The Darkest Room

Then something slender and metallic gray came whirling through the opening. She closed her eyes but didn’t manage to duck or raise her arm in time.

Ax, was all she managed to think before it hit her in the face.

There was a crunching noise from her own head, then a burning pain seared all the way up her nasal bone.

She could hear Martin shouting in the distance.

But by then she had already begun to fall backward, down the steps and back out into the snow.

35

The murderer had stepped out of the shadows among the trees, walked over to Ethel, and whispered:

“Do you want to come with me? If you just keep quiet and come with me, I’ll show you what I’ve got in my pocket… no, it isn’t money, it’s something even better. Come down to the water with me and you can have a fix of heroin from me, completely free. You’ve got your own needle and spoon and lighter, haven’t you?”

Ethel had nodded.

Joakim shivered and pushed the dream-pictures out of his head. A rumble like thunder shook him.

He woke up properly and looked around him. He was sitting in the front row in the prayer room, with Katrine’s Christmas present on his knee.

Katrine?

It was almost completely dark. The flashlight had gone out and the only light came from the single bulb in the loft, seeping in through the narrow gaps in the wall.

And the rumbling noise? The barn hadn’t been struck by thunder or lightning-it was the storm, roaring its way in over the coast.

The blizzard had reached its peak.

The stone walls on the lower floor were immovable, but the rest of the barn was shaking in the wind. The sound of the air being forced in through the cracks rose and fell like a siren around Joakim.

He looked up at the roof beams above his head and thought he could see them trembling. The storm-force winds came pouring in over Eel Point like black waves, making the wooden walls creak and bang.

The blizzard was tearing the barn apart. That’s what it felt like.

But Joakim thought he could hear other sounds too. Rustling noises from inside the room-slow footsteps crossing the wooden floor. Restless movements in the darkness. Whispering voices.

The church benches had begun to fill up behind him.

He couldn’t see who the visitors were, but felt a growing chill in the room. There were many of them, and they were starting to sit down.

Joakim listened, his body tense, but remained where he was.

It was quiet on the church benches now.

But someone else was walking slowly along the aisle beside them. He heard careful noises in the darkness, the scraping sound of footsteps from a figure passing all the benches behind him.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that a shadow with a pale face had stopped beside his bench, and was standing there motionless.

“Katrine?” whispered Joakim, without daring to turn his head.

The shadow slowly sat down beside him on the bench.

“Katrine,” he whispered again.

Tentatively he groped in the darkness and his fingers brushed against another hand. It was stiff and ice cold when he took hold of it.

“I’m here now,” he whispered.

There was no reply. The figure bent its head, as if in prayer.

Joakim also lowered his eyes. He looked down at the denim jacket beside him and carried on whispering:

“I found Ethel’s jacket. And the note from the neighbors. I think… Katrine, I think you killed my sister.”

And still there was no reply.

So we sat there in the outbuilding staring at each other, Ragnar Davidsson the eel fisherman and I.

I was extremely tired by this time. The blizzard was on its way, but I had managed to rescue only a few of Torun’s oil paintings, half a dozen canvases that were lying on the floor next to me. Davidsson had thrown the rest into the sea.

– MIRJA RAMBE

WINTER 1962

Davidsson has refilled his glass with schnapps.

“Sure you don’t want some?” he asks.

When I clamp my lips together, he takes a deep draft from the glass. Then he puts it down on the table and smacks his lips.

He seems to get various inappropriate ideas when he looks at me, but before he has time to select one of them, his guts are suddenly twisted into a knot in his belly. That’s what it looks like to me, anyway-his body jerks, he bends over and presses his arms against his stomach.

“Shit,” he mumbles.

Davidsson tries to relax. But then he suddenly goes rigid again, as if he has suddenly thought of something.

“Oh shit,” he says, “I think…”

He falls silent and looks to one side, still thoughtful-then the whole of his upper body jerks in a violent attack of cramp.

I sit there motionless, staring at him; I don’t say a word. I could ask if he’s not feeling well, but I know the answer: the poison in the glass has finally begun to work.

“It wasn’t schnapps in that glass, Ragnar,” I say.

Davidsson is in a lot of pain now, he is leaning against the wall.

“I put something else in there.”

Davidsson manages to get to his feet and staggers past me toward the door. This suddenly gives me a burst of fresh energy.

“Get out of here!” I yell.

I pick up an empty metal bucket standing in a corner and hit him on the back with it.

“Out!”

He does as I say, and I follow him out into the snow and watch him aim for the fence. He manages to find the opening, and heads on down toward the sea.

The southern lighthouse is flashing blood-red through the falling snow; the northern tower is dark now.

In the darkness I can see Ragnar’s open motorboat bobbing in the sea out by the jetty. The waves are breaking along the shore with a long drawn-out roaring sound, and I ought to try and stop him, but I stay where I am, just watching as he teeters out along the jetty and loosens the ropes. Then he stops, bends over again, and vomits into the water.

He drops the rope and the waves begin to play with the boat, nudging it away from the jetty.

Ragnar seems to be feeling too ill to bother about the boat. He glances out to sea, then begins to stagger inland instead.

“Ragnar!” I yell.