Bad Intentions (17 page)

"I'm going to come here every day," she vowed. "With stale bread."

"I would like to come with you," Ingerid said. "If you don't mind." She gave the small woman a kind look.

"Do you know what I often think?" Ingerid said. "When something terrible happens, we talk about people getting over it. Is she over it? we say, as if the tragedy is an obstacle in someone's path and we have to scale it. It's not that straightforward. Grieving is something we have to live with," she said, "it's a constant battle. And the enemy is the rest of our lives. All those nights. All those hours."

She was reminded of something she had read in Jon's diary. "He was so horribly ashamed," she explained. "He was so burdened by guilt and shame. He wrote as though he didn't deserve to live."

Ingerid looked down at the bread that Yoo was holding in her hand.

"That crust of bread reminds me of something," she said. "A man was in a German prison camp during the war. He was subjected to so many awful things—abuse, torture, starvation and exposure. There were thirty men crammed into a freezing barrack, and the snow blew in under the door. Nevertheless he survived, and when the war ended he returned home. Though he now had plenty of food and warmth, he died shortly afterward. He was haunted by a terrible memory. One night he had stolen
a crust of bread from a sleeping man. It was this incident which killed him. He could not bear to eat."

"That's very sad," Yoo said. She could visualize it all, an emaciated man in prison clothes stealing in the night. Crouching alone in the dark, furtively gnawing at the dry crust.

"That's one way of looking at it," Ingerid said. "But I also think that it says something positive about people. We need a sense of decency. Without it we cannot live a good life. And Jon had lost that sense of decency."

Yoo looked down at what was left of the crust.

Ingerid took one of her hands and gave it a friendly squeeze.

"Put your gloves back on," she ordered her. "You're freezing. Look. They want more." She pointed to the ducks which kept coming.

"I think we've made friends for life." Yoo smiled.

Afterward they returned to Nattmal to warm up with a pot of tea.

"Kim is never coming home again," Yoo said. "That means that no one will find me when I die. Not for a long time. Not many people come to my house," she explained.

"That could happen to me too," Ingerid said. "I have an idea. Why don't we call each other every evening?"

At that Yoo looped her arm through Ingerid's, and they walked the last stretch close together.

"What about us?" she remembered when they were back inside. "Is sending that letter to Reilly an act of decency?"

Ingerid had her answer ready.

"We forgive the poor wretch who stole the bread," she said. "He stole because he was in need. And so are we. Different rules apply."

A
XEL FRIMANN WAS SPEECHLESS
when Reilly told him about the letter and his silence lasted for some time. Reilly pressed his cell phone to his ear. He could clearly visualize Axel's jaw muscles twitching as he reacted to the news.

"Damn it," he heard.

And he repeated the oath with more emphasis.

"Damn it."

While he waited for Axel to continue, Reilly wandered around the apartment in circles. The kitten chased him and clawed at his trouser leg.

"Jon has exposed us," Axel said.

"Never," Reilly said.

"Who else could it be?" Axel said. "Use your head, man!"

Reilly carried on wandering; the kitten carried on stalking him.

"Posted locally?" Axel asked.

"Yes. Nice envelope. Nice paper and pen. Capital letters."

"Nice paper? A girl's behind it," Axel declared. "It's got to be Molly."

"But it says 'we,'" Reilly reminded him. "'We know what you did.'"

Axel fell silent again and Reilly wondered if he, too, was walking around his apartment but in larger circles, as his living room was three times bigger.

"I think we may have to go away for a while," he heard Axel say.

Reilly stopped pacing. From where he was standing, he could see the letter lying on the table, shiny and white.

"I have work," he said. "I can't go away."

"For a couple of days, I mean," Axel said. "We'll go this Friday. You've got the weekend off, haven't you? We'll go up to Dead Water. We need a break. And we need to discuss some important stuff. There's a lot at stake."

Reilly stared out at the autumn weather. The wind was rising and the treetops outside his window were swaying.

"I'll buy some delicious food," Axel tempted him. His voice was enticing. He wanted to enforce his will. "I'll pick you up around six," he added. "Reilly, are you listening?"

"But why are we running away?" Reilly asked. "Someone saw us. They're watching our every move. It's only a matter of time before they come knocking on my door."

"Everything is a matter of time," Axel said. "The world will end, it's only a matter of time. You and I are going to die, it's only a matter of time. We've made it this far and we'll get through the rest."

Reilly finally agreed to a weekend at the cabin. For years now he had allowed himself to be controlled by Axel's strong will. When the conversation was over, he sat in his chair for a long time with the kitten on his lap. He took some GHB, but it failed
to calm him, so he took some more, and then he grew agitated. He was starting to have doubts. Why did Axel want to go to Dead Water? What were his motives? He glanced at the letter again.

We are watching you.
How? he wondered. Were they following him in the street? Were they waiting outside the hospital when he turned up for work? Were they hiding behind the screens in the corridors watching his mistakes as he wandered aimlessly, still unsure of his way around the vast building? Did they know that he had wheeled a ninety-year-old woman into the maternity ward and that Nader had slapped his thighs and laughed with his bright white Arab teeth when he heard about it? Did Axel know that he was losing his grip? That he sat on the sofa with the kitten all day long, seeking refuge in substance abuse, that he was no longer capable of taking pleasure in anything and had turned to the Koran, actively seeking condemnation to torment himself and atone for what they had done? Perhaps the trip to Dead Water is a trap? He shuddered. Axel wants to make sure he's still in control. He will never give that up. I've got to be on my guard.

His mother looked perplexed as she opened the door.

"Philip," she said. "Is that you? Is something wrong?"

Instantly she thought that something bad had happened. It was as if she could smell it. She looked at him through greasy glasses before quickly raising her hand and patting him on the arm. As always, her hair was aggressively permed, and she wore down-at-the-heel sandals which creaked as she walked. He entered and passed her. There was a smell of fried food mixed with sour tobacco coming from the kitchen.

"No," he said, not looking at her. "I'm just here to get something."

She closed the door after him and walked through the house. The floorboards creaked too. She sounded like an old cart rolling across the floor. She was bowlegged. It had got worse over the years, as if her bones were softening. You could roll a barrel through those legs, he thought.

"You can stay for a while, can't you?" she asked. "I've got fresh spice cake. Sit down and I'll make you a cup of coffee. By the way, have you seen the newspapers? They found that boy, you know the one who went missing right before Christmas. You were at that party with him. Did you see it, Philip? About the Vietnamese boy."

"Yes."

She disappeared into the kitchen and called toward the living room.

"Have the police been round to talk to you again?"

"Yes," he said. "They're talking to everyone. It's the same drill as before. They've interviewed all sixteen of us again."

He sat down in an armchair and drummed his fingers on the armrest while he listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen, the clattering of cups, running water, a knife on a chopping board. Everything about her was energetic and there was force behind everything she did, a raw decisive power. Five minutes later she returned with a tray. He thought that some of her graying hair was bordering on green, like lichen in the mountains. He wanted to give her something, but he was far too wound up to be generous, so he replied mechanically to all her questions.

"And what about Axel?" she wanted to know.

"Well, Axel," he said evasively. "We stick together, you know. As always."

"It must be strange Jon not being there," she said.

"Yes," he said. "It is strange."

"Poor Jon Moreno."

"Yes, that was bad."

"I've heard some nasty rumors," she said.

His heart skipped a beat.

"That you couldn't carry his coffin. That you dropped it with a crash."

"Some dog ruined it all," he said. "It came at us and we lost our balance."

"Oh? They said it was a white poodle."

He helped himself to a slice of spice cake. It crumbled into small pieces, which he scraped together with his fingers. She sat down across from him. Her faded dress was punctured with tiny holes from cigarette sparks.

"So what have you come to get?" she asked, munching her cake. "The shed is nearly empty, you know, there's nothing there, Philip, no clothes or old sports equipment. You and sports, ha ha. I can picture it. You in hockey clothes, Philip. Or swinging a golf club."

Reilly slurped his coffee. He watched her furtively. She might be unkempt, but she was no fool. Her mouth lived a life of its own. All sorts of superficial nonsense poured out of it, while her brain reasoned sharply and wisely. But she was not sentimental. She dealt only in reality. She had made her fair share of packed lunches for him over the years, she had put her clumsy signature on his school report, she had washed his clothes, she had cooked and cleaned and put food on the table. And she thought that this made her a mother. I don't like you, he thought, but you would never notice because it requires a sensitivity which you don't possess.

"No." He cleared his throat. "This is something I've always wanted. And it's not as if you need it."

She frowned.

"Dad's old revolver."

She put down her cup with a bang. He thought the saucer would shatter.

"Revolver? What do you want that for?"

He managed a smile though it felt like a snarl.

"I've always wanted that revolver," he said. "It's my inheritance. The fact that it was in the war appeals to me."

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her fingers were stained yellow with nicotine.

"But, strictly speaking, you're not legally allowed to have it, are you?" she said. "Dad had a license. You don't. Or have you got yourself a license?"

He tried to act casual. "It's not as if I'm thinking of shooting anyone," he said. "I just want to have it lying around. In a drawer."

She took a second piece of cake and started to chew with her mouth open. Her tongue was pale and gray.

"Of course you can have the old revolver," she said. "I'm just surprised, that's all. You've never mentioned it before, and it's been here for God knows how many years. And you're a man of peace, so to speak. But you need to keep it in a locked cabinet. You could get fined."

"I will. Don't nag."

He took another slice of cake from the plate. There was nothing wrong with her baking. The cake tasted of cinnamon, ginger and cardamom and it was rich with butter. His fingers were greasy.

"I've got myself a kitten," he said.

"God Almighty. What are you going to do with it?"

She reached for the pouch of Petterae's loose tobacco lying on the coffee table and fished out a pinch.

"A kitten?" she said again. "Please tell me it's not a female, it'll have kittens before you know it. They'll take over your whole apartment and then you're stuck with them. You'll end up having to drown them in a tub because nobody wants them. They're nothing but trouble."

"It's a tom," he said quickly. "It keeps me company. It's an indoor cat. It follows me everywhere. It lies in my lap and on my bed."

"You'll never grow up," she declared. "A kitten in your bed. You're a grown man. Anyone would think you'd been deprived of something when you were little."

Her lips tightened around the cigarette. Sparks scattered in her lap, but she was oblivious to them.

They sat at the coffee table for a while. She chatted away. He was happy to make the right noises, and she did not register his lack of interest. Then he thanked her for the coffee and cake, pushed back his chair and nodded toward the cabinet where his father's old Enfield revolver was kept. Next to the weapon was a box of ammunition. He took that from the cabinet as well.

"You're taking the bullets too?" She frowned. "What do you need them for?"

"They're part of it," he said. "Aren't you pleased to be rid of them?"

"They must be stored separately," she dictated. "The bullets. And the revolver. It's the law."

It seemed as though she had changed her mind and wanted to hold on to the revolver after all. A sudden suspicion had flared up in her eyes.

"But you've been storing them in the same cabinet all this time," he protested.

She shrugged. Then she hurried out into the kitchen and started opening cupboards.

"There's something else," she called out, "as you're here with your hand out anyway."

He waited patiently. He held the revolver with awe, it was surprisingly heavy. He heard clattering and mumbling. Now where did I leave it, and then, oh yes, there it is. My, oh my, it's good
stuff this. Finally he heard a brief laugh. She reappeared. He stared at the object in her hands. A glass bottle in the shape of a Viking ship.

"Cognac," she explained. "Dad got it for his fiftieth birthday, remember? From his mates at the foundry."

"Cognac?" he said.

"Yes, do you get it? Your ship has come in," she giggled. "I believe it's very good cognac too, but alcohol in a ship-shaped bottle is ridiculous. Take it," she ordered him. "It's Larsen. I don't drink cognac."