Midnight Sun

Chapter 3

One hundred hours ago.

But it had started long before that. Like I said, I don’t know how. Let’s say it started a year earlier, the day Brynhildsen came over to me in Slottsparken. I was stressed out: I’d only just discovered she was ill.

Brynhildsen had a hook nose and a pencil moustache, and had lost his hair early. He had worked for Hoffmann before the Fisherman inherited him, along with the rest of Hoffmann’s estate — in other words, his share of the heroin market, his woman, and a big apartment on Bygdøy allé. Brynhildsen said the Fisherman wanted to talk to me, and that I should report to the fish shop. Then he walked away.

Grandfather was very fond of the Spanish proverbs he had picked up when he lived in Barcelona, drawing his version of La Sagrada Família. One of the ones I heard most often was: ‘There weren’t many of us in the house, and then Grandma got pregnant.’ It meant something along of the lines of: ‘As if we didn’t already have enough problems.’

All the same, I turned up at the Fisherman’s shop on Youngstorget the next day. Not because I wanted to, but because the alternative — not turning up — was out of the question. The Fisherman was too powerful. Too dangerous. Everyone knew the story of how he had cut Hoffmann’s head off, saying that was what happened when you got ideas above your station. Or the story of two of his dealers who suddenly disappeared after helping themselves to a share of the goods. No one ever saw them again. There were those who claimed the fish balls from his shop had been extra tasty in the following few months. He did nothing to stop the rumours. That’s how a businessman like the Fisherman defends his territory, with a mixture of rumour, half-truths and hard facts about what happens to people who try to trick him.

I hadn’t tried to trick the Fisherman. Even so, I was sweating like a junkie going cold turkey as I stood in his shop and told one of the older women behind the counter who I was. I don’t know if she pressed a buzzer or something, but the Fisherman came out through the swing door behind them immediately afterwards, with a broad smile, dressed from head to toe in white — a white cap, white shirt and apron, white trousers, white wooden shoes — and extended his big, wet hand to me.

We went into the back room. White tiles on the floor and all the walls. The benches along the walls were covered with metal dishes containing corpse-pale fillets marinating in brine.

‘Sorry about the smell, Jon, I’m making fish balls.’ The Fisherman pulled out a chair from under the metal table in the middle of the room. ‘Sit down.’

‘I only sell hash,’ I said, as I did what he told me. ‘Never speed or heroin.’

‘I know. The reason I wanted to talk to you is that you killed one of my employees. Toralf Jonsen.’

I stared at him, speechless. I was dead. I was going to become fish balls.

‘Very clever, Jon. And it was a smart move to make it look like a suicide — everyone knew Toralf could be a little... gloomy.’ The Fisherman tore off part of one fillet and popped it in his mouth. ‘Even the police didn’t think his death was suspicious. I have to admit that I thought he’d shot himself as well. Until an acquaintance in the police quietly informed us that the pistol that was found next to him was registered in your name. Jon Hansen. So we took a closer look. That was when Toralf’s girlfriend told us he owed you money. That you’d tried to get it off him a couple of days before he died. That’s right, isn’t it?’

I gulped. ‘Toralf smoked a fair bit. We knew each other well, childhood friends, shared a flat for a while, that sort of thing. So I let him have credit.’ I tried a smile. Then I realised how ridiculous it must have looked. ‘Always stupid to have different rules for friends in this game, isn’t it?’

The Fisherman smiled back, suspended one fillet by a piece of sinew and studied it as it slowly turned in the air. ‘You should never let friends, family or employees owe you money, Jon. Never. Okay, so you let the debt stand for a while, but when it came down to it you knew that rules have to be upheld. You’re like me, Jon. A man of principle. Those who cross you must be punished. Doesn’t matter if the transgression is big or small. Doesn’t matter if it’s a dropout you don’t know or your own brother. That’s the only way to protect your territory. Even a shitty little business like yours over in Slottsparken. How much do you earn? Five thousand a month? Six?’

I shrugged. ‘Something like that.’

‘I respect what you did.’

‘But—’

‘Toralf was extremely important to me. He was my collector. And, if necessary, my fixer. He was willing to fix bad debtors. Not everyone’s prepared to do that in today’s society. People have got so soft. It’s become possible to be soft yet still survive. It’s—’ he stuffed the whole fillet in his mouth — ‘perverse.’

While he chewed I considered my options. Getting up and running out through the shop and into the square looked like the best of them.

‘So, as you can appreciate, you’ve left me with something of a problem,’ he said.

Obviously they’d come after me and catch me, but maybe I could avoid ending up in the fish-ball mixture if they had to take me down out in the street.

‘I’m thinking, who do I know who’s got what it takes to do what has to be done? Who can kill? I only know two. One is efficient, but enjoys killing a bit too much, and that sort of pleasure strikes me as—’ he picked at his front teeth — ‘perverse.’ He studied his fingertip. ‘Besides, he doesn’t cut his fingernails properly. And I don’t need a girlie pervert, I need someone who can talk to people. Talk first, then, if that doesn’t work, fix them. So how much do you want, Jon?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I want to know what you’d be happy with. Eight thousand a month?’

I blinked.

‘No? Shall we say ten? Plus a bonus of thirty for anyone you fix.’

‘Are you asking me if—?’

‘Twelve. Damn, you’re a tough cookie, Jon. But that’s fine, I respect that as well.’

I breathed hard through my nose. He was asking me to take Toralf’s place as his collector and fixer.

I swallowed. And thought.

I didn’t want the job.

I didn’t want the money.

But I needed it.

She needed it.

‘Twelve...’ I said. ‘That sounds fine.’

It was a simple job.

All I had to do was turn up and say I was the Fisherman’s collector, and the money appeared. And I wasn’t exactly overworked; I mostly sat in the back room of the shop playing cards with Brynhildsen, who always cheated, and Styrker, who never stopped talking about his damn Rottweilers and how efficient they were. I was bored, I was worried, but the money kept coming, and I had calculated that if I worked for him for at least a few months, I could pay for a year’s treatment. Hopefully that would be enough. And you get used to most things, even the smell of fish.

One day the Fisherman came in and said he had a slightly bigger job that required both discretion and a firm hand.

‘He’s been buying speed from me for years,’ the Fisherman said. ‘Seeing as he’s not a friend, a relative or an employee, I’ve let him have credit. It’s never been a problem, but now he’s fallen behind with the payments.’

It was Kosmos, an older guy who sold speed from a table in the Goldfish, the grubby café down by the docks. The windows were grey from the heavy traffic that ran right past, and there were rarely more than three or four people inside.

The way Kosmos did business was as follows: the customer wanting speed came in and sat down at the next table, which was always empty because Kosmos had draped his coat over one chair and left a copy of Hjemmet on the table. He would be sitting at his own table doing a crossword in one of the papers. Aftenposten or VG’s mini crossword or Helge Seip’s big one in Dagbladet. And Hjemmet, of course. Apparently he’d twice been crowned national crossword champion in Hjemmet. You slipped an envelope containing money inside the magazine and went to the toilet, and when you came back the envelope contained speed instead of cash.

It was early in the morning and, as usual, there were only three or four other customers when I arrived. I sat down two tables away from the old man, ordered a coffee and turned to the crossword. I scratched my head with my pencil. Leaned over.

‘Excuse me?’

I had to repeat it twice before Kosmos looked up from his own crossword. He was wearing glasses with orange lenses.

‘Sorry, but I need a four-letter word for “outstanding”. First letter “d”.’

‘Debt,’ he said, and looked down again.

‘Of course. Thanks.’ I filled in the letters.

I waited a while, took a sip of the weak coffee. Cleared my throat: ‘Excuse me, I shan’t keep pestering you, but could you help me with “trawlerman”, nine letters? The first two letters are “f” and “i”.’

‘Fisherman,’ he said without looking up. But I saw him start as he heard himself say the word.

‘One last word,’ I said. ‘Six letters, “tool”, starts with an “h”. Two “m”s in the middle.’

He pushed the newspaper away and looked at me. His Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down on his unshaven neck.

I smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid the deadline for the crossword expires this afternoon. I’ve got to go off and sort something out, but I’ll be back in exactly two hours’ time. I’ll leave the paper here so you can fill in the answers, if you can sort it out.’

I went down to the harbour, smoked a bit and did some thinking. I didn’t know what was going on, why he hadn’t managed to pay off the debt. And I didn’t want to know either, I didn’t want his desperate face fixed on my retina. Not another one. The pale little face on the pillow bearing the washed-out logo of Ullevål Hospital was enough.

When I got back Kosmos looked absorbed in his crossword, but when I opened my newspaper there was an envelope there.

The Fisherman later told me he’d paid in full, and said I was good at my job. But what help was that? I’d talked to the doctors. The prognosis wasn’t good. She wouldn’t see out the year if she didn’t get treatment. So I went to the Fisherman and explained the situation. Said I needed a loan.

‘Sorry, Jon, no can do. You’re an employee, aren’t you?’

I nodded. What the hell was I going to do?

‘But maybe we’ve got a solution to your problem after all. I need someone fixing.’

Oh, shit.

It had to happen sooner or later, but I’d been hoping for later. After I’d saved up what I needed and handed in my notice.

‘I heard your favourite expression is that the first time is always the worst,’ he said. ‘So you’re lucky. That it isn’t the first time, I mean.’

I tried to smile. He couldn’t know, after all. That I hadn’t killed Toralf. That the pistol registered in my name was a small-calibre thing from a sports club that Toralf needed for a job, but hadn’t been able to buy for himself because he had a record as an East German dissenter. So I — who’d never been arrested, not for my little hash business or anything else — had bought it for him in return for a small fee. I hadn’t seen it since. And I’d given up on the money I’d tried to get back because she needed it for treatment. Toralf, the depressed, drugged-up bastard, had done exactly what it looked like he’d done: he’d shot himself.

I had no principles. No money. But neither did I have blood on my hands.

Not yet.

A bonus of thirty thousand.

That was a start. A good start.

I jerked awake. The midge bites were weeping and sticking to the wool blanket. But that wasn’t what had woken me. A plaintive howl had broken the silence out on the plateau.

A wolf? I thought they howled at the moon, in winter, not at the fucking sun that just hung there in the burned-out, colourless sky. It was probably a dog: the Sámi used them to herd reindeer, didn’t they?

I rolled over in the narrow bunk, forgetting my bad shoulder, swore, and rolled back. The howl sounded as though it was a long way away, but who knows? In the summer sound is supposed to move more slowly, doesn’t carry as far as it does in winter. Maybe the beast was just round the corner.

I closed my eyes, but knew I wasn’t going to get back to sleep.

So I got up, grabbed the binoculars and went over to one of the windows and scanned the horizon.

Nothing.

Just tick-tock, tick-tock.