The Whisperer

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She wasn’t beautiful, and she was of course perfectly aware of it. She moved timidly across the floor in the way that most shy women do, with an apologetic expression. With no desire to take up space, no hope of making an impression or being believed, or, for that matter, being taken seriously at all. For well over forty years the mirror had taunted her about this lack of beauty, and she had bowed her head and accepted the judgement. If a spark had come blowing on the wind, she would presumably have gone up in flames — her hair was as dry as straw and she was pale as paper. She was wearing a green nylon coat, with big, deep pockets that contained nothing, as they had long since been searched and emptied. There was a logo on the breast pocket, over her heart, with the word ‘Europris’ embroidered in big letters. She had an ugly scar across her throat, left by a wound that had not healed well. She was underweight and perhaps anaemic, with red hair and freckles. And yet, despite her lack of colour, the blood was still coursing through her veins, especially now that she was standing in front of him, there to explain herself. Her hands hidden in the thoroughly inspected coat pockets. She was waiting for permission to sit down, was not presumptuous enough to make herself comfortable. Sejer had questioned many people over the years, but no one like her.

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