everything in order, check that everything is in its right place, before she can even think of preparing dinner. She closes her eyes and counts to seven before putting the key in the lock. Then, opening her eyes, she slowly unlocks the door, satisfied that the first of her many nightly rituals has been observed successfully.
The door opens into a small white living room and as Kerstin flicks a switch on the wall the grey marble surfaces of the thin strip of kitchen that runs along the right hand side of the room sparkle under the bright spotlights. The whole flat is illuminated by 100-watt bulbs. Kerstin cannot bear half-light,for she has learned that monstrous things hide in shadows ready to jump out and take her by surprise. She hangs her handbag on a silver hook on the back of the door then steps gingerly across the pale wood floor.
Now for the inspection.
She opens each of the kitchen cupboards in turn, counting then recounting the packets and tins that are lined up in neat rows like soldiers on a parade ground. There are exactly twenty tins in the cupboard; ten on the top shelf, ten on the bottom. Kerstin knows this because she never cooks; these tins are remnants from another time, a time when she would open a messy tin of tomatoes and throw them carelessly into a pan, and stir and splash juice on the hob before eating it sloppily out of a bowl, and leaving the dirty dishes until the next morning. Now the only foods she allows herself are clean ones; things that wonât make a mess, wonât upset the order of the kitchen: baked potatoes, steamed vegetables and ready-cooked chicken breasts, eaten with disposable plastic cutlery.
On she goes, opening the fridge then the oven and the grill. All clean, all immaculate and unchanged since this morning. She crosses the living room with its white two-seater sofa and pale wooden coffee table; nothing under the sofa cushions â good. Next she goes into the bathroom, checking the linen cupboard twice, behind the shower screen, even the toilet. Nothing.
As she stands at the door of her bedroom, she closes her eyesand again counts to seven, muttering to herself in German: â
ein, zwei, drei â¦
â She opens her eyes and steps into the room. The curtains are open and a beautiful moon pours its silver light onto the white bed. Kerstin flicks the light on and the moon is obliterated in the harsh glare. She darts across the room and draws the curtains before pulling back the bedclothes and checking under the bed. All is as it should be. Just the chest of drawers to go.
She approaches the white drawers reverentially, as though approaching an altar, which it is to some extent. Sitting atop the drawers is a small wooden sculpture of the Virgin Mary, given to Kerstin as a baby by her grandfather. A set of ruby-red rosary beads are draped around the sculptureâs neck and after Kerstin has checked each drawer she stands and runs her fingers gently over the smooth, round beads, offering up a silent prayer of thanks that she has been spared anything horrible happening despite the two âincidentsâ.
She goes over to the small white desk in front of the window and picks up a thin brown notebook. Opening it up, she reads back through the last few entries:
Friday 24 Aug: Statue turned the wrong way. Toilet seat up when I left it down. Discovered during check at 8 p.m
.
Wednesday 22 Aug: Memory stick lost in office â sometime between 11 a.m. and 3 p.m
.
Friday 17 Aug: Books on shelf in wrong order; specifically checked before leaving this morning
.
Monday 13 Aug: Shampoo missing from bathroom cabinet. Discovered during check 8 p.m
.
Ordinary misplaced objects; things that other people would never notice, but Kerstin notices and that is why she began to write them down, to reassure herself that she wasnât completely losing her mind. At first she thought it might be Clarissa, letting herself into the flat while Kerstin was at work and
The door opens into a small white living room and as Kerstin flicks a switch on the wall the grey marble surfaces of the thin strip of kitchen that runs along the right hand side of the room sparkle under the bright spotlights. The whole flat is illuminated by 100-watt bulbs. Kerstin cannot bear half-light,for she has learned that monstrous things hide in shadows ready to jump out and take her by surprise. She hangs her handbag on a silver hook on the back of the door then steps gingerly across the pale wood floor.
Now for the inspection.
She opens each of the kitchen cupboards in turn, counting then recounting the packets and tins that are lined up in neat rows like soldiers on a parade ground. There are exactly twenty tins in the cupboard; ten on the top shelf, ten on the bottom. Kerstin knows this because she never cooks; these tins are remnants from another time, a time when she would open a messy tin of tomatoes and throw them carelessly into a pan, and stir and splash juice on the hob before eating it sloppily out of a bowl, and leaving the dirty dishes until the next morning. Now the only foods she allows herself are clean ones; things that wonât make a mess, wonât upset the order of the kitchen: baked potatoes, steamed vegetables and ready-cooked chicken breasts, eaten with disposable plastic cutlery.
On she goes, opening the fridge then the oven and the grill. All clean, all immaculate and unchanged since this morning. She crosses the living room with its white two-seater sofa and pale wooden coffee table; nothing under the sofa cushions â good. Next she goes into the bathroom, checking the linen cupboard twice, behind the shower screen, even the toilet. Nothing.
As she stands at the door of her bedroom, she closes her eyesand again counts to seven, muttering to herself in German: â
ein, zwei, drei â¦
â She opens her eyes and steps into the room. The curtains are open and a beautiful moon pours its silver light onto the white bed. Kerstin flicks the light on and the moon is obliterated in the harsh glare. She darts across the room and draws the curtains before pulling back the bedclothes and checking under the bed. All is as it should be. Just the chest of drawers to go.
She approaches the white drawers reverentially, as though approaching an altar, which it is to some extent. Sitting atop the drawers is a small wooden sculpture of the Virgin Mary, given to Kerstin as a baby by her grandfather. A set of ruby-red rosary beads are draped around the sculptureâs neck and after Kerstin has checked each drawer she stands and runs her fingers gently over the smooth, round beads, offering up a silent prayer of thanks that she has been spared anything horrible happening despite the two âincidentsâ.
She goes over to the small white desk in front of the window and picks up a thin brown notebook. Opening it up, she reads back through the last few entries:
Friday 24 Aug: Statue turned the wrong way. Toilet seat up when I left it down. Discovered during check at 8 p.m
.
Wednesday 22 Aug: Memory stick lost in office â sometime between 11 a.m. and 3 p.m
.
Friday 17 Aug: Books on shelf in wrong order; specifically checked before leaving this morning
.
Monday 13 Aug: Shampoo missing from bathroom cabinet. Discovered during check 8 p.m
.
Ordinary misplaced objects; things that other people would never notice, but Kerstin notices and that is why she began to write them down, to reassure herself that she wasnât completely losing her mind. At first she thought it might be Clarissa, letting herself into the flat while Kerstin was at work and
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