floors. Kollberg stopped on every step. Sejer paused to look at the dog's bulky body, and it dawned on him that old age was about to catch up with his dog. That he might have spared him all those steps. You're getting old too, he muttered. They stepped into the light. He stopped again. 'You're old,' he said out loud as the dog fixed his dark eyes on him.
'Do you realise that?' Kollberg waited patiently as if expecting a treat. A piece of dried fish, for example.
'No,' muttered Sejer. 'Never mind.'
C H A P T E R 2 1
I had a horrible dream. I dreamed that I woke up in the cellar. On the floor, stretched full length, icecold and bruised. My head hurt, as if a dull hammer was pounding and pounding. I managed to get up and stagger out of the room. I headed for the stairs and caught sight of something lying on the floor under a tarpaulin. Someone had dumped their rubbish in my cellar! What a nerve! I had to step over it. That's when I looked through the plastic and saw two dead eyes and a gaping mouth with no teeth. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out of my mouth. When I woke up in my bed, my head was still pounding terribly. I woke up because the doorbell was ringing. I thought: It's Runi. I'm not opening it! But I went to the door anyway, my legs wobbling under me. My head felt so heavy that I had to hold it with my hand. Through the peephole in the door I looked straight at a man. He was very tall, with greying hair. He didn't look like a salesman or anything. I stood there for a moment, listening to the doorbell, that rang and rang. All this coming and going was getting on my nerves.
No-one ever came to my house, so what was this all about?
The bell rang again, a long, determined peal. A voice in my head ordered me to open the door. Maybe he had peeked in the window and seen that I was home, as everyone kept on doing – I had again found a garden chair pulled over to the wall – and if I didn't open the door they would blast it open, and I couldn't let them do that. Everybody was after me, do you understand? And that hideous dream was still hanging on. If I opened the door it might go away. At the sound of a real voice. I opened the door a crack. Probably I had a fever. I could feel my cheeks burning.
'Irma Funder?'
The voice was very deep. Wrapped in that full, low voice, my name sounded beautiful. His eyes were dark and clear and unblinking. They held me fast. I didn't move, could only look at him. In the very back of my aching head something was buzzing, something important. Telling me that I had to get away! That I should fall down, surrender. It buzzed and buzzed. I strained to understand what I wanted. I wanted everything. To flee in panic, to collapse. To sleep for ever.
'Is everything all right?'
I didn't reply, just stared at him. Scrambled to get out of my dream. I wanted to get out to that man. I nodded, without opening the door any wider, just kept on nodding. I've always been a yes man, I thought. And the thought made me angry. Not at this grey man, but at Irma.
'I'm from the police,' he said as he continued to look at me with that serious expression. I thought he might be able to help. That he would understand. I put my hand to my head. And then he smiled. That made him look different, it lit up his furrowed face. A handsome man, it occurred to me, and so tall that he almost had to bend down to go into the kitchen. It's an old house. Nowadays they're probably built differently, but Henry wasn't a tall man, and I'm quite short myself. I creep around; I've told you that already. And now I crept after the man into the kitchen. I liked that, padding after that tall man. He looked around. Pointed to a chair. I gestured my permission.
'What's been going on?' he asked calmly. It looked as if he knew a great deal. But how could he?
For a moment I considered telling him about my dream, but I changed my mind. It would just embarrass him. So I didn't answer. I was still standing there, holding my head with one hand. The other I put on my stomach. I was afraid the bag would get detached and fall to the floor under my dress. That was something this handsome man had to be spared at all costs.
'What happened to your head?'
For a moment I looked at him, confused, while I thought: How can he know about that? I held my hand in front of my eyes and saw that it was bloody. My fingers felt sticky. And then I realised that I was still dreaming, that the man at the table wasn't real, just a dream. I had to play along; every dream comes to an end. So I told him what happened, that a thief had broken in and hit me with something, down in the cellar. He left, and I went to bed and lay down. No, I hadn't had the strength to see if anything was missing from the house. And I didn't see his face. It was dark down there. The man listened patiently. Asked me whether I wanted to file a report.
Report? It hadn't even occurred to me. They wouldn't do anything about it, anyway. Then he stood up and walked around. Went to the window and looked out.
'You have a nice place,' he said politely. 'With a nice garden. And a lovely gazebo. I took the liberty of having a look around the back of your house.' There was a rumbling inside my chest, as if someone had lit a stove. The nightmare would soon be over, because I thought he was already starting to look a little hazy as he stood there with his back to me. But then he turned around, and some of his friendliness was gone. A commanding tone was clear in his voice.
'You should report this,' he said. 'Your cellar window is broken. The thief got in through the window. I'm going down to the cellar to take a look around. He may have left some tracks.'
I leaned heavily on the table. At the same time I realised that the dream was over, because it always ends right before the big disaster. I tried to remember what the big disaster was, and happened to think of the body down in the cellar. That rubbish down there, or whatever it was. Of course he would see it and then come back up and say, 'There's a dead man in your cellar, Irma. Do you know who he is?' I strained to think clearly. Did I know? Andreas Winther. Runi's son. Apparently there were many nightmares. And a reality too, which I was trying to remember, but it was far away. Would he believe me if I told him what happened? What really happened?
No, he wouldn't. He'd see me as someone who's very disturbed, which I wasn't. I'm not. I'm just so worn out.
'No,' I said, surprised at how firm I sounded.
'Don't bother. I'm not going to do anything about it. My son can fix the window. Ingemar. He'll come over if I call him.'
'But you were assaulted,' he said. 'That's a serious matter to us. I urge you to file a report.'
'I'm the one who decides,' I said swiftly. 'This is my house.'
Then he looked at me, and his face filled with curiosity. There we stood, an old woman like me and this handsome man, right there in my own kitchen. Runi should have seen it!
'Where are the stairs to the cellar?' he asked. I didn't answer. He was standing on top of them in fact; he had both feet on top of the trap door. Those nice shoes of his. He peered out to the hall, maybe he thought the stairs were there.
'My head hurts,' I said. 'I need to lie down for a while. I'm not feeling very well.'
'I'll take you to a doctor,' he said. 'You should have that cut looked at.'
My eyes widened at the thought. 'There's nothing wrong with me. I'm as strong as a horse. That's what my doctor says.'
'No doubt,' he said, 'but you've suffered a blow to the head.'
'I'll take a sleeping pill and lie down. I'm not some kind of weakling, either. I can put up with a lot.' I said this with pride.
'I'm sure you can,' he said. 'And I can't force you, of course.'
Silence. His eyes roved around the room, looking at the window and the trees outside, which were beginning to turn yellow. It wouldn't be long now.
'I'm looking for Andreas,' he said softly. For a moment I pulled myself together and nodded.
'Andreas Winther. Runi's son. You know him. What do you think happened?'
I searched for a good answer. That thing under the plastic – that must be what he meant. They all talked about that young man with such reverent voices, as if society had mislaid something irreplaceable, and I had a strong desire to snort with contempt, but I restrained myself.
'Boys are always getting into trouble,' I said.
'And I don't suppose he was any different.'
'He most certainly wasn't. Do you know his friend?'
