by Samuel Bjork
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Prologue
ONE: APRIL 2013
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
TWO
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
THREE
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
FOUR
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
FIVE
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
SIX
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
SEVEN: JUNE 2013
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
About the Author
Also by Samuel Bjork
Copyright
THE BOY IN THE
HEADLIGHTS
Samuel Bjork
Translated from the Norwegian by Charlotte Barslund
On Christmas Day 1996 a man was driving across the mountains on his way home from Oslo. He was seventy-one years old, a widower, and he had spent Christmas with his daughter. He usually loved this road, for two reasons. Firstly, he didn’t care much for the city, though it always did him good to be with younger people and their constant activity. The second reason was being surrounded by this magnificent landscape. Forests, wide expanses, mountaintops, lakes; every season was equally breathtaking. Norway at her best. True beauty as far as the eye could see. Winter had come early this year and, once the magical snow had settled, it was like driving through a quiet and enchanting postcard. Usually. The old man’s eyesight was poor and he had tried desperately to leave early in order to enjoy the drive home. In the daylight. Only this time he hadn’t left early enough. The darkness. He didn’t like it. Sitting at home in front of the fireplace was fine – then he didn’t mind at all that the world was spinning on its axis and that now it was his turn to be surrounded by night, not at all; at times it could even be cosy. He would pour himself a tipple. Snuggle up on the sofa under a blanket while the nocturnal wildlife woke up outside and the cold took a hold so strong that the thick timber walls creaked. But being out on the roads? This far from home? No, he didn’t like that. The old man slowed down and moved his face even closer to the windscreen. He had bought extra-bright driving lights for the car for emergencies like this one and he switched them on as the clouds in the sky blocked out the last of the faint moonlight. An icy, silencing darkness descended upon the landscape. The old man took a deep breath and briefly considered pulling over and sitting it out. Madness, of course. It was almost minus 20°C outside, and he was miles from any populated areas. There was only one thing for it and that was to keep going. Do the best he could. The old man was about to turn on the radio to find a station that would keep him awake when his headlights caught something which made him slam both feet against the floor.
Good heavens!
There was a creature on the road ahead.
What the …?
Fifty metres.
Twenty metres.
Ten metres.
He pressed the brake pedal frantically, feeling his heart leap into his throat, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel, the world almost imploding in front of his eyes before the car finally stopped.
The man gasped for breath.
What the hell?
A small boy was standing on the road in front of him.
He didn’t move.
His lips were blue.
And he had antlers on his head.
ONE
APRIL 2013
Chapter 1
The boy with the curly hair sat on the back thwart in the small dinghy, trying to be very quiet. He glanced furtively at his father, who had the oars, and felt flushed with happiness. He was seeing his dad again. Finally. It had been a while since the last time, since his mum had found out what had happened during that trip. In his dad’s house deep in the forest – in the mountains, practically – the house his mum called a shack. The boy had tried to explain to her that it was OK that his dad didn’t make the kind of dinners she cooked for him, and that he smoked inside and kept a gun in the living room, because it was for shooting grouse, not people, but his mum had refused to listen to him. No more visits; she had even called the police, or maybe not the police, but someone who had come to their home and spoken to him at the kitchen table and written things down in a notebook, and after that he hadn’t been allowed to see his dad. Until now.
The boy wanted to tell his dad that he had read books since his last visit. About fishing. At the library. That he had learned the names of many fish – whitefish, char, blenny, trout, salmon – and that he now knew there wouldn’t be pike in a lake like this because pike liked hiding in the reeds. There were no reeds here, just bog straight to the water’s edge, but he said nothing because he had learned not to. When you went fishing, you weren’t supposed to talk; only in a very soft voice and only if his father spoke first.
‘First trip to Svarttjønn this year,’ his father whispered, and smiled to him through his beard.
‘And it’s special every time,’ the boy whispered back, and felt once more the wonderful rush of love that flooded over him whenever his father looked at him.
The boy had tried explaining this to his mum over and over. About his dad. How much he liked being up here. The birds outside the window. The smell of the trees. That money wasn’t the only thing that mattered, that it wasn’t his dad’s fault no one wanted to buy his drawings, that it was OK to eat your dinner without washing your hands first, without a tablecloth, but she refused to listen and sometimes the words were so hard to find that in the end he had given up trying.
To be with his dad.
He raised his eyes to the clouds and hoped they would soon disappear and make way for the stars. Then the fish would come. He shifted his gaze to his father once more, towards his strong arms, which quietly pulled the oars through the almost pitch-black water, and was tempted to tell him that he, too, had been working out and would soon be able to row the boat himself, but
he said nothing. He didn’t go to the gym where his mum went – children weren’t allowed and he was only ten years old – but he had worked out at home in his room, push-ups and sit-ups practically every afternoon for almost six months now. He had studied himself in the mirror several times, but his muscles hadn’t grown very much. Never mind, at least he was trying. Next summer, perhaps. By then, the training might have made a difference. The boy with the curly hair had tried to imagine what it would be like. He would walk through the gate with his rucksack, maybe wearing one of the T-shirts the men at his mum’s gym wore, men with big arms, big muscles, who could easily row the boat, and then his dad could sit on the thwart at the back while his son pulled the oars through the water.
‘It’s not a proper fishing trip without a beer.’ His father winked at him while he reached between his legs and opened yet another of the green cans at the bottom of the boat.
The boy nodded back, although he knew this was one of the things his mum had discussed with the visitors, how his dad drank too much and that it was irresponsible. Lake Svarttjønn. The lovely, remote mountain lake which few people knew about, and now the two of them were finally out on it together and so he tried hard not to think about it any more. That his mum had said there wouldn’t be a next time. No more visits to his dad. That this might be the last one.
‘First cast?’ his father whispered, putting the oars in the boat.
‘Fly or spinner?’ the boy whispered back, knowing that this was important, although he had yet to work out why.
His father took another swig of his beer and glanced up at the clouds, then looked across the dark water.
‘What do you think?’
‘Spinner?’ the boy ventured, somewhat hesitantly at first, but he felt his cheeks tingle with happiness when his father nodded and smiled at him and opened the bait box beside him on the thwart.
‘Too dark for a fly, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes,’ the boy nodded; he looked up at the clouds and pretended for a moment that he hadn’t noticed the sky wasn’t as starry as it ought to be.
‘Here you go,’ his father said, when he had attached the colourful hook to the end of the fishing line.
It was a solemn moment when the boy took the rod his father was passing to him and, although he knew what his father would say next, he pretended he was learning something new when his father said in a low voice:
‘Keep it short so we don’t hit the bottom, OK?’
‘OK,’ the boy said, and swung the rod over the gunwale.
Hold on tight. Lift the rod. Pull back. Let go at just the right moment. The boy with the curly hair felt flushed with love once more when he saw his father’s eyes, which told him he had done everything right as the colourful hook flew through the air and hit the black water with an almost silent plop.
‘Not too much,’ his father murmured, opening another beer. ‘Easy does it.’
The boy did as his father told him and suddenly felt a strong urge to tell his mum that she was wrong. About the boat. And the lake. He wanted to be with his dad. No matter what the people with the notebooks said. Perhaps he could even move here? Feed the birds? Help his dad fix the roof? Repair the flagstones on the steps, the loose ones? He was so immersed in his thoughts of how wonderful it would be that he nearly forgot he was holding the fishing rod.
‘Bite!’
‘Eh?’
‘You have a bite!’
The boy snapped out of his reverie when he realized that the rod had started to bend. He tried to reel in the line, but he could barely move the handle.
‘It’s a big one!’ the boy burst out, completely forgetting that he was supposed to be quiet.
‘Shit,’ his father said, moving to the back thwart. ‘Your first throw – are you sure you didn’t catch something on the bank?’
‘I … don’t … think … so …’ the boy said, reeling in his catch as best he could. It was so heavy it pulled the boat closer to the shore.
‘Here it comes,’ his father said, then grinned and swung his arms over the gunwale. ‘Oh, Jesus!’ he exclaimed.
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t look, Thomas,’ his father cried out as their catch neared the boat.
‘Dad?’
‘Lie down in the bottom of the boat. Don’t look!’
He so desperately wanted to listen, but his ears weren’t working.
‘Dad?’
‘Get down, Thomas, don’t look!’
But he looked anyway.
At the girl lying in the water below them.
Her blue-and-white face.
Her open eyes.
Her floating, wet clothing; clothing completely unsuitable for being out in the forest.
‘Dad?’
‘Lie down, Thomas! For fuck’s sake.’
The little boy didn’t manage to see anything more before his father lunged across the thwart.
And pressed him against the bottom of the boat.
Chapter 2
It wasn’t true that Karoline Berg was afraid of flying. It was just an excuse. The truth was that she was scared of going anywhere at all. She preferred being at home. She liked her routines – no, she needed her routines.
‘Please come and visit me, Mum?’
‘I would love to, Vivian, but you know how I hate flying …’
‘So take the train.’
‘And be stuck in a hermetically sealed box for sixteen hours with total strangers?’
‘No, I get it, only I would so love you to see me dance.’
‘But I’ve seen you dance, Vivian. Many times.’
‘I know, but we’re not talking about Bodø Arts Centre. This is the Oslo Opera, Mum. The Opera! Did I tell you that I’ve been accepted into Alexander Ekman’s ensemble? I’ll be dancing Swan Lake. Swan Lake! How amazing is that?’
‘Vivian, that’s wonderful. Congratulations, sweetheart.’
‘You’re growing old before your time, up there all on your own, Mum. Please come to Oslo. We could go out for dinner. Have you heard of Maaemo? It’s in the Michelin Guide and everything. We could …’
Of course she wanted to see her daughter dance.
Dear God, there was nothing she wanted more.
‘I’ll see you the next time you come home. Can’t we leave it at that?’
‘Of course, Mum. Listen, I’ve got to run, we have a rehearsal. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, Vivian. Don’t worry about me.’
‘OK, Mum, speak soon.’
‘That’d be good.’
Dear God, when had it become like this?
The days just coming and going.
What had happened to her life?
The life she had dreamed of?
She was forty-two years old, but she felt like a hundred. Eating her prawn sandwich for lunch down at Sydvest every Saturday; no one ever said it out loud, but she knew they were laughing at her. Her friends. The same old friends she had always had. They had been at school together and she had had so many plans. Travelling to India. To Africa. Picking apples in Guatemala. Playing the guitar in a street in Amsterdam. The others, no, they had no plans beyond marriage, children, a job with the council or at the local supermarket – they were definitely never leaving Bodø – but now it seemed as if everyone had been round the world: everyone except her.
Vivian had travelled to Oslo to audition one spring, two years ago. Strong, lovely Vivian, who had arrived unexpectedly, practically out of nowhere. Bodø Airport, where planes flew from all over the world; NATO soldiers came here for exercises. Karoline Berg had been twenty years old and without a care in the world. He was an Englishman who left her with a big belly and no address.
Was it his fault?
Luke Moore from Leeds, the handsome pilot with the dark curls.
That you never went anywhere, Karoline?
No, you only have yourself to blame.
She lived in a small apartment a stone’s throw from the airport, but she had ne
ver been to it.
Or anywhere.
You must go to Alicante. It’s just lovely, it really is.
Said Mette.
Who had been one of her best friends once, but not any more, now she had a husband, children, a big house in Hundstad and went on holiday every summer to places far away from Bodø.
I mean, Key West. I’d heard it was great, but seriously?
Said Synnøve.
Who had struggled at school but had later managed to land a businessman from Harstad who liked yachting and investing in foreign property.
They laughed at her, yes, that was exactly what they did.
Whenever they walked through the doors of the Co-op.
Not out loud, but she could tell from their faces.
‘Would you like a receipt? Do you need a bag?’
God, how she hated that noise.
Wholemeal loaf.
Beep.
Milk.
Beep.
Four cans of Coke, special offer.
Beep.
You’re ugly.
Beep.
You’ll never make anything of yourself.
Beep.
But then, in all secrecy – oh, if only they had known! – she had called a number she had found on the Internet. She had drunk several glasses of red wine to summon up the courage. And yes, she had rung off the first few times without saying anything at all, her palms sweaty, but finally, on her third attempt, she had dared to open her mouth.
A psychologist.
Christ, more grist to the gossip mill, yet another reason to laugh at her, but she had made the call anyway.
Thank God.
Bodø Airport.
She had lived near it for almost thirty-five years but had never set foot inside its doors.
Karoline Berg pulled the big new red suitcase the last stretch to the entrance then stopped to get her breath back.
Now what was it the psychologist had said?
Baby steps.
OK, you can do this, Karoline.
She could see her reflection in the shiny sliding doors. She could almost touch them now, and yet it felt as if they were on another planet. She had bought new clothes. She had been to the hairdresser’s. Once she had finally managed to make that call, she had done everything he said. Not immediately; no, initially she had been consumed with self-loathing. As if filth were pouring from her mouth whenever she opened it. He had asked her so many personal questions. Things she had never even thought about. What was your relationship with your father? How did you and your mother get on? She had been dizzy, nauseous; distressing thoughts and feelings she hadn’t known she had kept her awake at night. But then, after several weeks, something seemed to loosen up. It was like an avalanche. Once she began to open up, she couldn’t stop.
