The Fifth Element

by Jorgen Brekke

  He stood there staring at her. Green eyes. Red hair. Green coat.

  “You’re about as naïve as Dr. House,” he said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s from a TV show.”

  “I don’t watch TV,” she said.

  * * *

  She stayed with him a couple of hours. They drank tea. That’s all. It felt right. Then she said she needed to get to work. She’d make excuses, saying that she had an unexpected dentist appointment, but she couldn’t stay away all day. She didn’t want to make any promises about meeting him again. Just said that sometimes she walked past his place in the morning. Sometimes she didn’t.

  “But you’ve walked past three days in a row,” he couldn’t help saying.

  “So maybe it’ll be a while before I’m back here again.”

  He tried to think of something to say. Felt like he was about to lose her. Just when everything was going so well.

  “Would you like to borrow my book?” he asked, pointing at the volume lying on the desk. “I finished reading it, and I think you’d like it.”

  She looked at the book.

  “The Anatomy of Melancholy by Robert Burton. That sounds like my kind of book, but…”

  “You can keep it.”

  “You can’t just give it away.”

  “Sure I can.”

  “But you don’t know if—”

  “Do you want it or not?”

  She gave him a long look.

  “Okay, but I’m just borrowing it,” she said, picking up the book. “I take walks in the evening too,” she said as she put on her green coat.

  He looked at her stomach, wanting to ask if the baby’s father was still in the picture, but he couldn’t think of the right way to say it.

  Then she left.

  He sat in his room gasping for air. He’d screwed up everything. He’d acted just like the stalker they’d joked about. “But you’ve walked past three days in a row,” he’d said. Shit. As if he was keeping track. And Gjessing’s book. Why had he given it to her? So stupid. So desperate. He really wasn’t himself. But he consoled himself with the fact that the book was old and worthless, though clearly it had value for Gjessing. He shouldn’t have given it away. Luckily she’d said it was only a loan. And the fact that she planned to return it also meant that he’d have a chance to see her again.

  * * *

  Detective Inspector Thorvald Jensen, a slightly pudgy and serious officer, had pushed him pretty hard about the alibi. But Knut had acquitted himself well. Jonas was killed around 11:00 P.M., and at that time Knut had still been in town. And he’d even come up with the name of the place where he was. If he was lucky, there would be witnesses who remembered seeing him there.

  On his way home from the police station he was feeling all right. He had a line of cocaine left from the day before. It was in a plastic bag in his pocket. So he snorted it on his way through the park by the fortress, after stopping for a beer.

  When he got home he found a dead rat on the stairs. The bloodstains on the top step indicated it had been brought there alive and then killed. It looked like the pet rat that Jonas used to carry inside his shirt. On top of the lifeless, bloody animal someone had placed a Louisville Slugger bat. A note was stuck in the doorframe. He pulled it out and read: Hope the cash collecting is going well.

  The handwriting looked like it had been done by a child.

  Knut crumpled up the note and stuck it in his pocket. Then he leaned his forehead against the door and felt his stomach clench. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs and kick at the door, but he managed to go inside before doing anything that would attract the neighbors’ attention.

  Once inside, he kicked at the teak table so hard that the empty cereal bowl flew over the bed and struck the wall on the other side of the room, where it split in half and fell to the floor. Then he leaned forward, grabbed hold of the bed frame, and gasped for air.

  A short time later he went back outside with a plastic bag from the supermarket. He picked up the rat and put it in the garbage. For a moment he considered saving it as evidence if he did decide to tell the police about everything. But no.

  He picked up the baseball bat from the steps and took it into his room. There he swung it in the air a few times before deciding on a target. Then he aimed several blows at the table he’d just kicked, smashing it to pieces. He swung the bat so hard the tiles on the tabletop shattered, and he didn’t stop until he’d made two big dents in the pine floor under the table. Fortunately, he managed to stop before he attacked the desk too. At that point he started to cry, sobbing loudly. Then he tossed aside the bat before he stumbled over to the bed and collapsed.

  The next day Gjessing came back from London.

  * * *

  “If the kitchen window weren’t broken, I might not even have noticed they’d been here.”

  Gjessing didn’t look sad. His cheeks were just a little more flushed than usual.

  Knut had asked him about his trip to London. It had almost been ruined by the snowstorms raging over all of northern Europe the past week, with lots of air traffic delays and canceled football matches. But Gjessing had been lucky, and he got to see his beloved QPR team play. He’d had a good trip and seemed really pleased until he abruptly changed the subject back to the break-in. Wasn’t it strange that he should be talking about that with his lodger? Knut wasn’t sure.

  “Nothing was stolen. Hardly anything was even touched. It’s just a little tidier than I remember. That’s all. Who breaks in to somebody’s house to tidy it up?”

  Knut had to smile. He was glad that Gjessing could at least see some humor in the situation.

  “So nothing was stolen? That’s odd,” he said, taking a big swig of the whiskey that Gjessing had bought at Heathrow, as if he knew he’d need something stronger than port when he got home.

  “Well, my TV isn’t exactly the latest model.”

  Knut looked at the old TV set. It was brown. That said a lot about it.

  Gjessing went on:

  “I don’t have all those newfangled devices that burglars are looking for. And I sold all the silver after my wife died. But they should have…” Gjessing raised his wineglass, which now held whiskey, and took a sip. Then he cleared his throat and stared at Knut.

  “They should have what?”

  “I’ve got valuables here. They may be hidden, but they’re here.”

  “The money in the mattress?”

  Knut thought asking such direct questions would make him seem less guilty, like a man who wasn’t trying to hide anything.

  Gjessing nodded, but Knut wasn’t sure whether the old man was answering his question or thinking about something else entirely. He couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that his landlord harbored suspicions about him, in spite of the good act he was putting on. Maybe because of the simple fact that he was here, that he’d knocked on Gjessing’s door to ask him about his trip to London. A week ago he would never have done that. Not without some ulterior motive. Gjessing was old, but he wasn’t stupid. He must have sensed that something was going on.

  “Have you talked to the police?” asked Knut.

  “The police?”

  “Shouldn’t you report the break-in?”

  “What good would that do?”

  “It’s customary to report a burglary. Don’t you want to get the thieves off the street?”

  “Yes, if that would be the end result. But I don’t have much faith in the police. They’d hardly pay any attention to something like this.”

  “Aren’t you afraid the thieves will come back? What about your money?”

  “The thieves—or thief—didn’t find anything valuable here in my house. Why would they come back?”

  I’m not going to get anything more out of him here, Knut thought. He’s never going to tell me where that mattress is, at least not directly. But maybe he’ll let it slip out if I make him think about something else. Maybe we need a change of scene.

/>   “Why don’t you go fishing anymore?” he asked then.

  Gjessing’s eyes lit up at the question.

  “It’s my body. I don’t dare go out in a boat alone. My balance isn’t what it used to be. My knees give me trouble. And then there’s the arthritis in my fingers. I can’t even put bait on the hook anymore.”

  “But you still know how to do it, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. It’s all up here.” Gjessing drummed his index finger against his forehead.

  “You could tell me what to do. I could be your hands for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The old man’s expression told Knut that he knew very well what he meant.

  “I could go fishing with you. You tell me what to do, and I’ll do all the work. All you have to do is sit in the boat, nice and easy. What do you say?”

  Gjessing considered the offer for a long time before speaking.

  “When?” he finally asked.

  Knut didn’t need long to consider. The deadline that Sving had set was approaching way too fast.

  “Tomorrow,” he said.

  “Bad weather,” said Gjessing. “But it’s supposed to blow over in a couple of days. Shall we say Monday?”

  “Monday, February 21? Sure, why not.”

  That’s the day before I have to pay Sving the money, Knut thought. This fishing trip better loosen up the old guy’s vocal cords, and fast.

  * * *

  The following day he stayed in bed. Slept, sweated, took large quantities of painkillers, experiencing emotions he didn’t even know he had.

  What fucking bad luck he’d had. Goddamn it.

  Why did they have to have cocaine at that party? What good was it? Why had he stolen it? And so much of it!

  A few weeks ago he wasn’t even interested in drugs. He drank. He was a happy guy. He didn’t need that kind of shit. There was something about this whole mess that he couldn’t explain. He hadn’t really had a good reason to try it. And then he’d had a crazy idea—or rather, they’d had a crazy idea. He and Jonas. And now Jonas was dead, and he was almost dead too. How did that guy with the big smile find out they were the ones who took the stuff? He probably just guessed. There were lots of people at that party, coming and going. No way to know for sure. He’d guessed. And then they’d beaten up Jonas, beaten him up too hard. So now he was the only one left for them to go after. People like Smiley Face and Sving were first and foremost businessmen. They’d rather have the money than kill someone. Jonas’s death must have been an accident. That was his only hope. The money could set him free. Give him a second chance.

  Why was all this happening at the same time he’d fallen in love? How could he even be thinking about love in the middle of everything going on? There must be something wrong with him. There was no doubt about that. But he really was in love. That didn’t happen to him often, not like this, that he could sit over a cup of tea with a woman for several hours and afterward feel like they’d made love. Had he ever felt this way before?

  Knut knew that he had to find a solution. Get the money and get out of here. And he needed to do something for Jonas. He had no idea what that might be, but he had to do it. Then something good might still come out of all this. It’s a test, he thought. It’s a fucking test.

  Then he spent a long time thinking about Guttorm Gjessing. What did he need to do to get the old guy to reveal his secret? He seemed clearheaded enough. But when it came to that mattress, he became secretive and slightly confused. Did it even exist? Yes, it had to. The money had to be somewhere. It wasn’t like Knut to have such doubts. That wasn’t like him at all. Some of his old self had to be left inside. His former optimism and hope. That insane feeling of hope.

  * * *

  The old Mercedes coughed weakly a few times before the engine finally got going. By the time they’d left the city limits behind and accelerated up the road south of Trondheim, the car was purring contentedly.

  Knut drove, with Gjessing dozing next to him in the passenger seat. It was just past seven in the morning. They’d started early, at his request. At first Gjessing had wanted to wait and see how the weather was going to be, but luckily the wind had subsided by morning.

  They didn’t talk much until they’d passed Orkdal. It was going to take them almost two hours to get to Hitra.

  “They hide out in the scree,” said Gjessing. “In the big, stony slopes down in the deep. Where we’re headed, you won’t fall into the water. If you drown there, your body will slowly sink into utter darkness, to be eaten up by pollack and ling.”

  “Not a good way to go,” Knut remarked.

  “I don’t know,” said Gjessing. “You’d be dead long before the fish started gnawing at you. Personally, I wouldn’t mind going back to nature that way. It might be the only way that this old carcass of mine could be of any use. There’s a lot of nutrition in an old man’s heart.” He laughed as if he meant what he said.

  “What does it feel like to be old?” asked Knut, genuinely interested in what Gjessing would say.

  “It’s fine. I don’t have any other choice. You can’t go back. Life is only a one-way street, you know.”

  “What you said about the four bodily fluids. Do you believe that?”

  “Hmm. I guess it’s just one of many ways to talk about human beings. When it comes right down to it, we’re really just stories.”

  “Stories?”

  “Stories, memories…”

  “I don’t think I’m following you.”

  Gjessing looked at Knut and laughed.

  “I just told you that in life you can’t go back, but actually you can. I do it every day. Everything’s inside here. Old stories. There’s nothing else left of me.” Gjessing tapped his forehead like he’d done before, back home in his living room. “We’re stories, not bodily fluids or hormones. Keep that in mind! And stories are more sinister, less reliable. In a story everything can always be turned upside down. Things shift and change.”

  * * *

  When they reached the Hitra tunnel, the traffic was backed up. The tunnel had been closed because a semi carrying farmed salmon had overturned at the lowest point inside. They had to wait almost an hour before they could drive through. It was approaching ten by the time they reached Gjessing’s boat. It was moored in a small marina near Kvenvær, a place that swarmed with Germans, who arrived in the summertime in RVs with big freezers. But right now, in the winter, all was quiet.

  Knut had grown up spending his summer vacations in boats, so he’d have no problem maneuvering Gjessing’s fifteen-foot wooden fishing boat.

  They’d found everything they’d need in the garage, so they were well equipped. Good knives, a long rope, a sturdy grapnel and chain, excellent fishing rods, a sea chart, heavy nylon cords, and an echo sounder. Gjessing’s nephew had once given it to him as a Christmas present, but the old sea wolf insisted it wasn’t necessary.

  “I’ve got the seafloor imprinted up here,” he claimed, tapping his forehead.

  Gjessing leaned against a bollard at the end of the pier to watch Knut carry all the gear from the car to the boat. When that was done, he went on board.

  There he took up position at the tiller, insisting on steering since he was the one, after all, who knew the best fishing spots. So seaman Knut Andersen Stang took his place on the bench along the side of the boat. He sat there studying the old man, whose eyes were the same color as the variegated gray of the sky overhead. Gjessing headed the boat out of the archipelago toward the open sea.

  That was when Knut suddenly felt his stomach turn over. He’d never been seasick before, but he had an urge to lean over the side to throw up.

  “My favorite spot isn’t very far out!” shouted Gjessing over the thudding of the motor and the rushing of the wind. He was sucking his pipe, which had probably gone out a few minutes ago.

  “That’s where I pulled in that huge ling. It’s on the outer edge of an underwater crevasse where a big cliff drops off at least
thirteen hundred feet.”

  No sooner had he said those words than they heard a tremendous boom behind them. It sounded like a big explosion coming from shore. Knut turned around. At first he didn’t see anything beyond the rocks. But a moment later black smoke began rising up in the sky from the area of the marina. What could that be? he wondered. He thought about Gjessing’s Mercedes. No, that was parked a good distance away. No matter what it was, it had nothing to do with them. No doubt some sort of exercise. Maybe the Home Guard.

  Knut turned back to look at Gjessing, who was still gazing out toward sea. No indication that the partly deaf old man had noticed what had happened behind them. Reassured by Gjessing’s calm expression, Knut stayed where he was, watching the dark smoke fill the sky behind them like a highly localized storm.

  They continued on for a ways, the waves getting bigger. Eventually they could see the foam from the underwater rocks, which at low tide lay just below the surface. Gjessing elegantly maneuvered past and stopped alongside the rocks, about a hundred yards away. Then he stood up abruptly, standing there on his wobbly legs, with his feet wide apart and the tiller in his hand, pointing at the anchor, which was lying in the bottom of the boat.

  “When I say the word, drop it over the side,” he said.

  Knut lifted the heavy anchor, which had to weigh at least forty pounds, and set it on the gunwale. He pretended to be checking to make sure the chain was properly attached and fastened to the winch screwed onto the boat.

  He looked at Gjessing, who was still surveying the rocks, presumably trying to find just the right position. His internal echo sounder was on the alert.

  Then, just as Gjessing turned to look at the skerries one more time, Knut got out his fishing knife and sliced through the rope just below the chain.

  Then he threw the grapnel overboard.

  Gjessing heard the splash and looked at him in horror.

  “Did I tell you to drop anchor?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. His pipe fell out of his mouth, and something that looked like sea spray appeared on his lips.

  “The rope broke,” said Knut, holding up the end.

  “Broke?!” Gjessing practically shouted. “Broke?!”