convulsing knot of bones and muscles. How cruel life could be. What a coward he was, he could not take this like a man. All he felt was guilt and shame, and a degree of self-hatred that made him want to throw up. An inferior human being, that was what he was. Something pathetic, something worthless. Here he was lying curled up and whimpering like a baby, when what he ought to do was make a telephone call and get it over with. I need to rest, he thought, tossing and turning in his bed, I need to rest. I must gather strength for everything that's to come. I mustn't explain it away, I need to tell it like it is. Even though the truth is odious. How will I be able to carry this burden? I'm already broken. Someone who never pays their way, a stowaway, you could say. The world is filled with suffering and I've never done anything to alleviate it. Other people act, others rush in when disaster strikes. I stand in the wings and shudder. And he lay beating himself up the whole day, it was as if he was flagellating himself till his blood started flowing, he wanted to atone. The light faded and evening approached. The room was filled with shadows and whispering voices. Look, there's Alvar Eide, he's an idiot. They pointed their fingers at him, they snickered, they whispered nasty comments to each other, a swarm of accusations whirled around him from all directions. He fell asleep in the early-morning hours only to wake up with a scream after a series of nightmares. It grew light again, but he could not get out of bed. Today's Sunday, he thought, a day of rest. The worst day of my life.
Then the shrill sound of the doorbell pierced the rooms. Even though he had been expecting it, even though he was prepared, a jolt of fear, so forceful he could not help but call out, shot through him. They were here already, perhaps there were many of them. But he hadn't heard a car, he didn't understand that. He got out of bed and stumbled out into the hall. His shirt was crumpled and hung loosely over his trousers. His throat felt tight and he did not know for certain if he would be able to say anything. It's starting now, he thought. The nightmare. Then he opened the door. Green was outside waving the Sunday paper.
'Have you seen this?'
Alvar stared at the paper, which his neighbour was holding up in front of his face, a picture of a young, smiling girl with thin, blonde hair. She seemed familiar. Of course she was familiar. But in the picture she was happy, with round cheeks he had never seen her like this.
'Katrine Kjelland,' Green said, tapping the picture with his finger. 'Found dead up at the viewpoint yesterday morning. Wrapped in a blanket. Would you believe it?'
The newspaper flapped in Green's hand. Alvar swallowed hard.
'Katrine?' he asked, perplexed.
'She must have been murdered,' his neighbour went on. 'You know her, don't you? She was always coming to see you. The last time I saw her here was Friday, she came to your door.'
Green stood rocking backwards and forwards on the doorstep, his blue eyes sparkled with excitement.
Alvar was unable to reply. His knees started to tremble; he instinctively planted a hand on the wall to steady himself.
'You must call them,' Green said, his voice sounding a little too enthusiastic, 'the police are asking the public to help them. Have you phoned them?'
Alvar shook his head. He wanted to reply, but he still couldn't locate his voice.
'For God's sake, you have to ring them! They need all the information they can get, and she has been coming to see you for months. What's wrong with you, are you ill? You're white as a sheet.'
Green lowered the newspaper and scrutinised him.
Alvar nodded. Yes, he was very ill. He had to concentrate very hard on staying on his feet.
'My guess is that someone gave her an overdose,' Green said in a businesslike way, 'and then they panicked. Wrapped her in a blanket and drove her up there. If I were you I'd call the police straight away. If you don't and they find out she's been coming to your flat, then they'll think it's suspicious that you haven't come forward. That's my advice.'
Green gave him a bossy look. Alvar nodded again. He was trying to collect his thoughts, articulate a reply, but he did not have the strength.
'Anyway, how did you get to know her?' Green asked nosily. 'She was not exactly your type. And so very young, only sixteen, would you believe it.'
Alvar swallowed a second time. 'Sixteen? I didn't know her,' he said weakly. 'Not really.'
'But she came here for a year. She even had her own key!'
Alvar was lost for words. He wanted to close his door, he did not want to explain anything to Green, whom he didn't even know well. Resolutely he reached for the door handle. His neighbour backed off.
'Well, I'm sorry to trouble you, but I do think this is very strange. I just wanted to make sure you knew what had happened. So I'll be expecting you to call. We need to call.'
He folded the newspaper. Retreated a little.
We? Alvar thought. He pulled the door so only a tiny gap was left.
'Yes,' he whispered. 'I'll make the call.' Then he closed the door completely, turned the key and went over to the telephone. He glared down at the numbers. How was he supposed to be able to call and explain anything? He could not even speak. He escaped to his bedroom again and fell onto his bed, exhausted and shivering. Again he felt hungry, but he did not want to eat. He did not deserve food, he did not deserve something to drink. He did not deserve sleep. The seconds ate their way through him, his agony grew hour by hour. Then it struck him that all the pain he was going through could be ended once and for all if only he would make that call. He would just have to stand there coughing and spluttering until they came to his door. Then the disaster would be a known fact, but he would also reach a different stage. He stared out into space with aching eyes. What was he going to say? Hello, my name's Alvar Eide. This Katrine Kjelland, she came to see me last Friday. She overdosed on my sofa and I panicked. I carried her out in the middle of the night and drove off with her. Because I couldn't handle the consequences. It was very stupid, but then I'm a very stupid man.
He reflected on these words, whether he would be able to say them out loud. Even he could hear how idiotic they sounded. What if they jail me? he wondered. Would I manage on my own in a cell? Am I now a criminal? How did this happen? Is there any hope of redemption for me? He lay on his bed struggling with these dark thoughts. Many hours passed, he slipped in and out of sleep. When the doorbell rang for the second time, he sat up dazed and confused, terrified and drowsy. He suddenly realised that Green would have called the police. Alvar planted his feet on the floor. He rubbed his tired face and staggered out into the hall. He opened the door quietly. There he was, the police officer. A mountain of a man, dark and broad, with dense, thick eyebrows. He took up the whole doorway and threw a menacing shadow into the hall.
'Alvar Eide?'
He nodded and clung to the door frame. His heart contracted and a rush of blood went to his cheeks.
'I'm a police officer. May I come in, please?'
Alvar still had no voice. He opened the door fully and walked ahead of him into the living room. Stood by the window looking down at the floor. The officer followed him, and stood calmly in the living room. An almost explosive silence followed.
It's happening now, Alvar thought. My entire miserable existence takes its revenge on me. My cowardice, my submissive nature, my total inability to take action. I thought I could live outside society, but that's impossible. Everyone gets involved sooner or later, in an incident, with another person.
'Do you know why I'm here?' the officer asked. He took a few steps forward, his voice was deep and authoritative.
'I think so,' Alvar stuttered.
'So you've seen today's paper?'
Alvar still had his back to him. He muttered against the pane. 'My neighbour came, he showed it to me. I suppose he was the one who called you?' He said this without turning.
The police officer took his time. He weighed his words carefully.
'Yes, we've received some information and now we're following it up. Is it the case that you knew Katrine Kjelland?'
'Yes, but not very well,' he mumbled. 'And she did not call herself Katrine. She called herself whatever she wanted to, every day it was something different.'
'When did you last see her?'
Alvar struggled to control his voice which was stuck at a very high pitch. 'Friday night. She was here. She lay on my sofa and slept.'
