Before I Burn: A Novel Page 20

  They asked her to describe him.

  A good-looking young man, she said to a journalist, half in jest. He took notes with alacrity, and the following day it was in print. The arsonist was not only young, he was also tall and good-looking. He appeared from the great unknown and disappeared leaving not a trace, except for flames. And a region paralysed with panic. And, indeed, two burned-out matches. He had thrown the last match at the window after discovering her presence. She had screamed, he had seen and heard her, and this notwithstanding he had thrown it. She had been a whisker away from disaster. If the match had gone through the hole she would have found herself amid a raging fire within seconds. The same could be said about Olav and Johanna, but they got out. And in a way they found themselves amid the sea of flames all the same.

  It was decided that both the couple in Vatneli and the couple in Solås would be given police protection that night. Olav, incidentally, lay for large parts of the morning in bed screaming. Johanna sat beside him, but evidently there was nothing that could quieten him. The screams came in great, harrowing waves that threatened to tear him to pieces. She tried to hold his hand, but he kept pulling it away. He screamed at her, he screamed at the wall, he screamed to God. It was as though he was being turned inside out, as though something wild and untameable was struggling to be released from his body, but he wouldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t let himself be torn apart. At length the doctor came from Nodeland and administered tranquillisers. Johanna was offered some tablets as well, but she declined. Later that morning Olav fell asleep, and Johanna stayed on the bed, holding his hand and staring at his serene face. She sat like that for half an hour, perhaps even longer. She was utterly drained. She looked at her husband, saw that he was handsome, though very old: his hair was white, his cheeks hollow, eyelids red, forehead smooth and unlined. There was a thin, transparent quality to his skin now, as if he were in the process of dissolving. She wondered whether she actually knew this man. Was this the man with whom she had spent her entire life? Was this the man with whom she had had their only child? Was this the Olav who had witnessed their happy son waste and die? Was this him?

  He was so far away, yet so near. His hand was warm and still. She held it in hers, closed her eyes and heard cars driving past on the road. She heard birds and low voices from the floor above. They were strange, unfamiliar sounds, even though she was a mere fifty metres from where she always used to spend her mornings. At this time she would usually put on coffee. She would switch on the radio and listen to the Sørland channel, and as she sliced the bread Olav would come in and sit down with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hands smelling of soap though still dirty from working in the wood shed. Then they would take a seat on opposite sides of the table and eat. Olav would draw the curtain to the side, as always, and look down onto Lake Livannet or the cherry tree that was still in flower.

  Eventually she reclined on the other bed that had been brought in for them. She could feel that she was bleeding, but she couldn’t be bothered to get up. The blood ran and she drifted away. It didn’t hurt any more. Before she fell asleep she turned her head sharply to one side and her lips moved imperceptibly. It was as though someone had quietly entered the room, sat down on the edge of the bed, placed a hand on her forehead and whispered her name.

  IV.

  WHAT WAS IT Aasta said about Johanna? She couldn’t laugh, she couldn’t cry. She couldn’t do anything.

  And Alma. What could she do?

  She went home under her own steam. It was shortly after four o’clock in the morning. Dawn had arrived, birds were singing, but she didn’t hear them. She hurried down the road from Sløgedal’s house as the fire in the barn slowly grew behind her. She heard the roar of the flames, but she didn’t turn. She walked past the fire station, down the hill to the house, past the workshop and across the yard. She walked up the four steps into the house. She hung Ingemann’s jacket on the hook in the hallway. Proceeded into the bathroom, rinsed her face thoroughly in cold water. She didn’t look up, just washed and scrubbed until her cheeks were numb. She switched off the light. Closed the door. Then she tiptoed up to the first floor and got into bed beside Ingemann. She could hear from his breathing that he was awake, but she said nothing. They both lay still as the birdsong outside became louder. They both lay still as they heard the fire engine approach. They both lay still as several cars raced past, continuing up to Sløgedal’s house. They both lay still until there was a ring at the door downstairs. Then she jumped to her feet, went down and opened the door.

  It was Alfred. He smelt of fire.

  ‘Alma,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, it’s you,’ she answered.

  ‘Sløgedal’s barn has burned down.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said.

  ‘Alma,’ he said. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’

  Alfred hesitated.

  ‘Is Ingemann in?’

  ‘Of course,’ she answered distractedly. She looked past Alfred, into the clear, chill morning and the first sun spreading its golden rays over the ridges to the west.

  ‘Can I talk to him?’

  She went upstairs and stood in the bedroom doorway. Ingemann was lying on his side breathing heavily, but she knew he wasn’t asleep.

  ‘Alfred’s here,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Tell him I can’t come,’ he replied.

  ‘Sløgedal’s barn’s burned down,’ she said.

  He didn’t answer, but she noticed him stiffen. She looked at the dishevelled bed, the clothes hanging over the chair, the partly open wardrobe door with one sleeve of his best suit and her dark winter coat poking out. Ingemann still didn’t move, but she could see he was listening.

  ‘I said Sløgedal’s barn has burned down.’

  ‘Yes, I heard,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t just lie there. You’re the fire chief, aren’t you.’

  Ingemann and Alfred chatted in hushed tones while walking the few hundred metres up to the sharp bend, past the fire station and all the way to Sløgedal’s farm. Alfred reported on progress with the fire, he told Ingemann they had managed to save the farmhouse: there were a couple of cracked panes, the paint was a bit blistered, some roof tiles had detached themselves, but otherwise it was intact.

  ‘That’s good,’ Ingemann said. Nothing else.

  Alfred then mentioned that several journalists had already turned up, and television crews had been filming.

  ‘Soon the whole country will know about this,’ he said.

  Ingemann didn’t reply.

  By the time they reached the razed barn their conversation had long since dried up, and they stood next to each other, silent, staring. What could you say? Everything was ash, a burned-out structure, mangled corrugated iron. Even the ground was black and scorched in a wide radius around the site.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Alfred asked.

  ‘Yep,’ Ingemann answered. ‘I just need to sit.’

  Alfred hunkered down beside him on the steps. It was quite cramped and they sat there for a good while without saying a word. The sun rose clear of Kviheia to the east, the dew dried slowly. You could see there had been frenetic activity during the night: the grass was trampled flat, there was some rubbish, a few empty bottles and so on, hurled over by the house wall. Ingemann closed his eyes. He sat in this way and felt the sun warming his face.

  ‘Dag has been so kind as to provide food,’ Alfred said, next to him.

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘We never run short of fizzy drinks and chocolate,’ Alfred went on. ‘He’s sort of become the new fire chief now.’

  ‘Yes, he has that,’ said Ingemann.

  Not long afterwards a car parked in the yard. Two men got out. One was the cathedral organist Bjarne Sløgedal, the other was his father, Reinert, the old sexton and teacher. They had been notified about the fire in the early morning and had immediately jumped into a car and driven all the way from Kristiansand. Now they were here, in
the first rays of the sun, staring at the devastated barn. The son strode forwards, his father followed, both seemed slightly out of place; as if they had come to the wrong address, or were lost, and now they were strolling over to Alfred and Ingemann to ask where they actually were. The four of them stood talking. Alfred told them the little they knew. The fire had started around four o’clock, at daybreak. No one had seen or heard anything. No cars. Nothing. A police patrol car had passed by only a few minutes before. It was as if the fire had started itself.

  The four men then went onto the barn bridge, right to the top, where it suddenly ended in thin air. Smoke still eddied up from the ruins, grey, almost transparent, struggling to rise before dissipating of its own accord.

  ‘Mother’s loom’s gone now,’ Bjarne said in a low voice. ‘We had put it in the barn for safe keeping,’ he added, pointing to somewhere in space.

  ‘She loved that loom.’

  No one said anything for some time. They were letting the words about the loom sink in when a figure appeared on the road. It was Dag. He looked happy and loose-limbed as he walked under the fruit trees in the garden, jumped up, smacked one of the lowest branches and tore off some leaves, which he threw onto the ground at once. When he saw who was with Alfred and his father on the barn bridge he immediately turned serious. At first he appeared to be considering whether to go back, but then he continued with determined steps. He walked up to the bridge and shook hands with both of them. First Bjarne, then Reinert.

  ‘Is it really you?’ Reinert said.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Dag said.

  ‘You’ve certainly grown since I last saw you.’

  ‘And you’ve certainly got older,’ Dag answered.

  And they laughed. Not for long, though.

  ‘This is truly tragic,’ Dag said.

  ‘I was just saying that Mother’s loom has gone,’ Bjarne said.

  ‘Yes, I remember she used to weave,’ Dag replied.

  Reinert said, ‘I’d been hoping there would be something left.’

  ‘It’s terrible,’ Dag said.

  Then all five of them walked down from the bridge.

  Dag broke off a branch from the partly destroyed hanging birch and began to stir the ash with it. The others watched him. No one said anything. Reinert dried his sweat. Then Ingemann began to stroll down towards the house, followed by Alfred and finally Sløgedal Father and Son, all heading for the parked car. Dag soon caught up and stood beside them with the branch as if it were a present he wanted to hand over, given a suitable opportunity.

  ‘The police will have to make sure they catch the nutter who did this,’ he said. ‘You can’t have a man running around terrorising everyone.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ Alfred agreed.

  ‘He’s a madman.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Reinert affirmed.

  ‘It must be someone who…’ Bjarne trailed off. ‘It’s so heartless.’

  ‘And there’s nobody doing anything,’ Dag exclaimed. ‘No one! Why is no one doing anything? This cannot go on!’

  ‘No, it can’t,’ Alfred said.

  ‘He’s a sick, sick man.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘A sick man!’

  ‘Yes,’ Alfred said.

  ‘Let’s go home now, Dag,’ Ingemann said. ‘We need some food, you and I do.’

  ‘I forgot to ask what you were doing now,’ Reinert said, apropos of nothing.

  ‘Yes, you had such great plans, you did.’

  ‘No good has come of me,’ Dag answered.

  ‘Oh, yes, it has,’ Ingemann rejoined.

  But Dag interrupted him.

  ‘No, Pappa,’ he said quietly. He sent them all a heartfelt smile. ‘No good has come of me.’

  V.

  THE PHOTOGRAPH IN Lindesnes on Saturday, 3 June shows Ingemann standing beside the fire tender with an expression that is hard to interpret. At this juncture he must have had his suspicions. In the interview, however, there is nothing of any interest; on the contrary, it is very factual and prosaic. The heading reads: We have a lot of equipment for a small region. He discusses the nearly new fire engine. The water pump at the front is a Ziegler and can discharge water twenty-five metres into the air. Moreover the hoses are 800-metres long, and there are three portable pumps, the largest of which supplies a 1,000 litres of water per minute, the others 200 and 150 respectively. No one can have a word to say against the equipment, he asserts. No one could be better equipped than this little region. Given there was a pyromaniac on the rampage, it was good he was active here, he says, puffing out his chest in a proud, manly way. He is asked about the most recent fires, and about the alarm, which last night, could be heard right up by the church. The last question in its entirety: After dealing with so many fires over the last two days, I suppose you must be tired, aren’t you?

  Answer: Yes, we’re tired. Very tired.

  It was decided that the organist, Bjarne Sløgedal, would keep watch outside his house the following night. The police thought that the arsonist might return to complete the job, as people said. The house was still standing, after all. Sløgedal was furnished with a gun, a Mauser rifle without a shoulder strap, and it was agreed that he would hide behind some bushes a short distance from the house. If the arsonist made an appearance he was to fire three shots in the air in rapid succession. That was the arrangement.

  Then it was a question of waiting until the evening.

  In Solås a patrol kept watch on Anders and Agnes Fjeldsgård’s house. There was a multitude of eager spectators who in the course of the day had heard about events. Later that afternoon Dag also dropped by to have a look. That was while the KRIPOS detectives were sifting through the evidence under the tarpaulin nailed to the door. He stood on the lawn outside, chatting with Anders. Agnes walked down towards them. She was doing the rounds with a dish of pancakes. The officer down by the road already had one in his hand. Anders didn’t want one, but Dag did.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he said, looking her in the eye.

  A bit later Agnes Fjeldsgård tried to get rid of the pervasive smell of petrol. It had spread and hung like a stupefying fog throughout the house. She scrubbed the floor several times, used sand and green soap, but the petrol had managed to permeate deep into the floorboards. The air quivered and a heavy vapour was released from the woodwork. The door was kept wide open, even after the KRIPOS officers had left. There wasn’t a breath of wind. The heat shimmered at the end of the plain in Brandsvoll and Lauvslandsmoen; even the birds were quiet.

  It was past five o’clock, Monday afternoon.

  At approximately that time Alfred was summoned by the police.

  Else was informed that she should tell Alfred to appear at the community centre. She was instructed to do this in a casual, inconspicuous way. So as not to arouse Alfred’s suspicions. Not to alert him to the fact that he was a suspect. After all, he had been very active in the extinguishing of many of the fires.

  Alfred was ushered into the old boardroom where a makeshift office had been set up with a desk, three chairs and a typewriter. He was asked to take a seat in the chair on one side. Two police officers occupied the others. Then the interrogation began. It took him a while to realise that this was actually about him.

  Perhaps it wasn’t quite accurate to describe it as an interrogation. The tone was relaxed in spite of everything. He was offered coffee from the huge boardroom flask, the one that used to last a whole board meeting in the old days. Then he was invited to tell them about the last three fires, the two in Vatneli and Sløgedal’s barn. Meticulous notes were taken. One officer sat with his back to them, hammering the questions and answers into the typewriter. Alfred spoke quietly, pausing occasionally, leaning forwards to drink from the steaming cup and coughing, at which both looked up attentively from their papers. He was asked how much he had slept in the last seventy-two hours. He replied that he had no idea, as indeed was the truth. It was suggested that he must be dead on his feet, whi
ch he confirmed. He was asked about the Skogen fire, why he thought it had been started in the morning and not in the middle of the night, as had been the pattern with the others. He said he had no idea. He was asked if he believed there was a pattern, but to that question he had no answer. He was asked why he had joined the fire service. To which he answered that he had been recruited, and that furthermore his experience was that it was a meaningful job. The word meaningful elicited more questions. Could he expand? He made an attempt. Finally, he was asked what his experience of the last few days had been. He considered the question for a while, leaned forwards and answered: Unreal. Unreal. Absolutely unreal.

  After roughly twenty minutes he was allowed to leave. Before getting up, he asked:

  ‘Why are you actually questioning me?’

  ‘It’s part of the investigation,’ came the answer.

  ‘Does it mean that I’m a suspect?’

  ‘It means neither one thing nor another.’

  Then he left.

  When he arrived home, Else had a meal on the table, and he told her about the interview while they ate. He said that the police might be working on the possibility he was the arsonist. She looked up. She looked at his hands, his mouth and the whole of his face. She saw the steam from the coffee cup rising in front of his eyes.