The wood on this side of the house was rotting beneath the yellow paint. The window glass had not been replaced. It was hard to make out the figures moving through the gloom inside.
There were two male stand-ins, placed where the brothers must have been as they addressed the children. Actors dressed casually in T-shirt and jeans with white sneakers, allowing their bodies to be moved, their limbs to be repositioned.
There was Tvist, too, his face glowing red in the light of a space heater, his long woollen coat turned up at the collar. He caught me looking, nodded a greeting. I nodded back.
Nearer the window, lit by the low sun, was a young woman, blond-haired with a pretty, open face. She turned into the room, listening to an instruction read by a court official from a large ring-bound file. She was playing Licia, then.
Funny.
Almost.
The actress turned away. I realized with another lurch that Paul Andersen was speaking to her, correcting some minor detail of Licia’s position. There he stood, with his brother, at the far end of the room. A court official crossed the floor, moved the girl a couple of paces closer to the door. The actress turned, looked questioningly towards the Andersen brothers. Paul Andersen nodded.
The actress walked out of the light and towards the centre of the room, where she joined the huddle of lawyers.
‘Cal.’
I turned. Elsa was walking across the snow towards me.
A guard stepped towards her. Elsa said, ‘I left my press card in my bag.’
The guard nodded. ‘No pictures.’
‘I have no camera,’ she replied.
The guard waved her through.
‘Should it be that easy to lie your way in?’ I said.
Elsa laughed. ‘I know.’ She stepped towards me, brought her head close to the window, looked in.
‘The actress is the stand-in for Licia,’ I said. ‘Those guys are standing in for the Andersen brothers.’
‘Huh,’ she said.
Inside the room, something seemed to be decided. A tiny, birdlike woman stepped forward. The chief judge. She nodded, spoke words that we could not hear. The actors took their positions, the young woman very close to us. A court official approached, tapped the actress very gently with his fingertips. On the back of her right shoulder, where the first bullet had struck Licia.
I looked at Elsa, saw the pain and the shock in her eyes. I reached out, took her hand.
The actress stood with her back to the door. The court official approached a second actor, tapped him twice on the forehead. The chief judge said something. The actor turned towards the judge, nodded, then joined the girl near the door. The court official approached a girl who was kneeling near the window. He tapped her once on the stomach. The girl looked up, looked at the chief judge, listened to an instruction, then lay lengthways on the floor. The court official knelt at the girl’s side, tapped her once in the back of the head.
For a moment I could see the scene. The hundred children gathered in that room, the panic as they spilled outward and away from the Andersen brothers from the doors at each side; through the plate-glass window, forcing it from the frame as they hurled themselves against it. And Licia, who had shouted the warning, who was the first out of the door, clenching her teeth against the shock of the bullet wound, running scared.
I forced my thoughts back to the people in front of me, to the actors and the court officials, and the gentle taps where the bullets had entered. The Andersens had killed four in that room. They had not yet found their rhythm, I thought grimly. Their kill rate improved as they went.
The men were led outside. They stood on the veranda, just above us, arms free, relaxed in their blue winter jackets and heavy black trousers, speaking easily with each other, and with the defence team who joined them. There was something so nondescript about them, something quiet and unexceptional. Pimples and shaving rash. If you had met them in the street, or in a bar, you would never have guessed what they were planning.
People behind the rope were beginning to notice, nudging each other, turning to watch.
Paul Andersen turned, as if relishing the audience. He spat a yellow-black gobbet of chewing tobacco on to the snow, took from his pocket a small box which he opened, formed a piece of tobacco into a small cube, fitted it to the gap between his upper lip and his gum, then put the box in his pocket.
‘You’d think at least they would cuff them,’ said Elsa.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘You’d think.’
A new stand-in, a man, stood on the lawn in front of the house. There were marks on the ground, silver crosses made with duct tape, numbered from 5 through to 16.
‘Where’s Vee?’ I said.
Elsa looked anxiously towards the empty chairs where she and Vee had been sitting. ‘She was there just now.’
Paul Andersen said something to his brother. John Andersen raised his arm, pretended to fire a shot. The men laughed.
The birdlike judge walked towards the men’s defence team. She spoke to the huddle of lawyers, though she kept eyeing the men. There was a long pause.
Elsa was gripping my arm tightly. ‘Is it bad that I want those men dead?’
‘I know what you mean,’ I said.
‘What was I expecting, right?’
The simplicity of the scene made the whole thing so much worse. The standing figures; the taps to the shoulder, to the leg, to the temple, to the right lung. And throughout it all the Andersen brothers, eyes bright and chests puffed, all fighting-cock bravado and private jokes, as they made small corrections to the positions of the shooters, of the victims.
Elsa let go of my arm. ‘Oh.’ She jumped across the rope, began running towards the chairs. I looked up, confused. There was Vee, and there was Bror, with his wild hair and his grey robes.
A voice, very close. ‘Hello, Cal Curtis.’
I looked around. It was Tvist, smiling, carrying three cups of coffee in a triangle he had made of his hands. ‘Like one? You’d be doing me a favour.’
I reached forward, took the cup nearest Tvist’s fingertips.
‘Stupid way to carry hot drinks.’ He bent his knees, put down the two remaining cups, shook spilt coffee from his right hand on to the pristine snow.
Paul Andersen’s voice, saying no, not like that, like this.
Seven paces. Not eight.
Tvist was standing now, sipping experimentally from his cup.
‘Why aren’t those men handcuffed?’ I said.
‘We don’t deal in gestures. No one here is in any danger.’
We stood watching the men. I could see that Paul Andersen remembered every step, every shot, every face that passed before his gunsights. I could feel how he savoured the memories, how he breathed in the disgust in the faces of the survivors, of the bereaved. I knew that there was in him an enjoyment of the precision of the killing. In his brother too.
‘And meanwhile …’ said Tvist, gesturing beyond the huddle to where Bror stood talking to Vee. I looked at Bror, saw how his hand rested on Vee’s back. I felt Tvist’s eyes on mine. ‘For a man who dislikes white supremacism, you’re surprisingly relaxed about its advocates. Old friends?’
‘That man is emphatically not a white supremacist.’
‘He’s clever. He hitches it to progressive causes. But he is widely quoted and shared. By white supremacists.’
I looked him square in the face. ‘Found any trace of a network?’
‘No … But has he mentioned female emancipation to you, yet? Sustainability? A general suspicion of the police?’
Bror had noticed us, could see that we were speaking about him. He smiled, raised a hand in greeting.
I said, ‘He has shown us great kindness. He listens. It’s nice to feel someone is on our side.’
Tvist made a little scoffing sound. ‘That comment about fruit flies. That’s the real Bror.’
‘He never linked it to immigration.’
‘Perhaps because he knew other people would?’
I turned back to Tvist. ‘There’s this thing you do,’ I said. ‘You sow doubt. About good people.’
‘I sow doubt?’
‘I mean, yes, Bror is odd,’ I said, ‘and yes, his sexual politics are a little off. But so what, if he’s spreading hope?’
Tvist considered this. He gave an exaggerated frown. ‘And what if he’s using you?’
Elsa was crouching down now, speaking directly to Vee, while Bror looked down upon them, smiling his benevolent smile. He gestured to one side, and there were Arno and his mother, approaching across the snow. Vee stood, held out a hand to Arno, who eyed her suspiciously. Bror said something to the boy. Arno stepped forward, still holding his large bible. Bror put his left hand on Arno’s shoulder, his right hand on Vee’s.
‘Man’s doing what he can to help,’ I said. ‘Seems unfair to write him off as a racist.’
‘Oh?’ Tvist turned to me. ‘How easy would Norwegian racism be for you to discern?’
‘Given that I’m not black?’
‘People speak more freely in their own language.’ Tvist smiled sadly, as if my question disappointed him. ‘Perhaps that is hard for an outsider to understand?’
For a moment I wanted to apologize. I valued this man. The cigarettes we shared in the morning felt like something close to friendship. But he was a master at placing blame elsewhere.
Vee was pulling her coat tight around herself, walking towards me across the snow. I waved. Vee waved back. Tvist watched her, that same sad smile playing across his lips.
‘So is it true,’ I said, ‘that you had the Andersens’ licence plate, and that you took no action?’
‘That was an abrupt and rather journalistic turn.’
‘And you don’t much like journalists?’
He considered this. ‘You feel let down. When you experience a loss of this magnitude, you look around you for someone to blame.’
‘There you go,’ I said. ‘Deflecting a question …’
He shrugged, smiled, took a slug of coffee, smiled again.
I took from my pocket the colour copy of the Post-it note.
Tvist glanced at it, handed it back. ‘How useful it must be,’ he said, ‘to have a friend in the police.’ There was no hint of warmth in his smile now.
‘That is not how I came by it,’ I said.
‘And yet there is no other possible source.’ He crouched down, picked up the last of the coffee cups. When he stood up, his dark, dark eyes were so close to mine that I could not bring them into focus. He smelled of lip balm and expensive cologne.
‘Nothing personal, Cal, but perhaps you should not be so seduced by other people’s agendas.’ And with that he was walking away.
I looked across at the Andersen brothers. The two men were staring at Bror and at Elsa. John Andersen was whispering in his brother’s ear. I could see in Elsa’s face that she sensed them looking. I could feel her unease.
‘Dad.’
Vee crossed elegantly beneath the rope in a single fluid move.
I stepped towards her. ‘Hey, Vee.’ I reached out, drew her to me.
Vee turned in my arms, looked towards her mother. Bror was smiling at Elsa, all charm, arms thrown wide, shielding her from the gazes of the Andersen brothers.
‘So, that guy Bror …’ I said to Vee.
‘Yeah, why is Mum pushing me towards him?’
‘Is she?’
Vee’s eyes narrowed. ‘What did you arrange?’
‘Why would you think we arranged something?’
‘You raised me cynical. Suddenly I’m supposed to be, “Ooh, breathing techniques”?’
‘Look how he’s helping Arno. You see that, right?’
‘I guess …’
‘Would it hurt to be a little happier?’
Vee rolled her eyes. ‘Can I please go for a walk? There’s literally nothing to do here.’
I looked at the chairs, at the ropes, at the court officials, at the armed police. What harm could it do?
‘Sure, love. Go for your walk.’
Paul and John Andersen stood where they were, watching my daughter go. They turned to each other and laughed. Then John Andersen made a gun of his fingers and sighted up on Vee.
In the depths of my soul I wanted him dead too. But I put the thought from my mind. Because we are not that kind of family and I am not that kind of man.
PART THREE
The Spectator
24
The spring months were the making of Franklin. Once a serious baby – old-mannish, heavy-jowled – with the coming of the spring he had lightened and lengthened, grown supple and strong. This June morning he had escaped the confines of his diaper, thrown it from his crib to the wooden floor beyond. He had climbed the bars that held him, lowered himself gently down, run naked through the apartment, all limbs and untamed hair.
‘Wheee!’
Vee shouted back at him. ‘Wheee!’
Franklin skidded to a stop on the kitchen floor, arms high. He swayed, became serious, fixed his gaze upon his sister.
‘Wheee?’
‘Yeah, Franklin,’ said Vee. ‘Wheee. Right, Dad?’
‘Yeah, honey,’ I said. ‘Wheee!’
‘Wheee!’ said Franklin.
We were a family again, no longer simply individuals adrift in our own grief.
These precious moments when Vee would allow herself to be young. Lately she had put aside childish things, had become so very adult.
‘Wheee!’ shouted Franklin.
‘Yeah, guys. Wheee.’ Elsa was standing in her nightgown, hair across her face, knife beside her, pressing oranges through the squeezer.
My eyes found hers. We had made it through the year. We had given each other space. Moving forward, I thought, separate, but together.
Faithful as ever.
‘What?’ she said.
We stared at each other, each surprised to find the other smiling. There was a lightness today, even in this godawful place, an ease between us that could not be denied.
A bark.
A dog loped up, stood at the garden door looking in. An Irish setter, daft-faced, russet-coated, out of breath.
Franklin waved, shouted, ‘Do’!’
Another setter joined the first. The two dogs stared in, drool spilling from their pink-black gums, panting heavily, amazed to find four pairs of eyes staring back. They dipped down, inviting Franklin to join the chase.
‘Vov!’ shouted Franklin. ‘Vov!’
The dogs barked in reply, then sprang from the garden and out to the path. Franklin stood in the doorway, watching them go. In seconds you could see them in the parkland far beyond, leaping and tumbling over each other, dizzy in the gathering heat.
Licia was on the front page of Posten today, along with the ninety-one who had fallen on Garden Island. A tiny square image in a grid of faces. A memorial, on the first day of the trial. Her image was ringed in red; a note explained that she was missing, presumed drowned.
‘Let me see that,’ said Elsa.
I handed her the paper.
‘They used the one from her Instagram,’ I said.
‘I always liked that picture.’
Five counts of attempted murder. Ninety-one counts of murder. One disputed charge of murder, which the defence moved to have struck. Because we did not have Licia’s body. And for that reason, I thought, we had hope.
Elsa handed the paper back to me. Her hand brushed mine. Something passed between us: some understanding beyond the words.
The winter had not unmade us. We had grown strong, it seemed, each in our own way. No one dared use the word closure, but at breakfast that morning there was an expectant energy. My wife; my daughter; even tiny Frank
lin, as he pushed his Tripp Trapp chair to the head of the table, climbed into place, took a banana in his right hand and squeezed till the sides split.
‘Here, little friend,’ I said. ‘Let me get that for you.’
I reached across, peeled the banana, handed it to my son.
‘Bann,’ said Franklin. ‘Banan.’
Anyone looking in through that window, I thought, would say we have it pretty good.
We stood outside the apartment building, the four of us.
Elsa laced her fingers into mine. She searched my eyes, smiling.
‘What?’ I said.
She drew away, looked at me again, smiled.
Vee stood on the tips of her toes, threw her arms around her mother’s neck.
Elsa put her bag down on the tarmac path, lifted Vee off her feet.
‘Hey,’ said Vee.
‘Still my little girl,’ said Elsa, laughing.
‘Put me down.’
The bag on the path. Stiff-sided, grey, the strap a simple wide loop.
‘New bag?’ I said.
‘Mum,’ said Vee. ‘Mum, I mean it, put me down.’
Elsa lowered Vee to the path. She turned to face me. ‘New bag. Yes.’
The eye contact: so deliberate. Calculated, almost.
‘Hope that’s OK,’ said Elsa. Money was tight, she meant, though she wouldn’t say it in front of Vee.
I looked down, caught Vee looking at us. I looked at Elsa.
Elsa’s smile: it was good, but it wasn’t quite right. Her eyes flicked to a tree further down the path, then flicked back to mine.
I said, ‘What would you call that colour?’
‘Battleship grey.’
‘I like your new bag.’ Unusual choice, I wanted to add. A Mom bag. Not really your style.
Elsa and Vee waited outside while I dropped Franklin at kindergarten. I handed him his lunchbox and his water bottle, which he dropped into a large plastic crate.
‘Hei, Franklin!’
Franklin stood on the threshold of the Red Room, looking in, unsteady. Then he ran to Leni, let himself be swept into the air, wriggled around in her arms so he was facing me and smiled.
‘Hey, Leni,’ I said.
‘Just wanted to say good luck,’ she said.
The Island Page 19
