Love and Other Lies

by Ben McPherson

“So perhaps you follow your wife around? Like a policeman, only jealous?” He laughed a mirthless laugh. “I apologize for joking. This is your job, no?”

  “Joke away,” I said. “If that’s what it takes.”

  He sniffed hard. “And now you google me and you follow me to my place of work. And here am I, working hard flying my air ambulance—I’m joking again, of course, because I am grounded pending psychological assessment. Which is routine, but also sounds serious, no? The helicopter pilot who must not fly?”

  I said nothing.

  “Hm. So I came to see your Elsa because your daughter came to see me. This I thought was not good, because I knew who she was. Everybody googles everybody now, yes? And she knew who I was, and that I also fly for television stations, and she knew I was flying for TVZ on the day of the killings.”

  He looked to check that I had caught his point.

  “I imagine you saw some very bad things,” I said.

  “All those children, you know?” He brought his hand toward his face. “These are scenes you never forget. My colleague Mikal was filming that day, watching everything, very close. He did not cope with this so well. He assembled his family shotgun. His daughter found him at the kitchen table . . .” Pavel’s voice trailed off. He pressed his thumb and forefinger against his brow, then forced his hand down on to his lap. “He was a friend, you know.”

  He smiled and nodded. I found myself smiling too. The strange kinship of people who have known bereavement. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, because I understood Pavel Lisowski’s sadness.

  He nodded and looked away. He said, “Viktoria remembered a girl down by the water, filmed from our news chopper. She thought that it might have been her sister. Alicia, yes? She asked me if our helicopter made it more likely that her sister was killed.”

  I said nothing. I could think only of the kingfisher-blue sundress, of Licia lying alone and undiscovered, of Vee setting out to find her in our little red speedboat.

  “I told Viktoria . . .” I saw Pavel swallow hard. He faced me, looked me straight in the eye. “I told Viktoria that I was not sure; that we might have made the situation worse; that I knew we attracted the attention of these men. Because many of those children were murdered shortly after we filmed their . . . predicament . . . I understand what this means now, that by being at Garden Island we made a bad situation worse. In the heat of the moment I did not understand this. I thought we were bringing people the truth.”

  “Okay, Pavel,” I said. “I appreciate your honesty.”

  I could hear the bitterness in my words, could feel tears forming at the edges of my eyes, could see my vision begin to cloud.

  “Please understand that I did not know the consequences of our presence . . . Once we realized, we stopped filming . . . I told your wife this too.” His mouth was open; his shoulders were shaking. I was afraid that this man would cry, afraid that I would not know how to comfort him. I could think of nothing to do; I took a slug of coffee.

  He leaned forward. “It is not my intention to exploit your empathy. I hope you and your wife do not think I am asking for your forgiveness.”

  “Forget forgiveness,” I said. “Do you have the footage your colleague Mikal shot?”

  He was looking at me appraisingly. “Yes.”

  “And does it show a girl in a kingfisher-blue dress?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I would like to see it.”

  “It shows things no father should see.”

  “Nevertheless . . .”

  “Cal, this will not bring you peace.”

  I felt anger spike in me all over again. “Who are you to judge what will bring me peace, Pavel? You come to us to unburden yourself, to tell Elsa that you contributed to our daughter’s death.”

  “Please,” he was saying.

  “Maybe you’re worried that we could sue you, so you’re trying to head that off? Is that what you were doing with my wife yesterday? Establishing your good-guy credentials with the woman? Because you need to know that Elsa is attuned to lying. She can spot it where other people can’t.”

  A stricken look on his face. “It is not my intention to add to your burden.”

  “Then tell me this. Do you have proof that my daughter is dead?”

  “No.”

  A moment of terrifying hope. “Do you have evidence that she’s alive?”

  “I have evidence of a timeline.”

  “Which you won’t show us.” The hope began to leach away.

  “My colleague Mikal: I cannot risk that this might happen with other people.”

  “So you came to Elsa offering exactly what?” I knew I was being harsh, but I could not escape the feeling that he was trying to play me.

  “I need you to know: We tried to land the helicopter. Two times. Each time these men shot at us. When we tried to land to pick up your daughter there were bullets striking the fuselage. We had to take off quickly.” There was a pleading note in his voice.

  “So to summarize, Pavel: You tried to do the right thing on the day of the attacks. It didn’t work out. Your presence made things worse. Lots of children died.” I could see the hurt in his eyes, but I couldn’t stop myself. “We need to know the truth. Show us what happened. You know you have a moral responsibility to us now.”

  “It is not in my gift.”

  “Not in your gift?” I laughed. “I can see you’re kind of trying to do the right thing, Pavel. You gave the footage to the police, right? But you have to follow through. You have to show it to us.” I was on my feet now, heading for the door.

  He was in front of me—I wasn’t sure how—blocking my path.

  “The police,” he said. “They specifically asked me not to share this material with you.”

  “Specifically with me?”

  “You. Your wife.”

  “They mentioned us by name?”

  “They’re clever, and it’s all implication, but it was clear they were talking about you.”

  “Because—let me guess—your footage doesn’t show the police in the greatest of lights?”

  “I will try to help you in other ways. This is a complicated situation.”

  “No, Pavel, this is simple. If the police had done their jobs, my daughter would still be here. If you cared about the truth, you would be showing me what you have.”

  “It was never—”

  “—your intention. I know. Find someone else to absolve you of your sins.”

  That night I called my brother.

  “People aren’t telling me the truth, Dan.”

  I was a little drunk. He could hear it down the line.

  “Who isn’t telling you the truth, Cal?” That slight undertone of concern.

  “The police. Elsa. Everyone.”

  “Elsa lied to you? Wow . . .”

  “It wasn’t an actual lie. Anyway, I want a press pass. For the trial.”

  “A press pass isn’t going to fix your marriage, Cal. Could do the very opposite.” He said it very gently, a smile in his voice. Always the older brother . . .

  “You know what? Forget what I said about Elsa. Delete it from your brain. But, Dan, you liked what I did on the day of the attacks. And we need to keep Licia’s name alive.”

  “I know,” he said softly.

  “Plus I have a source. Two, maybe.”

  He laughed. “Are you pitching for a job?”

  “Would that be completely ridiculous?”

  “You realize that people won’t start telling you the truth just because you’re a journalist? I have a world of people lying to me too. Who’s your source?”

  “One was flying a helicopter on the day of the attacks. He has footage. The other’s in the police. Dan, there’s a story here that isn’t being told. The authorities are holding something back.”

  “You’re saying there’s a conspiracy?”

  “I realize that sounds extreme. Maybe, though.”

  I could hear my brother sucking the air in across his t
eeth.

  “I should go,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “Wait.” He exhaled heavily. “Cal, did you ever sit in on a murder trial?”

  “No.”

  “Point one: Murder trials are shitty. They do not provide closure—”

  “And I get that—”

  “—and point two: These guys had plenty of time to take their own lives. When they ran out of bullets they sat and waited for the tactical unit to arrive. That means the plan was not to die. This isn’t a school shooting. It’s not a suicide bombing.”

  “I do realize the difference.”

  “I don’t think you do. Cal, for men like this the trial is a key part of the exploitation phase. It’s a way of getting their message out. Amplifying the signal. And that will open wounds you didn’t know you had . . . Are you ready to sit and watch as they talk about Licia as collateral damage in the war of the races? Cal, for the sake of your mental health, for the sake of your marriage, for the sake of your relationship with your kids—”

  I knew he was right, but I could feel the anger rising in me. “My mental health is okay, Dan. So’s the other stuff. But thank you for your time.”

  “—and if you let me finish, you will hear that I’m not telling you no.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “I look at the news value of this and—what do you know?—kind of a tantalizing offer.”

  For a moment I thought I might cry. To be listened to . . . for Licia’s story to be heard . . .

  “Dan,” I said. “Thank you. Thank you. From the bottom of my fucking heart—”

  He cut me off. “I mean, let’s forget for a moment your conspiracy theory—”

  “This is more than a theory. The police knew who these men were, and they did nothing. They could have prevented the attack. They had the license plate. And they have footage that proves something, which we’re forbidden to see—”

  “So let’s say you do have a source—”

  “Let’s say I have two sources—”

  “And if you can show your conspiracy, great. But you’re not an investigative reporter, so I want you to do what I know you do well. Which is the family stuff. You cover the trial and you tell us what it feels like. You have instincts, and your instincts are good. Tell us the story of your family, and people will listen.”

  “That’s not the story I want to tell.”

  “Cal,” he said. “Take the offer on the table.”

  Twenty-Three

  The late snow caught us off guard. Huge flakes were falling fast through the still air, obscuring the island. They settled on the oil-black surface of the fjord, held there for a moment, and were gone. Below our feet the engine thrummed. Chain links clanked in across the bow. A heavy rope was thrown from shore onto the deck and the ferry rocked forward into gear. People stumbled, reached out with their hands, but kept their footing.

  It was the first Monday of May. An official court day, though the trial would not begin for six weeks. The judges were here to examine each of the ninety-one murders, following the timeline minute by minute. The survivors and the families of the bereaved were here to watch the reconstruction. The whole thing would be broadcast on television and live-streamed on the Internet. Here, perhaps, was what the prime minister meant by more democracy, more openness.

  Around us were the families of the dead. Eighty people, I guessed, and not a one speaking. They huddled into their jackets, pulled their hats low across their faces. Strange what ten months of loss can do to a face: the bagging of the flesh below the eyes, the lining of the forehead and the cheeks, the graying of the skin. Dark faces. Light faces. All clouded with the same pain, etched in hard lines around their mouths. You could see in their eyes the awful resignation. Their son, their daughter, their brother, their sister: never coming back.

  Toward the aft I saw Arno and his mother. Mari noticed me looking and smiled. Arno looked away. In his hand he was carrying something heavy. A book, bound in leather.

  As the ferry began to near the other side, I saw a cameraman on the dock lining up on Vee. I jumped ashore, put myself between him and my daughter, pushed him gently away as I helped Vee and Elsa ashore.

  At the top of the rise volunteers were handing out blankets and warm soup. There were a hundred and eighty of us, all told. Maybe two hundred. They lined us up on red plastic chairs arranged in rows behind heavy ropes that kept us from the main house.

  Elsa leaned close to me. “They won’t let us into the buildings,” she said. “We have to follow things from out here.”

  “You serious?”

  “Yeah,” said Vee. “Which you have to admit is fucked up.”

  “Hush.”

  Vee turned toward the man who had spoken. “Don’t hush me.”

  Near us sat a couple with the saddest eyes you can imagine. I tried to make some kind of contact first with the woman, then with the man, but before I could nod they turned to each other, speaking quiet words into each other’s ears, glancing toward us as they spoke. Then they both turned full on to us; they stared at Vee with an expression very much like reproach.

  She’s fifteen, I wanted to say. Please understand . . .

  “I’ll stay here with Vee,” said Elsa. “Go use your press card.”

  “Yeah, Mum,” said Vee, looking toward the couple. “Chaperone the frick out of me. Because apparently I shouldn’t say what everyone else is thinking.”

  “Vee,” I said very quietly. “Shh.”

  I put my press card on a lanyard around my neck, walked slowly over toward the house. When I looked back, the man with the reproachful eyes was staring at me.

  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-shirts 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 woolen 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. The actual Paul Andersen, the murderer of children, 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 toward the Andersen brothers. Paul Andersen nodded.

  The actress walked out of the light and toward the center of the room, where she joined the huddle of lawyers.

  “Cal.”

  I turned. Elsa was walking across the snow toward me.

  A guard stepped toward 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 toward 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.<
br />
  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 toward 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 defense 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 onto the snow, took from his pocket a small box, which he opened. From it he formed a piece of tobacco into a small cube, fit 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.”