I Can See in the Dark by Karin Fossum Page A

a state of oblivion, and he wasn’t the slightest bit concerned that there would be a witness to his shame.
    ‘I’ve never married,’ I explained. ‘I can’t seem to manage it. Everyone else can, but I only end up knocking about here on my own. I’ve been on my own for years, it’s extraordinary, isn’t it? I mean, how can it be that difficult?’
    He remembered I was there. He sat studying me with glistening eyes. All the while clasping his glass in both hands, like a predator guarding its prey.
    ‘You can’t go to expensive shops if you haven’t got money,’ he declared.
    After dropping this philosophical remark he applied himself to the vodka again. I sat pondering for a while and then came to the conclusion that he’d just insulted me, but I decided to keep calm. For Anna was undoubtedly worth a good deal, and I wasn’t exactly handsome, so he had a point. A swan and a pike can never pair up.
    ‘All I do is look most of the time,’ I admitted. ‘And then I dream a bit. Dreaming is free.’ I inclined my head. ‘And what about you, Arnfinn?’ I said. ‘Do you dream as well? About this or that?’
    He raised his face in surprise. He was still clutching his glass, they were as one now, he and the bottle; he was on a tryst with his best friend, alcohol. And it was clearly an everlasting love affair, or so it seemed to me.
    ‘There must be something you want,’ I said. ‘Everyone wants something. I mean, all our lives are missing one thing or another, and you’re no exception surely?’
    He shook his head emphatically.
    ‘I don’t want anything,’ he said. ‘I just drift along. I’m not bothered about anything, what will be, will be.
You
can want something, if you like. You’re not a slave to alcohol, so presumably you haven’t lost your head.’
    I agreed. Naturally I hadn’t lost my head. I unscrewed the cap of the bottle and filled his glass to the brim.
    ‘Have you got an excuse?’ I wanted to know. ‘An excuse for drinking, I mean?’
    The question made him look up.
    ‘Excuse? Do I need one?’
    ‘I’m only curious,’ I explained. ‘People often have a kind of explanation for why things have turned out the way they have. Why they’re violent, why they drink, why they steal. That sort of stuff.’
    Arnfinn took another drink. It gurgled in his gullet, suddenly he seemed utterly content, both with himself and his own existence; he was out visiting and he was getting a drink, things couldn’t get any better, this was life at its best.
    ‘Life’s pretty good,’ he said. ‘My cheque comes every month. I drop in to the off-licence, and then squat on a park bench. Go back home and sleep. And that’s about it.’
    ‘You’ve certainly got a routine,’ I said, ‘but it’s a bit of a lazy life. Drinking all day, then crashing out in the evening. While the rest of us work.’
    At this, his features took on a bitter cast.
    ‘What should I worry about the rest of the world for? I didn’t ask to be born.’
    All at once the mere idea of life seemed to do him an injustice, as if I’d reminded him of something unpleasant, something he wanted to forget. That life was a sentence, that he was serving it day by day as he crept towards death, and that his days were without light or warmth. I filled his glass for the third time. He was beginning to relax properly now, he leant back on the sofa, and for the first time, took in his surroundings.
    ‘This place has never known a woman’s touch,’ he pronounced.
    ‘You’re sharp, too,’ I replied. ‘No, women don’t ever come to visit me here. I’m a lone wolf. Just like you.’
    His gaze, shining now, swept over the room and took everything in. All the telling details that bore witness to who I was.
    ‘Why have you got an Advent Star in your window?’ he asked, pointing. ‘It’s almost the middle of May.’
    ‘But I’ve pulled the plug out,’ I said in my own defence. ‘I pull it out on the first of January, and plug it in