Karin Fossum - The Caller

Translated from the Norwegian by K.E. Semmel

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Epub ISBN 9781409028048

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Published by Harvill Secker 2011

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Copyright Karin Fossum 2009
English translation copyright K.E. Semmel 2011

Karin Fossum has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published with the title Varsleren in 2009 by Cappelen Damm AS, Oslo

First published in Great Britain in 2011 by
H ARVILL S ECKER
Random House
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA

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The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781846553936

This translation has been published with the financial assistance of NORLA

ALSO BY KARIN FOSSUM

Dont Look Back

He Who Fears the Wolf

When the Devil Holds the Candle

Calling Out For You

Black Seconds

Broken

The Waters Edge

Bad Intentions

Its a good thing there are lies
Lord help us
if everything that was said
were true

Old adage

The child slept in a pram behind the house.

The pram was from Brio, and the child was an eight-month-old girl. She lay under a crocheted blanket, wearing a matching bonnet with a string fastened under her chin. The pram sat under the shade of a maple tree; behind the tree the forest stood like a black wall. The mother was in the kitchen. She couldnt see the pram through the window, but she wasnt concerned about her sleeping baby, not for an instant.

Pottering about thoroughly content, she was light as a ballerina on her feet, not a single worry in her heart. She had everything a woman could dream of: beauty, health and love. A husband, a child, and a home and garden with rhododendrons and lush flowers. She held life in the palm of her hand.

She looked at the three photographs hanging on the kitchen wall. In one photograph, taken under the maple, she wore a flowery dress. In another her husband, Karsten, was on the front porch. The last was a photograph of her and Karsten together on the sofa, the child between them. The girls name was Margrete. The arrangement of the three photos made her smile. One plus one is surely three, she thought it is truly a miracle. Now she saw that miracle everywhere. In the sunlight cascading through the windows, in the thin white curtains fluttering in the breeze.

At the worktop she energetically kneaded a smooth, lukewarm dough between her fingers. She was making a chicken and chanterelle quiche, while Margrete slept beneath the maple in her little bonnet, she, too, smooth and warm under the blanket. Her little heart pumped a modest amount of blood, and it coloured her cheeks pink. Her scent was a mixture of sour milk and soap. The blanket and bonnet had been crocheted by her French grandmother.

She slept heavily, and with open hands, as only a baby can.

Lily rolled the dough on a marble slate. As she swung the rolling pin, her body swayed and her skirt billowed around her legs like a dance by the worktop.

It was summer and warm, and she was bare-legged. She set the pastry in a pie dish, poked it with a fork and trimmed the edges. Then she put a roast chicken on the chopping board. Poor little thing, she thought, and tore its thighs off. She liked the cracking sound the cartilage made when tearing from the bone. Light and tender, the meat let go easily, and she succumbed to the temptation to stick a piece in her mouth. Its good, she thought, it has just enough seasoning, and its lean too. She filled the pie dish and sprinkled on Cheddar cheese. Then she checked the time. She didnt worry about Margrete. If the child sneezed she would know it immediately. If she coughed or hiccuped, or began to cry, she would know. Because there was a bond between them, a bond as thick as a mooring line. Even the slightest tug would reach her like a vibration.

Margretes in my head, she thought, in my blood and in my fingers.

Margretes in my heart.

If anyone were to harm her, I would know. Or so she thought. She went about her business calmly. But at the back of the house, someone crept out of the dense forest and in one bound reached the pram. He pushed the crocheted blanket to the side, and Lily didnt feel anything at all.

The quiche began to turn golden.

The cheese had melted, and bubbled like lava. She glanced out the window and saw Karsten as he pulled into the driveway in his red Honda SUV. The table was set, the china old and dignified; in each glass a white napkin opened like a fan. She switched on the lights, stepped back and tilted her head, evaluating the result. She hoped her husband would see that shed gone out of her way, that she always went out of her way. She smoothed her skirt and ran her hands through her hair. Other couples fight, she thought, other couples divorce. But that wont happen to us; we know better. We understand that love is a plant that requires tender care. Some people spread all this rubbish about being blinded by love. But shed never understood as much as she did now, had never had this insight. Had never had such clarity of vision, or such uncompromising values. She went into the bathroom and brushed her hair. The excitement of her husbands return, the ovens heat and the low July sunlight spilling into the room made her cheeks flush and her eyes sparkle. When he stepped into the kitchen, she was ready with a bottle of Farris mineral water and a slight, elegant tilt to her hips. He carried a stack of post, she noticed, newspapers and a few window envelopes. He set them on the worktop, then went to the oven and squatted down, peering through the glass.

It looks delicious, he said. Is it ready?

Probably, she replied. Margrete is sleeping in the pram. Shes slept quite a while. Maybe we should wake her otherwise itll be hard getting her to sleep tonight. She reconsidered. Cocked her head and looked at her husband through full black eyelashes. Or maybe we can wait until after dinner, so we can have a little peace while we eat. Chicken and chanterelle, she said, nodding at the oven. She slipped on a pair of oven gloves, removed the quiche and set it down on a cooling rack.

It was burning hot.

Shell certainly forgive us, her husband said.

His voice was deep and gravelly. He stood at his full height, put his arms around her waist and escorted her across the room. They both laughed because she was wearing the oven gloves; he had that look she loved so much, that teasing look she could never resist. Now he led her into the lounge, past the dining table to the sofa.