Unspoken Read Free

In the end he had neither money nor a job. The only friends who remained were his drinking buddies.
    He was roused from his reflections by a clattering sound on the patio. He stopped with the glass halfway to his lips.
    Was it one of those damn kids in the area who was going around stealing bicycles and then painting and selling them? His own bicycle stood outside unlocked. They had tried to swipe it before.
    Another clatter. He looked at his watch. Ten forty-five. Someone was out there—there was no doubt about that.
    Might be an animal, of course, maybe a cat.
    He opened the patio door and peered into the darkness. The little patch of grass that belonged to his corner property was lit up in the cold glow of the streetlight. Over by the pathway a shadow disappeared among the trees. Presumably just somebody out walking his dog. Henry pulled the door shut and locked it, just to be safe.
    The interruption annoyed him. He switched on the ceiling light and looked around the apartment with distaste. He couldn’t stand seeing all the clutter, so he stuck his feet into a pair of slippers and went down to his darkroom in the basement to check on the pictures he had taken during his evening at the harness races. He had taken a whole roll of Ginger Star, and a couple of shots just as she crossed the finish line. Her head thrust forward, her mane flying, and her nose ahead of all the others. What a feeling.
    The building superintendent had been kind enough to let him use an old bicycle storage room. He had furnished it with an enlarger, trays for developer and fixer, and a rack for drying the pictures. The basement window was covered with pieces of black cardboard to keep out the daylight.
    The only light source was a red bulb on the wall. In the faint glow of this lamp the work could be done without difficulty. He enjoyed spending time in his darkroom. Focusing one hundred percent of his attention on a task in silence and darkness. He had experienced this same feeling of calm only once before, during his honeymoon to Israel. One day he and Ann-Sofie had gone on a snorkeling expedition. As they moved below the surface of the silent sea, it was like being in another dimension. Undisturbed, untouched by the constant noise of the rest of the world. That was the only time he had gone snorkeling, but the experience had stayed with him as a pleasant memory.
    He had been working for quite a while when he was interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. Instinctively he froze and listened carefully. Who could it be? It had to be close to midnight.
    The knocking came again, slower and longer. He lifted the photo he was working on from the rinse bath and hung it up to dry as thoughts whirled through his mind.
    Should he open the door? Common sense told him that it would be best not to. This might have something to do with his winnings. Someone who wanted the money. The news about his win certainly must have spread by now. The sound coming from the other side of the door signified danger. His mouth went dry. Although it could just as well be Bengan.
    “Who is it?” he shouted.
    The question hung in the darkness. No reply, utter silence. He sank down onto a stool, fumbled for the liquor bottle, and took several quick swigs. A few minutes passed and nothing happened. He sat totally still and waited, though he didn’t know what he was waiting for.
    Suddenly someone began pounding hard from a different direction, on the windowpane. He gave such a start that he nearly dropped the bottle on the floor. The last of his drunkenness vanished, and he stared up at the cardboard covering the window, hardly daring to breathe.
    Then it came again. Hard, loud. As if the person out there wasn’t using his knuckles but some sort of tool. The ceiling and walls closed in. Terror seized him by the throat. Here he sat, trapped like a rat, while someone out there was toying with him. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his guts turned over. He needed to go to the