Before I Burn: A Novel Page 13

  XIV.

  AS HE PASSED LAUVSLANDSMOEN SCHOOL he switched off the headlamps. At first he couldn’t see anything, then his vision improved, and soon he could see without a problem. He just had to get used to it. He switched the lights on again. By the playground he turned left onto the Dynestøl road. The fence by the football pitch was damaged in places. The school buildings lay shrouded in darkness. Whenever he drove past the school it felt as if he had hardly left it. Everything seemed to come back to him, even though it was nine years ago now. He remembered what it had been like. Being the best in all the subjects, being at the top, on his own. Sometimes he could still hear Reinert’s voice: Could you read for us, Dag? Could you play the first bars for us, Dag? Could you write this sentence on the board, Dag, as your writing is so neat? It had been Reinert who had given him the belief that he could be whatever he wanted to be. It had been Reinert who had seen him. Who had understood who he was, what he was good at, that he was quite unique. He wasn’t like the other children, and Reinert had realised that. The others would be farmers, electricians, carpenters and plumbers, and perhaps police officers.

  But him, Dag? What would Dag be?

  Now and then they would sit round the kitchen table at Skinnsnes discussing his future, and it was as though they were inside a magic circle. It didn’t happen so often any more, but he remembered the feeling that they were all filled with something great and rather solemn. And he knew that this greatness and solemnity lay in his hands. What he would achieve in his life, what he would become, everything lay in his hands.

  Ingemann had wanted him to be a doctor. Or a lawyer. You can be whatever you want, you’re so clever, his father had said. You can be whatever you want, except a fireman, because that’s what you are already, he had said. And then they had all laughed. But he knew his father was right. At that moment he had felt anything was possible, he had unlimited gifts, the world lay at his feet, all he had to do was start walking.

  He drove into the playground. Stopped the car, got out. It was dark everywhere, and quite, quite still, apart from the ticking of the hot car engine. He strolled past the building, peered in through the dark windows and glimpsed the rows of tables, the teacher’s desk, the board, a line of letters, some children’s drawings on the wall.

  What would he actually be?

  It would have to be something impressive, something that would make people open their eyes wide. He could hear what they would say: Has Dag become a doctor? Has Dag become a lawyer? Well, we knew he had it in him.

  There were no limits. He could move to Oslo and start studying medicine this autumn; he could finish the course in two, three years. No problem. He could take piano lessons on the side. Or he could start a law degree. Or, vice versa, he could concentrate on music and do a law course in the evenings. That was another option. Perhaps it might be best to focus his efforts on law. After all, it was so useful. He could find himself a job as a top lawyer. In the Ministry of Justice, perhaps. Or in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He could apply to do a course with the ministry. Learn French properly, or perhaps Spanish. Get a posting to Paris, or Madrid. He could be a diplomat. He visualised Alma and Ingemann going to the Norwegian Embassy in Paris to visit him. He drove the black embassy car and picked them up at Charles de Gaulle Airport; his mother would clap her hands, hug him and whisper: Is this really you, my boy? Then they would drive to Paris while he showed them where everything was, all the places they had heard of: the Tour Eiffel, the Champs Élysées, the Arc de Triomphe. The daydream always stopped there, at the Arc de Triomphe; he had never been to Paris, of course.

  He could be a diplomat. Or why not a defence counsel? After all, he had seen the famous lawyer Alf Nordhus on TV, and had instantly been fascinated. The caustic wit, the beard and the smoking cigarette. He imagined himself wearing a black cap and conducting some court case. That role would have been right up his street. He had the ability to defend anyone. Even if it was a murderer. He could persuade everyone that he was right and the others wrong. Prove that the murderer had behaved in a rational way. Contend that the others should understand what lay behind his actions. If they did, there was no longer a crime. And the murderer was no longer a murderer. He would be acquitted, and Dag would bask in the glory and the amazement.

  He could imagine it, hearing his own voice. All that was required was some understanding. The murderer wasn’t a murderer; the murderer was a human being. Was that so difficult to grasp?

  He got back into the car and drove on towards Dynestøl. He took the long road past Lake Homevannet. A white veil of mist hung a few metres above the surface, as though it had detached itself from all the darkness and was now rising to the sky with infinite languor. He couldn’t see land on the other side, just a black wall of forest. Then he extinguished the lights. He passed the cabin belonging to Kristiansand Automobilklubb, or the KAK cabin as it was called, and immediately below was the bathing area with the underwater rock jutting thirty metres out from the shore. The cabin was inhabited, he could see – there were several cars parked higgledy-piggledy outside – but everyone was asleep. It was just past one o’clock. He had switched off the radio, and proceeded towards Dynestøl. The road was narrow and winding, and a line of grass grew between the ruts made by wheels. Birch branches brushed the side of the car, making him jump; they sounded like limp human hands. There was no light anywhere. No houses, no outside lamps, nothing. He decided to drive back, and started to look out for a suitable place to turn.

  That was when he caught sight of what he supposed was a house. It was on the side of the road a bit further ahead in the darkness, atop a small mound. There was a barn as well, which he didn’t see until he was nearer. Slowly, he drove right up to it. Then he stopped and got out. The night was chilly, and he was wearing only a thin shirt. He buttoned it to the throat and rolled down the sleeves. That helped a little. In addition, he found the jacket he had thrown onto the rear seat, put it on, and then he was nice and warm. All around him there was silence, again just the hot engine clicking as it cooled, otherwise nothing. He drew closer. It was an old house, you could see that even in the darkness. And it was big. The foundation plinth was massive, with small windows looking into the cellar. Steps with a handrail led up from the long grass. Between the house and barn there was a tractor, while the barn itself was tall, narrow and very black. That was all. He walked down a slight slope to the back of the barn. Beneath the building was an open space with hundreds of poles and other old junk piled in the murk.

  He hurried back to the car, and uncovered the shining white jerrycan on the rear seat. It was easy to carry when it was only half full. Returning to the slope behind the barn, he lowered the can to the grass for a moment. He spotted a door and groped towards it, carrying the jerrycan. It was unlocked. He slipped into a dark room with a wooden floor. It was impossible to see a thing even though he waited patiently for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then he struck a match. It flared up. The room was empty. A low ceiling. Some straw on the floor. Two of the walls were the foundation wall. There was a smell of mould, decay, animals. Then the match went out. The cap on the jerrycan was stuck, but after a bit of fiddling it finally came off. He couldn’t see where he was pouring, but he heard the petrol splashing on the planks. When he had finished he went outside, put the can down on the ground and wiped his hands thoroughly before returning to the barn. The night was at its darkest now; in a while the light in the sky would slowly awaken, and then the birds would start singing, even though it was still night. He heard his own whispering footsteps in the long grass. His legs were wet up to his calves, and as he stood at the door, taking out the box of matches, he could barely see his own hands. Unhurriedly, he counted in his head. Then he struck the match. The flame was blown out straightaway. The same happened to match number two. He must have blown them out himself, for there wasn’t a breath of wind. He cursed through clenched teeth. Struck three at once. Got one decent flame, which seemed to soar straight up from his hand. He
stepped back, opened the door a fraction, then threw the matches inside, shut the door and retreated until he was some way into the field. He had never dreamed that it could be so quick. The little room exploded. Then all was quiet, until a distant noise grew somewhere inside the barn. After two or three minutes the smoke began to seep out between the cracked outer cladding, and a few minutes later the first yellow tongues of fire broke through the roof. Gradually, the light became stronger. He saw the car parked on the road, the dense forest around him, the nearest trees, which seemed to become more distinct with their extended branches in the unreal glare. His face was white and shiny. His age was somehow erased. His eyes shone. The pupils were black. An unseen wind issued forth from the old barn. He recognised it. The hair over his forehead lifted. He had first felt the wind when he was sitting alone in the tree. That was while the dog in the kitchen was still alive, and the heat was billowing towards him. The wind was both ice cold and burning hot. The wailing and the singing tone would come much later. When everything was on the point of collapse. By then he would have made it home.

  He tore himself away, ran to the car, replaced the petrol can and drove off without a second glance in the mirror. He didn’t switch on the headlamps until he reached the Løbakke hills. Once there, he stopped, got out of the car and looked back. The sky above Lake Homevannet was still dark. Not a sound. Not a puff of wind. There was an old storehouse just a few metres away, at the edge of a field. It was almost completely black, in the darkness, and couldn’t have been painted since the war. He opened the rear door and took the can. There was a fair bit left. Not a lot was needed; what was important was where the fire started. He broke down a door at the back and entered an ink-black room. It stank of old hay. And lime, and marsh and damp soil. That was how the grave must smell, he thought, and had to smile. He took a few soundless steps in, but then came to a sudden halt. It felt as if there was someone inside. Someone was watching him. Intense staring from the darkness, and in a flash he thought of the gun he had left in the car.

  ‘Hello?’ he whispered.

  No answer.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Still nothing.

  ‘I know you’re there. Come out, wherever you are.’

  He glared into the darkness. He thought he saw something move. Someone was standing there, reluctant to come out.

  ‘Are you afraid?’ he asked.

  The figure didn’t answer. He suddenly realised who it was.

  ‘Pappa?’ he said.

  The figure came a little closer. Reached out his hands while he himself was rooted to the spot.

  ‘Don’t come any nearer,’ he growled. ‘Do not come any nearer.’

  The figure glided slowly towards him.

  Then he lit a match. The room flared up around him. No one there. Neither Ingemann nor anyone else. Just old tools and other scrap leaning against the wall. But when the match went out he could see his father again. He seemed to be kneeling.

  ‘Pappa? There won’t be any more fires, Pappa. Do you hear me?’

  No answer.

  ‘I’m telling you there won’t be any more fires.’

  He lit another match, his father disappeared, and in the few seconds the flame lasted he managed to locate a suitable place.

  Then the match died and his father reappeared, kneeling in the darkness.

  ‘I don’t want you here, I said.’

  He saw his father get to his feet, stand in front of him and reach out his hands.

  ‘Get out. Otherwise you’ll be burned alive!’

  His father stood with hands outstretched, motionless.

  Then Dag lit another match and the bare room returned. There was an old horse cart in the corner with several empty crates and planks piled on top. He slopped some petrol over a wheel, a shaft and the planks. He managed to close the cap and get out before the match burned down.

  ‘If that’s the way you want it,’ he said to his father in the darkness. ‘Don’t blame me.’

  Then the room flared up again, but this time it was utterly and irrevocably lit. Once more he had chosen the perfect spot. The flames rose at once. It was as though they had been hiding somewhere, waiting for this moment. The wheel was alight, and the planks and the empty crates, and the room was hot and intensely alive. So far, only the cart was well ablaze: the spokes in the wheel glowed red and began to spit onto the floor, but then the flames seemed to regroup, gather their strength. The old hay immediately caught and the fire raced towards the wall. In a few seconds the flames whooshed up the wall, so high that the topmost tongues were licking at the roof. And now it had begun, the rest would take care of itself. He backed towards the door.

  ‘Do you hear me, Pappa? Praying won’t help!’

  He hesitated for a few seconds as he stared into the inferno. The room was aglow in the unreal, flickering light. He saw the rafters and girders in the roof, and along the cross-beams small, black holes. They were swallow nests. He stiffened for an instant when he saw the tiny birds’ heads peering over the edge of a nest, he saw the beaks opening and closing, he heard the reedy cheeping, and then he spotted the swallows desperately circling in the dense smoke beneath the roof.

  He got out and slammed the door behind him. Staggered backwards, rubbing his eyes. He had petrol on his fingers and it stung; it felt as if his entire face was on fire. At length, he sank to his knees, snatched at tufts of wet grass and wiped his eyes, and soon the worst was over. That was when he discovered the eyes. They shone.

  ‘So that’s where you are,’ he said to the quiet, black beast and then saw that there were several cows in the field. They were scattered around, standing or lying in the gloom, but only the nearest of them had seen everything. The cow lifted its black head and stared at him until it lost interest and resumed munching at the grass by the fence.

  He didn’t have time to wait. The noise inside was increasing. He ran to the car and drove slowly towards the school. After a few hundred metres he stopped the car and looked back. The sky above Lake Homevannet was still dark. No smoke, no sea of fire. Nothing.

  Reaching the school, he pulled up in front of the little outhouse, opposite the old school building where they used to have woodwork in the cellar and PE on the ground floor and at the top there was a loft you could sneak up to and sit in peace. He got out of the car and stood for a few seconds gazing at the school building, then turned on his heel and walked towards the outhouse.

  He made short work of it. There wasn’t a moment for anything else. Cars might pass by on the road at any moment. He doused a number of poles with the remains of the petrol. A single match and the flames raced high up the wall. The wood cladding was cracked and tinder-dry and burned as easily as cardboard. It couldn’t have been simpler. A couple of seconds and it was done. He had an effervescent feeling inside as he hastened back to the car, stowed the can on the rear seat and drove slowly and with composure across the plain, past Lake Bordvannet and past the house belonging to Anders and Agnes Fjeldsgård in Solås. At the junction in Brandsvoll he switched on the headlamps. His eyes had grown accustomed to driving in the darkness, so the sudden light was overwhelming. Now he could see everything. Whirring insects, the sharply defined grass at the roadside, the trees and the network of branches woven into the night. As he turned left at the Brandsvoll crossroads the headlamps swept through the fragile windows of the disused shop, and he saw the old shelves and drawers that had once been stacked with flour and peas and oats and coffee, but which now lay gathering dust. Soon afterwards he passed the house belonging to Alfred and Else, and he saw the light from a solitary bulb in Teresa’s house. Then he turned right, crossed the bridge and the tranquil river, and he was home. He tiptoed in, went to the bathroom and washed, stood for a moment studying some cuts and grazes to his forehead; his fingers still smelled faintly of petrol. His eyes were radiant and the tiredness was gone. There was grass in his hair. He shut his eyes and saw the swallows circling in the smoke under the roof. Then he switched off the li
ght, mounted the staircase in four strides, had enough time to fling off his clothes, creep under the cool duvet and lie with closed eyes before the telephone started to ring in the hall.