When the Devil Holds the Candle by Karin Fossum Read Free Book Online Page A

too. Works for the Pricing Commission. He doesn't owe any money and he doesn't drink. I don't know exactly what he does at his job—maybe he decides what things should cost.
Everybody complains about the price of everything, and everybody's salary is too low. "Let's go on strike!" they all shout. "We're not going to stand for it anymore, we've been passed over, we're not appreciated, the others have something, why shouldn't we!" No one ever grows up these days. Everywhere I go I see whining children. Runi, for example: she whines a lot.
    Once in a while I wish that Ingemar would come over and we could go into town together. Arm in arm, Irma Funder walking along the street with her grown-up son. He's not tall or handsome, but he's quite nice-looking. He gets his heavy face from me, and it suits him. He's extremely serious, the kind of person who has thought things through. It's true that he doesn't have any great ambitions, but he fulfills his obligations and he never complains. Walking through town with Ingemar: We'd go to a café. He would pay, carry our tray to a table, and pull out a chair for me. But he never comes. It's been a long time since he came to see me. If I suggested it—How about the two of us going into town?—he would look at me in surprise. But now I'm happy, as long as he stays away.
    The house is old. Henry said it was built on clay, that it was just a matter of time, or enough rain, before it would pull loose and slide away, slip unhindered down the slope and crash into Number Fifteen. He was always so worried, Henry. I love this house. I know every nook and cranny, the contents of every drawer, each step on the stairs when I leave for work. Used to leave for work. Everything is mine, and old and familiar and always the same. Ingemar once sat here at the table—that was a long time ago—and got it into his head that the house should be painted. Red, he said. It's white now, with green trim. I would get so scared every time I stepped through the gate. Scared that something huge and red would loom up, that I'd stand there screaming. I'm telling you these snippets of my life because it's important to me that you see I'm clear-headed, that I remember
things, that I'm not crazy. Of course people will judge me. But I prefer to be my own judge. There is no excuse for what I did, nor would I want to offer any. But there is an explanation. Andreas was just a boy. I didn't want him dead. What am I saying? I certainly did want him dead, in that one evil moment. I stood there and thought: Now I'm going to kill him, I have to do it! Was I all alone with that thought? In that horrific moment when I destroyed him, I remember a strange light in the room. Where did it come from? Have you ever seen it?
    ***
    The woman moaned and carried on. She was oblivious to everything, to the fact that she was shivering or that the child might get cold because she was standing there holding him. She was all alone with the little bundle with the wet mouth, the thing she loved more than anything else. Sobs! A faint bleating. She could hardly breathe as she listened. He wasn't breathing. She shook him and took a few steps, and finally air filled his lungs. And he started crying again.
    She stumbled around among the rocks until the child calmed down. Then she carefully took off his hat and found a scrape on his bald head. With one arm she hugged the child to her breast as hard as she dared, and with her free other hand she struggled to pull the stroller up the slope. She slid back, dug her feet hard into the ground to steady herself, gasping in desperation. When she finally reached the top, she was soaked with sweat. Her arms ached. She put the baby in the stroller and spread the quilt over him. One of the wheels was bent and it was difficult to push. Luckily she had her keys in her coat pocket. When she reached home, she lifted the carrying cot out of the frame, put it on the backseat of the car, fastened it with a seat belt, and