by Jo Nesbo
The animal cocked its head by way of an answer.
‘What do you think? Shall we go home tomorrow or not? You to your forest, and me to mine?’
The possum ran off, it didn’t want to be persuaded to go anywhere. It had its home here in the park, among the cars, the people and the litter bins.
In Woolloomooloo he walked past a bar. The embassy had rung. He had said he would ring back. What was Birgitta thinking? She didn’t say much. And he hadn’t asked much. She’d said nothing about her birthday, perhaps because she’d known he would come up with some idiotic idea. Go over the top. Give her a much too expensive present or say something superfluous for the sole reason that it was the last evening and deep down he felt bad because he was going. ‘What’s the point?’ she might have thought.
Like Kristin when she came back from England.
They had met on the terrace outside Frogner Kafé and Kristin had told him she would be home for two months. She was tanned and gentle and smiled her old smile over a glass of beer, and he had known exactly what he was going to say and do. It was like playing an old song on the piano you thought you’d forgotten – his head was empty, but his fingers knew their way. The two of them had got drunk, but that was before getting drunk was the be-all and end-all, so Harry could remember the rest as well. They had caught the tram to town, and Kristin had smiled her way past the queue at the Sardines club for both of them. In the night, sweaty from dancing, they had taken a taxi back up to Frogner, climbed over the fence into the lido, and on the top diving board, ten metres above the deserted park, they had shared a bottle of wine Kristin had brought in her bag, looking out over Oslo and telling each other what they wanted to be, which was always different from what they had said the previous time. Then they had held hands, run and jumped off the edge. As they fell he’d heard her shrill scream in his ears like a wonderful, out-of-control fire alarm. He had been lying on the edge of the pool laughing when she climbed up out of the water and came towards him with her dress clinging to her body.
The next morning they had woken up wrapped around each other in his bed, sweaty, hung-over and aroused, and he had opened the balcony door and returned to the bed with a swaying post-booze erection, which she had welcomed with glee. He had fucked her stupid, clever and with passion, and the sounds of children playing in the backyard had been drowned when the fire alarm went off again.
It was only afterwards that she’d posed the enigmatic question.
‘What’s the point?’
What was the point if there couldn’t be anything between them? If she was going back to England, if he was so selfish, if they were so different and would never get married, have children and build a house together? If it wasn’t going anywhere?
‘Aren’t the last twenty-four hours good enough reason in themselves?’ Harry had said. ‘What if they find a lump in your breast tomorrow, what’s the point then? If you’re in your house with your children and a black eye, hoping your husband has gone to sleep before you go to bed, what’s the point then? Are you really so sure you can capture happiness with your master plan?’
She had called him an immoral, shallow hedonist and said there was more to life than bonking.
‘I know you want all that other shit,’ Harry had said, ‘but do you need to be one step along the road to marital nirvana? When you’re in an old people’s home you’ll have forgotten the colour of the dinner service you got as a wedding present, but I swear you’ll remember the diving board and making love by the pool afterwards.’
She was the one who really should have been the bohemian of the two of them, but the last words she said as she marched out, slamming the door, was that he didn’t understand a thing and it was time he grew up.
‘What’s the point?’ Harry shouted, and a passing couple in Harmer Street turned.
Didn’t Birgitta know what the point was, either? Was she afraid of things getting out of hand because he was leaving tomorrow? Was that why she preferred to have a birthday party on the phone to Sweden? Of course he should have asked her straight out, but as before, what was the point?
Harry could feel how tired he was and knew he wasn’t going to get any sleep. He turned and went back to the bar. There were neon lights on the ceiling with dead insects inside and poker machines along the walls. He found a table by the window, waited for service and decided not to order if no one came. He just wanted to sit down.
The man came over and asked Harry what he wanted, and Harry gave the drinks menu a long, hard look before ordering a Coke. In the window he saw his double reflection, and wished Andrew could have been here now so that he had someone to discuss the case with.
Had Andrew been trying to tell him that Otto Rechtnagel had murdered Inger Holter? And, if so, why? How had Harry managed not to understand what Andrew wanted him to understand? The introduction, the cunning reports, the obvious lie about the eye-witness in Nimbin having seen White – had all of this been to divert his attention from White and make him see?
Andrew had ensured that he’d been put on the case and teamed up with a foreigner whom he reckoned he would be able to control. But why hadn’t Andrew stopped Rechtnagel himself? Had Otto and Andrew been lovers, was that why? Was Andrew the source of Otto’s heartbreak? If so, why kill Otto just as they were going to arrest him? Harry rebuffed a drunken woman who staggered to his table and wanted to sit down.
And why kill himself after the murder? Andrew could have got away with it. Or could he? The lighting engineer had seen him, Harry knew about his friendship with Otto and he didn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder.
Right, perhaps it was time for the closing credits after all. Shit.
The dogs were barking in Harry’s stomach.
Andrew had taken insane risks to catch up with Otto before Harry and the others got their hands on him. Harry’s throbbing headache had worsened, and now it felt as though someone was using his head as an anvil. In the shower of sparks behind his eyes he tried to hold on to one thought at a time, but there were new ones coming all the while, each one nudging out the last. Perhaps McCormack had been right – perhaps it had just been a hot day for a dysfunctional soul. Harry couldn’t face thinking about the alternative – that there was more. That Andrew Kensington had worse things to hide and more to escape from than occasionally enjoying a man.
A shadow fell over him, and he looked up. The waiter’s head was obscuring the light, and in the silhouette Harry thought he could see Andrew’s bluish-black tongue sticking out.
‘Anything else, sir?’
‘I see you have a drink called Black Snake . . .’
‘Jim Beam and Coke.’
The dogs went wild down below.
‘Fine. A double Black Snake without any Coke.’
35
An Old Enemy Awakes
HARRY WAS LOST. In front of him were some steps, behind him was water and more steps. The level of chaos was rising, the masts in the bay were veering from one side to the other, and he had no idea how he had ended up here. He decided to climb. ‘Onwards and upwards,’ to quote his father.
It wasn’t easy, but with the house walls as a support he struggled up the steps. Challis Avenue, a sign said, but that didn’t mean a thing to him, so he continued straight on. He tried to look at his watch, but couldn’t find it. The streets were dark and empty, so Harry presumed it was late. After ascending even more steps he reckoned that had to be the end of them and turned left into Macleay Street. He must have walked a long way, for the soles of his feet were sweaty. Or had he been running? A tear in the left knee of his trousers suggested a possible fall.
He passed some bars and restaurants, but all of them were closed. Even if it was late it must be possible to have a drink in a big city like Sydney. He walked off the pavement and flagged down a taxi with a light on the roof. It braked, then changed its mind and drove on.
Shit, do I look that bad? Harry wondered with a chuckle.
Further along the street he beg
an to meet people, he heard an increasing hubbub of voices, cars and music, and rounding the corner he suddenly recognised where he was again. Talk about luck, he was in King’s Cross! Darlinghurst Road lay before him, brash and noisy. Now all options were open. In the first bar he was refused entry, he was allowed into a little Chinese dive, and there they served him whiskey in a tall plastic glass. It was cramped and dark inside, with an unbearable racket from all the gambling machines, so he re-emerged on the street after knocking back the contents of the glass. He held onto a post watching the cars float past and trying to suppress a faint memory of having spewed on the floor of a bar earlier in the evening.
Standing there, he felt a tap on his back. He swivelled round and saw a large red mouth opening and a cavity from a missing canine.
‘I heard about Andrew. I’m sorry,’ it said. Then it chewed gum. It was Sandra.
Harry tried to say something, but his diction must have been poor, for Sandra sent him an uncomprehending look.
‘Are you free?’ he asked at length.
Sandra laughed. ‘Yes, but I don’t think you’re up to it.’
‘Is that necessary?’ Harry managed to say after some effort.
Sandra looked around. Harry caught a glimpse of a shiny suit in the shadows. Teddy Mongabi was not far away.
‘Listen, I’m working now. Perhaps you should go home and have a nap, so we can talk tomorrow.’
‘I can pay,’ Harry said, taking out his wallet.
‘Put it away!’ Sandra said, pushing his wallet back. ‘I’ll come with you and you’ll have to pay me something, but not here, OK?’
‘Let’s go to my hotel, it’s just round the corner, the Crescent Hotel,’ Harry said.
Sandra shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
On the way there they passed a bottle shop where Harry bought two bottles of Jim Beam.
The night porter at the Crescent studied Sandra from top to toe as they came into the reception area. He seemed to be on the point of saying something, but Harry beat him to it.
‘Haven’t you ever seen an undercover policewoman before?’
The night porter, a young besuited Asian, smiled tentatively.
‘Well, forget you ever saw her and give me my room key, please. We have work to do.’
Harry doubted the porter would buy his slurred pretext, but he gave Harry his key without any objections.
In the room, Harry opened the minibar and removed all the booze.
‘I’ll have this,’ Harry said, picking out the miniature bottle of Jim Beam. ‘You can have the rest.’
‘You must really like whiskey,’ Sandra said, opening a beer.
Harry looked at her and seemed confused. ‘Must I?’
‘Most people like to vary their poison. For a change, isn’t that right?’
‘Oh yes? Do you drink?’
Sandra hesitated. ‘Not really. I’m trying to cut down. I’m on a diet.’
‘Not really,’ Harry repeated. ‘So you don’t know what you are talking about. Did you see Leaving Las Vegas with Nicolas Cage?’
‘Eh?’
‘Forget it. It was supposed to be about an alkie who decided to drink himself to death. I could believe that, no sweat. The problem was that the guy drank anything. Gin, vodka, whiskey, bourbon, brandy . . . the whole shebang. Fair enough if there are no alternatives. But this guy was standing in the world’s best-stocked booze hall in Las Vegas, had loads of money and no preferences. No bloody preferences! I have never met an alkie who doesn’t care what he drinks. Once you’ve found your poison you stick to it, don’t you? He even won an Oscar.’
Harry leaned back, emptied the mini-bottle and went to open the balcony door.
‘Take a bottle from the bag and come here. I want us to sit on the balcony with a view of the town. I’ve just experienced déjà vu.’
Sandra grabbed two glasses and the bottle and sat beside him with her back to the wall.
‘Let’s forget for a moment what the bastard did when he was alive. Let’s drink a toast to Andrew Kensington.’ Harry filled their glasses.
They sat drinking in silence. Harry started laughing.
‘Take Richard Manuel, musician with the Band. He had serious problems, not just with drinking but with . . . well, life. In the end he couldn’t hack it, hanged himself in a hotel room. In his house they found two thousand bottles, all the same brand – Grand Marnier. That was all. D’you see? Fucking orange liqueur! There you have a man who had found his poison. Nicolas Cage – pah! It’s a strange universe we live in . . .’
He thrust out a hand to Sydney’s starry night sky, and they drank some more. Harry’s eyes had started to blink when Sandra placed a hand on his cheek.
‘Listen, Harry, I have to go back to work. I think you’re ready for bed.’
‘What does a whole night cost?’ Harry poured himself more whiskey.
‘I don’t think—’
‘Stay here. Let’s drink up, then we’ll do it. I promise to come quickly.’ Harry sniggered.
‘No, Harry. I’m going now.’ Sandra got up and stood with her arms crossed. Harry struggled to his feet, lost his balance and took two backward steps towards the balcony railing. Sandra caught him, he put his arms around her slender shoulders, leaned on her heavily and whispered: ‘Can’t you keep an eye on me, Sandra? Just tonight. For Andrew’s sake. What am I saying? For my sake.’
‘Teddy’ll start wondering where I—’
‘Teddy will get his money and keep his mouth shut. Please?’
Sandra paused, then sighed and said: ‘All right, but let’s get these rags off you first, Mr Holy.’
She manoeuvred him onto the bed, removed his shoes and pulled down his trousers. Miraculously, he managed to unbutton his shirt himself. Sandra’s black miniskirt was over her head in a flash. She was even thinner without clothes, her shoulders and hips jutted out, and her ribs were like a washboard beneath her small breasts. When she went to switch off the room light Harry saw that she had bruising to her back and behind her thighs. She lay beside him and stroked his hairless chest and stomach.
Sandra smelt faintly of sweat and garlic. Harry stared at the ceiling. He was amazed that in his present state he had any sense of smell at all.
‘The smell,’ he asked. ‘Is that you or the men you’ve had tonight?’
‘Both, I assume,’ Sandra replied. ‘Does it bother you?’
‘No,’ Harry answered without knowing for sure whether she meant the smell or the other men.
‘You’re pretty stewed, Harry. We don’t need to—’
‘Feel,’ Harry said, taking her hot, clammy hand and putting it between his legs.
Sandra laughed. ‘Strewth. And there was my mother telling me men who drink have only got big gobs.’
‘With me it’s vice versa,’ Harry said. ‘Booze paralyses my tongue, but inflates my dick. It’s true. I don’t know why, it’s always been like that.’
Sandra sat on him, pulled her flimsy panties to the side and drew him in without any fuss.
He watched her as she bounced up and down. She met his gaze, sent him a brief smile and looked away. It was the kind of smile you get when you’re on the tram and inadvertently stare at someone for too long.
Harry closed his eyes, listened to the rhythmic creak of the bed and thought that it wasn’t exactly true. Booze does paralyse everything. The sensitivity that made him think it would be quick, as he had promised, was gone. Sandra toiled away undaunted as Harry’s thoughts slipped out from under the sheets, out of the bed and out of the window. He travelled beneath an upside-down starry sky across the sea until he reached a white stripe of sand on the coast.
As he came lower he saw the sea crashing onto a beach, and even lower, a town he had visited before and there was a girl he knew lying on the sand. She was asleep, and he landed gently beside her so as not to wake her. Then he lay down and closed his eyes. When he awoke the sun was setting and he was alone. On the promenade behind him people he thought he reco
gnised were taking a stroll. Hadn’t some of them been in films he had seen? Some wore sunglasses and were walking tiny, emaciated dogs on a lead by the tall hotel fronts that loomed on the other side of the street.
Harry padded down to the water’s edge and was about to go into the water when he saw it was full of sea nettles. They lay on the surface stretching out long, red threads, and in the soft, jelly-like mirror reflection he could make out contours of faces. A motorboat was pounding against the sea, coming closer and closer, and suddenly Harry was awake. Sandra was shaking him.
‘There’s someone here!’ she whispered. Harry heard someone pounding on the door.
‘Bloody receptionist!’ he said, jumping up with a pillow in front of him and opening the door.
It was Birgitta.
‘Hi!’ she said, but her smile froze when she saw Harry’s tormented expression.
‘What’s the matter? Is there something wrong, Harry?’
‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘There is something wrong.’ His head was throbbing and every beat of his pulse made his mind go blank. ‘Why are you here?’
‘They didn’t ring. I waited and waited and then I rang home, but no one picked up. They probably misunderstood the time and rang while I was at work. Summer time and all that. They must have been confused by the time difference. Typical Dad.’
She spoke quickly and was obviously trying to act as if it were the most natural thing in the world to stand in a hotel corridor in the middle of the night, chatting about trivia with a man who evidently was not going to let her in.
They stood looking at each other.
‘Have you got someone in there?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Harry said. The slap sounded like a dry twig breaking.
‘You’re drunk!’ she said. Tears were in her eyes.
‘Listen, Birgitta—’
She shoved him hard and sent him flying backwards into the room, and followed him in. Sandra already had her miniskirt in place; she was sitting on the bed trying to put on her shoes. Birgitta doubled up as if she had sudden abdominal pains.
