lifted her face and gasped for air.
The crazy man smiled. He obviously had no problem breathing. Maybe it was just her; maybe she was going to die. Maybe the man had poisoned her because he wanted to mess around with her afterwards. Emilie gasped desperately for air.
“Have you got asthma?” asked the man.
“No,” gasped Emilie.
“Try lying down.”
“No!”
If only she could relax and think about something completely different from the man with the scary eyes, then maybe she could breathe.
But she couldn’t think about anything else.
She closed her eyes and leaned back, her upper back propped against the wall. There were no more thoughts. Nothing. Daddy had probably given up looking for her.
“Go to sleep.”
The man left. Emilie locked her fingers around the stiff Barbie doll. She would rather have had a teddy bear, even if she was too old for that, too.
Now that she was on her own again, she could at least breathe.
The man had not messed around with her. Emilie pulled up the duvet and eventually fell asleep.
Tønnes Selbu was alone at last. It was as if he no longer had his own life. As if nothing was his anymore, not even time. The house was constantly full of people, neighbors, friends, Beate, his parents. The police. They obviously thought that it was easier for him to talk to them here at home, whereas in fact it would be a relief to go to the police station, an escape. He wasn’t even allowed to go to the store. Beate and Grete’s old friends did everything. Yesterday his mother-in-law had even run a bath for him. He had lowered himself into the scalding hot water and half expected some woman or other to appear out of nowhere to wash his back. Scrub him. He lay in the water until it was tepid. Then Beate shouted for him. She eventually banged on the door, worried.
He had lost control of his own time.
Now he was alone. They wouldn’t leave him in peace, the others. He had gotten very angry in the end. A great rage had forced everyone out the door. It felt good because it reminded him that he still existed.
He put his hand on the door handle.
Emilie’s room.
He hadn’t been in since that first afternoon, when the child disappeared and he turned her room upside down trying to find a clue, a trace, a code that might tell him Emilie was only joking. She had gone too far, of course, but it was all just an attempt to fool him, frighten him a bit so that they could have an extra-special evening, safe in the knowledge that Emilie would never actually disappear. He emptied her drawers. Her books landed on the floor, her clothes in a pile in the hall outside. He even pulled off the sheets and tore a poster of Disneyland down from the wall. It was no mystery, no rebus; there was neither answer nor clue. Nothing to be solved. Emilie was gone and he called the police.
The cold metal burned against the palm of his hand. He heard his own heart hammering in his eardrums, as if he didn’t really know what he would find behind the familiar door with Emilie’s name on it, spelled out in wooden letters; the M had fallen off half a year ago and he read E-ilie, E-ilie. Tomorrow he would buy a new M.
Beate had tidied up the room. When he eventually went in, he saw that everything was back in place. The books were standing neatly on the shelves, according to color, the way Emilie wanted. Even her bookbag, which the police had seized, was back in place, on the floor beside the desk.
The police thought it was his fault.
But they weren’t accusing him of anything. In the first few days, he’d felt a bit like a psychiatric patient on the one hand, whom everyone treated with kid gloves, and on the other like a criminal who everyone suspected. It was as if they were constantly frightened that he’d take his own life and therefore watched him with almost suffocating care. At the same time there was something about the way they looked at him; a sharp edge to the questions they asked.
Then the little boy
The crazy man smiled. He obviously had no problem breathing. Maybe it was just her; maybe she was going to die. Maybe the man had poisoned her because he wanted to mess around with her afterwards. Emilie gasped desperately for air.
“Have you got asthma?” asked the man.
“No,” gasped Emilie.
“Try lying down.”
“No!”
If only she could relax and think about something completely different from the man with the scary eyes, then maybe she could breathe.
But she couldn’t think about anything else.
She closed her eyes and leaned back, her upper back propped against the wall. There were no more thoughts. Nothing. Daddy had probably given up looking for her.
“Go to sleep.”
The man left. Emilie locked her fingers around the stiff Barbie doll. She would rather have had a teddy bear, even if she was too old for that, too.
Now that she was on her own again, she could at least breathe.
The man had not messed around with her. Emilie pulled up the duvet and eventually fell asleep.
Tønnes Selbu was alone at last. It was as if he no longer had his own life. As if nothing was his anymore, not even time. The house was constantly full of people, neighbors, friends, Beate, his parents. The police. They obviously thought that it was easier for him to talk to them here at home, whereas in fact it would be a relief to go to the police station, an escape. He wasn’t even allowed to go to the store. Beate and Grete’s old friends did everything. Yesterday his mother-in-law had even run a bath for him. He had lowered himself into the scalding hot water and half expected some woman or other to appear out of nowhere to wash his back. Scrub him. He lay in the water until it was tepid. Then Beate shouted for him. She eventually banged on the door, worried.
He had lost control of his own time.
Now he was alone. They wouldn’t leave him in peace, the others. He had gotten very angry in the end. A great rage had forced everyone out the door. It felt good because it reminded him that he still existed.
He put his hand on the door handle.
Emilie’s room.
He hadn’t been in since that first afternoon, when the child disappeared and he turned her room upside down trying to find a clue, a trace, a code that might tell him Emilie was only joking. She had gone too far, of course, but it was all just an attempt to fool him, frighten him a bit so that they could have an extra-special evening, safe in the knowledge that Emilie would never actually disappear. He emptied her drawers. Her books landed on the floor, her clothes in a pile in the hall outside. He even pulled off the sheets and tore a poster of Disneyland down from the wall. It was no mystery, no rebus; there was neither answer nor clue. Nothing to be solved. Emilie was gone and he called the police.
The cold metal burned against the palm of his hand. He heard his own heart hammering in his eardrums, as if he didn’t really know what he would find behind the familiar door with Emilie’s name on it, spelled out in wooden letters; the M had fallen off half a year ago and he read E-ilie, E-ilie. Tomorrow he would buy a new M.
Beate had tidied up the room. When he eventually went in, he saw that everything was back in place. The books were standing neatly on the shelves, according to color, the way Emilie wanted. Even her bookbag, which the police had seized, was back in place, on the floor beside the desk.
The police thought it was his fault.
But they weren’t accusing him of anything. In the first few days, he’d felt a bit like a psychiatric patient on the one hand, whom everyone treated with kid gloves, and on the other like a criminal who everyone suspected. It was as if they were constantly frightened that he’d take his own life and therefore watched him with almost suffocating care. At the same time there was something about the way they looked at him; a sharp edge to the questions they asked.
Then the little boy
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