Broken by Karin Fossum Page B

between reading the newspaper and looking out the window. The large room had four windows that let in plenty of light, and he had several green plants, which were lush and verdant. The furniture was the same as when his mother was alive; it was heavy and solid and he would never manage to wear it out. It didn’t bother him that it was old fashioned. It was comfortable to sit in and he thought it was nice. There was also a large fireplace made from soapstone. On the mantelpiece stood seven crystal trophies, which his father had won at bridge. They were not particularly attractive, but he could not make himself throw them out—in some way they were a family heirloom. A family that would cease to exist when he himself died. In eleven years’ time when the bomb went off.
    As he was sitting there quietly minding his own business, he heard a sudden bang. Something had happened in the street outside—glass was shattering, metal screeched—and he jumped out of his chair and ran to the window. Two cars had collided. He stood as if nailed to the spot, staring at the accident. The cars had come to a stop diagonally across the street; the tarmac was covered with shards of glass. A distressing silence followed. A couple who had been walking on the pavement now came rushing across the street to help. One of the car doors was opened and an elderly man staggered out. He supported himself against the car, slumping helplessly against the metal. Then the other driver stepped out. He too just stood there looking lost and cradling his head with both hands. For a while they remained there staring at each other, incapable of action. Alvar’s heart was pounding, and suddenly the memories came flooding back. They knocked him sideways and he staggered across to the sofa, collapsed onto it, and leaned forward over the coffee table. He sat there breathing heavily, trying to pull himself together, but to no avail.
    His cheeks were scarlet with shame—the shame that was the reason he would never be able to connect with another human being. To him this shame was visible: his eyes glowed with it, and that was why he always averted his eyes whenever anyone looked at him. Even now, after so many years. As the memories overwhelmed him, something inside him ripped open and began hemorrhaging. They had gone for a drive in his father’s lemon-colored Anglia. A Sunday one spring. How old was I then, he thought, seven, maybe eight years old? He was sitting alone in the back, looking out the windows. He could hear his mother chatting in the front. His father drove and said nothing.
    “Look at that garden, Emmauel,” he heard, “look at those roses. They must be Nina Weibull—they’re thriving. I think we should consider planting Nina Weibull around the house, they’re so hardy.
    “It’s some house, I must say. Why do people need so much extra space? I’m so glad I’m not living in a tower block—those flats look like nesting boxes, don’t you think? Look at that awful plastic pool in those people’s garden. It makes you wonder what people are thinking, it looks so tacky. Oh, a whole wall of clematis! I’ve often thought that we ought to plant clematis on the west wall, Emmauel—what do you think?”
    His father was still silent. He leaned forward and hugged the steering wheel. By now they had reached the countryside and the houses were fewer and far between. The landscape glided past. Alvar sat in the back quietly enjoying the reassuring hum of the engine. He sat with his hands folded and stared; here were some chubby-looking sheep, over there a herd of fat red cows. From time to time, but not often, a car coming from the opposite direction would pass them.
    “Those people have a double garage, would you believe it?” he heard his mother say. “I can’t imagine how people can afford to have two cars. But I suppose they have to. And look, there’s also a rusty old wreck blighting their farm. I don’t know why people don’t have their old