The Caller by Karin Fossum Read Free Book Online Page B

8
    Johnny sat on the edge of his bed listening to the sounds in the kitchen.
    His mother, up and dressed, was roaming about and pawing through cupboards and drawers. Sometimes she managed to pull herself together and prepare a hot meal.
    A guy can hope, Johnny Beskow thought. He wasn’t used to attention of any kind. Then he heard her steps on the floor. Suddenly she opened his door and stared at him.
    ‘You had a bag with you when you came home today,’ she said. ‘What did you buy?’
    ‘A couple of films,’ he said, ‘from the video shop.’
    ‘Oh, did you have money for that?’
    ‘Grandpa gave me some.’
    ‘God help me but don’t you always have money,’ she complained. ‘You’ve got it easy.’
    She spotted the bag on the bedside table. She snatched it, removed the two DVDs and read the back covers. ‘Rubbish no doubt,’ she said.
    ‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘Rubbish. But entertaining rubbish.’
    She left. For good measure, she slammed the door extra hard. That was how she marked her presence: I’m still here. Don’t you forget it .
    Before long he recognised the smell of pizza, and it struck him that he was hungry, almost lethargic; sometimes he forgot to eat – especially if his head was filled, as now, with plans. While he waited, he darted into the living room and grabbed the newspaper, hurried back to his room and rifled through it. He studied the photographs and concocted elaborate yet incomplete schemes. He was patient, and his plans were clear. People lose their jobs, he thought. They get into car accidents, they drown, they fight and steal and cause trouble, and they kill each other. They marry and have children. They celebrate birthdays, fifty and sixty and seventy. It’s all in the newspaper because people have an incredible desire to communicate. He read carefully, and at length settled on an announcement. Read it many times, tore it out and put it in the drawer of his bedside table, next to the pink smock. For later. Then he crossed the room to the guinea pig’s cage under the window. He lifted out the small animal and lay on the bed. Bleeding Heart was the guinea pig’s name. It scurried over his chest and belly on tiny feet, and after a few rounds back and forth, grew calm in the hollow of his neck. The woman in the kitchen, he thought, wouldn’t it be nice to mess with her? What do you think about that? Should we go down to Lake Skarve and fish for pike? We’ll carry the fish home in a bucket of water, and shove it down her throat while it’s still flopping about. That will shut her mouth. Can you imagine that?
    He put the guinea pig against his cheek, and Bleeding Heart nipped him on the ear with its sharp teeth. A number of pleasant images filled his head: his mother with a fat pike sticking out of her mouth; his mother down on her knees, writhing about on the floor and gasping for air. With a finger he stroked the guinea pig’s head. He liked the smell of the furry little creature, and the eyes which shone like black pearls.
    His mother stuck her head in again. ‘Get that rat back in the cage,’ she said. ‘The pizza’s ready.’
    She was dressed and sober.
    He knew it wouldn’t last. For brief moments, she came up for air and behaved as if she wanted to show him she was in charge. When she was sober, it was as though she noticed him and wanted to make a point.
    He hated her drinking, hated that she slept on the sofa, snoring like a saw. When she was sober he lost control over her, and she went after him with overpowering force. But the pizza was good. He watched her snap her teeth into it; her pointed, grey tongue worked hard at the pepperoni. Even though she was sober, even though she sat straight in her chair, he could see how she longed for the poison she’d become addicted to – an addiction which tore at her, and made her hands restless and shaky.
    ‘You need to get a job,’ she said. ‘I can’t provide for you for ever, Johnny. Why do you loaf around?