by Samuel Bjork
Mikkel Wold was more a journalist of the old school. Notepad and paper and close to his sources; he had never written about anything or anyone he had not met in person or at least been in contact with. These days, it was mostly in the form of a press release and a quick phone call; sometimes not even a quick phone call. In terms of dress style, he sided neither with Silje nor Erik. He was halfway between the two and perhaps he was a little dull. He wondered about it sometimes. If he should make the effort to buy some smarter clothes, which would – now, what was it the magazine his sister always had on display – ‘bring out his personality’. But he never had. The clothes in his wardrobe had been there for almost ten years. It was because – he didn’t quite know how to put it – well, because a vain, self-obsessed appearance, whatever your style of choice, just didn’t fit in with a serious job like his. And he had been proved right. The killer had called him. Not one of the others.
‘You’re right,’ Erik said. ‘Let’s run the risk.’
‘Oh, please, Erik, passive-aggressive arguing is the preserve of us ladies, isn’t that right?’
‘Was I being passive aggressive just now?’
‘Oh, Jesus, give me a break.’ Silje laughed.
‘What do you think, Mikkel?’ Grung said, turning to him.
For once, the other two fell silent. Everyone wanted to know his opinion. He was loath to admit it, but mysterious caller had inadvertently done him a favour.
‘I’m not sure.’ Mikkel cleared his throat. ‘On the one hand, I know that we could run a story on it, no doubt about it.’
‘And it would be an exclusive,’ Erik interjected, rolling the stress ball along the table in front of him. ‘Just us. No one else. I say go.’
‘But on the other hand,’ Mikkel continued, ‘it would be silly to blow it on a headline or two and then lose the source. We might actually be able to help.’
There was silence around the table again.
‘Help?’ Silje said. ‘Do you mean, go to the cops?’
‘The police.’ Grung sighed. ‘This isn’t the Socialist Worker, you know. We work for Aftenposten.’
‘Does that mean we can’t call them cops?’ Silje argued back and took another bite of her apple.
‘Whatever,’ Grung said. ‘It’s something we have to make a decision about.’
‘What is?’ Erik asked.
‘If we go to the police with what we know.’
‘What good would that do?’ Erik sighed. ‘Number one: we haven’t got anything. No hard evidence. Not something the police can use – but we can, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘It feels strange to hear myself say it but, on this point, I actually agree with Erik. Not that we shouldn’t go to the cops …’ Silje nodded.
‘The police,’ Grung corrected her.
‘… but that we don’t have anything they can use. Not yet.’
‘That’s what I said.’ Erik nodded.
‘But that doesn’t mean we should blow it. If we run the story now, who knows what we’ll lose out on? And besides, hello! Three days ago? Old news?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Erik interrupted her. ‘It’s still fresh.’
‘Shhh, it’s starting,’ Grung said, turning up the volume on the TV.
It was Anette Goli who was giving the press conference today, together with Heidi Simonsen, the public prosecutor.
‘Goli and Simonsen,’ Erik said with a sigh, and started fidgeting with his stress ball again. ‘Why don’t they bring out Munch or Krüger? I fancy writing another feature on Krüger.’
‘Hah.’ Silje laughed scornfully. ‘We all know what you fancy doing to Krüger. A feature? Is that what they call it now?’
‘Hush,’ Grung said, turning up the volume even more.
Anette Goli had just welcomed everyone to the press conference when Mikkel Wold’s phone rang. The meeting room fell completely quiet.
Unknown number.
‘Let it ring twice!’
‘Answer it!’ said Erik and Silje in unison. Grung pressed the mute button on the remote control and mimed ‘Put it on speaker’ to Mikkel Wold. Mikkel sat up in his chair, cleared his throat and answered the call.
‘Yes, hello. Mikkel Wold, Aftenposten.’
Crackling noises in the handset. They couldn’t hear anyone at the other end.
‘Wold, Aftenposten,’ Mikkel said again, rather more nervous now.
Still nothing. Just hissing.
‘Is anyone there?’ Erik said impatiently.
Grung and Silje both grimaced.
‘Shut up,’ Grung mouthed across the table.
A few seconds passed. Then a grating, metallic voice could be heard.
‘We’re not alone, I gather?’
Even Erik fell quiet at this; he had also stopped messing about with his rubber ball, just sat with his eyes wide open and his mouth gaping. To a large extent, they had assumed that it must be a prank. The killer calling – what was that about? Every journalist’s dream, surely, and why should Wold be the lucky one? Now, there could be no doubt. This was real. Silje spat out the apple bite and placed it carefully on the desk.
‘No,’ Wold said. ‘You’re on speakerphone.’
‘Good heavens, what an honour,’ the metallic voice said archly. ‘Aftenposten listens to its readers, but that’s quite all right: it means more of you can take responsibility.’
‘For what?’ Mikkel Wold croaked.
‘We’ll get to that later,’ the voice said. ‘By the way, I thought you were going to the press conference. Didn’t you have a question to ask?’
‘Why did the pig drip on the floor?’ Wold said nervously.
‘Good boy, you remembered it,’ the voice said.
‘I know how to do my job. I don’t ask questions I didn’t come up with and can’t explain,’ Wold said.
He looked across to Grung, who was frantically shaking his head to signal that Wold had given the wrong answer. They had to play along with the caller, not antagonize him or her; they had agreed that in advance. There was silence at the other end.
‘A journalist with integrity,’ the voice laughed after a lengthy pause.
‘Yes,’ Mikkel said.
‘You’re very sweet,’ the voice said scornfully. ‘But everyone knows there’s no such thing as a journalist with integrity. It’s just something you like to think you have. You are aware, aren’t you, that journalists came bottom in a survey last year? About which professions we trust? You were beaten by lawyers, advertising agencies and second-hand-car salesmen. Did you not see it?’
The metallic voice laughed again, almost heartily this time. Erik Rønning shook his head and made a rude gesture at the mobile on the table. Grung glared furiously at him.
‘But that’s not why we’re here,’ the voice said icily.
‘So why are we here?’ Mikkel Wold demanded to know.
‘My, my, you are on form tonight. Did you think of that question all by yourself?’
‘Stop messing about,’ Erik burst out, unable to restrain himself any longer. ‘How do we know you’re not just some time-wasting weirdo who likes playing games?’
Grung’s face turned puce. Unable to control himself, he kicked out at Erik under the table. Another silence followed, but the voice did not go away.
‘That’s a good question,’ the voice said dryly. ‘To whom do I have the honour of speaking?’
‘Erik Rønning,’ Erik said.
‘Good heavens! Would you believe it, Erik Rønning himself! The winner of the 2011 Scoop Prize. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ Erik said.
‘How does it feel to write about the homeless before going home to Frogner to drink Chardonnay in the hot tub? You call that journalistic integrity?’
Erik was about to say something, but thought better of it.
‘But, obviously, Rønning, you’re quite right. How can you be sure that I am who I say I am? Why don’t we play a little game?’
‘What kind of game?’ Erik
cleared his throat.
‘I call it Being in the News. Want to play?’
There was total silence around the table. No one dared to say a word.
‘Why don’t I explain the rules before you make up your mind?’ the metallic voice said. ‘You lot always report the news, so I thought you might be getting a little bored. Why not be the news for once? How is that for a kick?’
‘What does it involve?’ Mikkel Wold asked.
‘You get to decide,’ the voice said.
‘What do we get to decide?’
‘Who lives and who dies.’
The four journalists stared at each other.
‘What do you mean?’
The voice laughed briefly.
‘What do you think I mean? I have yet to make up my mind. Andrea or Karoline? You get to decide. How cool is that? I’m letting you join in.’
‘Y–you can’t be serious,’ Silje said.
‘Oh, a girl as well, how nice. Who are you?’
‘S–S–Silje Olsen,’ Silje stuttered.
She was clearly intimidated by the gravity of the situation.
‘So what do you make of it all, Silje Olsen?’ the voice said.
‘What do I make of what?’
The voice laughed briefly again.
‘A woman. Do you believe it?’
‘Yes,’ Silje said tentatively.
‘You’re so naive. It’s very simple. It’s far too simple, really. I’m bored. I really am. This is boring. I had expected more of a challenge. Come on, Mikkel, did you believe it?’
‘Yes,’ Mikkel said, having paused to think about it.
‘Oh, please, do I have to be better than anyone else? A woman. A pensioner claims to have seen a woman. How about a transvestite? Did anyone think of that? How about a homeless person? Erik, that’s your area? What do you think a homeless person would do for two thousand kroner? Put on a hoodie and turn up in a street in Skullerud in the middle of the night, especially if they get a lift there and back? Would you have said yes, Erik, if you were homeless?’
‘You’re not a woman, is that what you’re telling us?’ Erik said feebly.
‘Christ Almighty, you’re so much more stupid than I had expected,’ the chilling voice said. ‘I actually had some faith in you. Never mind. OK, this is how we play. You have one minute to pick a name. Andrea or Karoline. Whoever you pick will die tonight. The other gets to live. She’ll be returned to her home within twenty-four hours. If you don’t give me a name, they both die. It makes no difference to me. One will die. One will live. You decide. Are you clear about the rules?’
‘But you can’t do this,’ Grung protested.
‘I’ll call you back in one minute. Good luck.’
‘N–n–no,’ Silje stuttered.
‘Tick-tock,’ the voice said, and ended the call.
Chapter 41
Lukas was in heaven. Or, at least, it felt like it. He had been looking forward to this visit for days: his third to the house in the forest. Lux Domus, ‘the House of Light’, or, as Pastor Simon liked to call it, Porta Caeli, ‘Heaven’s Gate’. How was it possible for anything to be so beautiful? Porta Caeli. Heaven’s Gate. His body had been tingling with excitement all day and, finally, they had arrived; he was so near to heaven he could barely contain himself, but he forced himself to sit completely still on the spindle-back chair by the window while the pastor read to the children.
God had spoken to the pastor. Told him to build this place. A new ark. Not for animals this time, but for his chosen people. The initiated. The House of Light. Heaven’s Gate. They would travel together on the Day of Judgement. No one else. Only them. Forty people, no more. There were several arks across the world, God had said to the pastor, but they had not been told where the others were. Only that they existed, that was enough; they would meet the other chosen ones in Heaven, so there was no rush. In Heaven. God’s kingdom. Where turquoise water flowed in fresh streams and everything was made of gold, on a carpet of bright, white clouds. Eternity. The chosen ones. For ever.
Lukas closed his eyes and let the pastor’s voice fill him. God’s voice, that was what it was. The children mattered most, God had said, they were pure; it was important that children were pure and clean, as innocent as they had been in their mother’s womb, not tarnished after years on earth, no: pure, they must be purified. Even if it took fire. The flames of hell. The pastor spoke with a mild and calm voice, firm like God’s own hand, hard on the outside and soft on the inside. Water was flowing inside Lukas’s head now. Clean, fresh rivers winding their way through green forests and across white fields in front of a house of gold.
‘My children, I will manifest myself in front of you to guide my people from the darkness to the light,’ the pastor said. ‘I will reveal the reality of hell, so that you can be saved and renounce your evil ways before it is too late. Your souls will be taken from your bodies, by me, the Lord Jesus Christ, and sent into Hell. I will also offer you visions of Heaven, and many other revelations.’
The pastor fell silent and gazed across the congregation. He liked doing this. Looking into everyone’s eyes. It was important. So that they could see God’s eyes behind his. Lukas opened his own eyes and smiled. His house would lie right next to the pastor’s, God himself had promised that. There were not all that many children here: only eight. The pastor had chosen them himself. Five girls and three boys, almost entirely pure; a few sessions with the pastor’s kind voice and they would be ready.
Lukas looked around to see if Rakel, the special girl, was here. The children looked very similar – that was the point: we are all equal before God – but he spotted her eventually. Blue eyes and plenty of freckles. They had had a few problems with her. Lukas could not understand why the pastor made such a fuss of one little girl. What made her so special? If she wanted to run away from the House of Light and spend eternity in Hell, then let her go. Why waste time on her? There were plenty of other good candidates in the congregation.
It was not an opinion he had voiced, obviously. The pastor always knew what was best. Why had he even had this thought to begin with? Lukas shook his head at his own idiocy and closed his eyes again. Once more, the pastor’s voice filled him. He pressed his lips together hard so as not to emit even a small sigh.
‘One night as I was praying in my house, I was visited by the Lord Jesus Christ,’ the pastor continued. ‘I had been deep in prayer for days, and suddenly I felt God come to me. His strength and glory filled the whole house. A brilliant light lit up the room around me, and I was overcome by a feeling of beauty and completeness. The light flooded in, rolling in and out like waves. It was a wondrous sight. And then the Lord started talking to me. He said: “I am your Lord Jesus Christ, and I will reveal to you how you should prepare the faithful for my return and how to punish the sinners. The forces of darkness are real and my judgement is true. My child, I will take you into Hell with the strength of my spirit and I will show you many things that I want the world to see. I will reveal myself to you many times; I will take your spirit out of your body and I will take you into Hell.” “Dear Lord,” I cried out, “what do you want me to do?” My whole being wanted to call out to Jesus in gratitude at his presence. It was the most beautiful, serene, blissful, powerful love I have ever felt. Praises of God flowed from my lips. Immediately, I wanted to devote my whole life to him, so that he could use it to save others from their sin. I knew, by his spirit, that it really was Jesus, the Son of God, who was in the room with me. “Look, my child,” Jesus said, “with my Spirit I will take you into Hell, so you can describe it, so that you can lead the lost souls out of the darkness and into the light of the Gospel of Jesus Christ!” Straight away, my soul was taken out of my body. Then I travelled with Jesus out of my house and up to Heaven.’
The pastor rose and told the children to do likewise. They formed a circle in the middle of the floor. The pastor nodded to Lukas to indicate that he should join them. Lukas rose softly from his chair and took t
wo of the children by the hand.
‘Let us pray,’ the pastor said, and bowed his head.
Soon, the small room was full of murmuring voices.
‘“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”
‘Amen,’ Lukas said again. He couldn’t help himself.
Porta Caeli, Heaven’s Gate. And now they were here to prepare for the day that would soon arrive.
The pastor opened the door and let out all the children. All except Rakel. He always kept Rakel back for an extra chat. Perhaps it was like the lamb that had got separated from the flock? Of course it was. The lost sheep and the shepherd. Yet again, Lukas felt bad for having doubted the pastor’s wisdom.
‘I think that Rakel needs a little time alone with God, and with me,’ the pastor said, and signalled to Lukas to leave the room.
Lukas nodded, smiled and left.
‘Make sure that no one comes in and disturbs us, would you, Lukas?’
‘Of course,’ Lukas said with a bow.
He closed the door softly behind him. It had started to grow dark outside now; he could see stars in the sky. He smiled broadly to himself and felt another warm rush through his veins. That was where they were going. To Heaven. He could hardly wait. He was so looking forward to it; indeed, it was hard to describe how excited he was. A huge, wonderful, constantly tingling feeling from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers and into his toes. Turquoise rivers and houses made from gold. Was that really possible? That he could be so blessed? Lukas folded his arms across his chest, still grinning from ear to ear and started humming a new hymn he had just taught himself.
Chapter 42
It was undoubtedly the longest minute in Mikkel Wold’s life. And the shortest. The shortest and the longest minute. It was as if time had stopped. And yet it was slipping away between his fingers. Time had acquired a new meaning. Time had no meaning. They spent the first five seconds just staring at one another. Mikkel looked at Silje, whose jaw had dropped and whose eyes looked like they had just seen a UFO. Silje stared desperately at Grung, a young member of the flock seeking comfort from one of the older ones, but there was no help to be found in Grung; the normally so resourceful editor stared alternately at the mobile lying on the table between them and Mikkel Wold, who was now looking at Erik Rønning.
