When The Devil Holds The Candle

Why you came here? So that I'll understand?'

'You wouldn't understand,' he said. 'No-one will.'

'You're not giving me a chance. There's always an explanation. It makes it easier to bear.' He sniffled a bit. 'I'm no worse than anyone else.'

I frowned. 'I know plenty of people who would never force their way into the house of a woman who lives alone. With a knife and things like that. So don't trivialise matters, Andreas.'

'I had to,' he said. 'I had revealed everything about myself. Had left it all behind at the cemetery. I had to find something . . . something to disguise myself with. Because he saw me as I really am. Zipp. He saw me. And suddenly there you were. I needed you.'

'No. You chose me. I want to know why.'

'I had to go on, don't you understand! Had to go into your house and come back out again – as something else.'

'As a simple criminal?'

'No! I left that behind at the cemetery. I needed something new.'

'I don't understand you. You talk such nonsense.'

'You didn't call for help,' he said in a low voice.

'You chose not to. Why?'

'It wasn't my choice! I've tried to understand it.'

'No, someone like you can't choose. You just have to sit and wait. And then no-one comes. It makes you crazy, doesn't it, Irma?'

How could he be so shameless when I was finally going to get help for him? God knows, he would get plenty of help. Nursing and tending to him. Fair treatment. He was so young, after all. An insignificant sentence. His personal psychologist. I had to give him one last stab.

'The fact that you do have a choice has destroyed you, Andreas.'

'I've never been able to choose.'

'I have my own thoughts about that.'

'There's a lot that you don't know.'

'I'm going to leave you now. Maybe you've learned something. Leave people in peace.'

'I've never bothered anybody,' he murmured. I cleared my throat, trying to sound threatening.

'Not until now,' he went on. 'I don't give a shit if you believe me or not. I know who I am.'

'Is that right? Is there anything worth knowing?'

'Yes,' he muttered. 'It took me a little time. But now I know.'

I kept quiet, sighing. No-one is as wise as the young when they've just begun to understand.

'Where are you going?' he said.

'Out. But I have to get dressed first.'

'But where are you going?'

'Away,' I said vaguely.

'You don't have to do that,' he sighed. 'I'll take all the blame.'

It took a moment for his words to sink in and I understood his meaning. That was too much for me. I stood up, shaking. 'TAKE ALL THE BLAME?

ANDREAS – THERE'S SOMETHING IMPORTANT HERE THAT YOU'VE MISSED! YOU ARE TO BLAME! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?' He blinked in horror at my outburst. There's more strength in old women than young boys know. They ought to watch out. I was still shaking, spreading my legs apart so as not to topple over from sheer outrage. Andreas started to cry. Tears and snot ran down his face. The room smelled of him, a cloying smell from the infected wound on his head. From his unwashed body. It smelled of mould and potatoes and burning dust from the heater, which glowed red. Oh, how he cried. It was necessary for me, right now before I left, to hear this. To take it with me. Then his sobs stopped.

'You're never going to call. You won't keep your word. You're a coward and crazy and a liar.' I bit my lip so hard that tears came to my eyes.

'You asked why I chose you? It was because you're so ugly, Irma.'

I started to shake.

'Ugly and fat. With your intestines hanging out. No-one could love somebody like you.'

'You be quiet!' I shouted.

'I can see the veins through your stockings. They're the size of fucking grapes.'

I was still standing there, wanting to crush him with my bare fists. He looked evil when he said that. I lost control, stood there flailing my arms around and looking ridiculous, I could feel it, but I couldn't stop the rage from coming. I had to destroy something, let loose, all of a sudden I had too much strength. A violent surplus that threatened to rip me to shreds. It turned into pain, it burned like fire, and I looked for something in the dark cellar, something I could use to crush and destroy, but I didn't see anything. Just old plastic furniture. The bin of potatoes. An old windowpane leaning against the wall. And a box of tools. It stood under the workbench. Open. I pulled out a hammer with a rubber handle. Went back and stood in front of him. And then it happened, as I stood there, wielding my power, demonstrating that I had the upper hand, that he'd better watch out. He laughed! And I snapped. I can bear most things: not being seen, not being heard, people bickering and banging things around. But not that. Not someone laughing. I lashed out. Hit hard. Struck somewhere on his white forehead, and his laughter was cut off, it stopped with a faint groan, and I struck again. The hammer hit the floor several times, white sparks flew up every time the steel hit the concrete, but I kept on hitting, sensed that what was under the hammer slowly lost its shape and grew soft. I caught a reflection of my own face in the old windowpane. He was right. I was ugly. So I kept on hitting until I had no strength left. It felt good. I was empty. My body gradually grew calm. I looked around with stinging eyes. Heard a tiny sigh. Whether it came from Andreas, a last sound from his lungs, or whether someone saw us, I don't know. Just let them try! For a long time I stood there with the hammer raised, staring into the shadows.

C H A P T E R 2 0

Zipp could see the outline of his face in the black of the television screen. Something cowardly and wavering. He stomped up the stairs and slammed the door behind him. The goal had finally become clear to him. The white house with the green paintwork. Hadn't he withstood terrible pressure?

Look what inner strength he had! This time he wasn't going to settle for just talk; he wanted inside, God damn it!

He made his way up the hill, taking long, determined strides. From behind, his round arse could be seen energetically swinging and twisting as he walked. Even if he had to force his way in and manhandle the old woman, he was going to find out the truth! He was rarely so resolute in his life, but he liked the feeling of such certainty. He could do anything! Fifteen minutes later he came to the gate.

He heard a door slam. Rapid footsteps crunched across the gravel. There she was. The Funder woman! He watched her shuffle off and then he slipped into the garden. He crept up the steps and tried the door, but of course it was locked. Slunk round to the back, making sure that no-one could see into the garden. With a crowbar he should be able to pry open one of the cellar windows and get in. But he didn't have a crowbar. In the rose bed lay a rock the size of a cabbage. He rolled it over and brushed off some sort of crawling insect. Then he knelt down and tried to see in through the windows. One of them was covered with a sack or something. He could look through the other one if he cupped his hands on either side of his face. He picked up the rock and flung it at the glass. It made only a small opening and it took him a while to break off the rest of the shards from the window frame. Then he stuck both feet inside, turned himself around and let go. It was a long drop. His knees almost buckled. He brushed off his jeans and his hands then slowly turned round and saw a door in front of him. He paused for a moment, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dark. Shelves with bottles and jars. An old sledge, a rotting parasol. And a door. He opened it, his heart pounding. It was heavy, maybe spring loaded. Inside there was another room. A strange glowing red light broke through the darkness. It was hot inside, and it smelled bad. He stumbled a few paces across the room, his heart trembling like a chicken under his jacket. He put his hands on the wall and felt his way forward, one hesitant step at a time. He needed to find the light switch. Then he stepped on something soft. It gave way under his foot and made an odd crackling noise. He stopped at once. There was something lying on the floor. What the hell was it?