I was almost at Elsa’s side.
A policeman stepped in front of me. ‘You will stay where you are.’
‘Dad, we have to …’
‘Viktoria.’ Tvist stepped forwards, tried to guide Vee away. Again she broke free.
‘All of you,’ shouted a uniformed policeman. ‘Stay where you are.’
Paul Andersen took another step towards Elsa.
‘Drop your gun.’ The policewoman again.
Only now did I see the blood pooling red on Paul Andersen’s white shirt. Only now did I see the tremoring of his hand as he reached to staunch the flow. Only now did I see the smoke that wisped from the barrel of Elsa’s Glock 17.
The pistol slid from her fingers. It glanced off her leg, landed on the path nearby.
Paul Andersen fell forwards, crumpled to the ground.
I saw fear now in his brother John, saw in his eye the moment of realization. I felt a horrifying thrill of pleasure. Good, I thought.
Now you know.
Then Elsa was on the ground. The policewoman had a knee in the small of Elsa’s back. Her rifle was pointed directly at Elsa’s head. A second policewoman was reaching to cuff her hands.
‘Dad,’ said Vee. ‘Dad, we have to help her.’
‘Stay where you are, Vee.’
‘Are you just going to let them—’
Elsa had her head raised. ‘Cal.’
I looked at the rifle; I looked at the pistol on the ground; I looked at my wife.
The policewoman with the rifle saw me. ‘No closer,’ she said.
I stayed where I was.
‘I want you to know that I do love you,’ said Elsa, her voice loud and clear. ‘I want you to promise me that you know that.’
‘Cal Curtis,’ said Bror’s voice. I ignored it.
‘Sir,’ said the policewoman. ‘Sir, step away.’
I stood, staring at my wife.
‘Cal Curtis.’
I turned, saw Bror at the side of the path, his face twisted, full of wrath.
‘Cal Curtis!’ he shouted. ‘Øvre Øvrebøhaugen 37, Oslo, Norway.’
Vee at my side, grasping my hand. ‘What’s he doing, Dad?’
Two officers stepped forward, stood one on each side of Bror. I looked around, saw the look on Tvist’s face. He understood full well the danger of this man.
Vee turned to me. ‘He’s threatening us, isn’t he?’ She turned to face Bror. ‘You’re fucking threatening our family.’
Bror heard her speak. He turned, looked her full in the face.
‘Viktoria Steen Curtis,’ he shouted. ‘At the same address.’
Issuing an instruction, I realized.
‘Franklin Steen Curtis. Same address.’
He was summoning the murder of my children. Calling on his admirers to make good on his threat.
I looked towards the food tent. Every face was turned towards Bror. It only took a sympathizer amongst the staff …
‘The cameras,’ said Vee. ‘The fucking cameras, Dad.’ I heard the panic in her voice. I turned.
The TV crews. Two cameras, one pointed at Elsa where she lay on the ground, the other at Bror. I began to walk towards them.
‘This way.’ A policewoman at my side, trying to lead me away.
‘Daniel Curtis.’ Bror was screaming at the top of his lungs now. ‘Spring Bank Drive 52, Washington DC, United States of America. Daisy Curtis and Lyndon Curtis, also of Spring Bank Drive 52.’
‘This way,’ repeated the policewoman.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘You need to seize the cameras.’
‘No, Mr Curtis, you need to come.’
‘Douglas and May Curtis. Inverleithen Terrace 43, Edinburgh, Scotland.’
Bror was a powerful man. The police were struggling to drag him down the path.
‘Henrik Steen, Lundeveien 8, Drøbak, Norway.’
Tvist’s voice. ‘Come away, Cal. Now.’
The cameraman filming, saying nothing.
I stepped towards Tvist. ‘You need to seize this material. If it goes out, it’s going to imperil my family.’
Tvist turned to the camera team. ‘Stop filming.’
The cameraman near me put down his camera.
‘Begge to,’ said Tvist. Both of you.
Tvist looked at the second cameraman. You could feel the man’s reluctance; the instinct for a story trilling in his blood. Tvist nodded towards a policewoman, who stepped forwards. The second cameraman put down his camera.
‘Cal,’ said Tvist, ‘we are going to take you to a place of safety.’
People were turning. I looked down at the Glock, lying a metre or so from me. I crouched beside it.
‘Whatever the provocation,’ said Tvist, very quietly, ‘don’t.’
I sensed fingers tightening on triggers. I looked up, into the faces of armed police, their rifles shouldered, ready. I ignored the rifles. Something had broken in me, I thought. This last year had been too much. I looked down at the pistol on the grass.
Vee was at my side.
‘Dad,’ she said softly.
That look on my daughter’s face: so adult. She crouched down beside me, brought her face very close to mine.
‘Dad, stand up.’
‘All right.’ I stood up.
I looked about me. All around me rifles were shouldered. I raised my hands.
‘Step away. It’s OK.’ Tvist’s voice. I turned, met his gaze, nodded.
Vee was fast. She reached down, picked up the pistol. She stood.
I saw rifles shouldered again.
‘Vee,’ I said. ‘No.’
‘What are they going to do, Dad?’ She turned towards the police. ‘Are you guys even allowed to shoot me?’
She began to walk, the pistol in her right hand, her intention clear.
‘Stop this girl,’ shouted John Andersen. ‘You must stop her.’
The police were looking to Tvist for guidance.
‘Viktoria,’ said Tvist. ‘Viktoria, you must stay where you are.’
Vee walked briskly past Tvist, past John Andersen.
Everything else was still. Every eye was on my daughter. She stopped a pace in front of Bror, a little to the side. She began to raise the pistol.
I looked about me in terror, waiting for the rifle shot that would end this.
Vee paused, the gun at Bror’s chest, as if she too was surprised by her action. The gun swayed in her hands, and for a moment I thought this was no more than a child’s game.
Bror smiled a lacerating smile.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think so.’ He turned to the nearest police officer, held his hands together at the wrists. ‘Skal vi?’
Fingers hovered on triggers. All eyes on Bror.
‘Shall we?’ said Bror, this time in English.
‘No,’ said Vee, her voice clear and level. Her stance became confident. Her gun was steady now, level with the man’s heart. Other hands reached for Vee, ready to pull her clear. But she tightened her grip on the gun. ‘Back off,’ she said, and they did.
‘Vee,’ I said, ‘you aren’t going to do this.’
‘Look what he’s done to us,’ she said.
‘Viktoria,’ said Bror, trying to force calm into his words. ‘Viktoria, this can be undone.’
‘No it can’t,’ she said simply.
‘I hereby cancel the order.’
Vee looked him in the eye. ‘You can’t.’
Still I waited for the rifle shot, but no one here was willing to shoot a child.
The past year had changed my daughter. There was a hardness to her that was not there before.
‘Vee,’ I said, ‘this is not who we are.’
‘It is now.’ She stiffened her stance.
‘Please, Viktoria,’ said Bror, and I heard his rising panic. ‘Listen to your father.’
Imagine a girl.
Imagine a girl pushed to breaking point, in a world where kindness and forgiveness no longer make sense. This girl stands in front of a man, now, who has
promised her a better life. He has approached her many times, and each time she has resisted a little less.
Her father was seduced easily into this man’s world, with coffee and with clever talk. But it began long ago with her sister Licia.
Now Licia is gone.
Now they know who this man is.
This man has ordered her death, and the death of her parents, and the death of her tiny baby brother. That is the reality of Bror. And she sees in Bror’s eyes his fear, and she understands now that he is mortal, and that he has no greater truth to offer. He has nothing beyond breathing exercises and a belief in praxis, whatever praxis really means.
In her hands the Glock feels balanced and cool and she wishes the moment did not have to end, wishes Bror could feel this fear for all eternity, though she knows that he will not, because the moment must end. She must put down the gun, or she must fire it. If she puts down the gun this man will go to jail, and from his cell he will continue to amplify his signal and glorify the attacks. And if she fires it, what then? She will not be jailed, but it will break her family apart.
She breathes deeply. She is her mother’s daughter. She believes very strongly in revenge. And on Garden Island all is still, and every face is watching this girl now.
Killer or victim, she thinks. Which is it to be?
Above the clearing mayflies danced in the heavy summer air.
‘Vee,’ I said. ‘Time to go home now.’
I reached to take the gun from my daughter’s hand but she sidestepped me and raised it to Bror’s temple.
‘No,’ she said quietly.
Bror inclined his head as if he were asking a question.
On Garden Island in that instant nothing breathed.
Vee pulled the trigger, twice. And when Bror fell to the ground my daughter stood over the dying man and before she could be stopped she pulled the trigger twice more.
Acknowledgements
Many talented people worked on this book. I’m grateful to my brilliant and exacting editor Julia Wisdom, and to her team at HarperCollins. Cecilie Lilaas-Skari of the Oslo Police has advised me on practice and procedures; any exaggerations are mine alone. Peder Anker and Tor Øverbø helped form the idea of the novel. Stein and Signe Lundgren showed what it means to live by the Scandinavian ideals of fairness, openness and freedom; so too did Line Michelsen. Thorgeir Kolshus, Leslie Gray-O’Neil and Eleanor Moran read and advised me on drafts. James Bradley and Tim Lott encouraged me when the writing got tough. I especially want to mention Kathryn Cheshire and Anne O’Brien, who each brought a forensic eye and an agile mind to the text. My agent Judith Murray has been stern when she needed to be, and unfailingly supportive and kind. And I couldn’t have written this book without Charlotte Lundgren, who has done so many of these things, and more. She can’t possibly know how grateful I am.
Keep Reading …
If you enjoyed The Island, make sure you’ve read McPherson’s previous gripping thriller A Line of Blood
You find your neighbour dead in his bath.
Your son is with you. He sees everything.
You discover your wife has been in the man’s house.
It seems she knew him.
Now the police need to speak to you.
One night turns Alex Mercer’s life upside down. He loves his family and he wants to protect them, but there is too much he doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know how the cracks in his and Millicent’s marriage have affected their son, Max. Or how Millicent’s bracelet came to be under the neighbour’s bed. He doesn’t know how to be a father to Max when his own world is shattering into pieces.
Then the murder investigation begins …
Click here to buy A Line of Blood
About the Author
Ben McPherson is a television producer, director, and writer. He studied Modern Languages at King’s College, Cambridge, and worked for many years in film and television production. From 1998 to 2007 he was a director and producer for the BBC.
Ben now lives in Oslo with his wife and their two sons.
/BenMcPhersonAuthor
@TheBenMcPherson
Also by Ben McPherson
A Line of Blood
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
A 75, Sector 57
Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201 301, India
www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
The Island Page 35
