The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [115]
SHE WAS LATE both for her Danish class and for Geography, and the teacher took her outside and made her explain. At first she didn’t know what to tell him.
“I had to change my clothes,” she finally said.
And it wasn’t till much later that anyone realized why, and then of course they began to ask different questions. Why had she just gone back to the school?
The school psychologist in particular asked that question, and a whole bunch of other questions, mostly beginning with “What were you feeling when.…” or “What were you thinking when.…” Those, she couldn’t answer. She couldn’t remember feeling or thinking anything at all. Or doing anything. It wasn’t that she didn’t remember being in the basement, and she remembered everything else too: her father, and how he had been lying in the bath tub with his clothes on, and that the water had been scarlet. She remembered seeing his mouth move when he saw her, but it was like a film with the sound off, she couldn’t hear what he was saying. She was looking at the red stuff on his arms. And that was when time had disappeared, she thought, but she wasn’t sure how. She remembered going over to Mrs. Halvorsen next door and telling her to call an ambulance. What she couldn’t understand, what simply didn’t make sense, was that more than an hour had passed. That it was now suddenly half past twelve, and that she had changed her clothes. I went over there right away, she kept saying, to herself and to others. I went over there right away.
THE TELEPHONE DREW her from her nightmare. She fumbled for it and managed to take the call before the ring woke Morten. Or so she thought.
At first, there was only a lot of hectic breathing at the other end. She was about to hang up, when finally a thin and panicked voice came on.
“Please come.”
“Who is this?”
“Natasha. Please.…”
Nina sat up abruptly and turned on the light. Still half asleep, Morten muttered something unintelligible. The word “Hell” could be distinguished, but other than that, she had no idea what he was saying.
“Natasha, what is it?”
For several long seconds she heard only the tear-choked wheeze of the girl’s breathing.
“He touched Rina. Touched.…”
“Report him,” snapped Nina angrily. “Or I will!”
“I think maybe he is dead,” said Natasha. “Please come. I think maybe I kill him.”
There was a click as the connection severed. Nina slumped in the bed, remnants of her nightmare a blood-like taste in her mouth. Morten rolled over, away from the light, and went back to sleep. He had never really been properly awake. The sheet that covered him slipped to reveal the top of his buttocks.
Call the police, she told herself. Come on. 911. You know the number. God damn it to hell. The wound in her scalp had only just healed, and she still got random headaches.
She closed her eyes for a moment. Then she let herself slide carefully from the bed, put her arms into yesterday’s T-shirt, and slipped into the bathroom for a quick splash of water to her face. She dressed as quickly as she could, and lifted the car keys from their peg by the door in the hallway. It was still the summer that wouldn’t die. Outside, the September darkness hugged the city in a close and damp embrace, the night hardly cooler than the day had been.
It was 4:32 A.M., she noted.