'Anaesthetics always carry a risk, I suppose,' Sejer mumbled.
'Yes, to some extent. However, in this case perhaps we should discuss whether he ought to be spared such an operation.'
'Why?' Sejer said.
'I don't know that he'll recover afterwards. On the one hand, the tumours do need to be removed whether benign or not. They're pressing on the nerves in his lower back and will cause him to lose mobility. It's a major operation for such an animal. Furthermore, there's a risk that I might damage some nerves, and that could result in paralysis and he'll be worse off than he is now. Then again he might never recover, never be able to stand again. In some cases it can be kinder to the dog to let nature take its course.'
The words came at him like hailstones. Sejer tried to buy time so that the lump in his throat would dissolve and free up his vocal cords. Slowly he understood what he had been told. He could not imagine life without his dog. The wordless conversations they had. The black eyes. The smell of wet fur. The warmth from its snout when he sat in his armchair and the dog put its heavy head on his feet. The vet was silent.
Kollberg had lain down. He took up the whole table.
'You don't have to make the decision now,' the vet said. 'Go home and discuss it with yourself and the dog. Then let me know. And just so you know: there's no right decision here, only a choice between two difficult ones. It happens.'
Sejer stroked Kollberg's abdomen.
'But in your experience are such tumours often malign?'
'The question really is: can the dog deal with the strain.'
'He's always been strong,' Sejer said with childlike defiance.
'Take your time,' the vet said. 'He's had them for quite a time already.'
Later on Sejer sat in the car thinking, 'He's had them for quite a time already.' Was that a rebuke? Was he so caught up in his job that he no longer noticed those he was responsible for? Why hadn't he noticed? He felt weighed down by guilt and had to sit there for a while to recover. They he drove slowly home. Whose interest am I considering if I ask for the operation, he wondered, Kollberg's or mine? It's acceptable, isn't it, to keep alive those you are fond of. Am I expected to ignore that and treat him strictly as the animal he in fact is? Do what's best for him and not for me? Still, he felt loved by this scruffy animal. Although animals can't love. He had assigned these feelings to the dog. But devotion? That he did have. The shaggy body shook with excitement when he unlocked the door to the flat. Its vigilance, its eagerness and its animal heart, which beat only for him. Which beat regardless. He looked in the mirror. Kollberg did not move.
'What's your heart telling you?' Sara said.
'To go ahead, I think,' he said unhappily. 'I'm willing to subject him to more or less anything if it means that I get to keep him for a few more years.'
'Then you take the risks of the operation,' she said simply. 'And you have to stand by your decision whatever the outcome.'
'Am I allowed to indulge my own wishes and needs?' he said sheepishly.
'Yes, you are. He's your dog. You're in charge.'
He called the vet. Listening to his voice he tried to detect nuances in his tone, to see if they might reveal whether he approved the decision. He was persuaded that the vet was pleased. A time was fixed for the operation. Then he knelt beside the dog and began brushing the long coat. He brushed and brushed, with long strokes, and felt the lumps easily. It gnawed at him that he had not felt them before. Sara gave him a comforting smile.
'Kollberg has no notion of your sense of guilt,' she said. 'He loves being brushed. He loves you. Right now he's feeling good: he has a loving owner who's brushing his coat. Don't feel sorry for him.'
'No. I only feel sorry for me,' he whispered.
Linda had been trying for days to reach Karen. Karen wasn't in, her mum said. No, she was just about to go out. I don't know when she'll be back. Something was going on. She felt a deep anxiety. The two of them had always been together. Now she was avoiding her and hung out with other people. With Ulla and Nudel and the rest of them at the cafe. Linda was confused and scared, but held on to the last remnant of her anger. Everywhere she was conscious of people staring at her. What had she done wrong? Everything had been fine until she saw the red car. But mentioning Goran's name was going too far. As if the police wouldn't have checked out all the red cars in the area anyway. Eventually they would have found out that he'd passed the meadow at the crucial time. So he had been caught in the net and now he was struggling to free himself. But Goran was probably innocent and so he had nothing to fear. Linda reckoned his lying to the police was pretty stupid. He had only himself to blame.
She spent her time thinking up a plan for how to get Jacob. Twice she had gone into town and stood in front of his flat in Nedre Storgate. He lived on the second floor. She had stared up at his windows. There was a statuette in the window, but she couldn't see what it was and had not dared to bring her mother's binoculars. Standing in a street in town didn't attract special attention, but standing there with a pair of binoculars was out of the question. It might be the nude body of a woman and she didn't like that idea. It was white and smooth and glowed when the sun shone through the windows. Of course, she was really hurt not to have been taken seriously over the man in the garden that night. She said nothing to her mum. It was bad enough as it was. Her expression told her plainly enough that she had gone too far. Instead they snapped at each other and Linda screamed that if you'd seen the murder taking place with your own eyes I suppose you'd have thought it best to keep your mouth shut, not get involved. People are cowards! she screamed and stamped her foot. Her mum pressed her lips together tightly. She was, in fact, very concerned.
It was late in the evening. Linda sat brooding. Karen ought to be home by now. It was cold and raw outside and a vicious wind swept round the corners of the house in long, threatening gusts. She liked this weather because she was inside where it was bright and warm. The curtains were drawn. Nothing would make her look out into the garden. But there was this business with Jacob. It was a matter of finding out when he was at work and when he would be at home. She would be ready and waiting behind a corner and see him walk down the street, pushing forward with his head bowed. Run straight into him. Perhaps she had something in her hands that she would drop when they collided, so that he would have to kneel down to help her pick it up. A bag of apples perhaps. They would roll off in all directions. She imagined Jacob and her crawling around on the pavement, chasing after the shiny red apples. His mouth and eyes. His hands which would caress her, they were probably warm and strong. He was a police officer, after all.
Hi, Linda, he would say, what are you doing here? Oh, I have a dentist's appointment. Or something like that. Then he would apologise for not believing her that night on the telephone. She would look into his blue eyes and make him realise that he had underestimated her. She was no highly strung teenager, as he seemed to suppose. She was deep in thought when suddenly she heard a thumping sound outside. A second later she stood in the hall. She remained standing, breathlessly listening. But she only heard the wind. It shook the trees with terrible force. Then another thump. She ran into the kitchen. Where was it coming from? Was it the same sound as the other night or something else? She looked at the telephone, but thought better of it. It was impossible to call Jacob. One more thump, it was more violent now and was followed by a shuddering crash. As if someone was banging a sledgehammer against something. She stared, terrified, at the windows. The thumping resumed in an uneven rhythm. It was at its strongest when she stood in the hall, so it was coming from the front of the house. Fortunately the door was double locked. Her senses were heightened. It sounded very much like the doors to the outhouse, the way they used to slam when they forgot to bolt them. Was it that simple? More thumping. She ran into the living room and pulled back the edge of the curtain a very little. In the light of the front door lamp she could see the silhouette of the red outhouse with the white doors. Quite right. They were swinging violently in the strong wind. She sank down from relief. Just as well she had not cried wolf to Jacob. But surely she had bolted them when she put her bike away? In fact, she was absolutely convinced she had.
She decided to put it out of her mind and went to get the newspapers from the stairs to the basement. Sat in the living room and cut out anything more about the case. The cuttings were becoming rarer and rarer, but everything had to be included. She was going to keep them forever. One day, when she and Jacob were married, she would take them out and remember how it all happened when they met each other. The doors were banging. They irritated her, but she was not going to go out in this awful weather and shut them. She went on cutting. Even though she knew what was causing the noise, it still bothered her. Was she going to have to lie awake half the night because of those stupid doors? She put down the scissors, sighing heavily. How long would it take to pull on her boots, run across the yard, fasten the bolts, lock up and run back again? A minute at the most. It was sixty
