by Thomas Enger
‘But we’re going to have to kill you anyway.’
It had been a good death, a simple one. It was how they should have killed Henning Juul as well. But hopefully there would be more opportunities.
He should really have stayed hidden away in the forest, now that he was wanted all over Norway, but they’d planned the operation for so long, and as he was in charge, he had to be there. It wasn’t, however, such a good idea to be seen on the streets, but it was helpful to have Flurim Ahmetaj’s friend working with them now. He’d been quick to say yes when they needed someone to break into Nora Klemetsen’s flat the day before.
Redzepi kept his eyes on the monitor. The funeral was over. Flurim Ahmetaj turned on one of the wireless cameras they’d installed in a tree nearby, and he saw a man in a digger filling the grave.
Their plan had failed.
The carpenter hadn’t shown up to say goodbye to his mother.
Daddy Longlegs would be furious.
Again.
Flurim Ahmetaj folded his hands behind his head. His friend was sitting beside him, his thigh muscles twitching, ready to jump out if necessary. Jeton Pocoli was hunched forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. The van reeked of sweat.
‘How long do we have to sit here?’ Pocoli asked, and looked at his watch.
‘A bit longer,’ Redzepi said.
‘How long is a bit longer? I mean, he’s obviously not coming.’
Redzepi sent him a dark look.
‘We’ll sit here until I say we’re done sitting here. You got a problem with that?’
‘Yeah, I don’t like wasting time.’
‘Who says that…?’
Ahmetaj straightened up. Tapped his finger on the screen in front of him.
Redzepi leaned closer.
And smiled.
Blystad stopped at a petrol station just outside Oslo to fill the tank. The wind was sharp on his face, but he couldn’t care less.
It felt wrong to leave without having seen her, without a proper farewell. He hadn’t dared earlier, afraid that someone would be waiting for him. But he’d bought flowers – roses, his mother’s favourite – and he’d got himself a new suit and shoes.
When he’d filled the tank, he sat in the car with his hands on the steering wheel.
You coward, he said to himself. Your entire life is a joke. The thought of her lying there in the ground, alone, without him even saying goodbye, was like a scratched record in the background of his mind.
He started the engine and turned around.
Accelerated.
Twenty minutes later he was back at the cemetery. The sky was still grey and heavy, but it wasn’t raining. There were no cars left in the car park. No people around.
Blystad turned off the engine and took a deep breath, waited for a minute or so before he opened the door and got out. His new shoes were uncomfortable, like he had a plaster cast on his feet, and they clacked loudly as he walked on the asphalt and then crunched when it changed to gravel.
There was only an old man left in the cemetery, and it was not hard to see where she lay. Blystad walked over the grass between the gravestones, not looking at the names, the flowers, candles and lanterns round about.
He stopped in front of the grave, a mound of earth and a cross bearing the name Vanja Kvalheim. Blystad was glad that the gravediggers had already filled the grave; he couldn’t have coped with seeing the coffin. The flowers that were to be buried with her.
Blysted had expected it to hurt, but the pain was sharper and deeper than he’d imagined. His dry throat swelled and he found it hard to swallow. He sobbed, then looked around surreptitiously.
There was no one else there.
He approached the mound of earth and laid the roses by the white cross. Lowered his head and folded his hands. Somewhere in the distance a car door slammed. A chainsaw started up.
He felt like he should say something, but no words came.
Blystad didn’t know how long he stood there, but it was a long time. The earth was dark and fine. And she was lying in the dark, gone forever.
Eventually he turned and went back to the car. He had felt a need for some time, but it was stronger now, perhaps stronger than ever before.
He couldn’t, did not want to spend the night alone.
Durim Rezepi kept his eyes on the monitors, with one hand round a small, thin microphone.
‘He’s nearly there,’ he said. ‘Is there traffic around you?’
‘No,’ was Jeton Pocoli’s reply.
‘Good. Get started. You’ve got plenty of time, but make it quick all the same. And get the registration number.’
‘Got it.’
Redzepi watched the man’s heavy steps. Flurim Ahmetaj moved closer, switched to another camera that showed the carpenter from an angle that caught him face on. Suddenly the sun broke through the cloud and illuminated him. The grass around him lit up. The carpenter had one hand in his pocket. He was looking around.
There was a crackle on the communication system.
‘The package has been delivered,’ Pocoli said.
‘Good.’
‘I put a tracker on the car and his overcoat; he hadn’t taken his mobile with him, so I put one on that too.’
‘Even better. Now, move it.’
Redzepi looked back at the monitor. The man stopped in front of his mother’s grave. A pile of earth. It was tempting to kill him right there, lay him out on top, but it would be too risky. And would require an aim that none of them was capable of achieving. It was too far and the risk that there would be witnesses was high.
Redzepi jumped when the back door of the van opened. Jeton Pocoli got in and sat down, took out his earpieces.
‘Here,’ he said, and handed over a piece of paper with two letters and five numbers written on it. ‘The registration number.’
Redzepi handed the piece of paper to Ahmetaj.
‘An address would be good,’ he said, ‘in case we lose him.’
‘We won’t lose him.’
Ahmetaj took the number. Redzepi continued to watch the carpenter’s movements while he waited, and thought about Henning Juul.
They had shot him too soon.
They hadn’t waited for the prime moment.
This time they would get it right.
They would take this man out at close range. When he least expected it.
38
Given the occasion, it didn’t seem appropriate to drive fast, but the car rattled and shook all the same. Roger Blystad’s only toolbox knocked against something in the back – the nail gun, perhaps – and the noise provided a kind of companionship.
He neither knew nor cared how long the journey back to Brandbu had taken; it was as though his hands on the wheel and feet on the pedals had a will of their own. Before he knew it her house appeared in the distance, and it was only then that he really registered where he was.
As he drove into the residential area, a boy on a bike followed him with his eyes. There was house after house, rows and rows of them. Gardens, and hedge and garages with gravel driveways. Even though it was autumn, the colours around him had a summery feel. Green and fresh; in some gardens the branches on the apple trees were heavy with overripe fruit. It was a quiet afternoon.
Should he go on?
He released the brake, let the car move on until he was outside her house. He stopped. The brakes complained. Even then, Blystad still wondered if he should turn around. But he turned off the engine and got out.
No, you really shouldn’t, he said to himself. She’ll think you’re mad.
He looked up at the house.
Helene was standing in the window, looking straight at him.
Roger Blystad thought: You can’t turn back now, it’s too late. To begin with, she was clearly surprised to see him there. Then slowly a smile appeared on her lips. Even at a distance, he could see that they were soft and red. She opened the window, stuck her head out.
‘Well, hello,’ she said. ‘Where are you go
ing?’
He had no answer. He was there to see her. Her.
‘Did you take a wrong turn or something?’
‘No, I…’
She was nearly hanging out the window. And Blystad thought: just one push from behind by an ill-intended hand and she would topple out, into the bushes below. The thought, the image, made him smile.
‘Hang on, I’ll come down.’
She straightened up and closed the window. Blystad stayed where he was and looked around. Wiped his hands on his trousers. Put them in his pockets and stepped back.
Then the door opened.
Helene came out, without the Stetson this time, in wellies, tracksuit bottoms, a tunic and a jacket on top. She had her hair in a ponytail.
He took a step towards her, stopped, ran his hand through his hair. This was a bloody stupid idea, he told himself, but her smile had him captivated.
‘Wow, you’re looking smart,’ she said, as she came towards him. ‘But why did I say smart? I should perhaps have said handsome. Because you’re looking very handsome.’
She grinned.
‘Has someone died, or something?’
Blystad was about to say something, but stopped, his lips parted. She must have seen his expression, his mouth that locked, because she rushed towards him, her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my god,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…’
She stopped herself.
‘I’m always putting my foot in it,’ she said, looking at him with sympathy. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not to worry.’
She bit a nail as she gazed at him in silence for a few moments. Blystad didn’t know what to do with his hands.
‘Was it … someone close, family … or a friend…?’
‘My mum,’ Blystad said.
She opened her mouth again. ‘Oh Roger.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Sorry. That was so stupid of me.’
‘It’s fine. Really.’
Helene just stood looking at him. Blystad felt he should say something, but he couldn’t. His mind was stuck on his mother and the fact that he was somewhere he shouldn’t be. He wasn’t used to talking to people anymore.
‘Were you … close?’ she asked, after a while.
He nodded.
‘Well…’
He couldn’t sort out his words, his memories. All that he wanted to say, but couldn’t.
‘Yes, yes, we were.’
‘Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee?’
He looked around again. Saw a curtain twitch in the neighbour’s house.
‘Thank you, that would be nice,’ he replied eventually, and smiled again.
Helene smiled back, then turned around and started to walk towards to the house.
‘I’ve got some food left from lunch as well, if you’d like it.’
‘No, thanks, I’m … not hungry.’
He followed her in. Everything felt awkward. For two years, he’d run from shadow to shadow, only allowing himself minimal contact, only meeting and greeting the odd client. He knew the people at the sawmill, of course, but really only to say hello. They sometimes had a quick chat over the counter, but never anything personal.
He took off his shoes, even though she said it didn’t matter. It felt good to get them off, but his socks were a bit clammy. He hoped they wouldn’t leave a mark on the newly cleaned floor, prayed his feet didn’t smell. But all he could detect was a hint of floor soap. It reminded him of his mother. She was always cleaning, and the house was scoured from top to bottom every Friday, so she could relax over the weekend.
He went into the kitchen behind Helene.
‘Sit yourself down,’ she said.
It felt like an age since he’d sat in exactly the same place, after he’d finished replacing the timber panels on her south-facing wall.
‘I should perhaps offer you something stronger than coffee, but…’
Blystad looked up at her. Was there a subtext to her suggestion? An invitation?
‘Thanks, but no,’ he said. ‘I don’t drink much these days.’
‘I thought maybe a dram for your mum. Do you have far to go? Of course, I know you live in Brandbu.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’
There was enough coffee for two in the pot. She reached up on her toes to get a cup down from one of the top cupboards. Her tunic slid up and he caught a glimpse of her skin, her waist. In the light that shone through the kitchen window, it was the same colour as the beaches in Natal.
‘So tell me about it,’ he said.
She turned to look at him.
‘What?’
‘You said you were always putting your foot in it. Give me an example.’
She smiled teasingly, and took her time.
‘No, I don’t want to.’
‘Please. I could do with a laugh.’
She poured the coffee. Shook her head, still smiling, and leaned back against the counter. It looked like she was weighing up the pros and cons.
‘I was at one of those water parks once,’ she said, and pushed herself away from the counter, lifted a hand and brushed her fringe to one side. ‘You see real women’s bodies there. And when you start looking, you realise there’re so many variations – I’m sure you men do it too.’
Blystad couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a shower room, probably back in the early nineties, if he thought about it. He thought about all the muscles and tattoos he’d seen there, hardly the norm for the male population, but nodded all the same.
‘Anyway, I was standing in the shower beside a little girl, she was maybe three or four, and she didn’t want to get wet, no matter what, and she was howling. And her mother, she was, well … pretty big. So I said to the little girl: why don’t you just hide under Mummy’s tummy? It was only after I’d said it that I realised she wasn’t actually pregnant.’
Blystad threw back his head and roared with laughter, and Helene giggled sheepishly. It was the first time he’d heard her laugh, restrained, as though she didn’t dare let go.
‘You can imagine the look I got from the mother,’ she said, with a big smile.
Blystad had to wipe his eyes.
‘That’s a good one,’ he said.
Their laughter subsided, but she continued to smile. And he sat, happy to be on the receiving end, helpless, like some idiot who’d never seen a woman smile at him before. But it melted his heart, the block of ice that had lain frozen in his chest for so long.
‘Not easy to talk your way out of that.’
‘No, I made a quick exit to the pool, I can tell you.’
Blystad chuckled. Then the moment passed and he drank some more coffee. Helene leaned back against the counter, but looked at him over the rim of her cup, he could see her blue eyes, the long lashes, the neat brows.
‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Have you ever made a fool of yourself?’
‘Me?’
He smiled and started to laugh again.
‘I never put a foot wrong.’
It was her turn to laugh.
‘Never?’
And again, he noticed the suggestive undertone; it wasn’t really a question, there was something challenging about her voice, as if she wanted him to do something bad.
‘No, I mean, I’ve thanked people for gifts they haven’t given me, that sort of thing.’
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘that doesn’t count.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe not.’
There was a short silence. Helene continued to watch him over the rim of her cup.
‘Can you bear to talk about her?’
He lifted his head, abruptly, felt his stomach burning at the very thought. Then he lowered his eyes, didn’t quite know where to begin. But he took a deep breath, and started at the beginning, how his parents met – on the boat to Denmark, in the queue to pay for food and a glass of wine, how they started talking and neither of them wanted to go back to the people they were with, that they
kept sending each other looks across the tables. And when they then bumped into each other by the meat counter, in a shop in Fredrikshavn, they both felt it was fate. They agreed to meet when they got back to Oslo.
‘But my dad was the sort who could never sit still,’ Blystad said. ‘He was always on his way somewhere else. Even after he and my mother got together and had me and…’
He changed his mind.
‘Mum was left on her own with me when I was four. He couldn’t stand it anymore. And I’ve never seen him since.’
‘Not even at the funeral?’
‘No, I…’
He just shook his head.
‘I think he went to sea, or something like that. He’s probably dead as well.’
Helena nodded quietly.
‘So you’ve got no one left?’
Her voice was tender and sad. His chest tightened.
He shook his head.
‘But you must have some friends who can look after you?’
But that was the problem. Friends.
‘No, I … not so many of those either, really.’
Helene put her cup down carefully and came towards him with slow, deliberate steps. And when she leaned in towards him and kissed him on the mouth, he let it happen, he let her take control, allowed himself to be led, and when they made love a little later, it was fast and furious; she wrapped herself round him and pulled him down towards her. It was strange to feel a woman’s hands on his body again after so long.
Afterwards, he lay looking at her as she rested beside him.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Tell me your story now.’
She turned towards him, her neck and cheeks still flushed. Her hair all over the place. Beautiful.
‘Just when we were having such a nice time?’
She tried to laugh it off, but he wasn’t willing to let her get away with it.
‘You haven’t told me anything about you,’ she tried.
‘I’ve told you about my mum.’
‘Yes, but you’re not your mum.’
‘No, but I’ve already told you things I don’t normally talk about. That way I’m still on top, and you’ve some way to go.’
She smiled. Blystad could see that she was going to say something crude, but she refrained. Instead, she looked up at the ceiling and asked, ‘You don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?’
