The Murder of Harriet Krohn Read Free

kills time, feels that his heart is thumping tirelessly. His cheeks are hot, even though he’s just been trudging the streets for an eternity, going around and around the town that’s gray with sleet and mist. He had stood on the riverbank and stared down into the water, and considered that as a solution. To jump from the bank and allow himself to sink to the bottom. It would be quick, he thought; he’d see his life pass in front of his eyes. Inga Lill’s illness, Julie’s despair, his own sick mania for gambling. He pushes the thoughts away. It’s all becoming real for him. What he’d pictured in his head for days and weeks is now materializing. This is the first step. So harmless and respectable, buying a bunch of flowers. The girl waits patiently, but she’s becoming uneasy because he doesn’t speak. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, withdrawing her hands and then resting them on the counter once more. Her fingers are adorned with thin rings and her nails are painted red. She pushes her braids over her shoulders. They are as bright and shiny as nylon rope, and a moment later they’ve fallen forward again and are hanging over her breasts. And he knows that when she gets into bed at night and takes the bands off, her hair will be fluffy and full after the braiding. How young these girls are, he thinks, how smooth, how translucent. They make him think of rice paper, porcelain, and silk. They make him think of fragile glass. He can see her veins, a delicate network of green beneath the skin of her wrists. Life is pulsing there, with nutrition and oxygen and everything she needs to keep herself alive. He takes another deep breath. The light inside the shop, the powerful scent of roses, and the cloying heat are almost overpowering. He sees stars. He feels his pulse rise and clenches his fists hard, the nails pressing into his skin. Pain, he thinks. This is really happening. No, nothing has happened, not yet. But time is moving on, and sooner or later I’ll get there. When I do, will it be awful? The girl behind the counter makes another attempt to smile pleasantly, but he doesn’t return the smile. His face is immobile. He knows that he ought to smile, so that he’ll seem like an ordinary customer, a man about to do something gratifying. Buy a bunch of flowers. But he’s no ordinary customer and this is not enjoyable.
    He approaches the counter hesitantly, his sturdy body moving with a rolling gait. He’s uncertain about his voice as he hasn’t used it for a while, so he puts some extra force behind it.
    “I want a mixed bunch,” he says, and the loudness of his own words makes him start. My feet are wet, he thinks. My boots aren’t watertight. Cold perspiration is trickling down my back, but my cheeks are boiling hot. I’m not certain this is real. Shouldn’t it feel different? Shouldn’t I feel more present within myself? I’m having so many strange thoughts. Am I losing control? No, I’m focused; I’m secure. I’ve made a plan and I’m going to stick to it. His chain of thought is interrupted by the girl speaking.
    “Is it a special occasion?” she’s asking.
    The voice is sweet and childish, slightly put on; she’s making herself sound younger than she is, protecting herself, so that he’ll treat her gently. It’s what women do and he forgives her for it, but only because she’s young. Grown-up women should behave like grownups. He can’t abide the same affectation in older women, making the most of their reputation as the weaker sex, when they’re really tough, resilient, clever, and more calculating than men. It makes him think of Inga Lill. She did it frequently, especially in the beginning. She would make her voice sugary sweet, ingratiating herself and hiding behind all that femininity. It made him feel boorish because he was simple and direct. Inga Lill, you’re dead now. You don’t know what’s happening, and thank God for that. I’m losing the plot, he realizes;