Love and Other Lies

by Ben McPherson

  A boat cabin. Licia in a plain gray shift dress.

  She took a step away from the camera. From a shelf she took a cloth belt. She looped the belt around her waist and tied it easily at one side.

  She reached across for a black-strapped harness that lay on the map table, fit it over her shoulders. She reached for the camera. For a moment her fingers obscured the lens. The camera thunked softly into place on the harness. When her hand cleared the frame it showed Licia’s point of view.

  A queasy feeling in the back of my throat.

  Licia turned, opened the hatch, climbed the three steps out onto the deck, barefoot. The water by the floating dock was mirror-flat, the sunlight harsh and unforgiving. There were her shoes, neatly placed in the bow beside two pairs of men’s shoes. Near the stern stood two cracked leather travel bags and a rusted blue box.

  I recognized that box. Maria Krikk had hidden it from the Andersen brothers on Garden Island that day. Surely Licia could not know its significance?

  Licia’s attention was caught by something else. On the next floating dock, a little boy was running barefoot and half-naked toward a large dog that was pacing up and down, tongue out, staring into the water. The dog wore an orange life jacket. The boy wore only shorts. On other boats people were adjusting fender ropes, setting chart plotters, lowering motors into the dark water of the fjord. They did not see the boy as he ran toward the dog.

  No one but Licia was watching the boy. The camera panned left and right, as if Licia were scanning for his parents. And there they were, tiny in the frame, at the wire-mesh gate near the road, arguing in the summer heat. They had not seen their son as he ran down the concrete pontoon toward the water.

  For a moment I could hope that everything was all right. That this was the Licia Curtis I knew, that this was a video of a girl who would save a child from drowning. True heroism. My Licia.

  Somewhere out of sight a hydraulic winch rattled and whined.

  An ignition chirped.

  An engine turned twice, then died.

  The camera swung toward the boy and the dog. The dog dropped clumsily into the water, began to swim out into the fjord, buoyed by the orange life jacket. Still the small boy ran toward him.

  I could hear Licia’s breath catch.

  Licia, you know what you have to do, I thought. You know, because we taught you right from wrong.

  But the camera turned toward the center of town.

  Standing in front of Oslo town hall was a large white van. With a vertiginous lurch I realized this mooring had been chosen with care. From here the town hall almost filled the frame. Two tiny black-clad figures were walking briskly away toward a small white car.

  I thought of the men who must have chosen to place my daughter here, in this boat, so close to the epicenter of the coming explosion, and I was filled with rage.

  The white car was driving away. In that car, I guessed, were John and Paul Andersen. And on the shoreline there were people.

  Licia looked down at her watch. A counter. Seventeen seconds.

  She looked up. At all those people whose lives they were about to change. Who did not yet know.

  She was at the port side of the boat, loosening the mooring line. Compensating, I guessed, for the coming surge. The movement was practiced; natural; rehearsed. She raised her wrist, looked down at her watch. Nine seconds. Now eight.

  The camera panned around. The boy had stopped; he stood unsteadily at the water’s edge, then hunkered down, watching his dog as it swam, facing away from the town hall. He did not see the white van; he did not see his mother, running full-tilt toward him along the pontoon.

  The camera swung toward the town.

  Licia raised her watch.

  Five seconds.

  The only sound the mother’s frenzied footfalls.

  Everything else was still.

  The van disappeared.

  Was there a flash? Hard to be sure. The van was there. Then it was not.

  For a moment nothing else changed. The town hall looked peaceful, solid. Then the entire facade seemed to sway forward. It crumpled. It folded in on itself, silent in the summer sun. Bricks fell like rain. Smoke billowed from the empty space inside, curled across the piers in huge enveloping waves.

  At the end of the next dock the mother scooped her child into her arms. She had not seen the explosion. She did not yet know.

  The air tightened. The surface of the water grew opaque. The boat lifted, as Licia must have known it would when she loosened her mooring rope.

  And now the gathering roar, like a world ending. The pontoons lifted from the water. Ropes strained upward; boats pulled hard against their fenders, groaned against the metal of the mooring spars.

  Licia turned again. I saw the boy and his mother, frozen, as the blast from the bomb reverberated across the fjord. Such stress in that child’s sinews. Did my daughter feel a stab of regret at the terror she had visited upon this woman and her tiny son?

  The pontoon dropped gently back into place. The water became still.

  You could hear the sobs of the boy very clearly: it was the only sound beyond Licia Curtis’s easy breathing.

  The shock wave from the bomb had passed.

  Those men have made this girl a terrorist. And that change happened in our home, while we were looking elsewhere.

  New country.

  New son.

  New life.

  And here is Licia on the screen of my telephone, and here is the boat she will give to the men. And soon the men will be heading toward Garden Island on this boat, while the police head toward the town hall. And Licia is calm because the thought of all those people—of all those possible lives soon to be ended—because the thought of this does not trouble her. Because something fundamental in my daughter has changed. And every fiber of me grinds against every other fiber, and it is all that I can do not to scream.

  What have you done?

  And yet.

  And yet.

  This girl is my daughter.

  This day marked the end of her youth. She was fifteen.

  Was a girl.

  Is a terrorist.

  And so Alicia Curtis travels to meet the men who will murder ninety-one people, the majority of them children, two bullets at a time. She brings to them ammunition and uniforms and shoes, and on their boat she will leave her footprint.

  These men will rob my Licia of everything: all that life ahead of her; all those people not yet met; all those choices not yet made. All of that will be gone.

  Please, God, tell me there is a way back from this.

  Licia started the engine. She reached down for the mooring line at her side, unhooked it from its cleat, drew it free from the rings on the dock, coiling it neatly onboard. She dropped the boat into gear and set out down the fjord.

  My daughter did not once look back. The engine was so quiet and the water so flat that you could still hear the boy sobbing uncontrollably. There were sirens too, mingling with the sobs, though all you could see on the screen was perfection: the majestic tranquility of the fjord, the calm beauty of the islands with their pristine rows of waterfront cabins.

  Forty

  In the kitchen Elsa was sitting, nervy and out of sorts.

  I said, “I need to take Licia to the police, Elsa. It needs to be low-key and without fuss, and it needs to be now.”

  “Fi’e tlu’!” shouted Franklin.

  I looked across at my son, who was sitting, his back to the wall, an iPad propped against his legs.

  Elsa said, “Yeah, honey, fire truck. Good job.” She turned to me. “This is all too weird.”

  “There’s a connection,” I said. “Between Bror and Licia.”

  “There can’t be.”

  “He told me he cured her breathing. He told me he’s the reason she’s with us now.”

  Elsa’s eyes narrowed.

  I handed her my phone. “Watch this. In the bedroom. Away from the girls.”

  Licia’s room was immacu
late. She had removed from it everything that she did not want. There was one chair, one table, one reading light on the table, another reading light by the bed. On the wall above the bed was a small devotional picture that showed a knight’s tomb, lit by a shaft of sunlight. Beside the picture was the plain card with the verse on it, ripped after the last word:

  Be simple

  Be pure

  Be true to the faith

  Be mindful

  Be kind

  Be true

  She was sitting in the chair in her gray shift dress, a long bolt of plain gray cloth spread out before her, sewing.

  I said, “I thought your mother lent you some dresses.”

  She looked down at her gray shift. She smiled. “I like this one.”

  “Sure.” I watched her work for a while, her fingers nimble and quick. And even now—now that I knew—a part of me tried to explain away the film. Though I had seen it with my own eyes. There could be no doubt that she was the girl in the video.

  I crouched down beside her. “The police are at work today. We need to get things started.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “Your mother and I realize coming home is very hard,” I said, softening my voice. “We realize you’ve experienced things that you aren’t ready to talk about. But I need you to come with me so we can at least let the police know you’re home.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “You’re officially missing, presumed dead. We need to do this, honey.”

  Then Elsa was standing in the doorway. “There’s so much we don’t know about what you’ve experienced, Licia.” She said it calmly, but her face was colorless, the worry lines etched deep. She had seen the video. She knew.

  “Because you can’t, Mum. Because you don’t understand the praxis.”

  Elsa’s eyes met mine. That word. Bror’s word.

  I said, “We all need you to help us understand.”

  “The police are not on our side,” said Licia. “You know this.”

  “Love, these guys are human beings. I know we said we’d give you time, but there’s a process.” I looked at Elsa. Elsa nodded. “Your mother and I agree we need to get things started.”

  Licia changed back into Elsa’s white sundress. Around her waist she wore her small cloth bag on its cloth belt.

  On the train into town she sat staring about her, nervy and ill at ease. Her eyes kept falling on a group of young Somali men in the seats across the aisle. One caught her eye and smiled. Licia looked away. The men laughed and joked, said something about her in Norwegian. I don’t think there was any ill intent, but the exchange seemed to terrify her. She spent the rest of the train journey staring straight ahead, ignoring my attempts to start a conversation.

  In the park below the police station men with dark skin were grilling meat on charcoal barbecues, playing football with their sons, shirts off, laughing and shouting. Licia walked stiffly past them, eyes set on the building in front of her.

  “Hey,” I said. “What is it, Licia?”

  “How can this be happening? Right by the police station?”

  I looked around. The park was abuzz with voices: children’s voices; women’s voices, a clamor of activity.

  “But Licia, there’s nothing illegal going on here.”

  She gave me an uneasy smile.

  I wondered what change Bror could have wrought in my daughter, that she should be so afraid of the city in summertime.

  Tvist had been right: Bror was a dangerous man. How cleverly he had guided our suspicions, how easily he had nudged me toward the belief that it was Tvist who was my true enemy. He had seen my anger at a flawed system and guided it toward something darker and more confrontational, quietly and skillfully urging me to act. If he could do that to me, what could he do to the mind of my sweet child?

  A waiting area on the second floor. Blue sofas on three sides of a glass table. Beyond us, men and women sat at uniform desks, in front of uniform computers, drank coffee from uniform cups.

  “They shouldn’t be here,” said Licia. “Not on a Sunday.”

  “Things changed after the attacks, love.”

  A reaction I could not read.

  I filled two paper cups with water from the cooler, handed one to her.

  Footsteps on carpet. “Cal?” I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Edvard, tired-looking but still darkly handsome in his shirtsleeves. We hugged. Stubble on stubble.

  “I thought you were at home.”

  “My union rep got me reinstated.” He leaned close. “I’m really not your source.”

  “I know.” I turned. Licia was staring at us, unsmiling.

  “This has to be Licia.” he said, as if noticing her for the first time.

  “This is Licia.”

  “So like her mother . . .” He squeezed my shoulder, smiled the most infectious smile. “I am so fucking pleased for you all.”

  “Licia,” I said, “do you know Edvard?”

  “Why?”

  The hostility of that simple word. I looked at my daughter, shocked.

  “Hello, Licia,” said Edvard, all smiles. “Amazing that you’re back.” He offered his hand. Licia held it limply, then released it and sat down again.

  “Early days,” I whispered.

  “You don’t have to explain,” he replied.

  I took the seat beside Licia. She watched Edvard go, then turned to me. “Why did you let him touch you like that?”

  “Edvard’s a friend,” I said.

  She considered this. “Edvard looks like a homosexual. So emotional.”

  “Are you asking if Edvard is gay?”

  “Is he?”

  “He is your godfather Jo’s partner. You didn’t realize? And he’s emotional because he’s glad, Licia. For us. For you. Because you’re back from the dead.”

  “You didn’t think I was dead.”

  “We did,” I said. I took her hand in mine. Made sure she met my gaze. “By the end we all did.”

  She frowned, looked away. “You’re wrong,” she said, as if correcting a simple mistake. “They sent you proof that I was alive. Time-stamped before and after. So that you would know.”

  “Before and after what?”

  She shook her head as if shaking away a thought.

  “My God. Alicia Curtis!”

  Mikkel Hansen was standing before us in his stained suit. Strange to see him smiling; I had grown used to his hangdog look. I reached forward to shake his hand, but he bear-hugged me. “Your daughter! She’s here.” I patted him on the back and ended the embrace. He stood, dirty, in clothes that were days old, smiling the most radiant smile. I tried hard to return the smile. His pleasure was genuine. I had been wrong about this man, I thought. I had judged him very harshly.

  Licia was sitting stiffly on the blue sofa, staring studiedly ahead of her. I crouched down beside her. “Licia,” I said, “this is Mikkel Hansen. He has been working on your case for a year.”

  “Didn’t make a lot of difference,” she said.

  Hansen pretended he hadn’t heard. He held out his hand. “I’m so pleased finally to meet you, Alicia. Perhaps we could speak somewhere quieter?” He turned to me. “Tvist will be more happy than you can imagine. Everyone will.”

  Licia looked at his hand. “Why?” But she got to her feet and followed him as he led us through the office and into the interrogation room at the end.

  “Be right with you,” said Hansen. “Going to get the boss.” He disappeared. Licia and I sat in facing chairs. I leaned forward, took her hands in mine. “Licia, you know no one sent me any proof you were alive.”

  “Two videos.”

  Of course. The near-black screen. The faint profile. The in-in-and-out of the breathing as she slept.

  I laughed. “I’m an idiot.”

  Licia looked at me, not understanding.

  “We thought someone was trying to cast suspicion on your mum.”

  “Why are you laughing?” Licia looked as if she were abou
t to cry.

  “Because it’s like some horrible joke, Licia. It never once occurred to us that it could be you. Who did you say sent the videos?”

  “I didn’t.”

  A tinny chiming sound. She reached into the cloth bag that hung from her belt, produced her gray plastic phone. She looked at the screen. She frowned, typed a short reply, returned the phone to the bag.

  “Does Bror know you’re here?” I said as gently as I could.

  Her eyes flicked away. “Bror’s really just a name for something bigger.”

  “Bigger?”

  “It’s a network of helpers. Other people aren’t good at implementation because they think too much and believe too much. Bror is about the praxis.”

  “So people come to him . . .”

  “. . . to Bror . . .”

  “. . . and Bror helps them plan . . .”

  She exhaled heavily, gave a slight shake of the head. “They told me you learned nothing from the action.”

  “The action?” I felt the blood pulsing cold in my hands, felt my chest tighten.

  She took a deep breath. “I didn’t believe them.”

  “By action, you mean the murders?”

  Her phone chimed again. She ignored it.

  “How can you not see the message, Dad?”

  In her eyes burned a dangerous fire. I took her hand, chose my words with care.

  “But Licia, love, the message of the ‘action’ is murder. You can’t separate it from what those men did.”

  Her expression softened. She gave a sad little smile. “Why are you criticizing something you can’t understand?”

  “Make this right,” I said. “Tell the police what you just told me.”

  The phone chimed. Licia took it out, read something from the screen. She looked at me.

  I seized the phone from her hand.

  Time you accepted your parents’ limitations.

  “Licia,” I said. “We have to tell the police.”

  “Why are you trying to hurt us?”

  “To hurt you?” For a moment I thought I’d misheard. Then I understood.