking about one night?' Skarre settled himself behind his desk.
'I know what you're thinking: that there's no reason to worry. But that's really not something you can pronounce upon. You don't know him.' Skarre gave a mild shake of his head. The situation was so familiar. The son had been missing before. Now she wanted to take her revenge once and for all and make things hell for him. But it didn't matter; he still had to do his job. He picked up a Missing Person Report form and started filling it in. Place, date, time, his own name and title.
'The full name of the missing person?'
'Andreas Nicolai Winther.'
'Nickname or any other name he uses?'
'No, none.'
'Born?'
'June 4, 1980.'
'Place of residence?'
'He lives with me. Cappelens gate 4.'
'All right. I need a description of him. Height and build. Whether he wears glasses, that sort of thing.'
She began describing her son. No beard or glasses, no distinguishing marks, nice teeth, eastern Norway dialect, normal mental state. Height: 185 centimetres; eyes: light blue – well, bordering on green, to be precise – long, curly, reddish-brown hair. Nothing special about the way he walks. Skarre wrote it all down. In his mind he was forming a picture of the youth that probably didn't quite match up.
'Does he use a debit card?' he asked.
