Murder of Halland Read Free Page A

send me some information about each of the characters. Thanks in advance.’
    ‘Busy with other matters’ indeed. I opened the next message.
    ‘I have just read your short story “The Fjord”. I’m writing an essay comparing it to other works. I wonder if you might say something about the story’s background? I can analyse it from the outside, but the views of the author would be very helpful. You have probably got more important things to do, so I will understand completely if you don’t reply.’
    Normally, I would find such emails touching. I always replied to them, so I dealt with the two queries straight away, copying a couple of old responses rather than writing from scratch. But suddenly I stopped and rested my hands in my lap and closed my eyes. In many of my public readings I had been struck by disturbing thoughts. What if Halland fell ill or died? What if I broke my leg? What if Abby turned up? I always tried to weigh up probabilities. At what point would I cancel an engagement? Now my husband was dead and here I was replying to meaningless emails. I deleted both of my replies, aware that they could be retrieved, and moved on to the ones with the subject line ‘HALLAND’. There were several. From my cousin, my publisher, colleagues, even distant acquaintances. Filled with shock and compassion. I merely scanned the words but realized that everyone sensed the gravity of the situation more keenly and more immediately than I had. But why had no one called? I picked up the phone. Dead. I replaced the receiver tried again, but there was no dialing tone. Shivering, I wondered what to do next. I pulled the phone lead towards me and saw the plug lying loose on the floor. Where was my mobile? I ought to ring someone and tell them what had happened. But I couldn’t think who. There was an email with the subject line ‘REMINDER’. I was supposed to give a talk at a library in Jutland in a fortnight’s time. They were sending me instructions about how to get there. Had they heard the news on the radio? Did they know my husband had been shot? No. I had no intention of replying to them. Should I create an auto reply saying my husband had been murdered?
    I turned off the laptop. The house was quiet. I had sat here writing last night. What had I written? I didn’t want to think about my work. Perhaps I would never want to think about writing again. That belonged to the past and didn’t matter any longer. I looked out at the fjord. The sun glittered on the water.

4
    Everyone avoids seeing a man born, everyone runs to see him die.
     
    Montaigne, ESSAYS
    The hospital in Reading showed no interest in helping me find my grandfather. As I waited to be passed from one voice to the next, I wondered whether I could travel to England and back on the same day. It seemed possible . Though Halland was dead, I didn’t see how flying to London would be a problem. I tried to visualize my grandfather. Had he grown smaller as old people do, especially sick ones? Did he have the wild look in his eyes that I had seen in people who would die shortly afterwards? Would I be able to embrace him? Would he recognize me? Would he have the strength to admonish me, or would he forgive me? Why did he want to see me? Because he was dying. But for my sake or for his? I didn’t have the courage to visit him.
    ‘I’ve spoken to Julian and he would like to talk to you,’ said a nurse. ‘We can wheel a phone over to his bed. I’ll give you the number and you can ring him in ten minutes.’
    I half got up to call for Halland, then sat down again, embarrassed. I closed my eyes for a moment. Mycousin had married when I was still in my teens. I had been deeply impressed by the wedding, and especially my grandfather’s speech. ‘Never let the sun set on your anger,’ he told the happy couple. What lovely advice, I thought, and decided that I would follow it when I got married. My mother, though, went off the deep end about my grandfather’s