The Boy at the Door Read online

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  A faint light has appeared in the sky and I can see people walking towards the bus station by the park. I am so tired. Tired in my bones again. I want to be back at the torp with Ellen and Josef, fishing and making birch-root wicker baskets, but that will never happen now. If I told them I won’t make it through veterinary school and that I want to come home and just do something else, they’d never judge me or pressurize me to stay in Krakow. But if I tell them that I’ve spent the past two months undoing everything they have spent so long building up, that I love smack more than I love them or myself, well, they’d turn away. It’s a bleak day and that’s a good thing because when you are thinking my kinds of thoughts, like how much longer until I kill myself or the smack does it for me because I’m out of options, you hardly want blue skies and sunshine, do you?

  Krysz. He’s at the door. I thought I’d have time to write about him first, but he’s already here, hammering.

  7

  In order to stop speculation, and also due to the fact that I’ve turned down so many invitations in the last couple of weeks, I felt I had no choice but to invite the girls from the tennis club for dinner. I haven’t seen them in weeks, ever since the night Tobias happened and everything was turned upside down. Usually, we meet every other Thursday for dinner, every Monday and Wednesday for tennis, and one Saturday a month for cocktails. We’re active socially, to put it mildly. Since Tobias appeared, I have avoided the girls – not because I don’t want to see them, exactly, but more because I just can’t bear explaining. They’re chatty ladies and they would bombard me with questions, and I have just felt so utterly unhinged, I couldn’t face them until now. A couple of days ago, I received a WhatsApp message from Cornelia that clearly wasn’t meant for me: Haha, yes, soon they’ll be running a whole orphanage up there on the hill, it read. I don’t like it when people talk about me, unless it’s in such a way that it’s obviously because of jealousy. They are jealous of me, my friends, always have been, and I intend to keep it that way, and that’s why I decided to invite them over to show them that Cecilia Wilborg has everything perfectly under control, as always.

  Johan left for London this morning, and is then going on to Singapore, so tonight is a good night for some company. I’ve had Luelle, the new au pair, clean every nook and cranny of this house. She’s working out well so far, which is a little surprising as I’ve not been lucky with Filipinas in the past, however this one irons faultlessly, doesn’t miss a speck of dust, tolerates children and knows how to make ponzu sauce. Such a find. The girls have been sent off on a sleepover to the Tandberg twins, and Tobias is in his room, as usual, drawing. If he makes so much as a peep, Luelle will deal with him, obviously. To my intense surprise and joy, the Dolce & Gabbana emerald gown that has hung morosely in the closet for over a year now, two sizes too small, suddenly slipped on beautifully when I tried it, on a whim, after my shower. I guessed that I’d lost a pound or two since the whole Tobias saga started, but apparently it’s more than that, and so it would seem that it could be true, what they say about clouds and silver linings, etc.

  The house looks spotless, I look rather okay considering the unbelievable stress I’ve been under this past month, the sashimi and ponzu sauce is all laid out downstairs and I’ve just done a last round, lighting all the little candles and fluffing cushions before the girls arrive. I’m in my bathroom on the top floor, placing a drop of Tom Ford behind my ears, when I am overwhelmed by a very strange sensation. It is as though I’m momentarily blinded in my right eye, and I have to reach out and support myself on the side of the basin. I blink repeatedly and eventually my vision returns, but a pulsating orange blob remains hovering in my line of vision, and no amount of blinking or rubbing will make it go away. I also feel tingly and numb in my fingertips, and just as the doorbell rings, that dreadful sensation of falling through layers of black smoke washes over me again, and before I can even think of opening the door, I have to take a tranquilizer, although I really shouldn’t mix them with alcohol.

  At the door is Cornelia, who insists on being called Coco, though no one has ever called her that. She’s Johan’s cousin, and one of my oldest friends. She is a trained nurse, but these days she runs a very successful business selling personalized diapers, and is also slim and beautiful. A lot of people compare us to one another, but I suppose I’ve always found that slightly unfair as I’m three years younger and, well, it shows. Anyway. She squeals and hands me a huge orchid.

  ‘Where is he?’ she whispers.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your new son!’ I genuinely can’t tell if she’s joking or not, so I focus on untying the gold ribbons around the orchid and give a sad little smile.

  ‘Come on, Cornelia. He’s not our son. He’s in bed. It’s already late.’ I’ve only just handed her a glass of champagne when the doorbell rings again, and at the sound of it, I feel even stranger than I did in the bathroom, like it’s buzzing from inside my cranium. I down my glass in one and hope the medication will kick in soon.

  Cornelia is looking at me carefully. ‘What’s wrong, Cecilia?’

  ‘Nothing. I had a migraine the other day, and the pain has lingered on a bit. I’ll be fine. Come on, let’s open the door.’

  This time it’s Cathrine and Silje. They also both hand me large orchids. Five minutes later Fie and Tove have arrived, too, and we stand around the marble island in the kitchen, toasting. They have all commented on how incredible I look in the green dress, and on how great the house looks, and what a fabulous idea it was to serve salmon sashimi and ponzu as they’re all on low-carb before the party season and their upcoming New Year sunshine breaks, and the pulsating light in my eye finally starts to recede and I feel calmer and more like myself again. As we eat, I have the sensation that everyone wants to ask about the last month, but nobody dares to bring it up. Instead, we talk about St. Barths vs. Mustique for New Year, how Fie is doing on the Birkin bag waiting list, and how stressful it is at this time of year, getting the mountain cabins ready for first snowfall and the start of the skiing season.

  It’s Silje who finally broaches the subject.

  ‘Tell us about Tobias, Cecilia,’ she says gently, and I appreciate how she sounds like she actually cares about what goes on in my life, rather than just wanting juicy gossip to dissect with the others behind my back, which is just what we do with most bits of juicy gossip. Though most people in Sandefjord have probably heard about the strange events of the little boy turning up out of the blue, and the unresolved murder of the woman who seemed to have been his caretaker, nobody has heard it straight from me, and all the girls lean forward, clutching their wine glasses. I tell them about the awful, dark, rainy October night when the boy was suddenly deposited randomly in my care, and about the unbelievable series of events that followed.

  ‘How are Hermine and Nicoline taking it?’ asks Fie. ‘Do they feel resentful about getting less attention?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think they get any less attention, to be honest. We have a new girl working for us now, too, so I feel like I have the help I need, really. And Tobias is a very easy child.’ This is true, according to every usual interpretation of an easy child. He does exactly what he’s told, he doesn’t argue with my girls, he picks up after himself, unlike Hermine and Nicoline, and he’s polite and sweet. But still, it isn’t easy to have him around – not for me. It’s the empty expression and the careful way he carries himself that unsettles me so – like he knows he’ll never be a normal little boy.

  ‘So, what happens next?’

  ‘Well, there is no trace of the parents. Tobias has been undergoing intense psychological evaluation, as it has been so difficult getting him to speak about his past and where he comes from, but the consensus at the moment seems to be that he doesn’t know much more than we do. The woman who was found dead wasn’t the mother, as you probably heard.’

  ‘Annika Lucasson, right?’ asks Cornelia. I nod. Neutral face. Still, the mention of her name makes me feel
shaky. ‘What I just don’t understand is, how does a junkie manage to steal someone’s kid and get away with it for years? Like, where did she hide him? How did she even provide for him?’

  ‘Well, one theory seems to be that he could be the biological child of someone from Annika Lucasson’s drug environment. I mean, she was in it for so many years, she would have known a lot of people with similar problems, and she drifted from Sweden to Poland and back, and then to Norway, so maybe the boy was placed in her care after his real mother died or something,’ says Cathrine, absentmindedly looking at her reflection in one of the gleaming silver candlesticks.

  ‘So, there is definitely no biological relationship between Tobias and Annika Lucasson?’ asks Silje.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I think the main priority of the police at the moment is to trace this guy, Krysztof Mazur, who they think had something to do with Annika’s death.’

  ‘So awful,’ says Fie. ‘You just can’t imagine things like that happening here in Sandefjord.’

  ‘You know, I’ve seen her around,’ says Silje quietly, and everyone turns to look at her. She nods to herself. ‘Yes, at Hvaltorvet. She used to sometimes sit by the fountain, drinking a beer or something. I remember her well, because she tried to speak to me on a couple of occasions.’

  ‘Speak to you? Why? Oh, how creepy!’ says Fie.

  ‘Yes. She... Well, I remember one time in particular. She caught my eye as I was walking towards the entrance to the shopping center and stood up. And then she was like “Hey! Hey you! I need to speak with you.” Absolutely crazy, poor woman.’

  ‘I don’t mean to sound cruel, but I just simply find it hard to sympathize with someone who throws away their whole life on drugs. I mean, think of what they cost the welfare system. It’s my taxpayer’s money and I just don’t think it’s right that they get council-assisted housing, methadone and whatever else they get, while people like us foot the bill,’ I say, feeling myself flush red with anger. The girls all nod in agreement.

  ‘So... so, do you think Tobias will stay here permanently?’ asks Fie.

  ‘What? Here? No, of course not.’

  ‘But... where will he go?’ asks Silje.

  ‘Well, that is for social services to figure out. At present, the police are working with Interpol to determine whether Tobias could be one of the children missing from somewhere. There are, after all, hundreds of missing children, so it could still be that he has parents somewhere.’

  ‘God, can you even imagine...’ says Cornelia, pausing to finish the last of her Pouilly-Fuissé. ‘Losing your child... Having him snatched away from you only to end up in the care of someone like that wretched Lucasson woman?’

  ‘But what if he isn’t one of the missing children and Interpol just can’t find his parents?’ asks Cathrine.

  ‘Then I think social services will try to place him in a more permanent foster family,’ I say.

  ‘But you guys definitely won’t keep him?’

  ‘Well, no. We have no capacity to be a permanent foster family. Honestly, it would just be too much for us. He is, of course, a darling little boy, but neither Johan nor I have the competence to deal with a child who’ll probably develop serious issues in his teens after what he’s been through. I mean, God knows what this experience must do to a small child. First being left by your parents, then being raised by a junkie, who is then murdered. I mean... Jesus.’ All the girls nod, and I begin to collect the plates. I feel like we’re done talking about this now – I’ve done my part and explained to them what has been going on, and the result is that I feel restless and unsettled, as I always do if I let my mind linger on Tobias.

  ‘But won’t you find it just so hard giving him up now that you’ve bonded with him, and he’s become a part of your family?’ asks Fie. Fie is the one who always asks a little too much; it’s a problem of hers. Some people just don’t understand when a conversation is over. I feel a strange tingle, like an itch inside my brain. Is this woman judging me for not being in a position to take in another child, a boy who would change the dynamic of my family forever?

  ‘No, I think that will be fine, to be honest with you.’ I smile a brilliant smile and pour another round of wine, and though I expect all the girls to nod understandingly and move the conversation on to more pleasant subjects, no one says anything for several long moments, and I feel as though they are scrutinizing me, passing judgment. Just then, I hear the rumble of fast-moving steps from the staircase, and turn around in alarm. It’s Luelle, and she looks as though she is about to burst into tears. I stand up fast and walk over to her, pulling her back into the hallway, so the girls don’t overhear whatever it is she’s about to say. Tobias has probably wet the bed again. It has happened at least ten times since he came here, and before Luelle started I was the one dealing with it.

  ‘What? What is it?’ I hiss. Can’t she see that I’m entertaining guests? Luelle looks terrified, and for a moment I wonder whether Tobias has threatened her or something – traumatized children have been known to do all kinds of dangerous things, I’ve heard.

  ‘It’s Tobias,’ she whispers. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean, he’s gone?’

  ‘I checked on him in his room after he had his bath around eight o’clock. He was in bed, closing his eyes, pretending to sleep although I’m pretty sure he wasn’t actually asleep. Then I checked on him again now because I will go to bed in a minute, and the window was wide open and he’s gone.’ Cornelia has heard the commotion and has come out into the hallway, concern etched on her tight, shiny face.

  ‘What is it, Cecilia?’ she asks, and again, I am overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of everything that is happening to me. I want to run from this house, from these vacuous friends, and into the freezing black night, screaming.

  ‘Tobias is gone, apparently. But don’t worry, just go sit down, have some more wine. I’ll... uh, I’ll go and make a couple of calls.’ I go upstairs to the guest room and, just like Luelle said, the window is wide open, letting the freezing November air into the room. Christmas is just over a month away and the temperature has drastically dropped in the last few days. I shiver and walk back out, closely followed by Luelle. ‘Oh no,’ she’s whispering. ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no.’

  ‘Look,’ I say, turning back around to face her at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Just go downstairs to your room, okay? This isn’t your fault. I’ll find him.’ I walk into the room where the girls are pretending not to listen. Just a few months ago, I would have been beyond livid at the thought of anything or anyone disturbing or interrupting one of my evenings with my friends, but tonight, my head throbbing and my heart aching, I want nothing but for them to go home. I want Johan and Nicoline and Hermine to come home, and I want to sit by the fire with my husband, watching the flames dance while the children sleep. As I begin to speak, I realize I want something else, too – I want Tobias to come home. I want to know that his tiny body is tucked in upstairs, I want to hear the constant scratch of his crayons through the door, and to see his little smile come out as I pop my head around the door to say goodnight. The smile that breaks my heart.

  ‘You need to leave,’ I say, too loudly, and they all look up at me. Suddenly sober, they begin to gather their things, whispering among themselves. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Fast.’

  ‘Cecilia, why don’t you let us help you look for him?’ says Silje.

  ‘I think we should call the police,’ says Fie.

  ‘Or social services,’ says Cornelia.

  ‘Why don’t we at least wait here until you’ve found him. Maybe he’s just wandered off down the road or something; I’ve heard little boys do strange things like that sometimes,’ says Cathrine, the only childless person present. ‘That way we can continue when you come back.’

  ‘It’s ten o’clock and it’s minus five outside. An eight-year-old boy is missing from his bed, and I am going to find him, right now.’ I grab my car keys from the kitchen counter and I can feel the s
hocked glances exchanged behind my back.

  ‘Cecilia, let us help,’ says Silje. They are all hovering in the doorway, Fie and Cathrine still holding their wine glasses as though we might really continue.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, trying to stave off the returning blinding headache by breathing deeper, but my breath comes out in a strained whimper. ‘Okay. Why don’t you guys grab some down jackets from the rack over there and scour our garden and the neighbors’? I’m taking the car – he might have gone further.’ They nod slowly, but nobody moves.

  ‘I’m just going to, uh, quickly check with Petter that everything’s okay at home,’ says Silje. Just like you would have if we were still sitting around the table, drinking my expensive wines and talking bullshit, huh?

  ‘Yes, me, too,’ says Cornelia, like I don’t know that they won’t put ugly old jackets over their precious dresses to spend the rest of their evening shining torches into bushes, looking for the lost boy. I turn away from them, slamming the door shut behind me.

  Reversing out the driveway, it is clear to me that I have certainly had too much to drink to drive safely. On the main road, I move slowly, and thankfully there aren’t many other cars out tonight. I let my eyes travel back and forth across the road, over every bare tree and into every garden, but there is no sign of a thinly clad little boy. How long can he have been gone for? No more than two hours. But... Two hours outside in this temperature, wearing only pajamas – he could be dead. Another thought occurs to me – what if someone has seen him wandering alongside the road alone and called the police. He’d be in social services’ custody by now, and it’s just a question of time before they come knocking on my door wondering why I’m unable to look after an eight-year-old, only to find me drinking with my friends, or even worse – out on the road, drunk and incoherent. I begin to slow the car down even more, and then it occurs to me that I know where he is.