checkout counter. Maybe while staring deep into the eyes of the woman cashier with a brief remark:
'Imagine, I nearly forgot the most important thing of all!' It was a game he played. Skarre moved forward. The woman in the brown coat put her shopping on the conveyer belt, paid and packed everything into a bag. Not a word spoken, not even a 'please' or a 'thank you'. She didn't look the cashier in the eye. She seemed wrapped in her own world. Then she disappeared out of the doors. Skarre caught sight of something at the end of the counter. She had forgotten the baby bottle.
'I'll take care of it,' he told the cashier. She shrugged, and as soon as he had paid for his groceries, he ran in pursuit of her. By then she was quite a distance up the street. Perhaps on her way to catch a bus. She was carrying the grocery bag in her right hand, walking close to the buildings. Skarre had put the baby bottle in the inside pocket of his leather jacket and he hurried after her. She didn't notice him. Then she cut across the street and started up the hill towards Prins Oscars gate. He was close enough to shout, but he picked up speed so that he would be able to state his business without shouting. Skarre was very considerate. She was halfway up the hill, and Skarre was only five metres behind. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket and jogged a few paces towards her.
'Hello! Could you wait a minute, please?' She lurched around to stare at him. Her fear was so apparent that Skarre stopped at once. He threw out his arms and waved the bottle.
'You forgot this! That's all.'
She stood there for a few seconds, staring at him, then she turned and continued up the hill.
'What about the baby bottle?'
Finally she stopped.
'I was behind you in the shop. You left it on the counter.'
He was quite close to her now. He could see her thin lips and her deep-set eyes. She had a heavy jaw and eyebrows that had grown together. Her face was pale, like something that been locked up.
'I thought it might be important,' he said as he smiled and held it out to her. She took it reluctantly.
'I'm sorry,' she muttered. 'You gave me such a start.'
'I didn't mean to,' said Skarre with a bow.
'There are so many strange people,' she said.
'You never know who might turn up.' She gave him what passed for a smile. 'You could have gone on your way and not done anything. This bottle is important.'
'I thought so.'
He turned to leave. She seemed to have calmed down.
'Have a nice day.'
'A nice day?' She seemed to wake up. 'You have no idea what you're talking about.' Skarre hesitated. An expression of pure confusion appeared on her face. She turned abruptly and walked up the hill. Skarre watched her turn to the left, just short of a thick hedge. Behind the trees he could see glimpses of a white house with green paintwork.
*
I turned on the tap and let the water run. I was composed enough to show a little concern, and besides, I was responsible for him. I was all he had. The thought sang inside me, even though I knew that it wouldn't last; it was only for a moment that I would have a human being at my disposal like this. Someone who had to listen to me. He started groaning when I opened the trap door. It was odd to stand there with a baby bottle in my hand; it had been so long since I'd done that. I had thought everything through. If I placed a pillow on his chest, the bottle could rest there. I couldn't stand the idea of holding it for him. No, I couldn't. I was surprised that he was still alive. There was something wrong with his legs and arms, and maybe with his lungs too. His voice was weak, and he was struggling to breathe. I stood there holding the bottle in my hand. To think that I'd forgotten it! I had trouble remembering what I had said to that young man, and that made me nervous. But I had a lot on my mind. I went down the steps. He saw the bottle at once and opened his eyes wide. I put the pillow on his chest, on top of the blanket. The bottle was nestled on the pillow. He sucked down the water, not stopping. Bubbles rose in the bottle. I sat there, watching him, a few steps up so that his head was visible between my knees, like something I had given birth to on the floor. It was good that he finally had some water. Tears ran down his face the whole time he was drinking. I was absorbed by that beautiful face and those bright eyes and the water that trickled and ran down his throat. I had used scissors to cut a bigger hole so it wouldn't be so hard for him to drink. When the bottle was almost empty, it was so light that it fell off the pillow and on to the cement floor, making a tiny hollow sound as it rolled away.
'Thank you,' he whispered. Then he closed his eyes. I was touched. Wasn't he going to scream again? Curse me? Threaten me so I'd call for help?
It looked as if he were sleeping. I waited, in awe. He was having trouble breathing. I would have sat there all night if my back hadn't started to hurt. If I could have done it, I would have carried him up to my own bed. I would have done that for him, done it gladly. Nothing can compare with sitting there like that, looking at a person who is completely dependent on you. I decided there and then to take as good care of him as I possibly could. And the cellar, which was so familiar to me, gradually began to change. It was no longer dark and sinister; I could look at it properly. Cobwebs on the ceiling, the light shining through them so they looked like silver threads. The dim light in the corners, the yellow light bulb and the dull-coloured floor. Dreary old furniture that seemed now to have some dignity, resting contentedly against the cellar wall, having fulfilled its role. The worn steps on which I was sitting. The quiet room. Andreas had filled it with something. He was young and stupid. He had acted without thinking, the way young people do; they just barge forward. But surely he didn't deserve to lie here like this, freezing. I came out of my reverie.
'Are you in pain?' I asked.
A moment passed. He opened his eyes.
'No,' he said, his voice feeble.
'Are you cold?' I asked.
'No,' he said again.
He licked his lips. They had begun to split. The hair on the right side of his head was matted with blood. It was stiff and sticky.
'You're lying in such an awkward position. I'm going to move you.'
'No! No!' He screamed. His eyes were filled with terror.
'But your legs are up on the steps – it looks as though it must hurt.'
'No. Don't!'
I stood up and moved behind his head. Hesitated for a moment before I leaned down. He whimpered, begged me not to do it. But I hardened my heart and stuck my hands under his armpits. Counted to three and pulled him the last few paces away from the stairs. His shoes banged faintly against the floor. He didn't scream, which apparently surprised him. He looked better now, with his legs stretched out.
'I can't feel my body. I can't feel anything!' he said.
I was overwhelmed by what he said, by what I had done. What he had done, I corrected myself, he was to blame for all this. I was struck with great force by how serious his injuries were. I had to squash the despair I felt, that I couldn't bear to feel! I got rapidly to my feet.
'You should have thought of that before!' He opened his mouth to cry out in reply, but he couldn't speak. He didn't have the strength. I went back upstairs. Closed the trap door. Could he have broken his neck? Cut off all connections below, so that everything would stop functioning? Could he live like that? Was he getting enough oxygen? It was too late to turn back. I had burned my bridges the first time I closed the trap door. There was no going back. No going forward, either. I sat down at the table and put my head in my hands. His face would appear at regular intervals to disturb me. But then I felt good again, warm and pleased. I thought that next time I would fill the bottle with warm milk, maybe with a little sugar in it. Or a couple of sleeping pills, so he would sleep. These thoughts gave me a kind of peace. There was so much good you could do if you only tried. I leafed through the newspapers again. In fact I couldn't find a single page without mention of violence or war or some other misery. A young man had shot his own girlfriend in the face. There were more kids like Andreas, there were lots of them. Each story was worse than the last. At regular intervals I would turn around to look over my shoulder. I was expecting something. A face at the window, a phone ringing. When the doorbell finally rang, my heart stopped beating. But it calmed down when I reminded myself that I didn't have to open the door. I am in charge of my own life and my own house. I let the doorbell ring, but it didn't stop. So I went over and looked through the peephole in
