The Ice People 37 - The City of Horror. Margit Sandemo

and sugary sentimentality. He could place his voice at the pitch he wanted: brutal and sulphurous or fawning. His clothes were meticulously perfect, like those of a buyer on a business trip.

      “My dear, dear Mrs Dahlen,” he simpered confidentially. “What can I do for you?”

      Kamma had fallen for the pastor’s lion-tamer gaze a long time ago. Just like all the other women in the sect, she believed that he had a very special eye for her and now she was alone with him. Where might it not end? Maybe a tender stroke of her cheek? Or ... maybe he would finally admit that he was attracted to her?

      “Dear Pastor,” Kamma said. “Something terrible has happened! You know the fortune I’ve talked about, which I had in the bank ...?”

      “Yesss,” said the pastor, his reply sounding like a snakebite.

      “It appears that it will probably go to Vinnie!”

      His glance turned slightly cooler. “Well, that’s fine, Mrs Dahlen. Then nothing earthly will burden you when you walk through the gates one day!”

      “No, of course not, but I was looking forward to giving the money to you for destruction. And to keeping a small sum for myself, because we, the chosen, are the ones who will survive!”

      Prunck’s smile was broad but forced and it didn’t reach his eyes. He raised his index finger admonishingly. “Mrs Dahlen, now you’re an infidel! We’ll be the only ones left so what will we need money for?”

      “No, but I thought ... You have a car. Perhaps we could drive over to Vinnie’s new home? There’s a document there, which unjustifiably entitles Vinnie to grab my ... our money.”

      Pastor Prunck looked at Kamma, trying to understand what she was telling him. Then he patted her hand and got to his feet. “Rest assured, Mrs Dahlen! Everything will fall into place!”

      Kamma breathed out. She was relieved. In her subconscious mind, she had probably felt that conquering Pastor Prunck would be so much easier if she had a large fortune to sacrifice to his holy destruction of earthly possessions.

      For the rest of that day, Prunck’s warm eyes rested almost incessantly on Vinnie, full of confidence and promises. Kamma didn’t notice anything. She merely felt that there was a terrible draught in the Temple, as the cave was known.

      That evening, Kamma shouted from the bathroom: “Vinnie, would you please take Blanzeflor for a walk this evening?”

      Just as on every other evening, Vinnie called the little poodle with the exquisite name – Blanzeflor – to come with her. Not knowing that on this cold January evening Death was walking freely about in the streets of Halden, she walked out of the door – and straight into the arms of a nightmare. For her, the horror had begun.

      –

      No 3: Agnes

      Agnes ran as fast as her short legs would carry her after the playful terrier. She made many desperate and fruitless attempts to get him to obey her. The streets of Halden were dark and slippery, and to her annoyance she saw him disappearing towards the wharf.

      How embarrassing! How absolutely embarrassing! All through her sixty-five years, Agnes had feared “what people would say”. Here she was, running about, making a fool of herself in front of all the young people who were sauntering along the main street, chuckling at her – a worried little lady with a feeble voice and no authority over her dog.

      “Doffen! Doffen! Come here immediately! Doffen! Do you hear me?”

      If only his name wasn’t Doffen! He was her sister’s dog, and Agnes had promised to take him out for a walk, because her sister, Olava, was feeling a bit under the weather. Agnes had accidentally let go of the lead and the dog had run away.

      Agnes was gasping for breath as she passed the fishmonger’s and saw the dog disappear around the corner of a warehouse on the wharf. And a policeman appeared! How absolutely awful! He couldn’t see the dog, could he? Perhaps he would think that she was on her way to the wharf for another purpose? The wharf was a notorious haunt of women of a certain type. No, surely he couldn’t think that of her, could he?

      Such a crazy thought would never have entered the mind of the young policeman, Rikard Brink. He hardly noticed the short, middle-aged lady, who, gasping for breath, trudged along in her brown coat and flame-coloured hat. As so often, he was thinking of Linden Avenue and Nataniel, the strange young son of Abel and Christa. He had never known a child like him. Four years old and already in possession of such exceptional talents that it left you totally speechless.

      Agnes walked faster so that the policeman would conclude that she wasn’t “that kind of woman”. Her short legs moved like drumsticks and then ... The roadworkers hadn’t thought to grit the pavement behind the fishmonger’s, and Agnes’s right foot, with her whole weight on it, slipped on the ice. Her arms flailed ...

      I’m falling, I’m falling, oh, dear, how embarrassing, how awful, what will people think?

      All Agnes was thinking of was the shame as she felt her feet sliding ever further away from her. She didn’t have time to realize that she might hurt herself.

      Then she was lying in the road, gasping for breath. She had hit her buttocks on the edge of the kerb and everything went black before her eyes.

      Oh, dear, I just can’t take this, she thought, meaning both the pain and the humiliation. The very next moment, she felt a pair of hands around her upper arms, and she was lifted up. A kind, concerned voice asked her: “What happened? Are you hurt?”

      Agnes struggled to her feet. Like lightning, quite a crowd of people, curious and concerned, had gathered, and she heard a young girl across the street shout: “Did you see the old cow turn a somersault?” followed by scattered giggles.

      The voice in her ear went on speaking, saying softly: “Don’t pay any attention to them. Did you hit yourself badly?”

      “On ... on my hip,” Agnes whispered. This sounded better than buttocks.

      The young policeman, because that was what he was, brushed snow and sand off her coat and handed her her hat, which had fallen off.

      “Oh, that horrible thing,” she murmured, embarrassed. “I don’t like the colour one bit, but you see, it was given to me ...” She was silent and confused.

      “Shall I get hold of a cab for you?”

      “No, thank you. That’s not necessary. I can manage,” Agnes said in her usual hurried way. “Thank you very much for your help, I’ll be all right by myself.”

      The policeman was concerned. “Are you sure?”

      “Yes, I’m sure! Thank you for your kindness!” Oh, let me get away from all this attention, she thought. She laughed nervously and continued her walk along the wharf, moaning to herself. She had a pain in her backside and she felt slightly dizzy and confused.

      Somewhere in front of her, a woman’s voice shouted: “Blanzeflor!”

      That woman could actually make her dog obey her call. Not like Agnes, who could only manage to get a few clumsy, toneless sounds over her lips.

      Rikard Brink watched her with slight concern. He assumed that the short lady with the silly red hat lived out on the island. But since she seemed to be managing on her own, he now focused his attention on a car that was driving slowly along the kerb on the lookout for girls.

      Rikard had chosen to become a policeman simply because he admired the profession. When it was carried out in the right way, that is. At first, it had been a child’s admiration for a smart uniform and authority, but his interest in being a policeman had never ceased. It made sense to him, and perhaps there was an element of excitement in it as well.

      In short, being a policeman suited him perfectly. Rikard Brink of the Ice People was strongly built. He was twenty-four years old now. His innocent blue eyes surprised everybody who expected to see a stern face on the immense body. He was broad-shouldered, had