Fireraiser

by Torkil Damhaug

  – If you’ve got anything else to say to Karsten, get on with it.

  Shahzad didn’t look at him. – I’ve said all I want to say. He added: – As of this particular moment.

  In his relief at hearing these words, Karsten almost burst out laughing. He managed to swallow it down; all that came from his mouth was a low burble. Shahzad took a step towards him – maybe he was rethinking that as of this particular moment – and his pal cleared his throat thoroughly, bent forward and spat on to the saddle.

  The teacher put a hand on Karsten’s shoulder.

  – This monkey is trying to tell you something.

  Karsten glanced at the greenish lump glistening there. Beneath the viscous surface, it was speckled with tiny brown particles.

  – That’s okay, he said, not looking at any of those standing around.

  – That’s okay, the supply teacher echoed.

  Abruptly he grabbed the man by the wrist, twisted him round and pressed his underarm across his throat. – That’s okay, he repeated, and forced the man’s upper body down so that his face landed on the saddle. He rubbed it back and forth several times before yanking his head up by the hair.

  – Satisfied? he asked.

  Karsten stared at the guy, who now had most of the spittle smeared across his cheek and the corner of his mouth.

  – Is the saddle clean enough? the teacher continued.

  – That’s fine, Karsten managed to say.

  The throat hold was released; the man stood there wheezing, supporting himself with his hands against his knees. Shahzad Chadar stared at the teacher, his eyes narrowed. Ten seconds passed, maybe more. Abruptly Shahzad turned and jumped back in behind the wheel of the Golf. His pal slumped in beside him. The engine roared a couple of times, and then the car leapt away and disappeared in the direction of Storgata.

  – Dunno if that was all that smart, Karsten groaned. – They’ll come after you now. Me too, he might have added.

  The teacher laughed. – We’ll find out soon enough, he said, dusting off the arm of his jacket. He seemed quite unaffected by what had just happened. – Did they do that as well? He nodded down in the direction of the tyres. – If you’d told me, they would have had to come up with a repair kit before they disappeared.

  Karsten had forgotten about the state of his tyres. – The laws of probability would suggest it was them, yes.

  – A genuine realist, the teacher observed. – And that, I suppose, was the brother of your classmate Jasmeen?

  Karsten gave a start. – What do you know about that?

  The teacher shrugged. – I can’t help noticing certain things when I’m teaching.

  Karsten pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  – Your name is Adrian, isn’t it?

  – You know what my name is.

  Karsten couldn’t deny it.

  – And exactly what things did you notice?

  The teacher smiled broadly. – You would have to be unusually dull witted not to notice that there’s something going on between you two. It’s amazing how much you can find out just by keeping your eyes open.

  – You were with her just now, down in the schoolyard.

  Now the teacher grew serious. – I’ve got no interest in messing things up for you. You can do that all by yourself.

  – The fact of the matter is, nothing at all has happened, Karsten protested. – Just spoken with her a few times. Stuff like that.

  The teacher looked to be considering something. – I’m living just down the road here at the moment, he said. – We could go to my place and have a cup of coffee.

  Karsten didn’t know what to say. It felt as though he was in the teacher’s debt and couldn’t refuse. As they started walking, he tried to explain the business about Jasmeen. The teacher, Adrian, seemed to be interested, for some reason or other, and listened without interrupting. Not until they were turning into Bjørnsons gate did he say: – And so you rang her? Well, you’re no chicken.

  – What have I got to be afraid of? Karsten exclaimed. – This is a free country.

  Adrian pushed his lower lip out and wagged his head slowly from side to side. – That is a matter of opinion.

  He didn’t expand on that.

  Down in Strandgata he turned in through the gate of a red-painted semi. It looked just like the other houses, fairly well maintained, with a thicket of bare rose bushes growing up against the wall. But several of the fence posts next to the gate had been broken off, Karsten noted. Their own fence at home had been damaged in a similar way after his father reversed into it. That was six months ago and it still hadn’t been repaired, something his mother remarked on more or less every day.

  They kicked their shoes off in the hallway. There was a sweet smell from the corridor inside. Not food and not perfume, but something else. Karsten didn’t know what it was.

  – Home alone?

  – Nope. Adrian gave a brief nod in the direction of the stairs up to the first floor.

  – Lived here long?

  – Only now and then.

  Karsten was taken down into a large living room in the basement. It was furnished with a bed and chairs, two shelves and a writing desk. The single door to what had to be a wardrobe was covered by a large mirror. Adrian took a kettle from the table in one corner. When he left the room with it, Karsten looked at the CDs on the shelves. Metallica and Death Metal. But a lot of classical stuff too.

  – You dig Beethoven? he asked when Adrian came back with the filled kettle.

  – You have a problem with that?

  – Oh no, that’s cool.

  Adrian poured steaming water into the cups. – What do you plan to do?

  Karsten slumped a little in his seat. – What do you mean?

  – You know perfectly well what I mean. You’ve got something going with a Pakistani girl. Her family has found out about it. Are you going to chicken out or go ahead with it?

  As though they were talking about a game of chess. Offer a draw in a difficult situation, give up, or make a daring move that might change the game.

  – You think she’s nice looking?

  – Yes, Karsten admitted.

  – I agree. She is undoubtedly the best-looking girl in your class. And she fancies you.

  Karsten felt the prickling around his hairline. – Yeah, right.

  – That’s not what your problem is. Adrian smiled. – This has the makings of a classic. Young Pakistani girl takes a fancy to young Norwegian. The family are not the most extreme Muslims in the world. Even so, because you’ve been alone with her, not to say possibly even touched her … because you did do that?

  Karsten gave a non-committal nod.

  – Her father has made an arrangement for one of the girl’s elderly relatives to marry her, Adrian said.

  – Do you know that?

  – That’s the way it usually happens. There’s money on the table. Status. Honour. There are alliances to be made.

  Adrian kept his eyes on him. They were deep set, and so dark that he could almost have been a Pakistani himself, it occurred to Karsten. He was still not sure why the supply teacher had invited him home.

  – Where did you used to live? he asked.

  – Here and there.

  – And you were a soldier?

  – Bosnia, Kosovo, Afghanistan.

  – Are you going to Iraq as well?

  – I wouldn’t rule it out. Adrian leaned back in his chair. – And you’ve lived your whole life here in Toytown. He looked at Karsten for a few moments. – Do you remember what you said in class a few days ago? When I asked what you believed in?

  Karsten tried to remember. – You mean all that about genes?

  – Exactly. What you were saying is that the only purpose in life is to pass on our genes.

  – I don’t think the world is quite that primitive.

  Adrian laughed. – So you were just bluffing? And I was so certain you meant it.

  He handed Karsten the mug of coff
ee. – For a long time Toytown was a place where there were no conflicts and no evil, he said. – But sooner or later the world had to come here too. And suddenly you find yourself right in the firing line. That’s why I’m asking you what you intend to do.

  Karsten looked at him, confused. Do I have to do anything? he was about to say. Then he heard footsteps from the floor above, someone opening and closing a door. He wanted to ask who it was, but didn’t do that either.

  Adrian rested his feet on the glass table. – You’ve got talents that a lot of people are going to want. You’ve got possibilities. And you’re not afraid to stand out from the crowd.

  Karsten didn’t recognise himself in this description, but enjoyed hearing it. Adrian was his teacher, but he wasn’t talking down to him. More like a pal.

  – I want us to keep in touch, Karsten. I’d like to know what you decide to do.

  Karsten put down the coffee cup.

  – What would you have done? he asked.

  Adrian rubbed a finger over his stubbly beard. – I would never allow the Pakistanis to dictate my choice. And I never take orders from people I don’t respect.

  Karsten nodded; it was well put.

  – Will you see her?

  He had no answer to that. There were arguments for and arguments against. Adrian continued.

  – Don’t allow yourself to be ruled by fear. You’ll never get anywhere if you do.

  It sounded cool, the way Karsten wished he could have thought.

  – Makes no difference if I want to meet her if she doesn’t want to meet me, he objected. – After we spoke to each other last night, she’s been avoiding me. I don’t think anything’ll come of it now.

  – She’s got enough to think about, said Adrian.

  – What do you mean by that?

  Adrian shrugged. – She’ll get in touch with you.

  He said it as though he was the one making the decision.

  13

  He had asked Elsa if they could do something together. They did that now and then, went out for a meal, went to the cinema. He would even have gone with her to a concert or an exhibition if that was what she had planned. But now she said she couldn’t and didn’t give any reason. He couldn’t bring himself to ask why, headed off into his room, undressed, pulled the curtains, flopped down on the bed. In his hand he was holding the Zippo lighter. Lit it, extinguished it, lit it again. The point of the thin flame stabbed at his skin. He sat in the dark looking straight ahead as he moved it up and down the inside of his underarm, between the old scars.

  Then he heard her voice outside. She laughed. He jumped up, peered out through a gap. Had known it all along, that she was off out with the prince. They were making their way across the yard; he was telling Elsa something or other that made her laugh even more. She leaned towards him and gave him a hug, linked her arm with his as he closed the gate behind them.

  He could have followed them. Found out where they were going. Stood outside the restaurant, watched as they ordered, as the table was laid for them, as they were served. Then he could have gone in and tipped the table over.

  He did a hundred and twenty sit-ups. Took two extra capsules of Testo even though he’d already taken his weekly dose. Went into the shower, turned the temperature up as high as he could bear and stood there without moving, imagined the skin coming loose and falling off. Soaking wet he walked back to the bedroom, opened the window wide to the cold wind. Elsa had said again this business about how he should get out more, meet people. – Of course she’s right, he murmured. – Ought to get out more.

  He couldn’t find any clean boxer shorts. He pulled on his workout trousers and hoody without drying himself, grabbed the car keys from the hook by the chest of drawers and went out. On the steps he stopped, stood there for a few seconds and breathed, captured by a thought that had been wandering about inside him. He went back into the flat, up to his room, took the ignition devices from the writing-desk drawer, four that he’d prepared earlier. From the cupboard below the sink he took two bottles of lighter fluid.

  As he turned down into Storgata, he had an idea. When he’d left Monica’s apartment that morning, she had made it clear that she would like to see him again. And within two hours she had sent him a text. He hadn’t replied. Once was just once. Twice meant the beginning of something. He had no plans for that. Half a year earlier, he’d broken his rule, given a woman his phone number and let himself be persuaded to make a second date. It had caused him endless problems.

  He parked in Solheimsgata. A couple of minutes later he was standing outside the street entrance and studying the row of doorbells. Realised he didn’t know her second name. He glanced up; there was light in the living-room window that had to be hers. Maybe he saw something moving there. Maybe the policeman was paying a visit. There were two toothbrushes in her bathroom, each in a separate mug, and a razor with remnants of red stubble. His name was Horvath and he had been interviewed about the nursery school fire. According to Elsa, everything was connected. Now and then we catch a glimpse of the pattern behind what we called chance, like a veil suddenly being pulled from our eyes.

  At the roundabout by Kjellerholen, the road surface was covered with a thin layer of black ice. He let the car skid sideways before straightening up and heading on in the direction of Olavsgård. Still a strip of light in the western sky as he swung down on to the motorway heading north, moved over into the outside lane and put his foot down. Over two hundred horses galloping along under the bonnet of the Chevy. He could have closed his eyes and let them take over, take him wherever they wanted. But that was not how it was going to end. He wasn’t going to die in a car. He had asked Elsa about it. To begin with she refused to answer, because such things belonged in a room she didn’t want to enter. That was what she said, but he had persisted, mostly to see how far into death she was prepared to look. Whether she would break off and say: You mustn’t leave, stay with me, forever. Instead she told him that the way he was going to die had something to do with fire.

  That was a few weeks ago. Just before her prince showed up. She had studied his cards for a while before putting them down and mixing them in with the others. Fire purifies, she said. It destroys, it prepares the way for the new. It was after that he had decided that the stable with the horses had to burn. To see if thoughts could disappear too. And as he sped past the fields at Kløfta, an image of the burning stable rose up again. Along with it all sorts of other images, streaming out from dark corners, tiny mice and rats and lizards shooting out and heading for the fire as it took hold.

  He hit the wheel so hard that the car swerved over into the inside lane, and he had to pick up a CD and turn the music on full, I feel stupid and contagious, he’d played that track over and over again on his Walkman eleven or twelve years earlier, and as he bellowed out that line along with Cobain, he knew that he wouldn’t be going any further along this road that continued ever northwards. He moved across into the turn-off for Gardermoen. Not that he had any business at the airport. It wasn’t the idea of travel that impelled him, because he didn’t want to go any place where she wasn’t. Not until he had driven past the airport and was heading west did he realise where he was going.

  The first kilometre of road after the motorway was narrow and twisting. He could remember how nauseous he had been the first time he was driven up here. He’d been sitting in the back. Neither of his parents, as they called themselves, were there. He was told it was best for him to go without them.

  Not until he passed the local shop did the road straighten out. Now it was a Rema store, but apart from that it didn’t look any different from back then. He’d been there and stolen beer along with two of the other lads. They got caught, but they didn’t grass. He was never caught for anything. Not for the stealing, nor the windows that were broken, nor for the fire. He was too smart for them.

  A few hundred metres before the driveway there was a forestry track, just as he remembered. The time was ten minutes past eleven. He
followed the bumpy track a way, parked by a cattle grid. He’d put the bag with the ignition devices behind the felt flap in the driver’s-side door post, and the rest of what he would need was in the boot. It was all still open, anything could happen. For another half-hour he sat in the car. Elsa and her prince. Those two words put together and pulled apart again. Prince and her. He steamed the side window with his breath, saw the outline of the trees disappear in the grey and then reappear before he blew it away again.

  Even in the dark he could see that the main building had been painted a lighter colour. He studied it from the parking lot. Furutunet remand home was still run by the Child Welfare Service. He’d hacked their server not long ago, found out who was working there and how many kids were being held. Twelve years ago there had been ten of them; now there was just half that number, but still with fourteen staff. Two were the same as back then. One of them he’d liked. She was twenty-something, name of Siv. There was something about her, the way she spoke to him. She thought he should never have been sent to Furutunet. At least that was what she said, even though she wasn’t allowed to say things like that. Elsa also said he had no business being there. But it took a long while before she could get him out, almost a year after she returned from England. He had never asked her why she waited so long.

  He walked across the yard, stationed himself at one corner, just beyond the circle of light from the outdoor lamp above the main entrance. Only then did he know that he had to get into the building, move around inside it. It was a matter of finding the right place. The zero point. Where absolutely anything at all might happen.

  The cellar door faced the slope down towards the stream. He had broken in that way before. On that occasion they had smashed the window with an axe, and if the adults hadn’t been so dopey they would have heard the racket a mile away. He and his pal didn’t care a damn if anyone heard them. Not that they had any business down in the cellar. It was a question of getting in there because it was locked. Now he used a crowbar. A few creaks and a snap of metal and the lock gave.