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Karin Fossum

I Can See in the Dark

Chapter 1

There’s nothing beautiful about her, and she has no control. She can’t control her eyes, which dart about, or roll up into her head, so that only the glistening whites are visible. Or her body, which does what it likes. Her skin is stretched tight over her joints, the veins giving her a greenish pallor, and she’s as thin as a small bird. Children shouldn’t look like this. Children should be plump, pink and warm, soft as rubber and full of sparkling life. I assume her condition was caused by an injury during birth.

She’s about nine or ten and confined to a wheelchair.

Her mother calls her Miranda, a daft name, well, in my opinion anyway. Her hair is very fine and fair, and gathered in a knot at the top of her head. Her hands move about restlessly, white, claw-like hands that are in-capable of doing anything. You’d think she was attached to an electric current. That someone was switching it on and off, sending shocks through her delicate body. I get very twitchy watching little Miranda. Worn out by all these spasms, this constant agitation, I feel like screaming. If she really were powered by electricity, I’d want to pull the plug. I’d enjoy seeing her jerking body relax.

Miranda can’t speak. She only makes noises and unintelligible exclamations; I can’t understand any of it, even though I’ve had plenty of experience with all sorts of helplessness. I’ve worked in nursing homes for more than seventeen years.

I often see Miranda here, because they come to the park by Lake Mester every day without fail.

Like me, they follow a routine, something they can cling to, a groove that feels safe. The young mother takes care of the little thing; she hasn’t any choice. One heady moment with a man has turned into a lifelong burden. If anyone else comes into the park, she glances up quickly, but without any anticipation of adventure. What kind of man would approach this pair, willingly take on these problems, the ever-present child, ceaselessly gesticulating and yammering all day long?

Carrying the child about.

Wheeling the child around.

Never watching her run across the floor.

I go to the park at various times of the day because I work shifts, and I’m often free when others are at work. I’ve been coming here a long time, and I take note of all the other people who enjoy sitting on the benches admiring the fountain and its splashing water. The sound of the water has a strangely analgesic effect. For those of us who live with pain. I don’t sleep much, and the nights are long and agonising. I try to maintain my grasp of reality, and I don’t think people notice anything peculiar about me, either here in the park or where I work at Løkka Nursing Home. My manner is calm and friendly, and I do what I’m told; I simply mimic the others who stay within the norm. It’s easy. I talk like them, laugh like them, tell funny stories. But with all the feeble elderly people under my care, things often slide out of control. Especially for those who can’t speak, or haven’t the strength to complain.