The grate on the air vent had fallen on the floor.

That had happened a couple of times before. Really, this bathroom would have to be upgraded soon. It was at least twenty years old: she could read the date on the window trim.

Maggi put the metal grate in the basin, finished off and returned the detergents to the cupboard. Taking hold of the grate, she stepped up on to the toilet seat and prepared to do something she’d had to do from time to time before.

Attach the damned grate.

She saw that there was something inside it.

There shouldn’t be anything in the air vent. Once a month, she vacuumed both the grate and the round pipe inside, as far as she could reach before it curved upwards. In the past, when Hege was younger, she had hidden her diary in here. Maggi had always put it back after cleaning, and never said a word. Nine days ago, it had been clean as a whistle in there.

And empty.

Without a moment’s thought, she thrust her arm in and took out the offending object.

It was a tube. It looked like an ointment. Or cream. It was practically all used up. Maggi could not fathom how it had ended up there. The writing on the contents list was so tiny that she had to screw up her eyes.

She understood immediately. Clostebol. The name of the active ingredient had been mentioned in both the Polish and Norwegian newspapers.

Her mind felt blank, and she pushed the tube into her apron pocket before clamping the grate in place and hopping down from the toilet seat.

She was so dizzy she had to put her hands flat on the wall.

She tried to think clearly, but the incomprehensible discovery made that impossible. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and a sour taste forced its way up through her gullet, making her feel queasy.

She heard footsteps in the living room. Not the skipping, fast, running dance of before. One week ago, life had changed dramatically for Hege, and therefore also for Maggi. She rushed from the bathroom, through the bedroom and into the hallway, and had just managed to reach the kitchen before Hege entered from the living room.

The girl looked at her. Her training session had painted red half-moons on her cheekbones.

‘Thanks,’ she said quietly.

‘For what?’

‘For cleaning the bathroom.’

Maggi forced a smile.

‘For being here,’ Hege said, heading for the fridge.

She opened the door, picked out a bottle of water. Snapped off the lid and drank.

‘I’m the one who should say thank you,’ Maggi answered so softly that she did not know whether Hege heard her.

At any rate she had no idea what to do with the tube that was burning a hole in the pocket of the well-worn apron Hege had sewn at school when she was in Primary Seven.

THE VIEWING

This room was filled with love, and Selma felt ill at ease.