The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

London

I’m not afraid of flying. The chances of dying in a plane crash for the average frequent flyer are one in eleven million. To put it another way: your chances of dying of a heart attack in your seat are eight times higher.

I waited until the plane took off and levelled out before leaning to one side and in a low and hopefully reassuring voice passed this statistic on to the sobbing, shaking woman in the window seat.

‘But of course, statistics don’t mean much when you’re afraid,’ I added. ‘I say this because I know exactly how you feel.’

You — who until now had been staring fixedly out of the window — turned slowly and looked at me — as though you had only now discovered someone was sitting in the seat next to yours. The thing about business class is that the extra centimetres between the seats mean that with a slight effort of concentration it’s possible to persuade yourself that you are alone. And there is a common understanding between business-class passengers that one should not break this illusion by exchanging anything beyond brief courtesies and any practical matters that have to be dealt with (‘Is it OK if I pull down the blind?’). And since the extra space in the footwells makes it possible to pass each other if needing to use the toilet, the overhead lockers and so on without requiring a coordinated operation, it is, in practice, quite possible to ignore one another completely, even on a flight that lasts half a day.

From the expression on your face I gathered that you were mildly surprised at my having broken the first rule of travelling business class. Something about the effortless elegance of your outfit — trousers and a pullover in colours which I wasn’t completely convinced were matching but which do so nevertheless, I guess because of the person who is wearing them — told me that it was quite a while since you had travelled economy class, if indeed you had ever done so. And yet you had been crying, so wasn’t it actually you who had broken through that implied wall? On the other hand, you had done your crying turned away from me, clearly showing that this wasn’t something you wanted to share with your fellow passengers.

Well, not to have offered a few words of comfort would have been bordering on the cold, so I could only hope that you would understand the dilemma facing me.

Your face was pale and tear-stained, but still remarkable, with a kind of elvish beauty. Or was it actually the pallor and the tear stains that made you so beautiful? I have always had a weakness for the vulnerable and sensitive. I offered you the serviette the stewardess had placed under our tumblers of water before take-off.

‘Thank you,’ you said, taking the serviette. You managed a smile and pressed the serviette against the mascara running down under one eye. ‘But I don’t believe it.’ Then you turned back to the window, pressed your forehead against the Plexiglas as though to hide yourself, and again the sobs shook your body. You don’t believe what? That I know how you’re feeling? Whatever, I had done my bit and from here on, of course, made up my mind to leave you in peace. I intended to watch half a film and then try to sleep, even though I reckoned I would get an hour at most, I rarely manage to sleep, no matter how long the flight, and especially when I know I need to sleep. I would be spending only six hours in London, and then it was back to New York.

The Fasten your seat belt light went off and a stewardess came up, refreshed the empty glasses that stood on the broad, solid armrest between us. Before take-off the captain had informed us that tonight’s flight from New York to London would take five hours and ten minutes. Some of those around us had already lowered their seatbacks and wrapped blankets around themselves, others sat with faces lit by the video screens in front of them and waited for their meal. Both I and the woman next to me had said no thanks when the stewardess came round with the menu before take-off. I had been pleased to find a film in the Classics section — Strangers on a Train — and was about to put my headphones on when I heard your voice:

‘It’s my husband.’

Still holding the headphones in my hands I turned to her.

The mascara had stopped running and now outlined your eyes like stage make-up. ‘He’s cheating on me with my best friend.’

I don’t know whether you realised yourself that it was strange to be still referring to this person as your best friend, but I couldn’t see that it was any of my business to point it out to you.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said instead. ‘I didn’t intend to pry...’

‘Don’t apologise, it’s nice when someone cares. Far too few do. We’re so terrified of anything upsetting and sad.’

‘You’re right there,’ I said, unsure whether to put the headphones aside or not.

‘I expect they’re in bed with each other right now,’ you said. ‘Robert’s always horny. And Melissa too. They’re fucking each other between my silk sheets right at this very moment.’

My brain at once conjured up a picture of a married couple in their thirties. He earned the money, a lot of money, and you got to choose the bedlinen. Our brains are expert at formulating stereotypes. Now and then they’re wrong. Now and then they’re right.

‘That must be terrible,’ I said, trying not to sound too dramatic.

‘I just want to die,’ you said. ‘So you’re mistaken about the plane. I hope it does crash.’

‘But I’ve got so much still left to do,’ I said, putting a worried look on my face.

For a moment you just stared at me. Maybe it was a bad joke, or at the very least bad timing, and under the circumstances maybe too flippant. After all, you had just said you wanted to die, and had even given me a credible reason for saying it. The joke could be taken either as inappropriate and insensitive or as a liberating distraction from the undeniable bleakness of the moment. Comic relief, as people call it. At least when it works. Whatever, I regretted the remark, and was actually holding my breath. And then you smiled. Just a tiny wavelet on a slushy puddle, gone in the same instant; but I breathed out again.

‘Relax,’ you said quietly. ‘I’m the only one who’s going to die.’

I looked quizzically at you, but you avoided my eyes, instead looked past me and into the cabin.

‘There’s a baby over there on the second row,’ you said. ‘A baby in business class that might be crying all night; what d’you think of that?’

‘What is there to think?’

‘You could say that the parents should understand that people who have paid extra to sit here do so because they need the sleep. Maybe they’re going straight to work, or they have a meeting first thing in the morning.’

‘Well, maybe. But as long as the airline doesn’t ban babies in business class then you can’t really expect parents not to take advantage.’

‘Then the airline should be punished for tricking us.’ You dabbed carefully under the other eye, having exchanged the serviette I had handed you for a Kleenex of your own. ‘The business-class adverts show pictures of the passengers blissfully sleeping.’

‘In the long run the company’ll get its just deserts. We don’t like paying for something we don’t get.’

‘But why do they do it?’

‘The parents or the airline?’

‘I understand the parents do it because they’ve got more money than they have shame. But surely the airline has to be losing money if their business-class offer is being degraded?’

‘But it’ll also damage their reputation if they get publicly shamed for not being child-friendly.’

‘The child doesn’t give a damn if it’s crying in business or economy class.’

‘You’re right, I meant for not being parent-of-small-child-friendly.’ I smiled. ‘The airlines are probably worried it’ll look like a kind of apartheid. Of course, the problem could be solved if anyone crying in the business section was made to sit in the economy section and had to give up their seat to a smiling, easy-going person with a cheap ticket.’

Your laughter was soft and attractive, and this time it got as far as your eyes. It’s easy to think — and I did think — that it’s incomprehensible how anyone could be unfaithful to a woman as beautiful as you, but that’s how it is: it isn’t about external beauty. Nor inner beauty either.

‘What line of work are you in?’ you asked.

‘I’m a psychologist and researcher.’

‘And what are you researching?’

‘People.’

‘Of course. And what are your findings?’

‘That Freud was right.’

‘About what?’

‘That people, with just a few exceptions, are pretty much worthless.’

You laughed. ‘Amen to that, Mr...’

‘Call me Shaun.’

‘Maria. But you don’t really believe that, Shaun, do you?’

‘That with a few exceptions people are worthless? Why shouldn’t I believe that?’

‘You’ve shown that you’re compassionate, and to a genuine misanthropist compassion means nothing.’

‘I see. So why should I lie about it?’

‘For the same reason, because you’re a compassionate person. You play up to me discreetly by claiming to be afraid of flying, same as me. When I tell you I’m being betrayed you comfort me by telling me how the world is full of bad people.’

‘Wow. And I thought I was supposed to be the psychologist here.’

‘See, even your choice of career betrays you. You might as well just admit it, you’re the best proof against your own proposition. You’re a worthwhile person.’

‘I wish that were the case, Maria, but I’m afraid my apparent compassion is merely the result of a bourgeois English upbringing, and that I’m not worth much to anyone other than myself.’

You turned your body a couple of almost imperceptible degrees closer to me. ‘Then it’s your upbringing that gives you worth, Shaun. So what? It’s what you do, not what you think and feel, that gives you value.’

‘I think you’re exaggerating. My upbringing means only that I don’t like to break the rules for what is considered acceptable behaviour, I don’t make any genuine sacrifices. I adapt, and I avoid unpleasantness.’

‘Well, at least as a psychologist you have value.’

‘I’m a disappointment there too, I’m afraid. I’m not intelligent or industrious enough ever to discover a cure for schizophrenia. If the plane went down now all the world would lose would be a rather boring article on confirmation bias in a scientific periodical read by a handful of psychologists, that’s all.’

‘Are you being coy?’

‘Yes, I’m coy too. That’s another of my vices.’

By now you were laughing brightly. ‘Not even your wife and children would miss you if you disappeared?’

‘No,’ I answered abruptly. Since I had the aisle seat I couldn’t just end the conversation by turning to the window and pretending to have spotted something interesting in the dead of the night down there in the Atlantic. To pull the magazine out of the seat pocket in front of me would seem too obvious.

‘Sorry,’ you said quietly.

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘What did you mean when you said you were going to die?’

Our eyes met and for the first time we saw each other. And though this might be with the benefit of hindsight, I think we both caught a glimpse of something that told us, even then, that this was a meeting that just might change everything. Indeed, that had already changed everything. Perhaps you were thinking that too but then were distracted as you leaned over the armrest towards me and noticed how I stiffened.

The scent of your perfume had made me think of her. That it was her smell, that she had come back. So you leaned back in your seat and looked at me.

‘I’m going to kill myself,’ you whispered.

Then you leaned back in your seat and studied me.

I don’t know what my face expressed, but I knew you weren’t lying.

‘How do you propose to do it?’ was all I could think to say.

‘Shall I tell you?’ you asked with an impenetrable, almost amused smile.

I thought about it. Did I want to know?

‘Anyway it’s not really true,’ you said. ‘In the first place, I’m not going to kill myself, I’ve already done it. And in the second place, it’s not me who’s killing myself, it’s them.’

‘Them?’

‘Yes. I signed the agreement about...’ You looked at your watch, a Cartier. I guessed it was a present from this Robert. Before or after he was unfaithful? After. This Melissa wasn’t the first, he’d been unfaithful from the beginning. ‘...four hours ago.’

‘Them?’ I repeated.

‘The suicide agency.’

‘You mean... like in Switzerland? As in, assisted suicide?’

‘Yes, only with more assistance. The difference is that they kill you in such a way that it doesn’t look like suicide.’

‘Really?’

‘You look as if you don’t believe me.’

‘I...oh yes, yes I do. I’m just very surprised.’

‘I can understand that. And this has to be just between us, because there’s a confidentiality clause in the contract, so I’m not actually supposed to talk to anyone about it. It’s just...’ You smiled, at the same time as the tears welled up in your eyes again. ‘...so intolerably lonely. And you are a stranger. And a psychologist. You’re pledged to confidentiality, right?’

I coughed. ‘In regard to patients, yes.’

‘Well then, I’m your patient. I can see you have a vacant appointment right now. What is your fee, doctor?’

‘I’m afraid we can’t do it like that, Maria.’

‘Of course not, that would be against the rules of the profession. But surely you can just listen as a private individual?’

‘You must understand that it presents ethical problems for me as a psychologist if someone with suicidal tendencies confides in me without my doing anything about it.’

‘You don’t understand. It’s too late to do anything about it, I am already dead.’

‘You’re dead?’

‘The contract is non-reversible, I will be killed within three weeks. They explain to you in advance, that once you’ve signed your name to the contract, there is no panic button, that if they allowed that it might create all kinds of legal complications afterwards. You’re sitting next to a corpse, Shaun.’ She laughed, but now her laughter was hard and bitter. ‘Surely you can have a drink with me and listen for a while?’ You raised a long, slender arm to the service button and its sonar ping rang through the darkness of the cabin.

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘But I am not going to give you any advice.’

‘Fine. And you promise not to talk about it later, even after I’m dead?’

‘I promise,’ I said. ‘Although I can’t see what difference it would make to you.’

‘Oh it would. If I break the confidentiality clause in the contract they can sue my estate for a fortune, and that would leave almost nothing for the organisation I’m leaving the money to.’

‘How can I help?’ asked the stewardess who had soundlessly materialised beside us. You leaned across me and ordered gin and tonics for both of us. The neck of your pullover fell forward slightly, and I saw the naked, pale skin and realised that you did not have her smell. Your smell was faintly sweet, aromatic, like petrol. Yes, petrol. And a kind of tree the name of which I could not recall. It was an almost masculine smell.

After the stewardess had turned off the service light and disappeared, you kicked off your shoes and stretched out a pair of narrow, nylon-clad ankles that made me think of the ballet.

‘The suicide agency has very impressive offices in Manhattan,’ you said. ‘It’s a law firm, they claim that everything is legal and above board, and I don’t doubt it. For example, they won’t take the life of anyone who is mentally disturbed. You have to submit to a thorough psychiatric examination before signing the contract. And you also have to cancel any insurance policies you might have so that they can’t be sued by insurance companies. There are a lot of other conditional clauses too, but the most important is the confidentiality clause. In the USA the rights of two adult parties voluntarily to enter into an agreement go further than in most other countries; but if their practice became known, and there was publicity, they are, of course, afraid that the response would lead politicians to put a stop to them anyway. They don’t advertise their services, their clients are exclusively wealthy people who learn of their existence word-of-mouth.’

‘Well then, yes, I can see why they would want to keep a low profile.’

‘And their clients obviously require discretion; there’s something shameful about suicide, after all. Like abortion. Abortion clinics don’t operate illegally, but they don’t exactly advertise their business over the main entrance.’

‘That’s true.’

‘And of course, discretion and shame are what lie behind the whole business concept. Their clients are willing to pay large sums of money to be eliminated in a way that is physically and psychologically as pleasant and unexpected as possible. But the most important thing of all is that it happens in such a way that neither family, friends nor the world at large have any reason at all to suspect suicide.’

‘And how do they manage that?’

‘We’re never told, of course. Only that there are countless ways, and that it will happen within three weeks of the contract being signed. We’re not given any examples either, because that way we would, consciously or not, avoid certain situations, and that would generate an unnecessary degree of fear. All we are told is that it will be completely painless, and that we really won’t see it coming.’

‘I can understand why it’s important for some people to hide the fact that they’ve taken their own lives, but why is it for you? On the contrary, wouldn’t it be a way of taking your revenge?

‘On Robert and Melissa you mean?’

‘If you died in a way that was obviously suicide it wouldn’t just be about shame. Robert and Melissa would blame themselves, and also more or less consciously blame each other. This is something we see time and time again. Have you ever, for example, studied the divorce rate among parents of children who have taken their own lives? Or the figures for suicide among the parents?’

You just looked at me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said and felt myself turning a little red. ‘I’m imputing a desire for revenge to you simply because I’m sure that’s what I would have felt myself in your position.’

‘You think you showed yourself up there, Shaun.’

‘Yes.’

You gave a brief, hard laugh. ‘That’s all right, because of course I want revenge. But you don’t know Robert and Melissa. If I were to kill myself and leave a note in which I said it was because Robert was unfaithful, he would of course deny it. He would point out that I had been treated for depression, which is true, and that towards the end I had also clearly developed paranoia. He and Melissa have been very discreet, so perhaps no one knows about them. I would guess that for about six months after the funeral, for the sake of appearances, she would date one of the other finance guys in Robert’s circle. They all drool over her, and she’s always got away with being the cockteaser she is. And after that she and Robert would announce they were a couple and explain that what brought them together was a shared grief over my death.’

‘OK, you’re probably even more of a misanthropist than me.’

‘I don’t doubt it. And the really nauseating thing is that deep down, Robert would feel a certain pride.’

‘Pride?’

‘Over the fact that a woman didn’t want to live if she couldn’t have him all to herself. That’s how he would look at it. And that’s how Melissa would look at it too. My suicide would raise his stock even higher and end up making them happier.’

‘You believe that?’

‘Sure I do. Aren’t you familiar with René Girard’s theory about mimetic desires?’

‘No.’

‘Girard’s theory is that beyond satisfying our basic needs we don’t know what it is we want. So we mimic our surroundings, we value what other people value. If enough people around you say Mick Jagger is sexy, you’ll end up wanting him yourself, even if in the first place you think he looks awful. If Robert’s stock goes up because of my suicide, Melissa will want him even more, and they’ll be even happier together.’

‘I understand. And if it looks as though you died in an accident or died some other form of natural death?’

‘Then it has the opposite effect. I become the one whom chance or fate took. And Robert will think differently about my death and about me as a person. Slowly but distinctly I’ll develop a saintly aura. And when the day comes when Melissa starts to annoy Robert — and she will — he’ll just remember all the good things about me and miss what we had together. I wrote him a letter two days ago telling him I’m leaving him because I need to be free.’

‘Does that mean he doesn’t know that you know he’s been messing about with Melissa?’

‘I’ve read all their text messages on his phone and never said a word to anyone before now, before you.’

‘And the purpose of the letter?’

‘In the beginning he’ll feel it’s a relief not to have to be the one who leaves. It’ll save him money in the divorce settlement and leave him looking like the good guy, even if he does hook up with Melissa shortly afterwards. But after a while the seed planted in that letter will grow. That I left him to be free, yes. But also because I must have thought I could meet someone better than him. That there might even have been someone even before I left. Someone who wanted me. And as soon as Robert thinks that...’

‘...that means you’re the one with the mimetic desires. And that’s why you went to the suicide agency.’

You shrugged. ‘So then what is the divorce rate among the parents of children who take their own lives?’

‘What?’

‘And which parent is it that takes their own life? The mother, am I right?’

‘Well, you tell me,’ I said, fixing my gaze on the back of the seat in front of me. But I could feel your eyes on me as you waited for a more detailed answer.

I was rescued by the arrival of two glasses that appeared as if by magic from the darkness and landed on the armrest between us.

I coughed. ‘Isn’t it intolerable to have to wait so long? Wake up every morning and think, perhaps today I’ll be murdered?’

You hesitated; you didn’t want to let me off that easily. But in the end you let it go and answered: ‘Not if the thought that perhaps today I won’t be murdered feels worse. Even if, naturally, we are sometimes overcome by panic about dying, and a survival instinct we never asked for, the fear of dying is no greater than the fear of living. But that’s something that you as a psychologist are familiar with.’ You put a slightly exaggerated stress on psychologist.

‘True enough,’ I said. ‘But studies have been made into nomadic tribes in Paraguay where the tribal council decides that someone has grown so old and weak that they’ve become a burden to the tribe and have to be killed. The person in question doesn’t know either when or how it’s going to happen, but they accept that that’s the way things are. After all, the tribe has managed in an environment with little food and long, arduous wandering because they sacrificed the weak so they can take care of the healthy and ensure that the tribe survives. Maybe in their younger days those now under sentence of death themselves had to swing the club over the head of some frail old great-aunt one dark evening outside the cabin. And yet the research shows that for the members of the tribe the uncertainty creates a high level of stress and that in itself is a probable cause of the short life expectancy among these tribes.’

‘Of course there’s stress,’ you said, yawning as you stretched your stockinged foot so that it touched my knee. ‘I would have preferred it to take less than three weeks, but I presume it takes time to find the best and most secure method. For example, if it’s to look like an accident and at the same time be painless, that probably requires a lot of careful planning.’

‘Do you get your money back if this plane goes down?’ I asked and took a sip of the gin and tonic.

‘No. They said that because their expenses are so high for each client, and the clients are, after all, suicidal, they have to insure themselves against the client getting in before them, intentionally or not.’

‘Hm. So, at most you have twenty-one days left to live.’

‘Soon just twenty and a half.’

‘Right. And what do you intend to do with them?’

‘Do what I’ve never done before. Talk and drink with strangers.’

You emptied your glass in one long swallow. And my heart began to pound as though it knew already what was going to happen. You put the glass down and laid a hand on my arm. ‘And I want to make love with you.’

I had no idea how to respond.

‘I’m going to the toilet now,’ you said. ‘If you follow in two minutes, I’ll still be there.’

I felt something happen. An inner rejoicing that wasn’t merely desire, but something affecting my whole body, a feeling of being reborn I had not had in a long, long time, and, if the truth be known, I had never expected to feel again. You had positioned the palms of your hands on the armrests as though about to rise from the seat, but you remained seated.

‘I guess I’m not that tough,’ you sighed. ‘I need to know whether you’re actually coming.’

I took another sip to give me a moment. She looked at my glass as she waited.

‘What if I have someone?’ I said, and could hear that my voice sounded hoarse.

‘But you don’t.’

‘What if I don’t find you attractive? Or I’m gay?’

‘Are you afraid?’

‘Yes. Women who take the sexual initiative frighten me.’

You studied my face as though searching for something. ‘OK,’ you said. ‘I’ll buy that. I’m sorry, it really isn’t my style, but I don’t have time to pussyfoot around. So what are we going to do?’

I could feel myself calming down. My heart was still beating too fast, but the panic and the instinct for flight were gone. I turned the glass in my hand. ‘Do you have a connecting flight from London?’

You nodded. ‘Reykjavik. It leaves an hour after we land. What were you thinking of?’

‘A hotel in London.’

‘Which one?’

‘The Langdon.’

‘The Langdon’s good. If you stay there more than twenty-four hours the staff know your name. Unless they suspect it’s an illicit affair, in which case their memories are Teflon-coated. But anyway, we won’t be staying there more than twenty-four hours.’

‘You mean...’

‘I can rebook the Reykjavik flight for tomorrow.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Does that please you?’

I thought about it. I wasn’t pleased. ‘But what if...’ I began, but then stopped.

‘Are you worried they might do it while you’re with me?’ you asked, and chinked your glass brightly against mine. ‘That you find yourself with a corpse on your hands?’

‘No.’ I smiled. ‘I mean, what if we fall in love? And you’ve signed a contract saying you want to die. An unbreakable contract.’

‘It’s too late,’ you said, and laid your hand over mine on the armrest.

‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying.’

‘No, I mean the other thing is too late. We’ve already fallen in love.’

‘Have we?’

‘A bit. Enough.’ You squeezed my hand, stood up and said you would be back in a moment. ‘Enough for me to be glad I have maybe three weeks.’

While you were away in the toilet the stewardess came by and took our glasses and I asked if we could have two extra pillows.

When you came back you had put fresh make-up on.

‘It’s not for you,’ you said, clearly reading my thoughts. ‘You liked the way it was a bit smeared, didn’t you?’

‘I like it both ways,’ I said. ‘So then who is the make-up for?’

‘Who do you think?’

‘For them?’ I asked and nodded in the direction of the cabin.

You shook your head. ‘I recently commissioned a survey in which the majority of women asked replied that they wore make-up to feel good. But what do they mean by good? Is it just the absence of feeling uncomfortable? Uncomfortable at being seen as they really are? Is make-up really just our own self-imposed version of a burka?’

‘Isn’t make-up used as much to accentuate as to hide?’ I asked.

‘You accentuate something and you hide something else. All editing — at the same time as it clarifies — involves a cover-up. A woman applying make-up wants to attract attention to her lovely eyes so that no one notices her nose is much too big.’

‘But is that a burka? Don’t we all want to be seen?’

‘Not all. And no one wants to be seen as they really are. Incidentally, did you know that in the course of a lifetime a woman spends as much time putting on make-up as the entire duration of conscription for men in countries like Israel and South Korea?’

‘No, but that sounds like a comparison involving a random collection of information.’

‘Exactly. But not involving a random collection.’

‘Oh no?’

‘The comparison is one chosen by me and naturally, it is, in itself, a valid observation. Fake news doesn’t necessarily mean fake facts, it can involve manipulative editing. What does the comparison tell you about my view of sexual politics? Am I saying that men have to serve their country and risk their lives while women prefer to beautify themselves? Maybe. But a little verbal editing is all it would take for that same comparison to show that women are as afraid of being seen as they really are as nations are of being conquered by enemy forces.’

‘Are you a journalist?’ I asked.

‘I edit a magazine that isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.’

‘It’s a woman’s magazine?’

‘Yes, and in the worst possible sense of those words. Do you have any baggage?’

I hesitated.

‘I mean, when we land in London, can we take a taxi straight away?’

‘Just hand baggage,’ I said. ‘You still haven’t told me why you put on make-up?’

She lifted a hand and stroked my cheek with her index finger, just under my eye, as though I too had been crying.

‘Here’s another comparison involving random facts,’ she said. ‘More people die every year from suicide than from war, terrorism, crimes of passion, in fact all murders, combined. Beyond any doubt, you are the most likely murderer of yourself. That’s the reason I put on make-up. I looked in the mirror and could not bear the sight of the naked face of my own killer. Not now that I’m in love.’

We looked at each other. And as I raised my hand to take hers she took mine. Our fingers intertwined.

‘Isn’t there something we can do?’ I whispered, suddenly breathless, as though I were already running. ‘Can’t we buy you out of this contract?’

She put her head on one side, as though to observe me from another angle. ‘If it were possible, then it’s not certain we would have fallen in love,’ she said. ‘The fact that we are unobtainable for each other is an important part of the attraction, don’t you think? Did she die too?’

‘What?’

‘The other one. The one you wouldn’t talk about when I asked if you had a wife and children. The kind of loss that leaves you afraid to fall in love again with someone you’re going to lose. The thing that made you hesitate when I asked if you have any baggage. Do you want to talk about it?’

I looked at you. Did I?

‘Are you sure you want to...?’

‘Yes, I want to hear,’ you said.

‘How long do you have?’

‘Ha ha.’

We ordered another round of drinks and I told my story.

When I was finished it was already growing light outside the window, because we were flying towards the sun, towards a new day.

And you wept again.

‘That’s so sad,’ you said, and laid your head against my shoulder.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Does it still hurt?’

‘Not all the time. I tell myself that since she didn’t want to live, then the choice she made was probably better.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘You believe it too, don’t you?’

‘Maybe,’ you said. ‘But I really don’t know. I’m like Hamlet, a doubter. Maybe the kingdom of death is even worse than the vale of tears.’

‘Tell me about yourself.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything. Just begin, and where I want to know more, I’ll ask.’

‘OK.’

You told your story. And the picture of the girl gradually revealed was even clearer than that of the person who sat leaned into me, her hand beneath my arm. At one point a pocket of turbulence shook the aircraft. It was like riding across a series of small, sharp waves and gave your voice a comic vibrato that made us both laugh.

‘We can make a run for it,’ I said when you had finished.

You looked at me. ‘How?’

‘You book into a single room at the Langdon. This evening you leave a note at Reception for the hotel manager. In it you tell him you’re going to drown yourself in the Thames. You walk down there this evening, to a place where no one can see you. You take off your shoes and leave them on the embankment. I come and pick you up in a hire car. We drive to France and take a plane from Paris to Cape Town.’

‘Passport,’ was all you said.

‘I can arrange that.’

‘You can?’ You continued to stare at me. ‘Just what kind of psychologist are you, exactly?’

‘I’m not a psychologist.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No.’

‘What are you?’

‘What do you think?’

‘You’re the man who’s going to kill me,’ you said. ‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You had the seat beside me booked even before I came to New York to sign the contract.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you really have fallen in love with me?’

‘Yes.’

You nodded slowly, holding on tightly to my arm as though you were afraid of falling.

‘How was it supposed to happen?’

‘In the passport queue. A needle. The active ingredient disappears completely or is camouflaged in the blood within an hour. The autopsy will indicate that you died of an ordinary heart attack. Heart attack has been the most common cause of death in your family, and the tests we did indicate that you are at risk of the same thing.’

You nodded. ‘If we run, will they come after you as well?’

‘Yes. There’s a lot of money involved, for all parties, including those of us who carry out the assignments. It means that they require us to sign a contract too, with a three-week deadline.’

‘A suicide contract?’

‘It allows them to kill us at any time, with no legal risk attached. It’s understood that if we are disloyal then they will activate the clause.’

‘But will they find us in Cape Town?’

‘They’ll pick up our trail, they’re expert at that, and that will lead them to Cape Town. But we won’t be there.’

‘Where will we be?’

‘Is it all right if I wait before telling you that? I promise you it’s a nice place. Sunshine, rain, not too cold, not too hot. And most people there understand English.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Same reason as you.’

‘But you’re not suicidal, you probably earn a fortune doing what you do, and now you’re prepared to risk your own life.’

I tried to smile. ‘What life?’

You looked around, leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. ‘What if you don’t enjoy our lovemaking?’

‘Then I’ll dump you in the Thames,’ I said.

You laughed and kissed me again. A little longer this time, lips a little wider apart.

‘You will enjoy it,’ you whispered in my ear.

‘Yes, I’m afraid I will,’ I said.

You slept there, with your head against my shoulder. I put your seat back and spread a blanket over you. Then I put my own seat back, turned off the overhead light and tried to sleep.

When we landed in London I had put your seatback in an upright position and fastened your seat belt. You looked like a little child, asleep on Christmas Eve, with that little smile on your lips. The stewardess came round and collected the same glasses of water that had been standing on the shared armrest between us since before we took off from JFK, when you stared weeping through the window and we were strangers.

I was standing in front of the customs officer in bay 6 when I saw people in high-visibility jackets with red crosses running towards the gates and pushing a stretcher. I looked at my watch. The powder I emptied into your glass before we took off from JFK worked slowly but it was reliable. You had been dead for almost two hours now, and the autopsy would indicate a heart attack and not much else. I felt like crying, as I did almost every time. At the same time I was happy. It was meaningful work. I would never forget you, you were special.

‘Please look at the camera,’ the customs officer said to me.

I had to blink away a few tears first.

‘Welcome to London,’ said the customs officer.

The Jealousy Man

I glanced out at the propeller on the wing of the forty-seater ATR-72 plane. Beneath us, bathed in sea and sunshine, lay a sandy-coloured island. No visible vegetation, only yellowish-white chalk. Kalymnos.

The captain warned us we might be in for a rough landing. I closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat. Ever since I was a child I have known I was going to die in a fall. Or to be more precise, that I was going to fall from the sky into the sea and drown there. I can even recall the day on which this certainty came to me.

My father was one of the assistant directors in the family firm of which his older brother, Uncle Hector, was head. We children loved Uncle Hector because he always brought presents when he came to see us, and let us ride in his car, the only Rolls-Royce cabriolet in all Athens. My father usually returned from work after I had gone to bed, but this particular evening he was early. He looked worn out, and after tea he had a long, long telephone conversation with my grandfather in his study. I could hear that he was very angry. When I went to bed he sat on the edge of it and I asked him to tell me a story. He thought about it for a bit, then he told the tale of Icarus and his father. They lived in Athens, but they were on the island of Crete when his father, a wealthy and celebrated craftsman, made a pair of wings from feathers and wax with which he was able to fly through the sky. People were mightily impressed by this, and the father and his whole family were everywhere regarded with great respect. When the father gave the wings to Icarus, he urged his son to do exactly as he had done, and follow exactly the same route, and everything would be all right. But Icarus wanted to fly to new places, and to fly even higher than his father. And once he was airborne, intoxicated at finding himself so high above the ground as well as by the onlookers, he forgot that it wasn’t because of his supernatural ability to fly but because of the wings his father had given him. In his overweening self-confidence he flew higher than his father and came too close to the sun, and the sun melted the wax that held the wings in place. And with that Icarus fell into the sea. Where he drowned.

As I was growing up it always seemed to me that my father’s lightly adapted version of the Icarus myth was intended as an early warning to his oldest son. Hector was childless, and it was presumed that I would succeed him when the time came. Not until I was grown up did I learn that at around that time the firm had almost gone bankrupt as a result of Hector’s reckless gambling on the price of gold, that my grandfather had fired him, but for the sake of appearances allowed him to keep his title and office. In practice it was my father who ran the firm thereafter. I never found out whether the bedtime story he told me that evening referred to me or to Uncle Hector, but it must have made a deep impression on me because ever since I have had nightmares that involve falling and drowning. Actually, on some nights the dream seems like something warm and pleasant, a sleep in which everything painful ceases to exist. Who says you can’t dream of dying?

The plane shook and I heard gasps from the other passengers as we sank through so-called air pockets. For a moment or two I felt something like weightlessness. And that my hour had come. But it hadn’t, of course.

The Greek flag was blowing straight out from the flagpole by the little terminal building as we left the plane. As I passed the cockpit I heard the pilot say to the stewardess that the airport had just closed and that it was unlikely they would be able to return to Athens.

I followed the queue of passengers into the terminal building. A man wearing a blue police uniform stood with arms folded in front of the luggage belt and studied us. As I headed towards him he gave me a quizzical look and I nodded my confirmation.

‘George Kostopoulos,’ he said, holding out a large hand, the back of it covered with long black hairs. His grip was firm, but not exaggeratedly so, as is sometimes the case when provincial colleagues feel they’re in competition with the capital.

‘Thank you for coming at such short notice, Inspector Balli.’

‘Call me Nikos,’ I said.

‘Sorry I didn’t recognise you, but there aren’t many pictures of you, and I thought you were... er, older.’

I had inherited — probably from my mother’s side — the kind of looks that don’t age particularly with the years. My hair was grey and the curls gone, and I had maintained a fighting weight of seventy-five kilos, though nowadays less of it was muscle.

‘You don’t think fifty-nine is old enough?’

‘Well, goodness me yes, of course.’ He spoke in a voice that I was guessing was a little deeper than his natural register and smiled wryly beneath a moustache of the type men in Athens had shaved off some twenty years earlier. But the eyes were mild, and I knew I wouldn’t be getting any trouble from George Kostopoulus.

‘It’s just that I’ve been hearing about you ever since I was at the Police Academy, and that seems like a pretty long time ago to me. Any more baggage I can help you with?’

He glanced at the bag I was carrying. And yet I had the feeling he was asking about something more than what I was actually bringing with me in a physical sense. Not that I would have been able to answer him. I carry more with me on my travels than most men, but my baggage is the type that is carried alone.

‘Only hand baggage,’ I said.

‘We’ve got Franz Schmid, the brother of the missing man, at the station in Pothia,’ said George as we left the terminal building and crossed to a small, dust-coated Fiat with a stained windscreen. I guessed he had parked beneath some stone pines to keep out of the direct sunlight and instead got a dose of that sticky sap that in the end you have to scrap off with a knife. That’s the way it is. You raise your guard to protect your face and you leave your heart exposed. And vice versa.

‘I read the report on the plane,’ I said, putting my bag on the back seat. ‘Has he said anything else?’

‘No, he’s sticking to his story. His brother Julian left their room at six in the morning and never returned.’

‘It said Julian went for a swim?’

‘That’s what Franz says.’

‘But you don’t believe him?’

‘No.’

‘Surely drownings can’t be all that unusual on a holiday island like Kalymnos?’

‘No. And I would have believed Franz if it hadn’t been for the fact that he and Julian had a fight the previous evening, in the presence of witnesses.’

‘Yes, I noticed that.’

We turned down a narrow, pitted track with bare olive trees and small white stone houses on both sides of what must have been the main road.

‘They just closed the airport,’ I said. ‘I suppose that’s because of the wind.’

‘It happens all the time,’ said George. ‘That’s the trouble with having the airport on the highest point of an island.’

I could see what he meant. As soon as we got between the mountains the flags hung limply down from the flagpoles.

‘Fortunately my evening flight leaves from Kos,’ I said. The secretary in the Homicide Department had checked the travel itinerary before my boss had given me permission to make the trip. Even though we give priority to the very few cases involving foreign tourists, a condition of the permission was that I was to spend only one working day on it. Usually I was given free rein, but even the legendary Detective Inspector Balli was subject to budget cuts. And as my boss put it: this was a case with no body, no media interest and not even reasonable grounds to suspect a murder.

There were no return flights from Kalymnos in the evening, but there was one from the international airport on the island of Kos, a forty-minute ferry ride from Kalymnos, so he had grunted his assent, reminding me as he did so of the cutback on travel expenses and that I should avoid the overpriced tourist restaurants unless I wanted to pay out of my own pocket.

‘I’m afraid the boats to Kos won’t be going either in this weather,’ said George.

‘This weather? The sun is shining and there’s hardly a breath of wind, except up there.’

‘I know it seems unlikely from here, but there’s a stretch of open sea before you reach Kos and there have been a number of accidents in sunny weather just like this. We’ll book a hotel room for you. Maybe the wind will have eased off by tomorrow.’

For him to say the wind would ‘maybe’ ease off instead of the more typically overoptimistic ‘bound to have eased off’ suggested to me that the weather forecast didn’t favour either me or my boss. I thought disconsolately of the inadequate contents of my bag, and a little less disconsolately of my boss. Perhaps I might be able to get a little well-earned rest out here. I’m the type who has to be forced to take a holiday, even when I know I need one. Maybe being both childless and wifeless is what makes me so bad at holidays. They feel like a waste of time and serve only to reinforce what is an admittedly voluntary loneliness.

‘What’s that?’ I asked, pointing towards the other side of the car. Surrounded on all sides by steep inclines lay what looked like a village. But there were no signs of life. It looked like a model someone had carved from grey rock, a gathering of small houses like Lego blocks, with a wall enclosing the whole, all of it in the same monotonous grey.

‘That’s Palechora,’ said George. ‘Twelfth century. Byzantine. If the inhabitants of Kalymnos spotted hostile ships approaching they would flee up there and barricade themselves. People hid up there when the Italians invaded in 1912 and when the Allies bombed Kalymnos, when it was used as a German base during the Second World War.’

‘Obviously a must-see,’ I said, without adding that neither the houses nor the fortifications looked especially Byzantine.

‘Hm,’ said George. ‘Or actually no. It looks better from a distance. The last time it was repaired was by the Knights Hospitaller in the sixteenth century. It’s overgrown, there’s rubbish, goats, even the chapels are used as latrines. You could get up there if you could manage the stone steps, but there was a landslide and now the climb is even more strenuous. But if you’re really interested I could get a guide for you. I can promise you you’ll have the entire stone village all to yourself.’

I shook my head. But I was, of course, tempted. I always find myself tempted by what rejects me, shuts me out. Unreliable narrators. Women. Logical problems. Human conduct. Murder cases. All the things I don’t understand. I am a man of limited intellect but limitless curiosity. It is, unfortunately, a frustrating combination.

Pothia turned out to be a lively labyrinth of houses, narrow one-way streets and alleys. Even though November was approaching, and the tourist season had ended some time ago, the streets were crowded with people.

We parked outside a two-storey house in the harbour area where fishing boats and yachts that were not too extravagantly luxurious lay alongside one another. A small car ferry and a speedboat with seating for passengers underneath and up the top were tethered to the quayside. Further along the quay stood a group of people, obviously foreign tourists, discussing something with a man in some kind of naval uniform. Some of the tourists had rucksacks with coils of rope sticking out from each side of the top flap. Several of those I had travelled on the plane with had been similarly equipped. Climbers. Over the last fifteen years, Kalymnos had changed from being a sun-and-surf island to a destination for sports climbers from all over Europe; but that happened after I had hung up my climbing boots. The man in the seagoing uniform spread his arms wide as though to protest that there was nothing he could do about it, pointing to the sea. There were white crests here and there but, as I far as I could see, the waves weren’t dangerously high.

‘As I said, the problems arise further out, you can’t see from here,’ said George, who had obviously read the look on my face.

‘That’s often the case,’ I said with a sigh, and tried to come to terms with the fact that, for the time being at least, I was trapped on this little island which, for some reason or other, seemed even smaller now than it did from the air.

George entered the police station ahead of me, passed a counter, and I nodded greetings left and right as we made out way through a cramped and overcrowded open-plan office where not only the furniture seemed outdated but also the bulky computer screens, the coffee machine and the oversized photocopier.

‘George!’ called a woman from behind a partition. ‘A journalist from Kathimerini rang. They want to know if it’s true that we’ve arrested the brother of the missing man. I told them I would ask you to ring them.’

‘Call them yourself, Christine. Say there have been no arrests in the case and that at this moment in time we have no comment.’

I understood, of course. George wanted to work in peace and to keep hysterical journalists and other distracting elements at bay. Or did he perhaps just want to show me, the guy from the big city, that out here in the provinces they were professionals too? Best for our working relationship if that was the case, so I wouldn’t have to use my experience to explain to him that pedantic points of detail were, as a rule, a bad strategy to adopt when dealing with the press. And of course, since Franz Schmid voluntarily made himself available for questioning, he was not technically under arrest — indeed, had not even been apprehended. But once it emerged — and here there was no ‘if” about it — that Franz was being held behind closed doors at the station for hours and the police gave the impression of wanting to keep quiet about it, it would give rise to the type of speculations that were meat and drink to journalists. In that case, better to give a more open and friendly reply, something to the effect that the police were, of course, talking to anyone who could give them a better picture of what might have happened, and that included the missing man’s brother.

‘Cup of coffee and something to eat?’ asked George.

‘Thanks, but I’d rather get going straight away.’

George nodded and stopped in front of a door. ‘Franz Schmid’s in there,’ he whispered.

‘OK,’ I said, lowering my voice but not whispering. ‘Has the word “lawyer” been mentioned yet?’

George shook his head. ‘We asked if he wanted to call the embassy or the German consul on Kos, but, as he put it, “What can they do to help find my brother?” ’

‘Does that mean you haven’t confronted him with your suspicions?’

‘I asked him about the fight, but that’s all. But he probably realises that we’ve asked him to wait here until you come for a reason.’

‘And who did you say I was?’

‘A specialist from Athens.’

‘Specialist in what? Finding missing persons? Or finding killers?’

‘I didn’t specify, and he didn’t ask.’

I nodded. George remained standing there for a couple of seconds before it dawned on him that I wasn’t going to enter until he had left.

The room I stepped into was about three metres by three. The only light came from two narrow windows high up on a wall. The person in the room was sitting at a small, square table on which stood a jug of water and a glass. There was a tall man man seated at it. Both forearms were resting on the blue-painted wooden tabletop, his elbows making ninety-degree angles. How tall? Maybe one ninety? He was slender, with a face aged beyond what his twenty-eight years might suggest, one that conveyed the spontaneous impression of a sensitive nature. Or maybe it was rather the fact that he seemed calm and content just to sit there, bolt upright, as though his head were so full of thoughts and feelings that he had no need of external stimuli. On his head he wore a cap with horizontal stripes in Rasta colours, with a discreet little skull on the rim. Dark curls protruded from beneath the cap, such as I once had. The eyes were so deep-set I couldn’t immediately fathom them. And at the same moment it dawned on me that there was something familiar here. It took a second for my brain to dig it up. The cover of a record Monique had at her room in Oxford. Townes van Zandt. He’s seated at a similar table, posed in almost the same way, and with a similarly expressionless face that still managed to seem sensitive, so naked and unprotected.

‘Kalimera,’ I said.

‘Kalimera,’ he replied.

‘Not bad, Mr...’ I glanced at the folder I had removed from my bag and placed in front of me on the table. ‘Franz Schmid. Does that mean you speak Greek?’ I asked in my very British English, and he gave the expected reply.

‘Unfortunately no.’

I hoped that with my question I had established our starting point. That I was tabula rasa, I knew nothing about him, I had no reason to have any preconceived notions about him and that he could — if he so wished — change his story for this new listener.

‘My name is Nikos Balli, I am an inspector from the Homicide Department in Athens. I am here hopefully to remove any suspicion that your brother has been the victim of criminal activity.’

‘Is that what you think has happened?’ The question was posed in a neutral and straightforward way. He struck me at once as a practical man who simply wanted to acquaint himself with the facts. Or wished to give that impression.

‘I have no idea what the local police think, I can only speak for myself, and at this moment in time I don’t believe anything. What I do know is that murders are rare occurrences. But any murder is so harmful to Greece as a holiday destination that when one does occur, it is our duty to show the rest of the world that this is something we take very seriously indeed. As in the case of plane crashes, we have to find the cause and solve the mystery, because we know that whole airlines have gone bankrupt over a single unexplained crash. I’m saying that to explain why I might be asking you about details which might seem irritatingly irrelevant, especially to someone who has recently lost his brother. And that it might sound as though I am convinced that you or others are responsible for killing him. But be aware that, as a homicide investigator, it is my task to test out the hypothesis that a murder may have been committed, and that it will be a mark of my success if I am able to dispense with any such hypothesis. And that, regardless of the outcome, we might be a step closer to finding your brother. All right?’

Franz Schmid gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach to his eyes. ‘Sounds like my grandfather.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Scientific approach. Programming of the object. He was one of the German scientists who fled Hitler and helped the USA develop the atom bomb. We...’ He stopped and wiped his hand across his face. ‘I’m sorry, I’m wasting your time, Inspector. Fire away.’

Franz Schmid’s gaze met mine. He seemed tired, but alert. I couldn’t tell just how far he had seen through me, but it was a keen gaze that — as far as I could judge — signalled intelligence. When he said ‘programming of the object’ he was clearly referring to the fact that I had formulated his motivation for helping me; that it might help us to find his brother. It was standard manipulation, no more than expected. But I suspected that Franz Schmid had also spotted the more obscure manipulation involved, part of the interrogator’s method of getting the person being interrogated to lower their guard. The reason I almost apologised in advance for the aggressive tone of the interrogation that was about to follow and laid the blame on the economic cynicism of the Greek authorities. It was to make me appear to be the decent, honest cop. Someone in whom Franz Schmid could safely confide.

‘Let’s begin with yesterday morning, when your brother disappeared.’

As I listened to Franz Schmid’s story I observed his body language. He seemed patient, didn’t lean forward and talk rapidly and loudly, the way people do when they unconsciously feel that their explanation is the key to the solution of a case they would like to see solved, or to prove their own innocence. But the opposite wasn’t the case either. He didn’t tiptoe around as though he were navigating a minefield, didn’t hesitate. His explanation came in a calm, steady stream. Maybe it was because he had been able to rehearse it in conversation with others. In any case that didn’t tell me much; the performance of the guilty is often more precise and convincing than that of the innocent. The reason might be that the guilty come well prepared and have a story ready, whereas the innocent tell the story as it comes to them then and there. So even though I observed and analysed, body language was a secondary issue for me. Stories are my field, my speciality.

Even though I concentrated on his story, my brain also drew conclusions based on other observations. Such as that Franz Schmid, in spite of being clean-shaven, seemed to be a certain type of hipster, the type that wears a cap and a thick flannel shirt indoors even when it’s hot. A jacket hung on the hook behind him, and to judge by the size it was his. The sleeves of the flannel shirt were rolled up and the bare forearms seemed disproportionately muscular when compared to the rest of his body. As he spoke he now and then scrutinised his fingertips and carefully squeezed the joints of his fingers, which seemed thicker than average. The watch on his left wrist was a Tissot T-touch which I knew had a barometer and an altimeter. In other words, Franz Schmid was a climber.

According to the case notes both Franz and Julian Schmid were American citizens, resident in San Francisco, unmarried, with Franz working as a programmer for an IT firm and Julian in marketing for a well-known producer of climbing equipment. As I listened to him I thought how his American English had taken over the world. How my fourteen-year-old niece sounded like something out of an American teens’ film when she talked to her foreign friends at the International School in Athens.

Franz Schmid told me he had woken at six in the morning in the room he and his brother Julian had rented in a house right by the beach in Massouri, a town about a fifteen-minute drive from Pothia. Julian was already up and about to go out, that was what had woken Franz. As usual, Julian intended to swim the eight hundred metres to the neighbouring island of Telendos, something he did every morning, there and back. The reason he did this so early was, in the first place, because it gave the brothers enough time to climb the best rock faces before the sun hit them from midday onwards. Secondly, Julian liked to swim naked, and it didn’t begin to get light until around six thirty. Thirdly, Julian felt that the dangerous undercurrents in the sound were less strong before sunrise and before the wind got up. Usually Julian would be back and ready for breakfast by seven, but on this particular day he simply never showed up again.

Franz made his way down the steps to the small, crumbling stone jetty that lay in a little bay directly below the house. The large towel his brother usually took with him lay at the end of the jetty, a stone on top of it to stop it blowing away. Franz felt it with his hand. It was dry. He scanned the water, called to a fishing boat that was chugging up the sound, but no one on board seems to have heard him. Then he ran back up to the house and got the landlord to ring the police in Pothia.

First on the scene were the mountain rescue team, a group of men in orange shirts who, mixing professional seriousness with a friendly, bantering tone, at once got two boats out on the water and commenced the search. Next came the divers. And finally the police. The police got Franz to check that none of Julian’s clothes were missing and satisfied themselves that Julian could not have gone to his room unseen by Franz — who was eating breakfast in the basement — dressed, and left the house.

After scouring the beach on the Kalymnos side, Franz and some of his climbing friends rented a boat and crossed over to Telendos. The police searched from the boat along the shoreline, where the waves broke against jagged rocks, while Franz and his friends visited the houses scattered across the mountainside, asking if anyone had seen a naked swimmer come ashore.

After returning from the failed search Franz spent the rest of the evening calling family and friends to explain the situation. He was contacted on the phone by journalists, some of them German, and spoke briefly to them about what had happened. That they were still hopeful, and so on. He hardly slept that night and at daybreak the police telephoned and asked if he could come to the station to assist them. Naturally he had done so and that was now — Franz Schmid looked at his Tissot watch — eight and a half hours ago.

‘The fight,’ I said. ‘Tell me about the fighting the night before.’

Franz shook his head. ‘It was just a stupid quarrel. We were in a bar at the Hemisphere and playing billiards. We were all a bit drunk. Julian started shooting his mouth off, I had a go back at him, and next thing I know I’ve thrown a billiard ball at him and hit him on the head. Down he went, and when he came to he was nauseous and throwing up. I thought concussion, so I got him in the car to drive him to the hospital in Pothia.

‘Do you often fight?’

‘When we were kids yeah. Now, no.’ He rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘But we don’t always take our drink that well.’

‘I see. Well, that was brotherly of you to take him to the hospital.’

Franz snorted briefly. ‘Sheer egoism. I wanted to get him checked so we would know if we could go ahead with the long multi-pitch we planned to climb the next day.’

‘So you drove to the hospital.’

‘Yes. Or actually, no.’

‘No?’

‘We were some distance out of Massouri, and Julian insisted he was feeling better and that we should turn round. I said it would do no harm to check, but he said that in Pothia we risked being stopped by the police and they’d suspect me of driving under the influence, I’d end up in a cell and he wouldn’t have anyone to climb with. It was hard to argue against that, so we turned round and drove back to our place in Massouri.’

‘Did anyone see you come back?’

Franz carried on scratching his jaw. ‘Someone’s bound to have. It was late at night, but we parked on the main road, where all the restaurants are, and there are always people there.’

‘Good. Did you meet anyone you think can help us so we can get independent confirmation of this?’

Franz took his hand away from his chin. I don’t know whether it was because he realised the rubbing might be interpreted as nerves or because it simply wasn’t itching any more. ‘We didn’t meet anyone we know, I don’t think. And when I think about it, it was actually fairly quiet. The bar at the Hemisphere was possibly still open, but all the restaurants were probably closed for the evening. Now in the autumn it’s mostly climbers in Massouri, and climbers go to bed early.’

‘So no one saw you.’

Franz sat up straight in his chair. ‘I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Inspector, but can you tell me what this has to do with my brother’s disappearance?’ His voice was still calm and controlled, but for the first time I saw something that might have been tension in the look on his face.

‘Yes I can,’ I said. ‘But I’m pretty sure you can work it out for yourself.’ I nodded towards the folder on the table in front of me. ‘It says in there that the landlord says he was woken by the sound of one or several loud voices coming from your room, and that he heard chairs being dragged about. Were you still quarrelling?’

I saw a slight twitch pass across Franz Schmid’s face. Was it because I reminded him that the last words that had passed between the brothers had been hard?

‘As I told you, we weren’t exactly sober,’ he said quietly. ‘But we were friends by the time we fell asleep.’

‘What were you quarrelling about?’

‘Just some nonsense.’

‘Tell me.’

He took hold of the glass of water in front of him as though it were a lifebelt. Drank. A postponement that gave him time to work out how much he should tell me, and what he should leave out. I folded my arms and waited. I knew of course what he was thinking, but he seemed sharp enough to know that if I didn’t get the information from him then I would get it from witnesses to the quarrel. What he didn’t know was that George Kostopoulos already had this from the one of the witnesses. That this was what caused George to ring the Homicide Department in Athens. And why it had ended up on my desk. The Jealousy Man’s desk.

‘A dame,’ said Franz.

I tried to work out the significance — if any — the use of this word had for him. In British English dame was an honorary form of address, an aristocratic title. But in America, dame was Chandleresque slang, as in a chick, a broad, a bird, not exactly derogatory, but then not a hundred per cent respectful either. Meaning someone a guy could have, or someone he better watch out for. But in Franz’s native language dame had an entirely neutral ring, like the way I interpret it in Heinrich Böll’s Gruppenbild mit Dame.

‘Whose dame?’ I asked to get to the heart of the thing as quickly as possible.

Again that slight smile, a flicker and then gone. ‘That’s exactly what the discussion was about.’

‘I understand, Franz. Can you give me the details there too?’

Franz looked at me. Hesitated. I had already used his forename, which is an obvious and yet surprisingly efficient way of creating intimacy with someone you’re interrogating. And now I gave him the look and the body language that gets murder suspects to open their hearts to the Jealousy Man, Phthonus.

The murder rate in Greece is low. So low that a lot of people wonder how it’s possible in a crisis-ridden country with high unemployment, corruption and social unrest. The smart answer is that rather than kill someone they hate, Greeks allow the victim to go on living in Greece. Another that we don’t have organised crime because we’re incapable of the organisation required. But of course we have blood that is capable of boiling. We have crime passionnel. And I’m the man they call in when there’s a suggestion that jealousy is the motive behind a murder. They say I can smell jealousy. That’s not true of course. Jealousy has no distinct smell, colour or sound. But it has a story. And it’s listening to this story, what is told as well as what is left out, that enables me to know whether I am sitting in the presence of a desperate, wounded animal. I listen and know. Know because it is me, Nikos Balli, I am listening for. Know, because I am myself a wounded animal.

And Franz told me his story. He told it because this — this bit of the truth — is always good to tell. To get it out, to air the unjust defeat and the hate that are the story’s natural consequences. For there is, of course, nothing perverse in wanting to kill whatever might stand in the way of our primary function as biological creations; to mate, in order to propagate our unique genes. It is the opposite that is perverse; to allow ourselves to be hindered in this by a morality that we have been indoctrinated to believe is natural or divine in origin but which is, in the final analysis, merely a matter of practical rules dictated by what are, at any given time, the needs of the community at large.

On one of their rest days from climbing Franz had rented a moped and ridden to the northern side of Kalymnos. In the country village of Emporio he met Helena, who waited tables in her father’s restaurant. He fell hard for her, overcame his natural shyness and got her phone number. Three dates and six days later they became lovers in the cloister ruins of Palechora. Because she was under strict instructions from home not to get involved with guests, and foreign tourists in particular, Helena insisted their meetings be kept secret and involve just the two of them, because on the northern side of Kalymnos everyone knew her father. So they were discreet; but of course, Franz kept his brother informed of events from the moment of that first meeting at the restaurant; every word they exchanged, every look, every touch, the first kiss. Franz showed Julian pictures of her, a video of her sitting on the castle wall and looking down at the sunset.

They had done this ever since childhood, shared every tiny detail, so that all experiences became shared experiences. For example, Julian — who was, according to Franz, the more extrovert of the two — had shown Franz a video he had made in secret a few days earlier of himself having sex with a girl in her apartment in Pothia.

‘As a joke Julian suggested I visit her, pretend to be him, and see if she noticed any difference between us as lovers. An exciting idea, of course, but...’

‘But you said no.’

‘Well, I’d already met Helena, I was already so much in love that I couldn’t think or talk about anything else. So maybe it wasn’t so surprising that Julian was attracted to Helena too. And then fell in love.’

‘Without ever even having met her?’

Franz nodded slowly. ‘At least, I didn’t think he’d ever met her. I had told Helena I had a brother, but not that we were identical twins, exact physical copies of each other. We don’t usually do that.’

‘Why not?’

Franz shrugged. ‘Some people think it’s weird that you come in two identical copies. So we usually wait a bit before mentioning it or introducing each other.’

‘I understand. Please continue.’

‘Three days ago my phone suddenly went missing. I looked everywhere for it, it was the only place I had Helena’s number and she and I exchanged text messages all the time, she was bound to be thinking I was through with her. I made up my mind to drive to Emporio but the following morning heard it vibrating in the pocket of Julian’s jacket while he was out swimming. It was a text message from Helena thanking him for a nice evening and hoping they could meet again soon. And so of course I realised what had happened.’

He noticed my — probably badly acted — expression of puzzlement.

‘Julian had taken my phone,’ he said, sounding almost impatient when I apparently still failed to get it. ‘He found her number among my contacts, called her on my phone so she assumed it was me when she saw the caller ID. They arranged to meet and even after they met it didn’t occur to her that the person wasn’t me but Julian.’

‘Aha,’ I said.

‘I confronted him when he returned from his swim, and he admitted everything. I was furious, so I went off climbing with some others. We didn’t meet again until the evening, at that bar, and then Julian claimed that he’d called Helena, explained everything, that she’d forgiven him for tricking her and that they were in love with each other. I was furious, of course and... and yes, so we started arguing again.’

I nodded. There were a number of different ways of interpreting Franz’s honest account. It might be that the pressures of jealousy were so intense that the humiliating truth simply had to be told, even if it cast him in a suspicious light now that his brother had gone missing. If that was the case — and if he had killed his brother — the combined pressure of his guilt and his lack of self-control would produce the same result: he would confess.

Then you had the more intricate interpretation: that he guessed I would interpret his openness in precisely this fashion, that I would suppose he found the inner pressures irresistible, so that if, after these confessions, he did not crack up and admit the murder, I would be the more willing to believe in his innocence.

Finally, the most likely interpretation. That he was innocent and therefore had no need to consider the consequences of telling all.

A guitar riff. I recognised it immediately. ‘Black Dog’. Led Zeppelin.

Without rising from his seat Franz Schmid turned and took a phone from a pocket of the jacket hanging on the wall behind him. Studied the display as the riff went into a variation after the third repetition, the one where Bonham’s drums and Jimmy Page’s guitar just don’t go, and yet go together so perfectly. Trevor, a friend who had the room next to mine at Oxford, wrote a mathematical paper about the intricate rhythmic figures in ‘Black Dog’, about the paradox that was John Bonham, Led Zeppelin’s drummer, better known for his ability as a drinker and wrecker of hotel rooms than for his intelligence, in which he compared him to the semi-literate and apparently simple-minded chess genius in Stefan Zweig’s ‘Chess’. Was Franz Schmid that kind of drummer, that kind of chess player? Franz Schmid touched the display, the riff stopped, and he held the phone to his ear.

‘Yes?’ he said. Listened. ‘One moment.’ He held the phone out to me. I took it.

‘Inspector Balli,’ I said.

‘This is Arnold Schmid, uncle to Frank and Julian,’ said a guttural voice in that much-parodied German-accented English. ‘I am a lawyer. I would like to know on what grounds you are holding Franz.’

‘We are not holding him, Mr Schmid. He has expressed a willingness to assist us in the search for his brother, and we are taking advantage of that offer as long as it remains open.’

‘Put Franz back on the line.’

Franz listened for a while. Then he touched the screen and placed the phone on the table between us with his hand on top of it. I looked at it as he told me he was tired, he wanted to get back to the house now, but that we were to call him if anything turned up.

Like a question? I wondered. Or a body?

‘The phone,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if we take a look at it?’

‘I gave it to the policeman I was talking to. With the PIN code.’

‘I don’t mean your brother’s, I mean yours.’

‘Mine?’ The sinewy hand tightened like a claw around the black object on the table. ‘Er, will this take long?’

‘Not the actual phone,’ I said. ‘Of course, I realise you must have it with you under the present circumstances. So what I’m asking for is formal permission to access the call log and text messages that have been registered on your phone over the last ten days. All we need is your signature on a standard release form to acquire the information from the telephone company.’ I smiled as though it was a regrettable necessity. ‘It will help me to cross your name off the list of possible leads we need to follow.’

Franz Schmid looked at me. And in the light coming from the windows above I could see his pupils distend. Distension of the pupils, allowing more light to enter, can have a number of causes, such as fear, or lust. On this occasion it seemed to me to indicate only heightened concentration. As when a chess opponent makes an unexpected move.

It was as though I could feel the thoughts racing through his head.

He’d been prepared for us to want to check his phone, so he’d deleted the calls and text messages he didn’t want us to see. But maybe nothing got deleted at the telephone provider, he thought, or — shit! — how did it work? He could of course refuse. He could ring his uncle now and get confirmation that there was no difference under Greek, American or German law, he was not obliged to give the police anything at all so long as they had no legal right to demand it. But how would it look if he made things difficult? In that case I was hardly going to cross his name off the list, he was probably thinking. I saw what looked like the onset of panic in his eyes.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Where do I sign?’

His pupils were already contracting. His brain had scanned the messages. Nothing crucial there, probably. He hadn’t shown me his cards, but for one revelatory moment he had at least lost his poker face.

We left the room together and were on our way through the open-plan offices looking out for George when a dog, a friendly-looking golden retriever, slipped out from between two partitions and jumped up barking happily at Franz Schmid.

‘Well, hey there!’ he cried spontaneously, squatting to scratch the dog behind the ear in the practised way of people with a genuine love of animals, something which the animal instinctively seems to realise; it was probably the reason it had chosen Franz and not me. The big dog’s tail whirled like a rotor as it tried to lick Franz’s face.

‘Animals are better than people, don’t you think?’ he said as he looked up at me. His face was radiant; suddenly he looked like a different person to the man who had been sitting opposite me.

‘Odin!’ cried a sharp voice from between the walls of the partition, the same voice as had told George that a journalist had called. She emerged and grabbed the dog by the collar.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said in Greek. ‘He knows he’s not allowed to do that.’

She looked to be about thirty. She was small and compact, athletic-looking in a uniform with the white ribbon of the tourist police. She raised her head. She was red around the eyes, and when she saw us her cheeks turned the same colour. Odin’s claws scraped against the floor covering as she dragged the whimpering dog back behind the partitions. I heard a sniffle.

‘I need help to print out a warrant to check the contents of a phone,’ I said, addressing the partition. ‘It’s on the home page of—’

Her voice interrupted me. ‘Just go to the printer at the end of the corridor, Inspector Balli.’

‘Well?’ said George Kostopoulos as I poked my head in between the partition walls around his desk.

‘The suspect is on a moped on his way back to Massouri,’ I said, handing him the sheet of paper with Franz Schmid’s signature. ‘And I’m afraid he suspects that we’re on to him and could do a runner.’

‘No danger of that. We’re on an island, and the forecast is for the wind to increase. Are you saying that you...?’

‘Yes. I think he killed his brother. Can you mail me the printouts as soon as you get them from the telephone company?’

‘Yes. Shall I ask them to send Julian Schmid’s text messages and call logs too?’

‘Unfortunately that requires a court order so long as he’s not officially confirmed dead. But you’ve got his phone?’

‘Sure have,’ said George and opened a drawer.

I took the phone, sat in a chair at his desk and tapped in the PIN code written on the Post-it note on the back. Browsed through the calls logs and text messages.

I saw nothing of immediate relevance to the case. Just a message about a climbing route that had been ‘Sent’, which in climber’s lingo means that it has been climbed and which automatically made my palms begin to sweat. Mutual congratulations exchanged. Dinners arranged, the name of the restaurant where ‘the gang’ were gathering and the time. But by the look of it, no conflict and no romance.

I jumped as the phone began to vibrate in my hand at the same time as a male vocalist started singing in the kind of pathos-filled and passionately choked-up falsetto that shows you’re a devotee of mainstream pop from the 2000s. I hesitated. If I answered I would probably have to explain to a friend, a colleague or relative that Julian was missing and presumed drowned on a climbing holiday in Greece. I took a deep breath and pressed ACCEPT.

‘Julian?’ whispered a female voice before I had time to say anything.

‘This is the police,’ I said in English and then stopped. I wanted to let it hang there. Allow the realisation that something had happened to sink in.

‘Sorry,’ said the female voice with resignation. ‘I was hoping it might be Julian, but... any news?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Victoria Hässel. A climbing friend. I didn’t want to bother Franz and... yeah. Thanks.’

She hung up and I took a note of the number.

‘That ringtone,’ I said. ‘What was it?’

‘No idea,’ said George.

‘Ed Sheeran,’ came the voice of the dog owner from the other side of the partition. ‘ “Happier”.’

‘Thanks,’ I called back.

‘Anything else we can do?’ asked George.

I folded my arms and thought it over. ‘No. Or actually yes. He was drinking from a glass in there. Can you get it fingerprinted? And DNA if there’s any saliva on the rim.’

George cleared his throat. I knew what he was going to say. That this would require the permission of the person involved, or a court order.

‘I suspect the glass might have been at a crime scene,’ I said.

‘Sorry?’

‘If in the DNA report you don’t link the DNA to a named individual but simply to the glass, the date and the place, that’ll be OK. It might not be admissible in a court of law, but it could be useful for you and me.’

George raised one of his chaotic eyebrows.

‘That’s the way we do it in Athens,’ I lied. The truth is that sometimes that’s the way I do it in Athens.

‘Christine,’ he said.

‘Yes?’ There was the scraping of a chair and the girl in the tourist-police uniform peered over the divider.

‘Can you send the glass in the interrogation room for analysis?’

‘Really? Do we have permission from—’

‘It’s a crime scene,’ he said.

‘Crime scene?’

‘Yes,’ said George, without taking his gaze from me. ‘Apparently that’s the way we do things here now.’

It was seven in the evening and I was lying on the bed in the hotel room in Massouri. The hotels in Pothia were all full, probably because of the weather. That was OK by me, I was nearer the centre of things here. High above me, on the hills on the other side of the road, yellow-white limestone rock rose up. Mysteriously beautiful and inviting in the moonlight. There had been a fatal accident on the island in the summer, the newspapers had written about it. I remember I hadn’t wanted to read about it but did so anyway.

On the other side of the hotel the mountainside plunged more or less straight down into the sea.

The second day of searching was over, the waters in the sound between Kalymnos and Telendos had been calmer further out. But, given the forecast for tomorrow, there wasn’t going to be any third day, I was told. In any event, when someone is believed to have been lost at sea, the search is limited to two days, American or not. The wind rattled the windowpanes and I could hear the sound of the waves breaking against the rocks out there.

My task — to make a diagnosis, to decide whether jealousy of a homicidal nature was involved — was over. The next step — the tactical and technical investigation — wasn’t my strongest suit. My colleagues from Athens would take care of that. Now the weather had postponed the changing of the guards, and it emphasised and even exposed my inadequacies as a homicide detective. I simply lacked the imaginative ability to see how a murderer might have set about killing someone and then hiding his tracks. My chief said it was because what I possessed in the way of emotional intelligence I lacked in practical imagination. That’s why he called me the jealousy investigator, that’s the reason I was sent in as a scout and pulled out as soon as I had given the case the red or green light.

There’s something called the eighty per cent rule in murder cases. In eighty per cent of cases the guilty party is closely related to the victim, in eighty per cent of cases the guilty party is the husband or boyfriend, and in a further eighty per cent of these the motive is jealousy. It means that as soon as we answer a call in the Homicide Department and hear the word ‘murder’ at the other end of the line, we know there’s a fifty-one per cent chance that the motive is jealousy. This is what makes me, in spite of my limitations, an important man.

I can pinpoint exactly when it was I learned to read other people’s jealousy. It was when I realised that Monique was in love with someone else. I went through all the agonies of jealousy, from disbelief, via despair, to rage, self-contempt and finally depression. And perhaps because I had never before in my life been exposed to such emotional torture, I discovered that, at the same time as the pain was all-consuming, it was like observing oneself from the outside. I was a patient lying without an anaesthetic on the operating table at the same time as I was a spectator in the gallery, a young medical student getting his first lessons in what happens when a person has the heart cut out of their breast. It might seem strange that the extreme subjectivity of jealousy can go hand in hand with that kind of cold, observational objectivity. My only explanation is that I, as the jealous one, took steps that made me a stranger in my own eyes, to such an extent that it forced me into the position of the frightened observer of myself. I had lived enough to see the self-destruction in others but had never thought the poison might lie within me too. I was mistaken. And what was surprising was that the curiosity and fascination were almost as strong as the hate, the pain and the self-contempt. Like a leper who watches as his own face dissolves, sees the diseased flesh, his own rotten interior manifest itself in all its grotesque and disgusting and terrifying horror. I emerged from my own leprosy permanently damaged, that much is clear, but it also rendered me immune. I can never again experience jealousy, not in that way. If that also means I can never love anyone, not in that way, I really don’t know. Maybe there were other things my life besides jealousy that led to my never having felt the same about anyone as I felt about Monique. On the other hand: she made me what I have become in my professional life. The Jealousy Man.

From childhood onwards I have had a striking ability to become deeply engaged in stories. Family and friends described it as everything from remarkable and moving to pathetic and unmanly. To me it was a gift. I wasn’t a part of Huckleberry Finn’s adventures; I was Huckleberry Finn. And Tom Sawyer. And, when I started at school and learned how to be Greek, the Odyssey, of course. Naturally, they don’t have to be the great tales of world literature. A very simple, even badly told story about infidelity, real or imagined, it doesn’t matter which, will do. I am inside the story. From the first sentence I am a part of it. It’s like turning on a switch. And it also means that I am able to spot quickly any false notes. Not because I have a unique talent for reading body language, the timbre of a voice or the automatic rhetorical strategies of self-defence. It’s the story. Even in a crudely and very obviously falsely conceived character I am able to read the main themes, the person’s probable motivation and place in the story, and on the basis of this I know what inexorably leads to what in this character. Because I have been there myself. Because our jealousy evens out the difference between you and me, beyond the barriers of class, sex, religion, education, IQ, culture, upbringing, our behaviour begins to resemble each other’s, the way drug addicts resemble each other in their behaviour. We are all of us living dead who rave through the streets driven on by this single need: to fill the enormous black hole that is inside us.

One more thing. The power of imaginative projection is not the same as empathy. ‘That I understand doesn’t mean I care,’ as Homer says. Homer Simpson, that is. But in my case it is, unfortunately, one and the same thing. I suffer, suffer, with the jealous one. And that’s why I hate my job.

The wind pulled at the window sash, trying to open it. Wanting to show me something.

I fell asleep and dreamed of falling from a great height. And woke an hour later when the falling man hit the ground, so to speak.

I had mail on my phone. It contained a printout of Franz Schmid’s deleted SMSs and call logs. The night before his brother went missing he had, according to the log, called a certain Victoria Hässel eight times without reply. I checked the number and was able to confirm that it was the same Victoria I had briefly spoken to on Julian’s phone. But the feeling of someone hitting the ground from a great height, the distinct shiver, the sound of flesh against stone that you never, never forget, that didn’t come until I read the text message Franz had sent to a Greek number registered to Helena Ambrosia.

I have killed Julian.

Emporio was a tiny hamlet at the north end of Kalymnos where the main road simply came to a halt. The girl who came to my restaurant table reminded me of Monique. For a while, a few years, I saw Monique everywhere, in the features and eyes of every woman, in the smooth back of every girl, heard her in every word spoken to me by a stranger of the opposite sex. But with time the ghost had paled beneath the constant daylight of time. And after a few years I was able to get up and walk the streets of Athens and know it would leave me in peace. Until darkness fell again.

This girl was pretty too, although not of course as pretty. But in fact yes, she was. Slim, long-legged, with naturally graceful movements. Brown, soft eyes. But her complexion was spoiled by impurities, and she had no chin. What was it Monique lacked? I could no longer remember. Decency, maybe.

‘How can I be of service, sir?’

The slightly exaggerated courtesy of the phrase — which I had grown so used to hearing expressed with just a hint of ironic condescension from waiters in England — sounded touchingly honest in the mouth of this pure young Greek girl. She and I were the only ones in the charming little family restaurant.

‘Are you Helena Ambrosia?’

She blushed when she heard me speaking Greek and nodded in reply. I introduced myself and explained that I was there in connection with the missing Julian Schmid and saw the consternation that spread across her face as I told her what I knew of her association with Franz Schmid. At regular intervals she glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure no one came out from the kitchen and overheard us.

‘Yes yes, but what does this have to do with the one who’s missing?’ she whispered quickly, angry and flushed with shame.

‘You’ve been with them both.’

‘What? No!’ She got carried away and raised her voice, then lowered it once more to an angry whisper. ‘Who says so?’

‘Franz. When you met his twin brother Julian in the stone city Julian pretended he was Franz.’

‘Twin?’

‘Identical,’ I said.

The confusion was plain to see in her face. ‘But...’ I could see her running through the sequence of events in her head, see her confusion change to disbelief and change again to outrage.

‘I’ve... I’ve been with two brothers?’ she stammered.

‘Didn’t you know?’

‘How could I? If there really are two of them then they’re exactly alike.’ She pressed her hands to her temples as though to prevent her head exploding.

‘So Julian was lying when he told his brother he phoned you in the evening on the day after you met him in the stone city and explained everything to you, and said that you forgave him?’

‘I haven’t spoken to either one of them since then!’

‘What about that message you got from Franz. “I have killed Julian.” ’

She blinked and blinked. ‘I didn’t understand that message. Franz had told me he had a brother, but not that they were twins or that his name was Julian. When I read the text I thought maybe Julian was the name of a route he’d climbed, or a name he’d given to a cockroach in his room, something like that, that I was bound to get the explanation later. But we had just closed for the evening and I was very busy clearing up, so all I did was send a smiley in reply.’

‘I’ve read the texts you sent to Franz’s phone. All of them are fairly short answers to long messages. The text you sent the morning after you met Julian is the only one where you take the initiative, the only one where I notice, on your side, a certain... affection?’

She bit her lower lip. Nodded. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

‘So even though Julian lied about having told you he wasn’t Franz, it wasn’t until you met Julian that you fell in love?’

‘I...’ All the energy seemed to drain from her body and she slumped into a chair opposite me. ‘When I met... the one called Franz, I was very excited. And flattered, I guess. We met up at Palechora, where there are hardly ever any people, and certainly no one from this island who would know my family. It was very innocent, but the last time I let him kiss me goodnight. Even though I wasn’t in love, not really. So when he... that is, it must have been Julian, texted me and asked to see me, I said no. I had made up my mind to stop while the going was good. But he insisted in a way that... like he’d never done before. He was funny. Being self-deprecating So I agreed to a final, short meeting. And when we met at Palechora it was as though everything had changed. Him, me, the way we talked together, the way he held me. He was so much more relaxed and playful. And it was infectious. We laughed a lot more. And I thought it was because we had got to know each other better, that we were more relaxed.’

‘Did you and Julian have sex?’

‘We...’ She tensed and her face flushed. ‘Do I have to answer?’

‘You don’t have to answer anything at all, Helena, but the more I know, the easier it will be for me to solve the case.’

‘And find Julian?’

‘Yes.’

She closed her eyes. Looked as though she was concentrating hard. ‘Yes, yes, we did. And it was... very good. When I returned home that evening, I knew that I had been mistaken, that I really was in love and that I had to see him again. And now he’s...’

Helena buried her face in her hands. A sob came from behind the fingers. Fingers that were long and thin, like Monique’s, who used to hold them up and say they looked like spider’s legs.

I asked Helena a few more questions she answered honestly and straightforwardly.

She had seen neither Franz nor anyone pretending to be him after that last date at the fortress; she confirmed that she sent a text message to Franz’s number the morning after she’d been with Julian saying she hoped they could meet again soon but got no reply. Not until the evening when she received that short, enigmatic message ‘I have killed Julian’, to which she sent a smiley in reply. It was obvious she had not attempted to make any further contact, since she was the one who had sent the last message.

I nodded, mildly surprised to learn that the rules of the game remained unchanged since the days of my own youth and was able to confirm that the way she answered told me she had nothing to hide. Or more accurately, she was hiding nothing. She had the lover’s freedom from shame, in the belief that love is elevated above all else. Love really is the sweetest psychosis, but in her case it had now turned into the worst form of torture. It had been held out to her, and as quickly taken away.

I gave her my number and she promised to ring if she remembered something she wanted to tell me, or if one of the brothers got in touch. I saw how her face lit up when I held out this hope that Julian might still be alive; but by the time I left she was crying again.

‘Victoria.’ The voice sounded out of breath. Like someone who has just rappelled down after an ascent and hurried to the rucksack where the phone is ringing.

‘Nikos Balli, I’m a detective with the police,’ I said as I swung the hire car carefully around a flock of goats that had taken up residence on the asphalt outside Emporio. ‘We spoke briefly on Julian Schmid’s phone. There are a few questions I’d like to ask you.’

‘Unfortunately I’m on the peak right now. Can it wait until—’

‘Which peak?’

‘It’s called Odysseus.’

‘I’ll come there if that’s OK.’

She explained the route to me. Between Arginonta and Massouri, a turn-off to the left just before the hairpin bend. Park at the end of the gravel track by the climbers’ mopeds. Follow the track — or the other climbers — up the mountainside, eight or ten minutes’ walk to the lower part of the face, I’ll see her and her climbing partner on a broad ledge five or six metres above the ground, the natural footholds in the mountain will lead me up there.

Twenty minutes later I stood on a track on a barren mountainside with a couple of thyme plants the only vegetation, wiped the sweat from my brow and looked up at a limestone rock face about a hundred metres wide and some forty to fifty metres high that cut diagonally across the hillside like a wall. Spread out along the base of the wall I saw at least twenty ropes that ran between the anchors on the ground and the climbers on the wall. This was a type of sport climbing that, put simply, goes something like this: before the team of two starts out, the one who’s climbing first attaches one end of the rope to his harness, which also holds the number of carabiners he’s going to need on the route, often around a dozen. At intervals across the route metal bolts have been fastened to the rock face. When the climber reaches one of these he fastens a carabiner to the bolt and then fastens the rope to the carabiner. The second member of the team, the anchor on the ground, has a rope lock fastened to his climbing harness and the rope runs through this rope lock, in much the same way as the seat belt in a car runs between rollers. The anchor carefully pays out the rope as the climber ascends, the way you have to pull out a car safety belt slowly so that it doesn’t lock. Should the climber fall, the rope is pulled so swiftly that the lock clamps over the rope, unless the anchor has disengaged it completely. So if the climber falls, then he won’t fall much beyond the last carabiner to which he fastened the rope and be stopped there by the lock and the body weight of the anchor. In other words, the most common form of sport climbing is relatively free from danger, by comparison with, for example, free soloing, which involves climbing without ropes or any other form of security. Unlike the sport climber, the free solo climber has a life expectation shorter than that of a heroin addict, which is incidentally a fairly apt comparison. All the same, as I stood there, I felt myself shaking. Because nothing is completely safe, and sooner or later whatever can go wrong will go wrong. Some people think that’s a joke along the lines of Murphy’s Law, but it isn’t. It’s a matter of simple mathematics and logic. Absolutely everything that can happen according to physical law will, sooner or later, happen. It’s just a question of when.

I walked the last few metres up to the wall and located the ledge where a woman stood holding a rope that ran up the wall to a climber ten metres above her. I scrambled up to her using hands and feet.

‘Victoria Hässel?’ I asked, panting.

‘Welcome aboard,’ she answered without taking her eyes off the climber.

‘Thanks for giving me a moment of your time.’ I held on tight to a deep crack in the wall, leaned out cautiously and peered down. Only six metres and yet I felt the pull.

‘Afraid of heights?’ asked Victoria Hässel, still without having looked at me as far as I could tell.

‘Isn’t everybody?’ I asked.

‘Some more than others.’

I looked up at her climbing partner. A boy who looked to be quite a bit younger than her. And — judging by his uncertain footwork and the firm grip she kept on the belay device and rope — he had rather more to learn from her about climbing than the other way round. It was hard to judge Victoria Hässel’s own age — anything from thirty-five to forty-five. She certainly looked strong. Almost skinny, long-limbed, but with a muscular back under the taut training top. Sinewy underarms, resin on her hands and wearing climbing breeches. She had given my suit and brown leather shoes a rather disapproving look. I could feel my hair being blown about in the wind. Her own was held under a knitted cap.

‘Lot of climbers,’ I said with a nod in the direction of the wall.

‘Usually more,’ said Victoria, and focused her gaze on her climber again. ‘But there’s too much wind today, a lot of people sitting in the cafes.’ She nodded in the direction of the white-whipped sea.

From here we had a view of pretty much everything. The main road, the cars, Massouri centre, people like tiny black ants down there. Along the bare hillside below us I could see climbers approaching along the track.

‘You might not believe this,’ said Victoria, ‘but when the wind’s like this the ropes can blow right up and end high up in the mountain and snag up there.’

‘If you say so then I’ll believe it.’

‘Believe it,’ she said. ‘What’s this about, Mr Balli?’

‘Oh, that can wait until your climber is down.’

‘It’s an easy passage, go ahead, talk.’

‘I seem to remember hearing there’s a rule that you should concentrate on your climber when you’re securing the rope.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ she said with a crooked smile. ‘But why not just leave that to me?’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘But can I point out that your climber just clipped the wrong way round onto that last carabiner?’

Victoria Hässel looked sharply at me. Looked up at the carabiner I was talking about. Realised I was right and that the rope was running in the wrong direction. If he fell and he was unlucky the rope could slip out of the carabiner and he would keep on falling.

‘I saw that,’ she lied. ‘Any moment now he’ll hook the rope into the next carabiner and then he’ll be secure.’

I coughed. ‘Looks like the crux is coming up now, and if you ask me it looks as if it might give him trouble. If he falls there and the carabiner doesn’t take the fall, then the next one’s so low it won’t stop him before he hits the ground. Agree?’

‘Alex!’ she shouted.

‘Yes?’

‘You’ve threaded the rope the wrong way round on the previous carabiner. Don’t go any higher. Try to climb down and clip it on right!’

‘I think I better carry on up to the next bolt and clip on the right way there.’

‘No, Alex, don’t...’

But Alex had already moved away from the good fingertip holds and was on his way up to a large downward sloping hold which probably looked good to him but which, to the trained eye, appeared to have too much resin over it from where climbers before him had tried and failed to get a hold. And from where he was dangling there were no possibilities of retreat. His trouser legs flapped. Not because of the wind but as a result of the stress reaction climbers call ‘the sewing machine’ which, sooner or later, affects everybody. I watched as Victoria took up as much of the rope as she could to make it as short as possible, but it was too little, Alex would hit our shelf.

‘Alex, you have a foothold up on the right!’ shouted Victoria, who had also realised what was about to happen. But it was too late, Alex was about to get chicken wings, the elbows rose up, a sure sign that his strength had given out.

‘He’s falling, you’ve got to jump,’ I said quietly.

‘Alex!’ she called, paying no attention to me. ‘Get your foot up, then you’ll make it!’

I grabbed hold of her harness with both hands.

‘What the fuck are you—’ she snarled, half turning towards me.

My gaze was fixed on Alex. He screamed. And fell. I dragged Victoria backwards, spun her round me like a hammer thrower and tossed her off the shelf. Her short sharp shriek drowned out Alex’s longer howl. The logic was simple: I had to get her somewhere lower as quickly as possible so that her body weight could arrest his fall before he hit the ground.

Both the part of the rope on its way up and the part travelling down tensed, and then suddenly all was silence. The screams, the shouts exchanged between the other climbers, the very wind itself seemed to be holding its breath.

I looked up.

Alex was hanging in the rope some way up the face. The reverse-mounted hook had held him after all. OK, so today I didn’t save anybody’s life. I stepped to the edge of the ledge and looked down at Victoria Hässel. She was dangling on her harness on the rope below the locking mechanism two metres below me and staring up, her eyes dark with shock.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘Thanks,’ I said to Victoria as she poured coffee from a Thermos into two plastic cups and handed one to me.

She had sent Alex to join a team higher up the mountain while she and I remained sitting on the ledge.

‘I’m the one who should say thanks.’

‘For what? The hook held the rope, so it would have worked out all right anyway. And you banged your knee.’

‘But you did the right thing.’

I shrugged. ‘We’ll let that be our consolation, right?’

She gave a crooked smile and blew on her coffee. ‘So you’re a climber?’

‘Was,’ I said. ‘Haven’t touched stone in almost forty years.’

‘Forty years is a long time. What happened?’

‘Yeah, what happened? What happened here, by the way? I read there was a fatal accident.’

As unpleasant as the subject was, Victoria Hässel grabbed the chance to talk about something she knew wasn’t what I had come to talk to her about.

‘It was a classic mistake. They forgot to check the length of the route against the length of the rope, and not even put a knot in the end of the rope. On the way down the safety man didn’t notice there was no more rope left until it was too late. With no knot in the end of the rope it ran out through the belay device, leaving the climber in free fall. Eight metres, you might think you would survive that. But he landed head first on the stone and in that case even two metres can be enough.’

‘Human error,’ I said.

‘Isn’t it always? When was the last time you heard it was the rope that broke or the bolts that came loose from the rock?’

‘True enough.’

‘It’s just too fucking awful.’ She shook her head. ‘But all the same. I read somewhere that in places where there’s been a climbing fatality, you often see a marked increase in the number of climbers there.’

‘Really?’

‘Not many people say it out loud. But if there wasn’t a certain amount of risk involved, you wouldn’t get many people climbing.’

‘Adrenaline junkies?’

‘Yes and no. I don’t think it’s fear we become addicted to but control. The feeling of mastering danger, mastering our own fate. Of exerting a control we don’t have over the rest of our lives. We are slightly heroic because we don’t make mistakes in critical situations.’

‘Right up until the day we lose control and make that mistake,’ I said and took a sip of coffee. It was good. ‘If, that is, it is a mistake.’

‘Yes,’ she said quietly.

‘Franz rang you eight times that night after he and Julian had quarrelled. The next day Julian was missing. What did he want?’

‘I don’t know. Arrange a climb maybe. Maybe he didn’t have a partner after the quarrel.’

‘According to his call log you never rang back. But you rang Julian’s phone. Why?’

She pulled on a fleece jumper and warmed her hands around the coffee cup. She nodded slowly. ‘They are similar, Franz and Julian. And yet different. Julian is easier to talk to. But I called just to make sure people hadn’t forgotten the most obvious possibility, that Julian might be somewhere and have his phone with him.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Sure, they’re similar and yet different. They obviously have different tastes in music. Led Zeppelin and...’ I had already forgotten that crooner’s name. ‘But they like the same girl.’

‘Guess they do.’

I looked at her. My jealousy radar wasn’t picking up anything. So this wasn’t about romance, she wasn’t in love with Julian, or having a relationship with him. Franz had not been trying to get in touch with Victoria to ask for help in trying to spoil things for Julian and Helena. So what was it then?

‘What do you think has happened?’ she asked. ‘Did Julian go for a swim and get into difficulties? Maybe on account of the concussion he suffered in the bar?’

I realised she was testing me. That my reply would determine the nature of her next move.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I think Franz killed him.’

I looked at her. And as I half expected, she looked less shocked than she should have done if she knew nothing. She took a large mouthful of coffee, as though to hide the fact that, nevertheless, she still had to swallow.

‘Well?’ I said.

She looked around. The four members of the other rope team were well out of earshot in the wind. ‘I saw Franz come home that evening.’

Here it was.

‘I couldn’t sleep and was sitting out on the balcony of my room on the other side of the road. I saw Franz park and get out of the car alone. Julian wasn’t with him. Franz was carrying something, it looked like clothes. When he unlocked the door he looked round and I think he spotted me. I think he knew that I saw him. I think that’s why he rang. He wanted to explain.’

‘You didn’t want to hear the explanation?’

‘I didn’t want to get involved. Not until we knew more, not until Julian had been found.’

‘And then?’

She sighed. ‘I thought that if Julian wasn’t found, or he was found dead, then I’d come and tell you. Before would only complicate things. It would look as if I was accusing Franz of something criminal. We’re a group of climbers who are friends, we trust one another, every day we trust each other with our lives. I might have ruined all that if I’d acted impulsively. Understand?’

‘I understand.’

‘Fuck.’

I followed her gaze down the mountainside. A person was on his way up the track from the road down there.

‘It’s Franz,’ she said, standing up and waving.

I peered down. ‘Sure?’

‘You can tell by the Gay Rights hat.’

I peered again. Gay rights. The rainbow flag, not the Rastafarian.

‘I thought he was hetero,’ I said.

‘You know you can support other people’s rights besides your own?’

‘And Franz Schmid does?’

‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘But at least he follows St Pauli and the Bundesliga.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Football. His grandparents come from my city, Hamburg, and we’ve got two rival clubs. You’ve got HSV, which is the big, friendly, straight rich club that Julian and I support. Then you’ve got the angry little lefty punk club St Pauli, with skull and crossbones as their badge, who openly support gay rights and everything else that irritates the Hamburg bourgeoisie. That seems to attract Franz.’

The figure down below had stopped and was looking up at us. I stood up, as though to make it clear this wasn’t an ambush. He remained where he was and appeared to be studying us. I guessed that he had seen that the person waving was his climbing companion Victoria and was wondering who the other person was. Maybe he recognised the suit. He was probably expecting me to pop up again after I had read the text message that said straight out he had killed Julian. He had had enough time to find an explanation. I was anticipating something along the lines of that he had intended to arouse Helena’s curiosity before telling her that it was a slight exaggeration, that in fact all he’d done was hit his brother on the head with a billiard ball. But now, seeing me with Victoria, it perhaps dawned on him that that wouldn’t be enough.

The figure was in motion again, heading downwards.

‘He probably thinks it’s too windy,’ said Victoria.

‘Yes,’ I said.

I saw him get into the hire car, saw the dust swirl up from the gravel track as the car disappeared. I sat down again and looked out over the sea. The white looked like frost roses on the windows in Oxford. Even up here you could taste the salt in the gusts of wind. Let him run, he wasn’t going anywhere.

I was still at the station when Franz Schmid rang just before midnight.

‘Where are you?’ I asked, crossed to the partition and signalled to George that I had him on the line. ‘You haven’t answered my calls.’

‘Signal’s weak,’ said Franz.

‘So I hear,’ I said.

I had called the public prosecutor in Athens who had issued an arrest warrant for Franz Schmid, but we hadn’t found Franz in his rented room, or on the beach, or in any of the restaurants, and no one knew where he was. George had only two patrol cars and four policemen at his disposal, and until the weather improved we wouldn’t be getting any reinforcements from the police on Kos, so I suggested we use base stations to locate Franz’s mobile phone. But as George explained, there were so few base stations on Kalymnos they wouldn’t do much to narrow down the search area.

‘I paid a visit to Helena’s restaurant,’ said Franz. ‘But her father was there and said I couldn’t see her. Does that have anything to do with you?’

‘Yes. I’ve told Helena and the family to keep away from you until this is over.’

‘I told her father that my intentions were honourable, that I want to marry Helena.’

‘We know that. He called us after you’d been there.’

‘Did he tell you he gave me a letter from Helena?’

‘He mentioned that too, yes.’

‘You want to hear what she says?’ Franz started to read without waiting for a reply: ‘ “Dear Franz. Maybe for everyone there is one person in this life who is meant just for us, and who we only meet just the one time. You and I were never meant for each other, Franz, but I pray to God that you haven’t killed Julian. Now that I know that he’s the one for me I ask you on bended knees: if it is within your power, save Julian. Helena.” You seem to have persuaded her that I am behind his disappearance, Balli. That I might have killed him. Do you realise that what you are doing is ruining my life? I love Helena more than I have ever loved anything, more than my own self. I just can’t imagine a life without her.’

I listened. Though the wind was crackling in his phone I could hear waves. Could be anywhere on the island, of course.

‘The best thing now would be for you to hand yourself in to us in Pothia, Franz. If you are innocent it would be in your own best interests.’

‘And if I’m guilty?’

‘Then it will still be in your own best interests to hand yourself in. No matter what, you can’t get away, you’re on an island.’

In the silence that followed I listened to the waves. They sounded different to the waves below my hotel room — but different in what way?

‘Julian isn’t innocent either,’ said Franz.

I exchanged a look with George. We had both heard it. Is, not was. But a clue like that isn’t reliable. I have heard several killers refer to their victims as though they were still alive, and perhaps they still are for them. Or more accurately: I know that a dead man can be the constant companion of his killer.

‘Julian lied. He claimed he’d been in touch with Helena earlier that evening using his own phone, told her everything, and that the two of them were now in love. He wanted me to give her up without a fight. I know, of course, that Julian is a liar and a womaniser, that he’ll stab you in the back to get what he wants, but this time he made me so angry. So angry, you have no idea how it feels...’

I didn’t respond.

‘Julian robbed me of the best thing I ever had,’ said Franz. ‘Because I haven’t had that, Mr Balli. He was always the one who got them. Don’t ask me why, we were born identical, but all the same he had something I didn’t. Something he picked up along the way, a crossroads where he was given light and I got darkness, and then we went our separate ways. And he had to have even her...’

The waves were breaking in the same brutal way as they did against the rocks outside my hotel. The sound was more long-drawn-out, that was the difference. The waves rolled. Franz Schmid was on a beach.

‘So I condemned him,’ he said. ‘But I’m a Californian, so I didn’t condemn him to death, but to life imprisonment. Isn’t that a suitable punishment for ruining a life? Isn’t that the punishment you would have handed out yourself, Balli? Yes? No? Or aren’t you an opponent of the death penalty?’

I didn’t reply. Noticed George was looking at me.

‘I’m letting Julian rot in his own little love-prison,’ said Franz. ‘And I’ve thrown the key away. Although life sentence... The kind of life he has now, that won’t last long.’

‘Where is he?’

‘What you said about me not being able to get away...’

‘Where is he, Franz?’

‘...that isn’t quite accurate. I’m about to fly out of here on flight nine nineteen, so farewell, Nikos Balli.’

‘Franz, tell us where — Franz? Franz!’

‘Did he hang up?’ asked George, who was on his feet.

I shook my head. Listened. Nothing but wind and waves now.

‘The airport is still closed?’ I asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Have you heard of flight nine nineteen?’

George Kostopoulos shook his head.

‘He’s alone on a beach,’ I said.

‘Kalymnos is full of beaches. And at night when it’s stormy you won’t find a single person on any of them.’

‘A long, shallow beach. It sounds as though the waves are breaking far out and rolling in for some distance.’

‘I’ll call Christine and ask her, she’s a surfer.’

The car that had been rented in Franz Schmid’s name was found next morning.

It was parked in a turning circle by a sandy beach midway between Pothia and Massouri. A trail of footprints, still visible despite the wind, led from the driver’s side directly into the sea. George and I stood in the gusting wind and watched the divers struggling against the breakers. At the southern end of the beach the waves washed up against sloping, slippery rocks which, further inland, reared up in a vertical wall, a yellow-brown limestone wall that reached all the way to the top where the airport was. Further along the beach, Christine with her golden retriever was trying to pick up a trail. The dog had been born with only one working eye, she had told me during a coffee break at the station, that’s why she named him Odin. And when I asked her why she had chosen Odin instead of something one-eyed from our own mythology, such as Polyphemus, she looked at me and said: ‘Odin is shorter.’

According to George, Odin was a good tracker. Christine had taken him into Franz and Julian’s room so he would know which scent to follow, and when we reached the beach he ran straight over to the car and stood there barking until George managed to get the door open. Inside the car we found Franz Schmid’s clothes: shoes, trousers, underwear, the rainbow-patterned St Pauli cap and a jacket with his phone and wallet.

‘So he was right,’ said George. ‘He did manage to get away.’

‘Yes,’ I said as my gaze glided over the foaming breakers. George had got hold of two divers from the local club. One of them was signalling with his hand to the other and trying to say something, but the sound of the waves drowned him out.

‘You think this is where he dumped Julian’s body?’ asked George.

‘Maybe. If he killed him.’

‘You’re thinking about what he said about imprisoning his brother for life instead?’

‘Maybe he did. Or maybe not. Maybe he exposed Julian to a situation in which he knew that Julian would not just die but suffer first.’

‘For example?’

‘I don’t know. The rage of jealousy is like love. It’s a madness that can make people do things they would normally never dream of doing.’

My gaze switched to the rocks, sloping and polished smooth by the waves. Franz could have waded over there, come ashore again someplace that left no footprints and got away. On flight nine nineteen? What did that mean? To get up to the airport he would have had to either return to the road or climb straight up.

Without a rope.

Free solo.

I couldn’t help it; I closed my eyes and saw Trevor fall.

Opened them again quickly so as not to see him hit the ground.

Concentrated.

Franz Schmid had perhaps stood here too, seen and thought the same as me. That the airport is closed. That every exit route is blocked. Apart from this one. The last one. But it’s difficult to just swim out to sea and drown yourself. It takes time, it takes willpower not to submit to the survival instinct and turn.

‘We found this in the shallows.’

George and I turned. It was one of the divers. He was holding up a gun.

George took it, turned it over a couple of times. ‘Looks old,’ he said, prodding at the underside where the magazine was.

‘Luger, Second World War,’ I said and took the gun from him. There was no rust on it, and the way the water pearled on it showed that it was still well oiled, so it couldn’t have been lying long in the sea. I pressed the release catch on the side of the trigger guard, removed the magazine and handed it to George. ‘Eight if it’s full.’

George squeezed out the bullets. ‘Seven,’ he said.

I nodded. Felt an infinite sadness come over me. The wind was forecast to ease by tomorrow evening, and the sun to go on shining, but inside me it had clouded over. I could usually tell whether it was just passing, or a new period of darkness was on its way. But right at that moment I didn’t know.

‘Flight nine nineteen,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘That’s the calibre of those bullets you’re holding in your hand.’

When I rang my chief in the Homicide Department with my report, he told me that the press in Athens were on the case, a number of journalists and photographers were in Kos and just waiting for the weather to fair up enough for a boat to take them over.

I headed back to my hotel in Massouri and ordered a bottle of ouzo for my room. I drink any brand apart from the now unfortunately commercialised and watered-down Ouzo 12, but I was pleased when I saw they actually had my favourite Pitsiladi.

As I drank I reflected over how strange it had all been. A murder case with two dead, but no bodies. No invasive press, no harassed chief and no stressed investigating groups. No vague lab technicians and pathologists, no hysterical next of kin. Only a storm and silence. I hoped that storm could last forever.

After I’d drunk almost half the bottle I went down to the bar so as not to drink the rest. I saw Victoria Hässel sitting at a table with some people from the other climbing group I had seen the previous day. I sat at the bar and ordered a beer.

‘Excuse me?’

British accent. I half turned. A man, smiling, check shirt, white hair but in good shape for his age, around sixty. I’d seen several like him here, English climbers of the old school. They grew up climbing trad, meaning routes without bolts permanently fixed to the mountain, where they had to provide for their own safety in cracks and holes. On gritstone in the Lake District, where the routes were graded not only by how hard they were to climb but also how great the danger to life was. Where it rained, or was too cold, or was so hot that the eggs of a particularly bloodthirsty type of mosquito hatched and ate you alive. Englishmen loved it.

‘Do you remember me?’ said the man. ‘We were in the same rope team near Sheffield. Must have been in ’85 or ’86.’

I shook my head.

‘Come on,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I can’t recall your name but I remember you were climbing with Trevor Biggs, he’s a local lad. And that French girl who just flew up those slopes the rest of us had such a struggle with.’ His face suddenly became serious as if something had occurred to him. ‘Bloody back luck about Trevor, by the way.’

‘I think you’re getting me mixed up with someone else, sir.’

For a moment the Englishman stood there, open-mouthed and with an expression of mild surprise on his face. I could see his brain feverishly scanning his book of memories in search of his mistake. Then, as though he had found it, he nodded slowly. ‘My apologies.’

I turned back to the bar and in the mirror saw that he sat down with his climbing companions and their climbing wives. Said something and nodded in my direction. They resumed their conversation and they passed around the local guidebook with the climbing routes marked. It looked like a good life.

My gaze moved on to one of the other tables and met Victoria Hässel’s.

She sat there dressed in the climber’s evening outfit: clean climbing clothes. Her hair, which had earlier in the day been hidden under her cap, was blonde, long and flowing. She sat turned towards me, looked as though she had temporarily absented herself from the conversation. She held my gaze. I don’t know if she was waiting for something. A signal. Information about the Schmid case. Or just a nod of recognition.

I saw that she was on the point of standing up, but I was ahead of her and had already placed my euros on the bar. I slipped off the bar stool and left. Back in my room I locked the door.

In the middle of the night I was awoken by a loud bang, like a gunshot. I sat up in bed, my heart beating furiously. It was the window sash; a gust of wind must finally have torn it loose. I lay awake and thought of Monique. Monique and Trevor. I didn’t finally get back to sleep until daylight.

‘The forecast is for the wind to drop,’ said George and poured a coffee for me. ‘You’ll probably be able to make it over to Kos tomorrow.’

I nodded and looked out of the station window. Harbour life seemed strangely unaffected by the fact that the island was to all intents and purposes cut off for the third day running. But that’s how it is, life goes on, even — or perhaps especially — when you think it unliveable.

Christine and one of the constables entered and joined us.

‘You were right, George,’ she said. ‘Schmid bought the Luger from Marinetti. He recognised Franz from the photo and says he was in the shop in the afternoon the day before Julian was reported missing. He got the impression Franz was a collector. He bought the Luger and a pair of Italian handcuffs left over from the war. Marinetti swears, of course, that he thought the Luger had been spiked.’

George nodded and looked contented rather than annoyed. When I’d wondered how and not least why Franz had managed to carry a handgun with him on the plane from California, George had suggested we check Marinetti’s antique shop in Pothia. According to George, Marinetti had a cellar so full of antiques dating from the long years of the Italian and then the German occupation of Kalymnos that he hardly knew just exactly what he had.

‘Can we say the case is solved now?’ enquired Christine.

George turned to me as though forwarding the question.

‘Case closed,’ I said. ‘But not solved.’

‘No?’

I shrugged. ‘We have, for example, no body to give us final proof of what we think has happened. Maybe the two brothers are sitting on a plane back to the USA and laughing at us after the greatest practical joke ever.’

‘You don’t believe that,’ said George.

‘Absolutely not. But as long as there are other possibilities, there will always be a doubt. The physicist Richard Feynman says we can’t be absolutely certain about anything at all, the best we can do is presume with varying degrees of certainty.’

‘But if there is a doubt, what do we do about it?’ asked Christine, who actually looked quite upset about it.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘We content ourselves with a reasonable degree of certainty and set to work on the next case.’

‘Doesn’t that leave you—’ Christine stopped, looked as though she was afraid she might be about to go too far.

‘Frustrated?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

I had to smile. ‘Remember, I’m the Jealousy Man. Usually I’m around for the first or second day of a murder investigation. I’m the man with the divining rod, the one who indicates the spot on the ground where water might be found, and then leaves the digging to others. I’ve had lots of training in leaving cases behind me without getting all the answers.’

Christine looked to be assessing me. I could see she didn’t believe me.

‘Am I jealous?’ she asked, putting her hands on her hips and adopting a provocative expression.

‘I don’t know. You would have to tell me something first.’

‘Such as what?’

‘What you think might have made you jealous, for example.’

‘What if I don’t want to, what if it hurts me too much?’

‘Then I would have no way of knowing,’ I said, and clapped my hands together. ‘And now, people, how about we get something to eat?’

‘Right!’ said George. But Christine carried on looking at me. She probably knew that I knew. The story behind those red eyes. She was jealous.

For the remainder of the day I wandered along narrow paths on the mountain on the southern side of the beach where we had found Franz Schmid’s car and gun. The high, inaccessible limestone walls reminded me of the vaulted ceilings in Christ Church Cathedral in Oxford which, in their dark, English seriousness were so different from, for example, the exuberant brightness of the Mitropoli Cathedral in Athens. Maybe that’s why — despite the fact that I am an atheist — I felt more at home in Christ Church. I spoke to my boss on the phone. He said they would send a detective and two techs the next day if the wind had dropped, and that he wanted me back, a woman had been murdered in Tzitzifies, and her husband couldn’t provide an alibi. I advised him to put someone else on the case.

‘The victim’s family say they want you,’ said my boss.

‘Surely that’s for us to decide.’

He said the name of the family. One of the shipping dynasties. I gave a sigh and hung up. I love my country, but some things just never change.

My eye caught an unusually broad overhang. Or more accurately: it was the overhang that caught my eye. I saw an elegant line running from a cleared belay station in towards the rock face. Here and there light from a metal glue-in bolt reflected the sunlight. Because of the overhang I couldn’t quite locate the anchor, and because the mountains fell directly into the sea right next to the path and the belay station, I was unable to step any further out. But it had to be a long route, at least forty metres.

I looked down fifty or sixty metres to where the waves broke against the rocks. When the climber was lowered down from the anchor, he or she would have to swing back and forth so as to reach the belay station and not be lowered straight down into the sea. But what a beautiful route it was! In due course, as my gaze moved upward, my brain began automatically to analyse, to visualise the climbing movements the holds and contours would require. It was like turning over the ignition in a machine unearthed after being buried beneath ruins for years. Did it still work? I turned the key, pressed the accelerator. The climbing motor whined reluctantly, coughed, protested. But then it started. And the protests stopped. Now the muscles remembered and glowed with pleasure as the brain recalled climbing. I could see no other routes in the vicinity and guessed that most climbers thought it was a long way to travel just to climb one — even though spectacular — route. But I would have done it, even if it was the last route in my life.

The imaginary climb was still a presence in my body in the evening. I had ordered another bottle of Pitsiladi to my room. The wind had eased off slightly, the waves didn’t beat quite so fiercely against the limestone, and in isolated pockets of complete silence I could hear music coming from down in the bar. I guessed Victoria Hässel would be there. I sat there. It was ten o’clock, and I had drunk enough to be able to go to bed.

On waking the next day, I could no longer hear the wind and the discordant fluting sounds from the cracks and pipes and chimneys I had become so used to.

I threw open the window. The sea was blue, no trace of white, and it was no longer raging but groaned. Pumped heavy, lazy rollers across the body of the land, like a lover after orgasm. The sea was tired. Like me.

I got back into bed and called down to Reception.

The ferry was running again, said the receptionist. The next departure was in one hour, and that would give me plenty of time to make the next plane to Athens, which left at three — should he order a taxi for me?

I closed my eyes. ‘Let me order...’ I began.

‘Time?’

‘No taxi. Two bottles of Pitsiladi.’

There was a brief silence.

‘I’m afraid we’ve run out of that brand, Mr Balli. But we do have Ouzo 12.’

‘No thanks,’ I said and hung up.

I lay there for a while listening to the sea before calling down again.

‘Have them sent up,’ I said.

I drank slowly but steadily. My eyes followed the shadows in Telendos, how they moved, grew shorter, and then — as the afternoon came — stretched out again in what looked almost like a gesture of triumph. I thought of all the stories I had listened to in the course of my work. That it was true what they said, a confession is a story that’s just waiting for an audience.

When darkness fell I went down into the bar. As I had expected, Victoria Hässel was sitting there.

I met Monique in Oxford. She was studying literature and history, like me, but she was in the year above me so we didn’t attend the same lectures. But in places like that the foreigners gather and are drawn together, and soon we had met each other so many times socially that I plucked up the courage to ask her out for a beer.

She made a face. ‘Well, it’ll have to be a Guinness.’

‘You like Guinness?’

‘Probably not, I hate beer. But if we have to drink beer then it’s got to be Guinness. It’s supposed to be the worst of the lot, but I promise I’ll be more positive than I sound.’

Monique’s logic was that everything ought to be tried, and with an open mind; that way it can be dismissed afterwards with new insight and a good conscience. That went for everything; ideas, literature, music, food and drink. And me, I have thought with hindsight. For we were as different as can be imagined. Monique was the sweetest, most captivating girl I had ever met. She was bubbly and good-humoured, and so kind to everyone around her that all I could do was give up and accept the role of bad cop. She was so unaffected by her upper-class background, her matchless intelligence and almost irritatingly flawless beauty that you had no option but to like her in spite of it all. And when she looked at you, looked at you, then of course there was nothing for it but just to give up. Abandon all resistance and fall head over heels in love. She treated her many suitors with a sweet mixture of tactful consideration and mild rejection that made you feel that, behind her principle of trying everything there was something else, something that was natural and not principled. Monique was saving herself for the right man, she was a virgin not from conviction but by inclination.

With me it was the other way round. I despised my promiscuous inclinations but couldn’t resist them. Despite the fact that I was shy, creepy in the opinion of some, and with my rather rigid and stiff formality could seem more English than Greek, my appearance was obviously attractive to members of the opposite sex. English girls especially fell for what they called my Cat Stevens looks, meaning the dark curls and brown eyes. But in addition to that — and I think it was this more than my appearance that caused them to open both their hearts and bedroom doors to me — was the fact that I had the ability to listen. Or more accurately, I was interested in listening. For me, who lived and breathed for all stories save my own, it was no great sacrifice to listen to young women’s long monologues on privileged upbringings, the difficult relationship with Mother, doubts about their sexual orientation, the most recent unhappy love story, the flat in London she couldn’t use any more now that Father had installed his young lover there, fake dilemmas and those hideous backstabbing friends who had gone off to St-Tropez without telling her. Or else — if I was a little luckier — about the longing to commit suicide, the existential compulsive-obsessive thoughts and the secret ambitions to write. Afterwards many of them wanted to have sex with me, especially if I had hardly opened my mouth. It was as though silence always worked to my advantage, being interpreted in the most favourable way possible. But these sexual intermezzos did nothing to improve my self-confidence. On the contrary, they only heightened my self-contempt. These girls went to bed with me because my silence meant that they could imagine me in whatever way they wanted. I had everything to lose by revealing who I was; a shy whoremonger devoid of self-confidence, substance or spine, just a pair of brown eyes and long ears. And before long they noticed how my gloominess, my natural darkness, extinguished the light in the room so that they had to get out, away. I can’t blame them.

With Monique all that changed. I was changed. For example, I began to talk. From the moment we helped each other to drink that first nasty-tasting Guinness we had conversations, with the accent on we, and not those monologues I had grown used to. And the topics were different too. We talked about matters outside ourselves, like the self-preserving mechanisms of poverty, like the human belief that morality — meaning, in particular, one’s own morality — represented some kind of permanent quality. Or how we more or less consciously avoid learning anything that might upset our political and religious convictions. Books we’d read, we’d not read, ought to read because they were good. Or overrated. Or simply bad but useful.

In the degree to which we spoke of ourselves and our own lives, it was always related to the general, to an idea or a conception, to la condition humaine, as Monique called it, referring not to my own favourite French writer André Malraux but to the political philosopher Hannah Arendt. We tossed these and other writers at each other not in any competitive sense but as a way of testing out one’s own original thinking on a person you trusted enough to dare to be mistaken, and to admit as much. The sparks could really fly, and it was after one such furious disagreement that she, late one night and after a few glasses of wine in her room, took a swipe at me, and then put her arms around me, and for the first time we kissed.

The following day she gave me an ultimatum. If I wouldn’t be her boyfriend then we couldn’t go on meeting. It wasn’t because she was desperate or in love with me, but because an arrangement such as that involved a mutual sexual exclusivity, something that was a non-negotiable demand for her, in that she was pathologically frightened of sexual diseases, so afraid, in fact, that there was a fair chance the fear would spoil and shorten her life sooner than any sexual disease. I laughed, she laughed, and I accepted her ultimatum.

It was Monique who introduced me to climbing. She had a father who from an early age would take her to classic modern sports climbing locations in Verdon and Céüse.

In all honesty in England there isn’t much climbing, and certainly not in and around Oxford, but my fellow Led Zeppelin fan Trevor Biggs, the slightly chubby, good-natured, red-haired son of a factory worker from Sheffield, told me of friends that climbed in the Peak District close to his home town. Trevor turned into a kind of regular wingman for me. With his outgoing manner and warm sense of humour he attracted people — guys as well as girls — who would join us at our table. Often it was these girls who, after a time, turned their attention to me. Trevor also owned a run-down but still functioning Toyota HiAce van, the outstanding virtue of which was that it had seat warmers. When I suggested to him that he could combine climbing with visits to his parents and in addition share the petrol costs with two others he went for the idea immediately.

That was the start of three years of weekend trips and climbing. The drive didn’t take more than two and a half hours, but to get as much climbing as possible out of the weekends we spent the nights in a tent, in the van or — if the weather was particularly bad — at Trevor’s parents’ house.

In the course of that first year I soon became better than Trevor, perhaps because I was more dedicated and more concerned to impress — or at least not to disappoint — Monique. She was and remained far superior to us. Not because she was particularly strong, but that small, neat body flew up the walls with the technique, balance and footwork of a ballet dancer. She understood climbing in a way that Trevor and I could only dream of. I, and in due course Trevor, did not really begin to get going until we were able to find sites where the climbing was done in handholds and ledges, where what was needed was brute physical strength. But it was Monique’s advice, her encouragement and her ability to share in our joys and minor triumphs that kept me and Trevor going. And the sound of her sparkling, happy laughter echoing between the rock faces because Trevor or I had once again fallen and dangled there at the end of a rope, cursing in frustration and asking to be lowered. Not because we wanted to give up but so we could attempt the whole thing once again, from the bottom up.

At times — perhaps because Monique felt he needed it more than me — it seemed as though she were a touch more enthusiastic in her praise when it was Trevor who managed something new rather than me. But that was fine. The fact that she was like that was one of the reasons I loved her so much.

It was in our third year that I realised Trevor had begun to take his climbing seriously. I had mounted a so-called fingerboard above the door to strengthen my fingers. Trevor never touched it. But now, quite often, I would see him dangling there. Sometimes it almost felt as though I caught him doing it red-handed, as though he didn’t want me to know that he was practising as much as he was. But his body betrayed him. When the sun shone and it became so hot on those Peak District rock faces that Trevor and I pulled off our T-shirts, I could see that his formerly chubby upper body was still a dazzling milk-white, but now all the fat was gone. Well-defined muscles rippled like steel cables under his skin when he, in his almost robotic way, forced a way up the overhangs on routes where even Monique herself had to admit defeat. I still had the advantage on him on the vertical routes because I had been careful to study Monique’s technique, but there was no doubt about it, the competition between Trevor and me had grown much more even. Because that’s what it had become: a competition.

It was also around this time that I began partying a little too much. Meaning, of course, I did too much social drinking. My father was a recovering alcoholic. It was something I had known about since childhood, and he had tried to warn me off it. But his warning had been to avoid drink when I was feeling bad, not happy, like I was now. Whatever it was, the combination of a lot of climbing, a lot of Monique and a lot of ‘partying’ began to affect my studies. Monique was the first to point it out, and this became the occasion of our first quarrel. Which I won. Or at least, she was crying when she left because I’d got the last word.

Next day I apologised to her, laid the blame on Greek social norms for my use of exaggeratedly harsh words, and promised to party less and study more.

For a while I kept that promise. I even dropped a weekend in the Peak District to catch up on my studies. It was tough, but it had to be done, the exam was just round the corner and I knew my father was expecting results at the very least the equal of my older brother’s, who he had got into Yale and who was now sat on the board of the family business. All the same, this enforced swotting made me almost hate the things I actually loved, literature in particular. I envied Monique and Trevor their days off and was almost relieved when they came back early on the Saturday evening because of the rain and said that they’d hardly climbed a metre.

I continued to give priority to my studies, so much so that at one point Monique complained. It pleased me, but it was a strange pleasure, and had an even stranger side effect. From the start I felt Monique had more power over me than I had over her. It was something I accepted and attributed to the fact that she was a greater catch for me than I was for her. So I came out on top there too. What was interesting now was that the less time I spent with her, the more that seemed to even out the balance of power between us. So I buried myself again, redoubled my studies, and when the day of the big exam came along and I left the exam room after five hours, I knew that what I had handed in was something that would make not just my tutor and father proud, but Monique too. I bought a bottle of cheap champagne and ran to her room on the first floor of her hall of residence. Led Zeppelin’s ‘Whole Lotta Love’ was playing so loudly when I knocked that she didn’t hear me. Overjoyed — because it was I who had given her that record, and if there was anything I felt at that moment it was a whole lotta love! — I ran round to the back. Even with the bottle of champagne in one hand I easily climbed the tree that was outside her window. Once I was high enough to see inside I waved the bottle and was on the point of calling her name and telling her I loved her, but the words stuck in my throat.

Monique was always thrillingly vocal when we made love, and the walls between the rooms so thin we used to play music to cover the sounds.

I saw Monique, but she didn’t see me, her eyes were closed.

Trevor didn’t see me either because he had his back to me. That milky-white, now muscular back. His hips were moving, pumping up and down almost in time to ‘Whole Lotta Love’.

I remained in a trance until I heard a crash and, looking down, saw the champagne bottle had smashed against the cobblestones below. Shards of glass protruded from a white, bubbling puddle. I don’t know why the thought that someone might see me caused me to panic, but I slid rather than climbed down, and the moment my feet hit the ground I ran, I fled.

I ran all the way back to the shop where I had bought the champagne, bought two bottles of Johnnie Walker with the last of the money my mother had sent me and ran to my hall of residence. Locked myself in my room and began to drink.

It was dark outside when Monique knocked on my door. I didn’t open, called out that I was in bed, could it wait until tomorrow? She said there was something she had to talk to me about, but I said I didn’t want to take the chance of her catching what I had. Terrified of infection as she was she left, after asking me, through the door, how the exam had gone.

Trevor knocked on my door too. When I called out that I was ill, and he asked if there was anything I needed, I whispered ‘a friend’, turned over in bed and called out ‘No thanks’.

‘Hope you’ll be better for our climbing trip on Friday,’ said Trevor.

Friday. That gave me three days. Three days to dive down into a darkness I didn’t even know existed. Three days in the grip of jealousy. Each time I breathed out it tightened its grip a little more, made it harder to breathe in fresh air. Because that’s what jealousy is, it’s a boa constrictor. When I was a kid and my father took me to the cinema to see the Disney version of The Jungle Book, I got very confused because in the Rudyard Kipling book my mother read to me so many, many times Kaa the snake was nice! My father explained that all creatures have two faces, it’s just that we can’t always see the other one, not even in ourselves. But I had begun to see my other face. Because as the lack of oxygen over these three days destroyed my brain I began to think thoughts I had no idea were inside me, but which must have been there all the time, in the dregs of my personality. And I saw the other face of the good snake Kaa. The jealousy that tempted, manipulated, hypnotised with wild fantasies of revenge that sent thrilling shivers through the body and needed only another swig of whisky to keep it going.

When Friday came along and I shook off my depression, pronounced myself recovered and rose as though from the dead, I was no longer the same Nikos Balli. No one could see it in me, not even Trevor and Monique when I greeted them at lunch as though nothing had happened and said the weather forecast for the weekend looked great, we would have a fantastic weekend. As we ate I didn’t listen to Trevor and Monique as they spoke in codes they thought I couldn’t understand, instead I listened to a couple of girls on the other side of the table who were talking about one of their friends’ new boyfriend. I listened to the words they chose, the adjective that was a little too strong, the slightly too pleased response when one spoke disapprovingly to the other of their mutual friend, the anger that made the sentences shorter, more biting, without the flow that comes with calm thought. They were jealous. It was so simple. And I was not basing my new instinct on psychoanalysis but on pure, concrete verbal analysis. No, I was no longer the same. I had been somewhere. I had seen things there. Seen and learned. I had become the Jealousy Man.

‘Pretty sad story that,’ said Victoria Hässel as she pulled on her panties and started looking round for the rest of her clothes. ‘Did the two of them become a couple?’

‘No,’ I said. I turned in the bed and lifted first an empty then an almost empty bottle of Ouzo 12 from the bedside table and filled the dram glass. ‘It was Monique’s last year and her final exam was just a few days away. She didn’t do very well, but after that she went back home to France, and neither Trevor nor I ever saw her again. She married a Frenchman, had kids, and as far as I know lives somewhere in Brittany.’

‘And you — who studied literature and history — you became a policeman?’

I shrugged. ‘I had a year left at Oxford, but when I went back for the autumn the partying thing got out of hand again.’

‘Broken heart?’

‘Maybe. Maybe it was just that the closeness of the memories was too strong. Whatever, the only thing that seemed to matter was to keep getting smashed. Once I even thought of flight nine nineteen.’

‘Sorry?’

‘When things were at their worst I would squeeze this stone I had picked up from the ground somewhere in the Peak District.’ I held up a clenched fist to demonstrate. ‘Concentrated on transferring the pain into the stone, let it suck it all out.’

‘Did that help?’

‘At least I didn’t take flight nine nineteen.’ I emptied the dram glass. ‘Instead I dropped out in the middle of the autumn term and took a flight to Athens. Worked for a while in my father’s firm, and then enrolled at the Police Academy. My father and the rest of the family thought it was some kind of delayed adolescent rebellion. But I knew that I had been given something, a gift, or a curse, something that might possibly be of some use to me. And the discipline and training at the Academy helped keep me away from...’ I nodded towards the bottle of ouzo. ‘But that’s enough about me. Tell me about yourself.’

Victoria Hässel straightened up at the end of the bed and buttoned up a pair of freshly washed climbing pants and looked at me in disbelief. ‘In the first place I’m going climbing now. In the second place you got me to talk about myself and nothing else but myself for over four hours in the bar yesterday. Have you really forgotten that?’

I shook my head, smiling as I tried in vain to recall it. ‘I just wanted to know more,’ I lied, and saw that she knew I was lying.

‘Cute,’ she said, walked round the bed and kissed me on my high forehead. ‘Later, maybe. You smell of my perfume, just so you know.’

‘My sense of smell is terrible.’

‘And mine is wonderful. But don’t worry, I come out easily in the wash. See you later today? Adio.’

I wondered whether to tell her that finally, two days after the ferry and the planes had begun to leave Kalymnos again, I had booked a seat on a flight to Athens. But it wouldn’t have changed anything, would just have meant a little more play-acting.

‘Adio, Victoria.’

George picked me up as arranged an hour before my flight departed. It was a ten- or twelve-minute drive, and I still only had hand luggage.

‘Better now?’ he asked as I got into the car.

I had called Athens and explained that I was sick, that they should put someone else on the Tzitzifies case. I rubbed my face.

‘Yes,’ I said, and it was true, I didn’t feel at all bad. Maybe Ouzo 12 does taste like crap, but I’ll give it this, the hangover is nothing like as bad as you get with Pitsiladi. And I had drunk myself clear. For a while, the clouds were gone.

I asked him to drive slowly. I wanted to enjoy my last view of Kalymnos. It really was lovely here.

‘You should come in the spring, when the flowers bloom, and there’s more life and colour in the mountains.’

‘I like it the way it is,’ I said.

When we reached the airport, George announced that the plane from Athens was delayed, since there was no sign of it on the runway. He parked, and suggested we sit in his car until we saw the plane land.

We sat in silence and looked out on Palechora, the town made of stone.

‘People from Kalymnos used to hide out up there sometimes in the old days,’ said George. ‘From pirates. Sieges could last for weeks, months. They had to sneak out at night to fetch water from camouflaged wells. They say children were conceived and born up there. But it was a prison, no question about it.’

A swishing in the air above us. A swishing through my head.

The ATR-72 and the thought arrived at the same moment.

‘The prison of love,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Both Franz and Julian had dates with Helena in one of the buildings in Palechora. Franz said he had sentenced his brother to life imprisonment in his own prison of love. That could mean...’

The brief roaring of the propellers drowned out my words as the plane landed and was waved in behind us, but from the look on George’s face I could see he had already understood where I was heading.

‘I guess this means,’ he said, ‘that you won’t be taking the plane to Athens after all?’

‘Call Christine. Tell her to bring Odin with her.’

From a distance Palechora looked like a true ghost town. Grey-black, lifeless and petrified, something the Medusa had looked at. But now, close up — as happens in murder cases too — the details, the nuances and colours began to appear. And the smell.

George and I hurried through the ruins towards one of the houses that was still more or less intact. Christine was standing in the doorway holding Odin, who was barking and keen to get inside. She had been the first to arrive, along with two members of the mountain rescue team, and we’d been communicating over the walkie-talkie. We had stepped up our pace after she reported her find but still had a hundred-metre climb before we were there. They made the discovery in what was probably Palechora’s only cellar. Later I learned that the cellar had been used to store dead bodies in during sieges, since the soil inside the fortress walls wasn’t deep enough to bury them.

The first thing that struck me when George and I bent down and entered the low-ceilinged cellar, and before my eyes had adapted to the dark, was the stench.

Maybe my old eyes take a little longer to get dark-adapted than they used to, maybe that was why I was able to control my feelings as the sight of Julian Schmid gradually took shape in front of me, his naked body still partially covered by a dirty woollen blanket. One of the mountain rescue men was squatting beside him, but there was little he could do. Julian’s arms reached stiffly above his head, hands clasped as though in prayer, fastened by handcuffs to an iron bolt in the stone wall.

‘We’re waiting for Teodore,’ whispered George, as though this were an autopsy or a church service. ‘He’s bringing something to cut the handcuffs.’

I looked at the floor. A pool of faeces, vomit and urine. That was the source of the smell.

The figure on the floor coughed. ‘Water,’ he whispered.

Someone from the mountain rescue team had obviously already given him all he had, so I stepped forward and pressed my bottle against the dry lips. It was like seeing a half-dead mirror image of Franz. Or rather: Julian Schmid seemed thinner than his twin brother, had a large blue mark on his forehead, perhaps from that billiard ball, and his voice sounded different. Was it because his brother was an exact copy of himself that Franz was unable to kill Julian? Indeed, had it even made it easier for Franz to take his own life? I had my own reasons for thinking so.

‘Franz?’ whispered Julian.

‘He’s gone,’ I said.

‘Gone?’

‘Disappeared.’

‘And Helena?’

‘She’s somewhere safe.’

‘Can... one of you tell her? That I’m OK?’

George and I exchanged glances. I nodded to Julian.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and drank again. And as though the water ran straight through his head, tears began to trickle from his eyes. ‘He didn’t mean it.’

‘What?’

‘Franz. He... he just went crazy. I know it. It sometimes happens to him.’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

A crackle came from George’s walkie-talkie and he went outside.

A moment later he put his head back in. ‘The ambulance has arrived. It’s waiting down on the road.’ He disappeared again. The stench really was overpowering.

‘I think that deep down Franz wanted you to be found,’ I said quietly.

‘You think so?’ said Julian.

I knew then that he knew Franz was dead. And that this was the prayer he looked as though he had been praying, that I would tell him what he needed to hear. What he had to hear if he was ever to be whole again. So I did.

‘He regretted it,’ I said. ‘He actually told me that you were here. He wanted me to rescue you. He had no way of knowing how slow on the uptake I was.’

‘It hurts so much,’ he said.

‘I know,’ I said.

‘What can you do?’

I looked around. Picked up a grey stone from the ground and pressed it into his hands. ‘You squeeze that. Imagine that it’s drawing all the pain out of you.’

The bolt cutters arrived and Julian was taken away.

I called Helena and gave her the news that Julian had been found alive. As we were talking it struck me that never before had I, as a detective, broken the news to someone that a loved one had been found alive. But Helena’s reaction wasn’t dissimilar to what usually happened when I broke the news of a death: a few seconds silence while the brain probably searched for the reason for this misunderstanding, the reason why this couldn’t possibly be true. And then — not finding one — the tears as the reality of the situation dawned on them. Even those who in time turned out to be the jealous guilty party would start to cry, often more disconsolate than the shocked innocent. But Helena’s tears were different. They were tears of joy. A sunlit downpour. It stirred something within me, some vague memory, and I felt a lump in my throat. And as she sobbed her gratitude I had to cough in order to keep my voice steady.

In the afternoon, when I arrived at the hospital in Pothia, Helena was by the bedside and holding the hand of a Julian who was already looking better. Helena seemed to assume it was my razor-sharp intelligence that was responsible for his being saved. I didn’t mention that it was probably my lack of imagination that meant he almost died.

I asked for a few words alone with Julian, and Helena grabbed my hand and kissed it before she left us.

Julian’s account of the sequence of events was pretty much what I had been expecting.

On the way to hospital after the fight in the bar the quarrel with Franz flared up again. ‘I lied,’ said Julian. ‘I said I had talked to Helena and told her everything, and she forgave me and told me she loved me. That he should just give up and forget about her as soon as he could. Yes, it was a lie, but I thought I would call Helena afterwards, and the result would in any case turn out to be the same. But Franz screamed that it was a lie, pulled in at the side of the road, opened the glove compartment and took out the pistol he had bought in Pothia.’

‘Had you seen him like that before?’

‘I have seen him furious, and we have fought, but I have never seen him like that, never so... crazy.’ Julian’s eyes were bright. ‘But I don’t blame him. I had fallen in love with that girl because he had told me about her, shown me pictures, praised her and built her up to the skies. And I stole her. There’s no other way to put it. I betrayed them both, him and her. I would have done the same to him. No, I would have shot, I would have killed. Instead he forced me to drive to Chora and from there up to Palechora with a gun in my back. He had obviously had a look round when he was up here and found that cellar. And he chained me up there with the handcuffs he’d bought in Pothia.’

‘And then he left you to die?’

‘He said I could stay there until I rotted, then he left. Of course, I was terrified, but at that particular point in time I was more afraid for Helena than myself. Because he always came back.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When we used to fight as kids he was always just that little bit stronger than me. Sometimes he would lock me up. In a room, or a cupboard. Once it was a chest. Said I would die there. But he always came back. He was so sorry, though of course he never showed it. And I was certain the same thing would happen this time too. Right up until about two or three days ago. I suddenly woke up and...’ He looked at me. ‘Well, I’m not the type that believes in spiritism, but from what me and Franz have experienced I’d be curious to find out what we know about telepathic communion between twins in a hundred years’ time. Whatever, I simply knew something had happened to Franz. And when the hours and days went by and he didn’t come back, I began to think I really was going to die there. You saved me, Mr Balli. I’ll be forever in your debt.’

Julian extended a hand from under the duvet and took mine. I felt the stone I had given him pressed into my palm. ‘In case you too should ever feel pain,’ he said.

In the hospital corridor on the way out Helena stopped me and asked if she might invite me to dinner at their restaurant. I thanked her but explained that I was taking the last evening flight out of Kos.

It left me with a couple of hours left to kill before the ferry so I accompanied Christine to Julian’s room in Massouri to fetch his clothes.

I stood in the street by the police car and watched the lovely sunset behind Telendos while Christine was inside the house. An elderly woman in a flowery dress carrying bags of shopping limped by and stopped.

‘I hear you found one of the twins,’ she said. ‘The nice one.’

‘Nice?’

‘I do the cleaning and make the beds every morning at nine.’ She nodded towards the house. ‘Most of them have gone off climbing by then, but sometimes I woke the two of them. One was always grumpy, the other one just smiled and laughed and said I could come back and do it tomorrow. Julian, that was the nice one’s name. I never found out what the other one was called.’

‘Franz.’

‘Franz.’ She savoured the name.

‘It’s German,’ I said.

‘Well, apart from that Julian I don’t like Germans. They screwed us during the war and they’re screwing us again now. Treat us like we’re bad tenants in their Europe who haven’t paid the rent in a while.’

‘Not a bad image,’ I said, thinking as much of my own native country as of Germany.

‘They act like they’ve changed,’ she scoffed. ‘A woman leader and all that stuff. But they’re Nazis and they always will be.’ She shook her head. ‘One morning I saw handcuffs on the bedside table. No idea what that Franz used them for, something fascist I expect. Is he dead?’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Probably. Almost definitely.’

‘Almost?’ She looked at me, still a trace of that contempt for all Germans in her face. ‘Isn’t it the police’s job to know?’

‘Yes it is,’ I said. ‘And we know nothing.’

She waddled away, and I heard laughter from the other side of the road.

I turned and there, sitting on a veranda beneath a cypress tree, sat Victoria with her feet on the railings and a cigarette in the corner of her mouth.

‘You get screwed?’ she said with a laugh, puffing out smoke into the still dusk.

‘You understand Greek?’

‘No, but I understand body language.’ With a slow, languorous gesture she tapped ash from her cigarette. ‘Don’t you?’

I thought of the night. I sobered up in the course of those hours. It was good. We were good to each other. A bit mean, but mostly good. ‘Yes I do, I do.’

‘See you later in the bar?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m flying to Athens tonight.’

‘Like a visit?’

From the look on her face I realised the question had just popped out. And she understood — or misunderstood — my hesitation in replying.

‘Forget it.’ She laughed again, and drew hard on her cigarette. ‘You’re married with kids and a dog in Athens. You don’t want trouble and you won’t get any.’

I realised she hadn’t asked anything about my life now, and that I had spoken about the only thing that mattered to me: the past.

‘I’m not all that afraid of trouble,’ I said. ‘But I’m old. Whereas you’ve got your whole life in front of you.’

‘Yep, I’m a better deal for you than you would have been for me.’

‘I would have ended up ahead,’ I said and smiled.

‘Adio again, Nikos.’

‘Adio again, Monique.’

Not until I got into the car did I realise my slip of the tongue.

It was gone midnight by the time I let myself into my flat.

‘I’m home,’ I called out into the dark, dropped my bag onto the floor, went to the kitchen section of the big, open-plan room with its glass walls and its views of Kolonaki, one of the more fashionable districts of central Athens.

Took out the little box I had in my pocket, opened it and looked at the grey stone lying inside, like a jewel in a goldsmith’s box.

I got a glass, opened the fridge, and the light fell across the parquet floor and reached across to the bookshelves and the heavy teak writing desk with the big Apple screen.

Inherited money.

I filled the glass with the freshly pressed juice my housekeeper makes, crossed to the computer and touched the keyboard. A big picture of three young people in front of a rock face in the Lake District appeared.

I clicked on the icons and checked the websites of the largest newspapers. All of them had extensive covering of developments in the Kalymnos murder case. My name didn’t appear in any of them. Good.

I kissed my index finger and placed it on the cheek of the girl between the two boys on the screen and said aloud that now I was off to bed.

In the bedroom I put the box with the grey stone on the shelf above the bed, next to the other stone that lay there. The bed was so big and empty, the silk sheets looked so chilly that as I lay down I had the feeling I was about to swim out to sea.

Two weeks later I received a phone call from George Kostopoulos.

‘A body’s been found in the sea not far from the beach where Franz disappeared,’ he said. ‘Or actually, on land — the body was speared on one of the rocks where the waves break. It’s exposed and people don’t go there much, but it looks as though someone has started climbing along a route fifty or sixty metres above the rocks and fallen. A climber called it in.’

‘I think I know where it is,’ I said. ‘Has the body been identified?’

‘Not yet. It’s so badly smashed up from lying there that I’m surprised the climber was even able to recognise it as human. My own first impression was that it was a dead dolphin. Skin, face, ears, sexual organs, all gone. But there’s a hole in the skull that can hardly be anything but a bullet-hole.’

‘It could still be a refugee from a boat.’

‘I know, we had a few washed up here last year, but I doubt it. I’ve sent a DNA sample from the body, so we’ll get the answer in a couple of days. I was just wondering...’

‘Yeah?’

‘If it matches the DNA profile from the saliva sample we took from Franz Schmid’s water glass, what do we say?’

‘We say we have made a positive identification.’

‘But remember, we got that DNA through a... in an unauthorised manner.’

‘Oh? As far as I remember we asked Franz Schmid and he gave it to us of his own free will.’

It was silent at the other end.

‘Is that the way...’ he began.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s the way we do it in Athens.’

The results arrived three days later.

According to the report, the DNA from the human remains on the rocks matched that voluntarily given to detectives by Franz Schmid in Pothia. My name was not mentioned.

I held the phone below the tablecloth as I read the news in order not to distract the woman who was in the process of telling me that she believed her husband’s overdose must have been because he’d got his heart pills and his other medication mixed up, maybe because he was so confused by the young trainee at work he was planning to leave his family for.

I stifled a yawn and thought about that climbing route out there south of the beach. I had obtained a copy of the climbers’ guide to Kalymnos and discovered that the route was called Where Eagles Dare, grade 7b. Even in the picture it looked fantastic. If I was ever going to get in good enough shape to climb it, it would take training and I would need to lose a few kilos. And for me to have time for that people would either have to take a break from killing each other, or else I would have to take a break. A long one.

Five years later

I looked out of the plane window. The island beneath was unchanged. A yellow block of limestone dropped into the sea by Poseidon to make the earth tremble.

But the skies were clouded over.

The weather was less stable in spring, the taxi driver told me on my way into Emporio, I would do better to come in the autumn. I smiled as I looked at the oleander bushes in full bloom on the hillsides and breathed in the scent of thyme.

Helena and Julian were standing on the steps of the restaurant with little Ferdinand as I emerged from the taxi. Julian smiled broadly while Helena embraced me as though she would never let go. We had exchanged emails regularly, by which I mean she told me how things were going, and I read her messages. Read the way I listened, and replied briefly, mostly follow-up questions, as was my habit when in conversation.

It hadn’t been easy in the beginning, she wrote. Julian was more affected by what had happened than was initially apparent. After the euphoria of being rescued and being back with her had passed he became dark, closed-off and difficult, a different man from the one she had fallen in love with, it seemed to her. And he spoke so much of his brother. He excused Franz. It seemed important to Julian that she, and her parents too, should understand that Franz wasn’t evil, he had simply been very, very much in love.

In fact it got so bad she was thinking about leaving him, until something happened that changed everything: she had become pregnant.

And from that day on it was as though Julian had woken up and become again the Julian she could scarcely remember now from the single night they had spent together before he went missing. Happy, good, kind, warm, loving. Maybe he never became quite as full of life and crazy as she remembered from that night, but what of it? Don’t all women think their husbands were a little more exciting in the early days? And what more can one ask of a man than that he is faithful, loving, and works hard for the family? Even Helena’s father had to admit that she had got a husband who was a hard worker and reliable, someone he could safely hand the restaurant on to when that time came.

According to Helena, Julian had cried like a child himself on Ferdinand’s arrival. Like his father the boy radiated love. ‘Like some kind of heater,’ she wrote. ‘And when the winter storms batter Kalymnos you couldn’t wish for anything better.’

‘So you think you’re ready for Where Eagles Dare,’ said a smiling Julian once I was installed in my room and we were seated at lunch in the restaurant. Grilled octopus. It was their speciality, and it really did taste fabulous. I noticed that Julian didn’t eat it and wondered if it might have something to do with the myth that octopuses feeds on corpses. Not a myth, of course. Every creature in the sea feeds on the drowned when the chance comes along.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But at least I’ve done a little climbing on the crags around Athens.’

‘Then we’ll start out early tomorrow,’ he said.

‘It’s an extremely long route,’ I said. ‘Forty metres.’

‘No problem, I have an eighty-metre rope lying around somewhere.’

‘Excellent.’

The ringtone on his phone played. He was about to take the call when he stopped and looked at me.

‘You look so pale, Nikos? Is everything OK?’

‘Of course,’ I lied, and managed to return his smile. My stomach was twisting, and I could feel the sweat breaking out all over my body. ‘Take the call.’

He gave me a long, searching look. He perhaps thought it was the height of the route that had caused my reaction.

He picked up the phone and finally the tune stopped playing.

Whole Lotta Love.

Same thing as usual. The song not only took me forty years back in time, to a tree in a yard in Oxford, it actually made me feel physically ill.

Julian must have realised it wasn’t the climbing. ‘Didn’t you like the music?’ he asked once his call was finished.

‘It’s a long story,’ I said, and laughed now that I had had time to compose myself. ‘But I thought you didn’t like Led Zeppelin. I seem to remember you had something a bit softer on your phone.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes, some Ed something. Ed Cheap. Ed Sheep...’

‘Ed Sheeran!’ cried Helena.

‘That’s it,’ I said and looked at Julian.

‘I love Sheeran,’ said Helena.

‘How about you, Julian?’

Julian Schmid raised his glass of water. ‘It’s quite possible to like both Zeppelin and Sheeran.’

He drank for a long time without taking his eyes off me.

‘I just thought of something,’ he said when finally he put his glass down again. ‘The weather forecast for tomorrow says there might be rain, it’s actually impossible to know whether the cloud fronts round here are going to hit the island or not. Even though the route is overhanging, the wind will drive in so much rain that the wall will get soaked, so why don’t we head out there now? You’re here for such a short time, this way we can be sure you’ll be able to have a crack at it before you have to leave.’

‘Yes, it would be a real bore for you to have come all this way just to see me and Ferdinand,’ said Helena.

I smiled.

We finished the meal and I went up to my room to get ready. As I packed my climbing gear, through the window I could see Julian playing with Ferdinand. The boy ran laughing around his father, and each time Julian grabbed hold of him and swung him round so that his little blue-and-white cap fell off the boy shrieked with joy. It was like a dance. Not a dance I had ever danced with my own father. Or had I? If so I had forgotten it.

‘Excited?’ asked Julian as we parked after our silent drive out to the spot where we had found Franz’s car.

I nodded as I gazed out across the beach. Looked different today. No sun. Waves that whispered peacefully as they rolled onto the sand without breaking.

After a brisk twenty-minute walk we were out on the point and looking up at Where Eagles Dare. It looked more intimidating with the steel-grey clouds hanging over it. We put on our climbing harnesses and Julian handed me two bunches of quickdraws.

‘I imagine you probably want to climb it onsight,’ he said.

‘Thanks, you overestimate me, but I’ll see how far I get.’ I clipped the quickdraws into the harness, attached myself to the rope, pulled on the old but comfortable climbing shoes I had used in the Lake District and dipped my hands into the bag of resin fastened on a cord around my waist. Instead of stepping the two paces to the wall, I walked out to the edge of the path and looked down.

‘That’s where they found him,’ I said, nodding down towards the breakers. They were calmer today but the sound still reached up to us after a short delay. ‘But you already knew that.’

‘Yes, I knew,’ said the voice behind me. ‘How long have you known?’

‘Known what?’

I turned to face him. He was pale. Maybe it was just the light, but for a moment that almost white pallor made me think of Trevor. But there again, nowadays I think quite often of Trevor.

‘Nothing,’ he said, his face and voice expressionless as he threaded the rope through the manual ATC brake fastened to his halter and ritually checked his equipment list. ‘You’re in, the carabiner is fastened, the rope is long enough, and your knot looks fine.’

I nodded.

Placed one foot in the overhanging wall and gripped into the first obvious handhold. Tensed my body and got my other foot up.

The first ten metres of the climb were fine. I moved easily. Losing those kilos and getting the muscles back had made all the difference. And my climber’s psyche was in good shape too. The previous year I had fallen several times on routes that were minimally bolted, and when the rope stopped my swaying fall after some eight or ten metres I didn’t even feel relief, only a mild disappointment that I hadn’t managed the route without a fall. But here the permanent bolts were close together, and in the event of a fall the drop would be short. I actually began to wonder if I had brought along enough quickdraws as I fastened them to the bolts and clipped in the rope.

I heard a gull screech at the same instant as my thin limestone hold broke away. I fell. It lasted only a moment, that state so often and so inaccurately described as weightlessness. Then the rope and the harness tensed around my waist and thighs. A short, hard fall. I looked down at Julian who was standing on the ground with the rope tensioning out from the brake in the harness.

‘Sorry,’ he shouted. ‘You fell so quickly I didn’t have time to take your fall.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I shouted back, and since I couldn’t get close enough to the overhanging rock face I started to pull myself up the rope using just the muscle power of my arms. Even though it was barely three metres and Julian used his body weight to pull in the slack, the climbing rope was so thin and slippery that by the time I reached the bolt from which the rope hung I was completely exhausted. I looked at my hands. I had already worn off a lot of skin.

After a rest I continued climbing. I had to grab hold of one of the quickdraws at the crux, the toughest point of the route, but apart from that I felt the coming of the flow, when there’s no need to think, the hands and feet seem to solve the stream of equations with one and two unknowns all by themselves. Reaching the top fifteen metres later I clipped the rope into the anchor with a sense of inner content that was deep and calm. I hadn’t managed it without a fall, but the climb had been magical nevertheless. I turned to take in the view. According to George, on a clear day you could see the coast of Turkey from Kalymnos, but today I saw only: the sea, myself, the route. And the rope that ran down to the man I had saved, and who would save me.

‘Ready!’ I shouted. ‘You can lower me down!’

I sank down through the still, heavy afternoon air. Daylight was already fading; once Julian had tried the route we would have to head back if we were to avoid walking along the steep, stony path in the dark. But something told me that Julian wouldn’t be making the climb when, after a few metres in which I lowered myself, I suddenly saw the dark section on the yellow rope passing inside me on its way up to the anchor.

The midpoint marker.

‘The rope’s too short!’ I shouted.

Even though there was no wind, it might well have been the case that the surf, the crying of the gulls or simple absent-mindedness meant that he didn’t hear me and continued to haul me down.

‘Julian!’

But he continued to pay out the rope, faster now.

I looked down at the sea, then in towards the path where the rest of the rope snaked its way up, like a cobra dancing to a flute. And I could see it now, there was no knot in the loose end of the rope.

‘Julian!’ I shouted again. I was so close to him I could the deadness in his facial expression. He was going to kill me, there were only a few seconds remaining before the end of the rope slid unhindered right through the brake, and I would fall.

‘Franz!’

The elasticated rope was pulled tight and tensed above the drop. My harness was pressing into the small of my back. My descent had stopped, I swayed up and down in the empty air. It was just two or three metres down to Julian, but since I was hanging vertically from the anchor at the top, I dangled over the edge where the track ran. If the rope passed through the brake I would fall past Julian and all the fifty or sixty metres down to the rocks where the waves frothed like the contents of a smashed champagne bottle.

‘Looks like the rope isn’t eighty metres after all,’ said Julian. ‘Sorry — to err is human.’ His face didn’t look as if he was sorry.

It was his endgame now. That end was located twenty centimetres below the brake and his hand. Right now it was the only thing holding me. Owing to the angle and the friction in the brake it wasn’t hard for him to hold me there. On the other hand, he couldn’t do it forever. And when he let go it wouldn’t look like a murder but like an all too common type of climbing accident: the rope was too short.

I nodded. ‘You’re right, Franz...’

He didn’t respond.

‘...it is human to err.’

We studied each other. Him half standing on the track, half sitting on the halter and the rope, me dangling directly above him, over the abyss.

‘Paradox,’ he said at length. ‘That’s a Greek word, isn’t it? Like when Ferdinand is afraid of the dark when it’s bedtime and he wants Daddy to tell him fairy stories until he’s asleep. But he insists that they’re scary stories. Isn’t that a paradox?’

‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘In any case, you can see the darkness coming, maybe you should tell a scary story now, Nikos. And then maybe you and I won’t be so afraid.’

‘How about we resolve this situation here first?’

He loosened his grip on the rope, let it slip a few centimetres closer to the brake.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘that the resolution will lie in the story you tell.’

I swallowed. Looked down. A fall of sixty metres doesn’t take long. But you can get through quite a lot of thinking in the time it does take. Unfortunately you also have time to reach a speed of 123.5 kilometres an hour. Would I hit the water, just about survive the fall and drown? Or would I hit the rock and die an instantaneous and pain-free death? I had seen that one close up. The stillness and the absence of drama had been the most striking thing, even in the seconds after he hit the ground, before everybody began to scream and run around. It had turned cold, and yet I could feel the sweat running like molten wax. I had not planned to expose the fake Julian in this way, with my whole life quite literally in his hands. On the other hand it was logical. Indeed, in a way it made everything easier. The ultimatum would be clearer.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Are you ready?’

‘I’m ready.’

‘Once upon a time...’ I took a deep breath. ‘Once upon a time there was a man named Franz who was so jealous that he killed his twin brother Julian, so that he could have the lovely Helena all to himself. He took his brother down to a beach, shot him in the head and threw the body into the sea. But when Franz realised that Helena loved Julian, and only Julian, and that she didn’t want Franz, Franz arranged things in such a way that it looked as though it was him and not Julian who had ended up in the sea with a bullet through the head. Afterwards he chained himself up in a cellar, and when he was found he pretended to be Julian, and to have been there ever since Julian had been reported missing. Everyone believed him, everyone believed he was Julian, and so Franz did get his Helena, and they all lived happily ever after. Satisfied?’

He shook his head but still held on to the rope. ‘You’re not a born storyteller, Nikos.’

‘True.’

‘You have, for example, no proof.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘With proof you wouldn’t have come here alone, and I would have been arrested a long time ago. And I happen to know that you’ve left the police force. These days you spend your time sitting in the National Library reading books, am I right?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I use the Gennadius Library.’

‘So then what’s this visit all about? Is this the old man come to pursue the case that won’t give him any peace because he no longer feels certain he discovered the truth?’

‘It’s true I’m not at peace,’ I said. ‘Though it’s not about this case. But it is not true that I’m here in search of proof, because I already have proof.’

‘You’re lying.’ The knuckles of the hand holding the rope whitened.

‘No,’ I said. ‘When the DNA from the body in the sea matched what we got from Franz during the interrogation, everybody thought that wrapped things up. But of course there was one more possibility. Because identical twins come from the same egg and share a genetic heritage, they also have the same DNA profile. So in theory the body we found could just as well have been Julian as Franz.’

‘So what? Just as well is not the same as proof that it wasn’t Franz.’

‘Correct. I didn’t get my proof until I received the fingerprints that you, Franz, left on the glass you drank from during our conversation at the police station in Pothia. I compared them with the prints I had at home in Athens.’

‘Athens?’

‘To be precise, on a box on a shelf above my bed. On the stone you gave me at the hospital. Yes, paradox is Greek, and the paradox here is that even though twins have identical DNA profiles, their fingerprints are not identical.’

‘That’s not true. We compared fingerprints, and they are the same.’

‘Almost the same.’

‘We have the same DNA, so how is that possible?’

‘Because fingerprints are not decided one hundred per cent by genetics. They’re also affected by your surroundings in the womb. The position one foetus lies in in relation to the other. The difference in the length of the umbilical cord which, in turn, creates a difference in the bloodstream and the access to nourishment which, again, determines how quickly the fingers grow. By the time your fingerprints are fully formed, which is at some point between week thirteen and week nineteen of the pregnancy, small differences have arisen which are detectable on close examination. I gave them a close examination. And guess what? The fingerprints on the stone I got from you at the hospital when you were claiming to be Julian, and on the glass that you, Franz, drank from at the police station, were identical. In a nutshell, the two people were...’

‘...one and the same.’

‘Yes, Franz.’

Maybe it was just the onset of darkness, maybe just our always biased gaze that adjusts its bias on the basis of every new item of information received, but it seemed to me I could see Franz emerge in the person beneath me, see him throw away his mask and step out of the role he had been playing all these years.

‘And you are the only one who knows this?’ he said quietly.

‘That’s correct.’

From out at sea came the single, pained cry of a gull.

It really was true, the work I had done in reconstructing the crime and the identity switch had been done in isolation, and with no other tools but these fingerprints, my halting logic, and my vivid powers of imagination.

He killed Julian the night they drove to the hospital, probably while they were still quarrelling and in a moment of jealous rage. I presumed it was true that in an effort to get Franz to give up Helena, Julian claimed to have been in touch with her that same day, revealed that he was the twin brother and had tricked her, and that Helena nevertheless said that it was him, Julian, that she wanted. Julian lied to Franz; Helena didn’t know she had been with both twins until I told her. And yet Julian knew he was right, that she would prefer him, because when it came to capturing a woman’s heart he would always win out over his gloomy brother. I guessed that Franz, maddened by jealousy, pulled out the Luger and shot his brother there and then. And that in that same blind rage, with no thought for the consequences, sent that text message to Helena saying he had killed Julian, the one he thought she had promised herself to. But then Franz regained his composure. And it became clear to him that, if he played his cards right, Helena might still be his. He found a spot where he could drive all the way down to the sea, undressed the body and threw it into the sea. After that Franz drove back to Massouri, returned Julian’s clothes, phone and other personal items to the room, and reported him missing the following morning, saying he had gone out before daybreak for a swim. Even though it was credible that Julian had drowned, Franz knew that if we found out about their quarrel the previous evening, it might make us take a closer look at him, so he deleted the message he had sent to Helena. He also deleted the log that showed he had made eight attempts to call Victoria, who had seen him return home alone that night. Probably he wanted to talk to Victoria to explain it away, and to persuade her not to complicate matters by telling the police. But after talking to me at the police station in Pothia he realised that we could trace the log and the text messages through the phone company. He also learned that I had spoken with Helena, and while on his way to the rock face at Odysseus he had seen me talking to Victoria. Franz realised that the net was closing in on him.

And was desperate.

The only card he still held was that Julian’s body had not yet been found. And that he and Julian had the same DNA, so that if Julian’s body was found, it might be possible to fool us into believing it was Franz.

Franz Schmid’s only hope was to disappear, to cease to exist. So he staged his own suicide. Called me from the beach and announced it in such a way as to leave no doubt about it. Planted the idea that maybe Julian wasn’t dead, that he might yet be found in his ‘prison of love’. He had to express it like that to give himself time to get up to Palechora before we solved his riddle, but he probably hadn’t reckoned on my taking several days to do it. After his phone conversation with me he left his clothes and mobile phone in the car, walked barefoot out into the waves and threw away the Luger so that if we found it that would strengthen the likelihood of suicide. Climbed ashore again on the rocks and from there made his way to Palechora, it can’t have taken him much more than an hour. It was night, there was a storm, so he knew the chances of encountering anyone or at least anyone who would recognise him were minimal.

‘You had a woollen blanket with you but you must have had clothing and shoes to get up to Palechora,’ I said. ‘Where did you get rid of them?’

I could see Franz loosening his hold, saw the yellow-taped end slide up towards his hand.

‘In Chora,’ he said. ‘In a rubbish bin below the fortress walls. Along with the packaging for the emetic and the laxatives I took so that it would look as though I had been chained there for a long time before you found me. I made it up to the cellar, and then I shat and puked like a pig. I really thought it wouldn’t take you long to find me.’

‘You stayed in the cellar the whole time?’

‘During daylight hours yes, otherwise I risked being seen from Chora, or by tourists. But I went out at night to get some fresh air.’

‘And of course, you didn’t chain yourself to the wall until you knew that “rescue” wasn’t far away. The key to the handcuffs, where did you hide that?’

‘I swallowed it.’

‘And that was all you ate while you were there? No wonder you looked a good deal thinner.’

Franz Schmid laughed. ‘Four kilos. It shows, when you’re already thin to begin with. I got a bit desperate when I realised you weren’t taking the hint. I started shouting for help. And when I finally heard people walking out there, I had shouted myself hoarse and almost lost my voice.’

‘That’s why your voice was different,’ I said. ‘You had just shouted until you were hoarse.’

‘No one heard me,’ said Franz.

‘No one heard you,’ I repeated.

I took a deep breath. The climbing harness tightened, constricting the circulation, and my feet were already beginning to contract. I knew, of course, that he might have two reasons for confessing. One was that, come what may, he intended to let me drop into the abyss. The other, that it feels good to confess. To shift the burden over onto someone else. It’s the reason that confession is one of the church’s most popular attractions.

‘So you assumed the life of your own brother,’ I said.

Franz Schmid shrugged. ‘Julian and I knew each other’s lives inside out, so it was easier than you might think. I promised Helena I would soon be back, then I travelled home. I kept away from people who knew us too well, like family and friends, and Julian’s work colleagues. The isolation and a couple of other strange situations were excused as loss of memory as a result of the trauma I had been through. The hardest thing was the funeral, when my mother said she was convinced that I was Franz, and that grief must have driven her mad. And the speeches, when I realised how many people loved me. After the burial I left my job, meaning Julian’s job, and came back here to Kalymnos. Helena and I had a small wedding — only Mother was invited from my side. But she wouldn’t come. She thinks I stole Helena from Franz, and that Helena has betrayed Franz. We had almost no contact until the birth of Ferdinand. But since I sent a few pictures of Ferdinand we’ve spoken on the phone. So we’ll see how it works out.’

‘And Helena... does she know anything?’

Franz Schmid shook his head. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked. ‘You give me a rope and tie yourself to the other end and tell me that if I kill you no one will know anything.’

‘Let me ask you instead, Franz, isn’t it terrible to have to bear the weight of this alone?’

He didn’t reply.

‘If you kill me now, you’ll still be alone. With not just a murder committed in blind rage but a cold-blooded murder. Is that what you want?’

‘You leave me with no choice, Nikos.’

‘A man always has a choice.’

‘When it comes to his own life maybe. But now I have a family to consider. I love them, they love me, and I am willing to make any sacrifice for them. Peace in my soul. Your life. Do you really think that’s so strange?’

I fell. I caught a glimpse of the end of the rope as it disappeared into Franz’s hand and knew it was all over. But then the harness tightened around my thighs and back again and I swayed lightly on the elasticated rope.

‘Not strange in any way,’ I said. My pulse dropped, the worst was over, I was no longer so afraid to die. ‘Because that’s what I’ve come here to offer you. Peace in your soul.’

‘Not possible.’

‘I know I can’t give you perfect peace. After all, you killed your brother. But I can offer you peace from the fear of being exposed, of having to look over your shoulder the whole time.’

He gave a quick laugh. ‘Because now it’s all over, and I’m about to be arrested?’

‘You’re not going to be arrested. At least not by me.’

Franz Schmid leaned backwards. With the end of the rope now in his hand it was just a question of how long he could hold on. That was OK. I was prepared for it to end this way. It was one of the only two ways out that were acceptable to me.

‘And why aren’t you going to arrest me?’ asked Franz.

‘Because I want the same thing in return.’

‘The same thing?’

‘Peace in my soul. It means I can’t arrest you without doing the same thing to myself.’

I saw the sinews and the veins move beneath the skin of the back of his hand. His neck muscles tensed, and he breathed more heavily. I understood I only had seconds left. Seconds, a sentence or two to tell the story of the day that had shaped the rest of my life.

‘So what plans have you got for the summer?’ I asked Trevor as I raised the Thermos cup to my mouth.

Trevor, Monique and I were sitting on separate stones and facing each other. Behind us was a wall some twenty metres high, and before us a softly undulating landscape of meadows. Most of it was uncultivated, here and there we saw cows. On clear days like today, from the top of the wall, you could see the smoke from the factory chimneys hovering over Sheffield. We had finished climbing, the sun was already low in the sky, and we were just taking a short break for food before heading back. The hot cup scorched my raw fingertips, and the cup felt slippery because I had just rubbed Elizabeth Arden’s Eight Hour Cream into my fingers — that’s a ladies’ cosmetic first produced in the 1930s, but as I and hundreds of other climbers had discovered, it was much better for rebuilding new skin than any patented climbers’ cream.

‘Don’t know,’ Trevor answered.

It was difficult to get him talking today. Same with Monique. On the drive from Oxford, and also while we were climbing it was me — the one with the broken heart — who did the talking. Joked. Kept the spirits up. Of course I saw them exchanging looks that said who’s going to tell him, you or me? But I adroitly avoided giving them a suitable opening. I had filled any silences in the car with meaningless chitchat that would almost certainly have sounded frenetic had it not been on the subject of climbing, where all talk sounds frenetic. This was to be a one-day trip, since Monique needed the rest of the weekend to prepare for her finals, so perhaps they intended to wait until we were almost home so that they wouldn’t have to spend hours in the car with me after dropping the bombshell. On the other hand, they were probably desperate to get it over with, confess their sins, swear it would never happen again, accept my disappointment, even, perhaps, my tears. But after that my forgiveness too, my magnanimous promise that yes, we could pretend it had never happened and continue as before. Yes, and perhaps grow even closer now that we had a foretaste of what it was we risked losing: each other.

We climbed trad-routes only the whole day, meaning we had to fasten our own bolts in places the mountain allowed it. Naturally it’s a much riskier way of climbing than using permanent bolts, since a wedge you’ve just pushed into a crack can easily be jerked out if you fall. But strangely enough, given my disturbed state of mind, I had climbed well. And very relaxed, almost oblivious to danger the harder it became to fix good, secure supports. Things seemed the other way round for Trevor and Monique, Trevor especially. Suddenly he wanted bolts knocked in everywhere, even on the easier passages, which meant the climbing took an irritatingly long time.

‘What about your summer plans?’ asked Trevor and took a bite of his sandwich.

‘Work a bit for my father in Athens,’ I said. ‘Earn enough to visit Monique in France and finally get to say hello to her family.’

I smiled at Monique, who returned my smile awkwardly. She has probably forgotten, though it was only three months ago that the two of us had pored over the map, picking out vineyards and small peaks and pleasurably going over a few practical details as though we were planning an expedition to the Himalayas.

‘We’d better tell you,’ said Trevor in a low voice, staring down at the ground.

I felt myself grow cold, felt my heart sink in my chest.

‘I’m planning a trip to France too in the summer.’ Trevor went on chewing.

What the hell did he mean? Weren’t they going to tell me what had happened? About this slip-up that was behind them now, Monique who had been feeling so alone because I had been neglecting her, Trevor who had succumbed to a moment of weakness, no excuses, of course, but the remorse they felt, the promise that, of course, it would never happen again — wasn’t any of this going to come out? Trevor was going to France. Did the two of them... were the two of them, were they going to follow the route Monique and I had planned?

I looked at Monique, but her gaze too was fixed to the ground. It dawned on me. It dawned on me that I had been blind. But I had been blind because the two of them had put my eyes out. Something big and evil and black surged up inside me. It couldn’t be stopped, it was as though my stomach twisted and a stinking, yellow-green spew was trying to force its way out. There was no way out; mouth, nose, ears, the sockets of my eyes, they were all sewn shut. So the spew filled my head, driving out every sensible thought, surging and bursting inside me.

I could see Trevor preparing for it. For the crux. He took a deep breath, his new broad shoulders and his back swelled up. That white back I had seen through the window. He opened his mouth.

‘You know what?’ I said hurriedly. ‘I’d like to climb one route more before we go.’

Trevor and Monique exchanged confused glances.

‘I...’ Monique began.

‘It shouldn’t take long,’ I said. ‘Only Exodus.’

‘Why?’ said Monique. ‘You’ve already climbed it today.’

‘Because I want to climb free solo,’ I said.

The two of them stared at me. The silence was so complete we could follow the conversation going on between the climber and his anchor a hundred metres further along the rock face. I pulled on my climbing shoes.

‘Don’t mess about,’ said Trevor with a strained laugh.

I saw from Monique’s look that she knew I wasn’t messing about.

I wiped my slippery, greasy fingertips dry against my climbing trousers, stood up and walked over to the face. Exodus was a route we knew inside out. We’d climbed it dozens of times with ropes. It was easy all the way up to a marked crux — the most difficult point — near the end where you need to commit fully, abandon your balance and throw your left hand out towards a little handhold that slopes slightly downwards, meaning that the only thing that stops you falling is the friction on the rock. And because it’s about friction, we could see from the ground that the handhold was white with the resin of climbers who had dipped their hands in their bags directly before the move so their skin would be as dry as possible.

If you were left hanging your only option was to move your right hand to a large handhold, get your feet up on the ledge and climb the remaining few, easy metres. Once at the top there was a simple descent without ropes down a slope on the rear of the crag.

‘Nikos...’ Monique said, but I had already started climbing.

Ten seconds later I was high up the crag. I heard the conversation further along the face suddenly stop and knew they had realised I was climbing free solo. That means climbing without rope, with no security of any kind. I heard one of them curse quietly. But on I climbed. On up past the point where it might have been possible for me to think better of it and climb down again. Because it was fantastic. The rock. Death. It was better than all the whisky in the world, it really did make me lock everything else out, forget everything else. For the first time since I sat in that tree and saw Trevor and Monique fucking I was free of pain. I was now so high that if I made a single mistake, if I slipped, became exhausted or a handhold broke, I wouldn’t just fall and hurt myself. I would die. I have heard that those who climb free solo programme themselves not to think about death, because if you do all your muscles will stiffen, your supply of oxygen will be blocked, the lactic acid will build up and you will fall. It was the other way round for me that day. The more I thought about death, the easier the climbing seemed to be.

I was at the crux. All I had to do was let my body drop to the left and arrest the fall with my left hand on that single, small handhold. I stopped. Not because I hesitated, but to enjoy the moment. Enjoy their fear.

I stood on my left big toe, let my right foot dangle under me as a counterbalance, leaned over to the left. Heard a little scream from Monique and felt a delicious hollowness in my body as I tipped off balance, out of control and abandoned myself to gravity. I threw out my left hand. Found the ledge and gripped hard. The fall was arrested almost before it had begun. I moved my right hand to the firm, big hold and got my feet up on the ledge. I was safe. And felt almost immediately a strange disappointment. The two other climbers, two elderly Englishmen, had made their way over to Trevor and Monique, and now that they saw I was no longer in danger of falling they began to give vocal expression to their anger. I heard them say the usual things, how free soloing should be banned, that climbing is about risk-management, not about challenging death, that people such as me set a bad example to the younger climbers. I heard Monique defending me, saying there were no young climbers here today, if they didn’t mind her saying so. Trevor said nothing.

Standing steady now, as a way of resting and to get the lactic acid out of my muscles for the final few metres, I used a familiar climber’s technique, alternately turning the right hip and the left in towards the rock face against which I was standing, holding on with my left and then right hand as I did so. As the left hip brushed against the rock, I felt something prick me in the thigh. It was the tube of Elizabeth Arden cream I had in my trouser pocket.

In later years I have tried to reconstruct it, tried to spool back through my own mind, but it’s impossible. All I can conclude is that we are to a quite surprising degree incapable of recalling what we think, that, as is the case with dreams, it slips away, and that we work out what we must have thought from what we in actual, historical fact did do, nothing else.

And what I did that Friday afternoon in the Peak District in England, standing firm and steady and holding on to the rock with my right hand, was stick my left hand into my trouser pocket. As I was standing with my left side and hip twisted towards the rock face, my left hand and pocket were hidden from view to those standing below on the ground, moreover they were preoccupied with discussing the ethical dilemmas associated with suicide climbing. With my hand in my pocket I unscrewed the cap, squeezed the tube, held the thick, fatty cream between two fingers. Continuing to hold on with my right hand I placed my left hand back on that handhold at the crux, seemingly attempting to adjust slightly the position of my feet and smeared off the white cream. Established that it was impossible to distinguish it from the white resin that had been there before. I wiped my hand dry on the inside of my thigh where I knew that the smears of cream would not be seen if I stood with my legs together. I then climbed the last few steps to the summit.

By the time I had descended the rear of the crag and walked round to the front the two other climbers had gone. I could see them walking along the path through the fields. Clouds were moving in from the west.

‘You idiot,’ hissed Monique, who stood there with her rucksack on her back ready to leave.

‘I love you too,’ I said and took off my shoes. ‘Your turn, Trevor.’

He stared at me in disbelief.

In fiction great narrative power is often vested in a single look. In a literary sense the convention helps the writer tell his story well, and sometimes to great effect. But since I am not, as I have said, a specialist in the interpretation of body language, or more sensitive to atmosphere than others, I can only conclude, based on what he did, that he knew. He knew that I knew. And that this would be his way of doing penance; to challenge death, in the same way as I had just done. That this was now the only way he could show his respect for me and have any hope of my forgiveness.

‘You won’t make your idiotic action any less idiotic by persuading him to do something just as idiotic!’ hissed Monique. There were tears in her eyes. Maybe that’s why I didn’t hear the rest of her tirade. I stared at those tears and wondered if they were for me. For us. Or were they for the moral trap she and Trevor had fallen into, which was so contrary to everything she thought she stood for? Or for the knife that was about to be plunged into me, and which seemed to call for more courage than they possessed? But after a while I stopped thinking about that too.

And when Monique realised I was no longer listening and that I was no longer looking at her but at something behind and now above her she turned, and saw Trevor on his way up the crag. She screamed. But Trevor was beyond the point at which he could regret it and turn back. Beyond the point at which I could regret it.

No, that’s not true. I could have warned him. Tried to get him to find another way, look for other handholds that would get him past the crux. I could have. Did I consider it? I don’t remember. I know I thought it, but did I think it then, or later? What hoops has my memory jumped through, in order to if not exonerate me then at least offer me extenuating circumstances? Again, I don’t know. And which pain would be the greater? The one I would have to live with if Trevor had travelled to France that summer and maybe spent the rest of his life with Monique? Or the one I was fated to live with — to lose both of them anyway? And would any of those pains have been worse than to have lived with Monique, lived a lie, lived in denial, knowing that our marriage was false and based not on mutual love but on mutual guilt? That its foundation stone was the gravestone of the man she had loved more than me?

I could have warned him but I didn’t.

Because back then I would have chosen the same as I would today — to live a life of lies, denial and guilt with her. And had I known there and then that such a thing was impossible I would have wished that it were me who had fallen. But I didn’t. I had to live on. Until today.

I remember little of the rest of that day. Meaning that it is, of course, archived somewhere, but in a drawer I never opened.

What I do remember is something from the drive back to Oxford. It’s night, and several hours since Trevor’s body has been brought down, since Monique and I have given our statements to the police and tried to explain to Trevor’s distraught mother while his father’s sobs of pain cut through the air.

I’m driving, Monique is silent, we’re on the M1 somewhere between Nottingham and Leicester. The temperature had plummeted with the coming of rain, so I’ve turned on the seat warmers and windscreen wipers, thinking that now it will all have been washed away, the proof against me on the crux. And in the warm interior Monique suddenly says she can smell perfume, and from the corner of my eye I see her turning towards me and glancing down into my lap. ‘You’ve got something white on the inside of your thigh.’

‘Resin,’ I say quickly, without taking my eyes off the road. As though I had known she would point this out and had my explanation ready.

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

‘You killed your best friend,’ said Franz Schmid.

The tone was neither shocked nor accusing. He was simply stating a fact.

‘Now you know as much about me as I know about you,’ I said.

He looked up at me. A breath of wind lifted his quiff. ‘And you think that means I’ve nothing to fear from you. But your crime is beyond the statute of limitations now. You can’t be punished for it.’

‘Don’t you think I’ve been punished, Franz?’ I closed my eyes. It didn’t really matter if he let go of the rope or not, I had made my confession. Naturally he couldn’t give me any kind of absolution. But he could — we could — give each other a story that said that we were not alone, not the only sinner. It doesn’t make it forgivable, but it makes it human. Turns it into a human failing. The failure is always human. And that at least makes me human. And Franz too. Did he understand that? That I had come to turn him into a human being? And myself too? That I was his rescuer, and he mine? I opened my eyes again. Looked at his hand.

By the time we headed back down it was so dark that Franz had to go first with me coming along close behind. As I concentrated on following in his footsteps along the narrow, steep track I heard the surf muttering and snorting beneath us, like a beast of prey disappointed that its prey has got away.

‘Careful here,’ said Franz, although I still stumbled against the large loose rock he had stepped over. I heard it rolling down the mountainside but said nothing. An optician once told me that among the most predictable statistics regarding the human body is that by the time we’re approaching sixty our eyes have lost something like twenty-five of their sensitivity to light. So my sight was worse now. But it could also be that my sight was better now. At the very least I understood my own story better. We walked on, and as we rounded the point I saw the lights from the houses down on the beach.

Franz got me down from Where Eagles Dare by using his feet and the rock face to approach a little closer to the first bolt, at the same time hauling in enough rope to enable him to grab it and tied a knot in the end. With a bit of scrabbling and swinging I managed to scramble onto the protruding lip of the ledge just as the last of the daylight faded.

As soon as we reached the turning circle and were inside the car Franz called Helena.

‘We’re both fine, darling, the climbing just took a little longer than expected,’ he said. Pause. A smile spread over his face. ‘Tell him Daddy will be home soon and I’ll read to him. Tell him I love you both.’

I looked out to sea. Sometimes it seems as though life is full of impossible choices. But perhaps that’s because we don’t recognise the easy choices as choices. It is the dilemmas, the unmarked crossroads that occupy our thoughts. At Oxford, in a discussion about Robert Frost’s famous poem ‘The Road Not Taken’, I once maintained, not without a certain youthful arrogance, that the poem was clearly in praise of individualism, advice to us young to take ‘the one less travelled by’ because ‘that has made all the difference’, as the poet says in the final two lines. But our sixty-year-old professor smiled and said it was precisely this kind of naive, optimistic misunderstanding that has dragged Robert Frost’s poem down to the level of Khalil Gibran and Paulo Coelho and made it so beloved of the masses. That the poem’s weakness is the final verse, because it is ambivalent and can be read as a failed attempt to sum up what the rest of the poem is actually about; that you must choose. That you know nothing of the road, not even which of them is ‘less travelled by’ since, according to the poem, these seem to be the same as far as the eye can see. And that you won’t even know where the one you didn’t take leads to. Because — as the poet says — the road you travel leads to new roads and will never return to this particular crossroads. Therein lies the poetry, our professor maintained. The melancholy. The poem is not about the road you took, but about the one you didn’t take.

‘The title makes that very plain,’ said the professor. ‘But the world, and we as individuals, interpret everything according to our needs. The victors write the history of the war and cast themselves as the ones with right on their side. Theologians read the Bible in such a way as to give the Church as much power as possible, and we use a poem to tell ourselves that we don’t need to feel that we have failed, even if we never lived up to our parents’ expectations nor followed in their footsteps. The actual progress of the war, the actual biblical text, the poet’s actual intentions are secondary. Am I right or am I right?’

Franz put the phone back in the mid-seat console. But he didn’t turn on the ignition. Instead he sat there looking out at the sea, like me.

‘I still don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘I mean, you’re a policeman.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not a policeman for the simple reason that I never was a policeman, I just worked as one. You’ve got to understand that in the story about me, I am you, Franz. Julian betrayed you the way Trevor betrayed me. And the disease of jealousy made killers out of both of us. Life imprisonment in Greece means you can get released on parole after sixteen years. I’ve served more than twice that. I wouldn’t want the same thing to happen to you.’

‘You can’t even know whether or not I feel regret,’ said Franz. ‘Maybe I didn’t need to confess to find peace. And as for you, you could have gone to a priest and confessed.’

‘I had another reason for coming,’ I said.

‘And that is?’

‘You’re the road I never took. I had to see it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You chose her, you chose the one who — innocently or not — was the reason you killed your own brother. Is it possible to live with that? That’s what I wanted to know. Can you live in happiness with the one you killed for in the shadow of that gravestone? I have always believed that was impossible for me.’

‘And now that you’ve seen the other road and know that it’s possible, what are you going to do about it?’

‘That is another story, Franz.’

‘Will I get to hear it some day?’

‘Maybe.’

Franz drove me to the airport two days later. We didn’t talk much during that time; it was as though both of us were empty. Most of my conversation had been with Helena and Ferdinand, and on my last evening Ferdinand insisted I tell him a bedtime story. I saw no sign of jealousy in Franz as he stood in the doorway, smiling contentedly, probably amused at the way little Ferdinand was already bossing me about. So once Ferdinand had kissed his parents goodnight I sat on the side of his bed and told him the story of Icarus and his father. But, just as my father had done, I made my own version of the story, this time with a happy ending in which both of them got away from the prison on Crete.

There was a downpour just as we pulled up in front of the terminal building and we sat in the car to wait it out. Palechoa was swathed in grey cloud. Franz was wearing the same flannel shirt as when I had seen him for the first time, at the police station five years earlier. Maybe it was the shirt that made me notice but now I could see he was getting older too. He sat with both hands on the wheel, looking out through the windscreen as though summoning up the courage to say something. I was hoping it wouldn’t be anything too big and dark. When he did finally begin he spoke without looking at me.

‘Ferdinand asked me this morning where your children and their mother were,’ said Franz. ‘When I said you didn’t have any, he asked me to give you this.’ Franz pulled a worn little teddy bear up out of his jacket pocket and handed it to me.

His gaze met mine. We both laughed.

‘And this,’ he added.

It was a photograph they had evidently printed out on photo paper. It showed me swinging Ferdinand round just the same way I had seen his father do.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘I think you’ll make a good grandpa.’

I looked at the picture. Helena had taken it. ‘Will you ever tell her? What really happened?’

‘Helena?’ Franz shook his head. ‘In the beginning I could have done, ought to have done, of course. But now I no longer have the right to spoil the story she believes in. Because, of course, she has based a life and a family on it.’

I nodded. ‘The story,’ I repeated.

‘But...’ he started, and then stopped.

‘But?’

He sighed. ‘Sometimes I get the feeling she knows.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s something she said once. She said she loved me, and I said I loved her, and then she asked if I loved her so much that I would have killed someone I loved only a little bit less in order to have her. There was something about the way she said it. Then before I could answer she kissed me and started talking about something else.’

‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘And who needs to know?’

The rain stopped.

By the time I boarded the plane the cloud cover had broken.

When I went to bed in my Athens apartment that evening I put the teddy bear on the shelf above the bed and took down an opened envelope lying there. It was postmarked Paris and dated two months ago. I took the letter out and read it one more time. Her handwriting hadn’t changed after all these years.

It was late at night before I finally managed to get to sleep.

Three months later

‘Thank you for a perfect day,’ said Victoria Hässel and raised her wine glass. ‘Who would have thought there was such good climbing to be had in Athens. And you with such powers of endurance.’

She winked as though to make certain I got the double meaning.

Victoria had contacted me a few days after I returned home from Kalymnos, and we corresponded at least once a week after that. Maybe it was the distance and the fact that we had no mutual friends and didn’t know each other very well that made it so easy for me to confide in her. Not about murder but about love. And on my part that meant Monique. Her own love life was a little richer and more varied, and when she wrote that she was going to meet her latest flame, a French climber, in Sardinia, and was planning to travel via Athens, I was genuinely not sure whether it was such a good idea. I wrote, telling her that I liked the distance, the feeling of talking to a confessor who couldn’t see my face.

‘I can always wear a paper bag over my head,’ she wrote back. ‘But I won’t be wearing much more than that.’

‘Is your brother’s flat as posh as this?’ Victoria asked as I cleared the table and carried our dishes over to the worktop.

‘Posher and bigger.’

‘Does that make you envious?’

‘No. I’m...’

‘Happy?’

‘I was about to say, content.’

‘Me too. So content it’s almost a pity I have to travel on to Sardinia tomorrow.’

‘You’ve got someone waiting for you, and I hear the climbing there is fantastic too.’

‘You’re not jealous?’

‘Of the climbing, or of your boyfriend? In that case it’s his job to be jealous of me.’

‘I was single that time in Kalymnos.’

‘You told me. And I’m a lucky man who’s been able to borrow you for a while.’

We took our wine glasses out onto the balcony.

‘Have you come to any decision regarding Monique?’ she asked as we looked out across Kolonaki, with the sounds of the diners at the pavement restaurants rising up to us like monotonous but happy music.

I had told Victoria about the letter I had received just after I arrived back from Kalymnos. That Monique was now a widow and had moved to Paris. And how she had written that she thought about me a lot and wanted me to go over and meet her.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m going over.’

‘It’ll be fantastic,’ she said as she raised her glass.

‘Well, I’m not too sure about that,’ I said as I put my glass down on the little table.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s probably too late. We’re different people now from what we were then.’

‘If you’re so pessimistic, why go?’

‘Because I need to know.’

‘Know what?’

‘Where the other road leads to, the one we didn’t take. Know whether happiness would have been possible in the shadow of a gravestone.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. But is it?’

I thought about it for a moment. ‘Let me show you something,’ I said.

I came back with the bear and the photograph of me with Ferdinand.

‘Cute,’ she said. ‘Who’s the boy?’

‘He’s the son of...’ I took a deep breath to make quite sure I got this right. ‘Julian Schmid.’

‘Of course,’ she said.

‘Ah, so you see the likeness?’

‘No, but I can see the cap.’

‘The cap?’

She pointed to Ferdinand’s blue-and-white cap. ‘The club colours. And that square in the front is HSV’s club badge. My club, and Julian’s club.’

I nodded. A sudden thought flitted through my head, but I rejected it, and it disappeared. And instead thought of this: that Franz had probably already changed the Zeppelin ringtone on his phone for something a little more easy-going that didn’t reveal the real him. The same way he had chucked out his St Pauli rainbow cap and put on his brother’s clothes and accoutrements and lied to everyone around him, all day, every day. I couldn’t do that. It wasn’t that I had moral scruples. I simply didn’t have the talent or the patience to carry it out. If I went to Paris, I would have to tell Monique what I did that day in the Peak District.

I walked Victoria back to her hotel, her departure was at the crack of dawn next day. Then I headed back home. Athens is what the English call an acquired taste. But I took a long detour through neighbourhoods rougher than Kolonaki because I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep.

Maybe Monique suspected all along. Maybe the remark she passed about the stain on my thigh when the seat warmers had caused the Elizabeth Arden cream to smell so strongly was just her way of letting me know. That she knew, and that she also knew that, on account of her betrayal, in some way she shared the guilt, and that our ways must part here.

But now, late in life, it could be that we had actually found our way back to that crossroads where we had took leave of one another. Now — if we wanted to, if we dared — we could take that other road. Me, a murderer. But I had served my time, hadn’t I? I was able to feel good about Franz and about his happiness. Might I also be able to feel good about my own?

At a corner I couldn’t recall ever having passed before a stray dog sauntered across the street, glancing neither to right nor left. It looked as though it had caught the scent of something.

The Line

I hate people who cut in lines.

Must be because I’ve spent far too many of my thirty-nine years standing in lines.

So even though there are only two people in my 7-Eleven, and the old lady is having trouble finding her purse, I stare coldly at the boy who has just pushed in front of her. He’s wearing a quilted jacket which I recognise as a Moncler because I’ve looked at one myself and realised I’m never going to be able to afford it. The coat I bought at the Salvation Army shop just before the winter came is fine. But I can’t seem to get rid of the smell of the woman who owned it before me. Who was ahead of me in the line.

It isn’t often people sneak in lines here, unless it’s at night, and they’re drunk. In the main the people in this country are polite. The last time someone did so as blatantly as this was two months ago. A stylishly dressed woman who denied it when I accused her of cutting in line threatened to speak to my boss and get me sacked.

The boy meets my eyes. I see the hint of a smile. He feels no shame. And he’s not wearing a mask either.

‘I only want a tin of General snuff,’ he says, as though the ‘only’ justified cutting in line.

‘You’ll have to wait your turn,’ I say into my mask.

‘It’s right behind you. It’ll only take five seconds.’ He points.

‘You’ll have to wait your turn,’ I say again.

‘If you’d just given it to me I would have been out of here by now.’

‘You’ll have to wait your turn.’

‘You’ll have to wait your turn,’ he imitates, exaggerating my accent. ‘Come on, bitch.’ His smile broadens, as though it’s a joke. Maybe he thinks he can talk to me like that because I’m a woman, I’m in a low-paid job, an immigrant with a different skin colour from his chalky white. Maybe he’s borrowing from a tribal language he thinks I speak. Or maybe he’s being ironic and this is his parody of being a bad boy. After a closer look at him I reject this last possibility. It’s too complex for him.

‘Move aside,’ I say.

‘I’ve got a train to catch. Come on.’

‘Maybe if you’d asked the person in front of you if it was OK?’

‘My train...’

‘The trains run all day,’ I say to the accompaniment of the steady rumbling from the metro two staircases below. When I started working here my little sister asked if I wasn’t worried about terrorists and sarin. In the civil war, before we got out, sarin was what everyone was afraid of. Afraid that the guerrillas would release the poison gas the way we’d heard a Japanese sect had done in the Tokyo underground sometime back in the nineties. My sister was nine years old and had nightmares every night about poison gas and underground stations.

‘There’s only one every fifteen minutes on my line,’ he hisses. ‘I’ve got a meeting, OK?’

‘All the more reason to ask her nicely,’ I say, with a nod in the direction of the lady behind him who has finally found her credit card and is ready to pay for the three items lying on the counter in front of me. The boy — I’d put his age in the mid-twenties and guess he’s a regular at the training centre, mostly weights and explosive workouts — loses the patience he clearly feels he’s been showing.

‘Now, you nignog!’

My heart starts beating faster, but not so much because he’s trying to offend me. I don’t know whether the guy’s a racist or is just trying to get at me in the way he thinks will hurt and provoke me most, the way he would have called me dwarf if I was short, or porkie if I was fat. I don’t care what his prejudices are; my heart is beating faster because I’m afraid. Because in the course of just a few seconds this overgrown child standing in my shop has crossed a line, meaning probably he has problems with his self-control. I can’t see anything in his pupils or his body language to indicate that he’s high on something, the way the soldiers often were, although of course anabolic steroids could be in there somewhere. My ex-husband says that, because I’m a chemist, I’m always trying to explain the world by reference to chemistry. Like that proverb about the man with the hammer who sees every problem in terms of nails.

So, yes, I’m scared, but I’ve been more scared. And I’m angry, but I’ve been angrier.

‘No,’ I say calmly.

‘You sure?’

He takes something from the pocket of his nice, warm Moncler jacket.

A red Swiss Army knife. Flips out the big blade. No, it’s the nail file. Raises his hand, sticks his middle finger up in the air and starts to file a nail, laughing in my direction. One of his front teeth has a big dark stain on it. Could be from methamphetamine, which contains chemicals such as anhydrous ammonia and red phosphorous that eat up the enamel. But of course it could just be a case of bad dental hygiene.

He turns to the woman behind him. ‘Hey, missus — OK by you if I do a bit of shopping?’

The woman stares open-mouthed at the knife and looks as though she’s trying to say something, but not a sound comes out. Instead she nods, quick as a woodpecker, and makes noises like she’s having trouble breathing. Above the mask her glasses mist over.

The boy turns back to me. ‘There, see? Come on.’

I take a deep breath. Maybe I’ve underestimated the boy. At least he’s street-smart enough to know that the CCTV cameras in 7-Eleven shops record pictures but not sound, so that in a court case there would be no indisputable proof that he’d actually said ‘nignog’ or anything like it that could be called hate speech. Unless the elderly lady behind him has better hearing than I think. And there’s no law against filing your nails.

I turn slowly and take down the packet of snuff, thinking the situation over.

As I say, I’ve been standing in lines since I was born and I can remember them all. The food lines I stood in with Mamma when I was little. The line around the UN lorries when the fighting first started. The line at the health station where my sister was diagnosed with tuberculosis. The staff line at the university toilets because the chemistry department didn’t have separate toilets for female students. The line of refugees leaving town when the war broke out. My sister and me in the line to board the boat and take the places for which Mamma had sold everything we owned. More food lines in a refugee camp where the chances of being raped were about as high as they were back home in the war zone. The line and the waiting to be sent to another country, to a refugee centre that held out hopes of a better life. The line to be allowed to leave the centre, get a job and contribute to this country that has taken us in and that I love. I love it so much that one of the three pictures hanging above the bed in the little flat my sister and I share was of the king and queen, along with Mamma and Madame Curie, my two other heroes.

I put the tin of snuff in the counter and the boy holds his credit card over the card reader.

As we wait for the card reader to confirm the purchase I open a drawer on my side of the counter. Inside is a box of fresh masks. I open the little bottle standing beside the box, take out a mask and drip a drop onto it. While doing this I’m thinking about my sister. She took down the picture of the royal couple yesterday. She said they’d cut in line. A newspaper wrote that the king and queen had already had the vaccination the rest of the country was waiting for. Without going public about it the government had offered the royal couple first place in the lifeboats, before it was their turn according to the rules that applied for the rest of the population.

And the two in the picture had accepted. Two people whose only real duty was to be symbols, to unite the country in times of war and crisis, had been given the opportunity to perform that duty in a really meaningful way, by showing a good example to people when it came to following the call from the authorities to show solidarity and discipline and to wait patiently in line. But the royals, the privileged royals, didn’t take the opportunity. Instead they took the opportunity to jump the line. I asked my sister whether she wouldn’t have done the same thing. She said yes. But that she wasn’t the ship’s captain. I said perhaps the royals did it to show a good example, to show people it was safe to be vaccinated. My sister said I was naive, that this was the same excuse the Algerian captain had used when the boatload of refugees capsized and he was the first into the lifeboat.

The card reader confirms the purchase.

I take the mask out of the drawer and offer it to him.

He looks at me uncomprehendingly as he stuffs the tin of snuff into his jacket pocket.

‘You’ll need it on the train,’ I say. ‘It’s mandatory now.’

‘I don’t have time to—’

‘It’s free.’

With a mocking smile the boy grabs the mask and runs off.

‘Now it’s us,’ I say with a smile to the elderly lady.

It’s almost eleven in the evening by the time I get home to our one-room flat. It’s ice-cold, because I only turn the radiators on at night, when I’m home, and when the electricity is cheaper.

I’m tired and I don’t turn on any of the lights, just the little TV set. I keep the sound low. I don’t see my sister, but she’s sitting somewhere in the dark and her voice fills the room. She says it’s dangerous where I work. That two months ago a woman died on the train and in her blood they found traces of an organophosphorus compound used in insect sprays, not unlike sarin. And now the same thing has happened to this boy. My sister points to the TV screen where a news anchor looks gravely into the camera.

As I follow her desultory thoughts I make myself something to eat, by which I mean I warm up the leftovers from yesterday. I don’t make anything for her. My sister hasn’t eaten since she was ten years old and died of tuberculosis while waiting in a line of patients who had been promised treatment. Last year as many people in the world died of tuberculosis as of this new infection. But of course, there’s nothing about tuberculosis on the news, because that’s not a problem here in the wealthy world.

‘Poor thing,’ says my sister with a sob as the TV shows a photograph of the boy, taken on a summer’s day aboard a sailing boat with some friends. He’s smiling broadly and I notice he doesn’t have a dark stain on his front tooth.

‘Look at him,’ she snuffles. ‘It’s so meaningless when someone dies so young.’

‘Yes,’ I say as I unfasten the top buttons of my coat. ‘Even there he’s cutting in line.’

Trash

Someone has to do the cleaning up.

Apart from the fact that I pick up the garbage here in the city I can’t think why that sentence occurred to me on that particular morning. I had the feeling it was something that came to me during the night; but I get blackouts sometimes when I’ve had too much and last night was one of those nights.

The garbage truck stopped with a wheeze and I jumped down from the rear ladder. Saw one of Pijus’s eyes in the mirror before I walked across to the bin outside the apartment block. In the old days I always used to run. That was when the bosses at head office didn’t much care if we got through the round well before the end of the stipulated time between six and one thirty and went home an hour or two early. Or if we managed the round for the whole week in four days so that we could have Friday off. But that was before. Now we had to follow the Oslo municipal council’s rules for regular hours of work, so if you finished early you just had to have a cup of coffee or play with your mobile phone in the office, you couldn’t just go home and screw the wife or cut the grass, if you get my meaning.

So I didn’t run, didn’t even jog, I walked. Walked shivering in the summer dawn towards the green wheelie bin, a lightweight two-wheeler, rolled it over to the truck, hitched it to the bin tipper and watched the plastic bin rise up into the air accompanied by the repetitive hymn of the hydraulics and electricity, followed by the thud as the container was whipped over and the trash hit the metal floor and the compactor began compressing it. Then I wheeled the bin back into place, being careful it was well out the way of the garage door, there had been complaints before from the residents. Fuck you, as far as I’m concerned, but recently there’d been a few too many. Not that it’s all that easy to get sacked as what they call a refuse disposal officer, but some people say I’ve got an anger management problem. OK, so I’ve got an anger management problem. So I’m worried that if the boss turns up one more time in the mess room and gives me a bollocking in front of the other guys (OK, there’s one girl, out of 150 employees) I just might punch his lights out. And that would mean my job, no two ways about it.

I sat in the passenger seat next to Pijus. Rubbed my hands together in front of the heater. Even thought it was July and summer holidays, Oslo at six o’clock in the morning was still so cold that I didn’t ride outside on the ladder until I’d built up a bit of body heat. And anyway, Pijus was a guy you could talk to and that isn’t always the case with the other guys on the trucks. Mostly it’s Estonian, Latvian, Romanian, Serbian, Hungarian and all that, with maybe just a smattering of English. But Pijus spoke Norwegian. He claimed he’d worked as a psychologist before moving to Norway, but we’ve heard that one before. But whatever he used to do, the truth was he was smarter than the rest of us (Pijus called it having a higher level of intellectual ambition), and he had a vocabulary as big and stiff as a lexicon. But it was Norwegian, and that was probably why the boss had us working together on the same truck. Not that there’s really all that much needs to be said on a garbage truck, you both know what the job involves, but the boss thought there would be less arguing and misunderstandings if the lads at least spoke the same language. And he probably also thought Pijus would be able to keep me out of trouble.

‘What is the cause of the wound on your forehead?’ Pijus asked in his stilted but somehow unimpeachable Norwegian.

I glanced at myself in the mirror. The cut ran like a crack in the ice directly above one eyebrow.

‘Dunno,’ I said, which was the truth. As I say, I have trouble with blackouts and I couldn’t remember a thing about last night, only that I woke up in bed with my wife lying with her back to me. I must have forgotten to set the alarm, just woken up out of habit but a bit later than usual, realised I was still too drunk to drive the Corolla to work and just thrown on my clothes and off out the house to catch the first bus. So obviously, I hadn’t had time to peruse my ugly mug in the bathroom mirror.

‘Have you been brawling again, Ivar?’

‘No, I spent last night at home with the missus,’ I said, running a finger over the cut. Damp. Fresh. I did remember me and the missus having a couple of drinks. Or no, actually, Lisa decided she was going to give up drinking altogether. So I had had a couple of drinks. And then a couple more, apparently.

Pijus stopped the truck and we jumped down. At this address there were two big four-wheeled bins to go out, and that needed two of us. Otherwise it’s the driver who’s the boss, he can sit and relax behind the wheel with his HGV driving licence and his wage packet three grades higher than the mate’s. But Pijus is well aware of the fact that when he came here from his shit little country I was the one who was doing the driving, and he was the driver’s mate. I lost my licence, but that’s another long and boring story about booze and a loudmouth traffic cop with a breathalyser who turned up in court with a black eye and claimed it was completely unprovoked.

I pulled out the enormous bunch of keys and found the right one. Apparently there are around 7,000 keys covering the whole of Oslo at the depot. I hope they take good care of them.

‘So you were fighting with your little wife,’ said Pijus.

‘Eh?’

‘Why were you fighting? Unfaithful? Women who have been cheated on can be just as aggressive as men. Especially if they have children. But in that case they usually turn on the intruder. That’s the way oxytocin works. The woman gets pregnant and the chemistry makes them more monogamous, more empathic and kinder. But at the same time they get more hostile in the face of potential threats.’

‘Wrong, wrong and wrong again,’ I said, and began pushing one of the bins in the yard towards the gate. ‘We don’t have kids, and I haven’t screwed anyone. And women aren’t monogamous.’

‘Aha, so she’s the one who’s been unfaithful.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I let go of my bin right in front of the gate and Pijus had to stop his to avoid crashing into me.

He shrugged. ‘That’s why you were fighting. You felt your position was threatened. Your amygdala was activated. Fight, flight or freeze. She’s small, so you chose to fight. It’s only natural.’

I could already feel the blood sort of tightening in my head. It’s a much too familiar feeling. The pressure rises and to stop my head exploding I need to open a valve, find some other way out, because otherwise it’ll burst open and little yellow bits of brain go whirling through the air and land on walls and bicycles, prams and letter boxes and some little guy trying to kid people into believing he’s a fucking psychologist.

As a rule the solution is to open my mouth and even out the pressure that way, same as when you’re on a plane. I just have to roar. Roar something.

‘My amagy...’ I began. I was calm. Pretty calm. OK, I raised my voice a bit.

‘Amygdala,’ said Pijus with a little and very fucking irritating grin. ‘Think of it like a woman’s name, Amy G—’

That did it for me.

‘Don’t talk to me like that, you fucking nazibastardcunt!’ I pushed the container as hard as I could so the bloody Latvian was sandwiched between the two bins, and I was on my way round to give him a good kicking when a voice cut through the morning air in the yard.

‘We are trying to sleep!’

I looked up. There was a woman standing on a second-floor balcony. She was probably only in her forties but she’d let herself go and looked more like fifty. I can say that because she was completely naked.

‘Shut up and put some clothes on, you dirty old slag!’ I yelled. ‘OK?’

The woman laughed, a piercing wail of a sound, raised both arms in the air, lifted one knee and twisted her hip into a grotesque glamour-model pose. ‘I’ll ring your boss!’ she shrieked. ‘This time tomorrow, gentleman, you’ll both be on the dole!’

And through the red curtain of my rage I could see it all. The boss giving me the message he’d been waiting so long for the opportunity to give me: Svendsen, you are so fucking fired!

I could feel the bin against my stomach. Pijus was pushing at the other end, nodding towards the gate, signalling that we should get out.

‘Think she’ll do it?’ I asked as the wheels rattled across the asphalt outside.

‘Yes,’ said Pijus.

‘Very fucking inconvenient,’ I said.

‘Oh yes?’

‘The Corolla’s due for its EU test and I’ve promised the missus a holiday in the Canaries this Christmas. What about you?’

Pijus shrugged. ‘I send money to my parents. They get by, but without the money they won’t eat well and they won’t be able to pay for the electricity.’

I helped him hook the container onto the hydraulics. ‘I shouldn’t complain, is that what you’re saying?’

‘No, I’m just saying we all have our problems, Ivar.’

Maybe we do. My problem was that when I got angry I couldn’t keep things separate any more. I should have had optical detectors that did it for me, like they have at the dump out at Klementsrud. We just offloaded into this sort of unmanned factory of a place and all the trash waltzes off on a conveyor belt with robots sorting out the big bits from the little bits and sending the organic stuff to the incinerators, the glass, plastic and metal for recirculating, and so on. If only I could learn to just let some things go.

I calmed down, and as we emptied the containers tried again to remember. What the fuck actually happened last night? All I knew was that it must have been a lot, because when I woke up I wasn’t just hung-over, I felt like I’d just run two marathons. Did I fight with Lisa? Had I — who in all the thirty years of our marriage never laid a hand on her — had I done something to her? She was lying on her side in the bed with her back to me when we woke up. That was in itself a bit weird because usually she slept flat on her back. But a fight, a fist fight? I couldn’t see that. But what I did see now, now that I thought about it, was that we had quarrelled. It was as if the echo of harsh and ugly words was only just now reaching me from the night before. And I’d used one of them again just a couple of minutes ago. Slag. I’d called Lisa a couple of things over the years, but never slag.

We wheeled the bins back into the yard. The lady on the balcony was gone.

‘She’s inside calling the boss,’ I said.

‘He’s not up,’ said Pijus. ‘Not yet.’ He looked up the facade, nodding, his lips moving as though he was counting something. ‘Come on, Ivar.’

I followed Pijus out and over to the entrance to the block, where he stood and studied the list of residents’ names.

‘Second floor, second door on the right,’ he muttered, and rang the bell. Waited, looking at me with that little smile, but it wasn’t quite so annoying this time.

A voice crackled over the speakerphone. ‘Hello?’ said a piercing voice.

‘Good morning, fru Malvik,’ said Pijus, sounding like he was trying to imitate someone. Someone who spoke better Norwegian than he did. ‘My name is Iversen, I’m from the Oslo police. We’ve just had a call from the Oslo city sanitation services. They’re reporting an incident involving indecent exposure by someone on the second floor. Since we were on patrol in the area we’ve been asked to look into it. I am aware that there are several people living on the second floor, but let me ask you first: is this something you have any knowledge of, fru Malvik?

There was a long pause.

‘Fru Malvik?’

‘No. No, I don’t know anything about that.’

‘No? Well, in that case I won’t trouble you any further for the time being.’

There was a scraping sound as the woman hung up her entryphone and Pijus looked at me. We hurried out to the truck so the woman wouldn’t have time to look out her window into the street and see that it was us. We didn’t start laughing until we were up and driving. And then I laughed so hard I cried.

‘Something wrong, Ivar?’ asked Pijus, who had stopped laughing a long time ago.

‘Just hung-over,’ I said as I wiped my nose on my sleeve. ‘No way is that woman gonna call the boss now.’

‘No,’ said Pijus, stopping outside the 7-Eleven where we usually bought a coffee and took our first smoke break.

‘One question,’ I said, after I’d bought a large coffee and poured half of it into the extra paper cup I’d taken and handed it to Pijus. ‘If you can imitate someone who speaks better Norwegian than yourself, why don’t you do it all the time?’

Pijus blew on his coffee, but still pulled a face as he took the first swig.

‘Because I’m just imitating.’

‘Well, we all do that,’ I said. ‘That’s how we learn to speak.’

‘True,’ said Pijus. ‘So I don’t know. Because it feels fake, maybe. Phoney. As if it’s a deception. I’m a Latvian who has learned Norwegian, and that’s what I want to sound like, not like an impostor. If I speak so well you believe I am Norwegian, and then make some little phonetic or grammatical mistake that lets me down, then consciously or unconsciously people are going to feel they’ve been tricked and they won’t trust me any more. See? Best just to relax and speak my own version of New Norwegian.’

I nodded. That’s what they called it at work. Not to be confused with the actual New Norwegian people in the country districts of Norway speak, but a catch-all term covering all that Kebab-Norwegian, Norwenglish, Russian-Norwegian and all the rest of that weird jabberwock the immigrant workers here speak.

‘Why did you really come to Norway?’ I asked.

We’d be working together for nearly a year now and it was the first time I’d asked. Well, sure, I had asked before, but the difference this time was that really. I was asking for something more than the standard response, about the money being better, that it was hard even to find a job where he came from. Which was probably true, but not necessarily the whole truth. So this was the first time I’d asked out of genuine interest.

He didn’t answer immediately. ‘I had affairs with some of my patients.’ Took a deep breath and, as though wanting to make sure I didn’t get too alarmed, added: ‘Female patients. They opened themselves to their psychologist, they were vulnerable, and I exploited that.’

‘Not good,’ I said.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Some of them were lonely and unhappy. But so was I, my wife had just died from cancer. I didn’t manage to resist the invitations from these women. We needed each other.’

‘So what was the problem?’

‘In the first place, a psychologist is not allowed to have romantic liaisons with his patients, no matter what his civil status. And in the second place, some of the women were married.’

‘Oh, I see...’ I said slowly.

He glanced over at me. ‘Someone talked,’ he said. ‘It came out and I was dismissed. I could always have got myself another job, for example lecturing at the university in Riga. But some of the husbands didn’t think they’d had enough revenge and hired a couple of Siberians to make sure I ended up in a wheelchair. One of the women warned me and I had no choice but to get out. Latvia is a small country.’

‘So you’re the type who burns the candle at both ends and then lays the blame for it all on a tragic tale.’

‘Yes,’ said Pijus. ‘I’m the bad version of a bad person, the kind who makes excuses for his own sleazy behaviour. If you look at it like that you’re a better person than me, Ivar.’

‘Oh?’

‘Your self-contempt is more honest than mine.’

I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about and concentrated on my coffee.

‘So who is it your wife’s been cheating on you with?’ he asked and I spluttered coffee all over the dashboard. The pressure in the head came straight back. ‘Easy now,’ he said. ‘Use your frontal lobe. That will tell you that I’m here to help. And that the best thing you can do is tell me. Remember, I’ve sworn an oath of confidentiality.’

‘Confidentiality!’ I said, the coffee cup in my hand trembling.

‘All psychologists have to.’

‘I know that, but you aren’t my shrink.’

‘Well, yes, I am not,’ said Pijus as he handed me the roll of paper we always kept between the seats.

I wiped the coffee from my hands, my chin, the dashboard. Crumpled the paper into a ball and hissed between my teeth. ‘Her boss at work. Nasty bastard. Ugly too. Trash, the whole man.’

‘So you know him?’

‘No.’ What the hell had I just said? That Lisa had been cheating on me with her boss at the sorting office? Had she? Was that what we had quarrelled about?

‘Never met him?’ asked Pijus.

‘No. Or actually yes. Or...’ I thought about it. Lisa had talked a lot about Ludvigsen, so much that I perhaps just had the feeling of having met him. Her new boss praised her for the job she was doing, something her old boss never did. And Lisa bloomed. She’d always been susceptible to flattery, so desperate for it you had to keep it under control so she didn’t get used to a level that was impossible for a husband or a boss to sustain. But Ludvigsen had just piled it on, and I’d probably thought that he wasn’t doing it just to inspire the workers. Besides being a lot sweeter than I could remember her being, Lisa had got herself a new, short hairdo, taken off a few kilos and stayed out late in the evenings going to all sorts of different cultural things with friends I didn’t even know she had. It was as though she’d suddenly got a life from which I was excluded, and that was probably why I checked her mobile phone. And found a message from this Ludvigsen. Or Stefan, which was how Lisa had him listed in her Contacts.

And so I sat there and told Pijus about it.

‘What did it say in the message?’ asked Pijus.

‘I MUST see you again.’

‘With the stress on must?’

‘In capital letters.’

‘Other messages?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘She’d probably deleted them. The one I found was only a day old.’

‘And her reply?’

‘Nothing. Or else she’d deleted that.’

‘If she was afraid of someone seeing the reply she would probably have deleted his message too.’

‘Maybe she didn’t have time to reply.’

‘In a day? Hm. Or maybe she had no reason to feel guilty, maybe that was why she didn’t delete anything. Maybe he came on to her, but she wasn’t interested and didn’t answer his message either.’

‘That’s exactly what she said, the fucking—’ I took a breath. Slag. That’s the kind of word, once it’s out the bag, you can’t get it back in again.

‘You’re afraid,’ said Pijus.

‘Afraid?’

‘Maybe you should tell me what happened last night.’

‘Duh, now you sound more like a cop than a psychologist.’

Pijus smiled. ‘So then don’t tell me.’

‘Even if I wanted to I can’t remember. Booze.’

‘Or repression. Try.’

I looked at my watch. We were still well ahead of schedule, and as I say: we no longer had any reason to hurry on and get finished before one thirty.

So I tried. Because actually he was right, I was afraid. Was it because Lisa was lying on her side? Damned if I know, but there was something wrong, I just knew it. Something that had to come out, just like when the pressure rose in my head. I started to tell the story, but soon came to a halt.

‘Take it easy and start from the beginning,’ said Pijus. ‘Include all the details. Memory is like winding up a ball of yarn, one association leads to the next.’

I did as he suggested, and damned if he wasn’t right.

As I say, we were having a couple of drinks and Lisa suddenly said she was going out at the weekend. And I blew up and confronted her about the text message. I actually intended to let it go and just see what happened, but instead I lost it and began shouting that I knew her and Ludvigsen had something going on. She denied it, but she’s had so little practice at lying it was almost pathetic. I put a bit of pressure on and she cracked, sobbing and admitting that on the firm’s outing to Helsinki in the spring there was a lot of drinking and things happened. She claimed that was the reason she’d decided to give up drinking completely, so nothing like it would ever happen again. And I asked her if this wasn’t a MeToo thing. If it wasn’t Ludvigsen — who was her boss after all — who should take all the blame and not just half of it. And Lisa said well, yeah, maybe he was a little bit more to blame, because according to one of her colleagues he’d been plying her with drinks all evening. By this time I was really pissed off. I mean, you don’t spit in your glass when the boss offers to buy you a drink, do you? Getting it down is more or less part of the job.

‘And after that?’

‘He’s invited me to his house.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘Kjelsåsveien 612.’

‘So you’ve been there!’

‘No!’

‘Then how d’you know the address?’

‘Because he told me of course.’

‘But remembering it was 612, I mean, that’s really... it’s very suspicious.’

She started laughing, and that was when I called her a slag, grabbed the car keys and stormed out before I could do anything worse.

‘You mean worse than driving while intoxicated?’ asked Pijus.

‘Yes, worse than that,’ I said.

‘Please continue.’

‘I drove around and yes, I did think about driving back home and killing her.’

‘But you didn’t do that?’

‘That’s what...’ I raised my hand to my chin, squeezed my cheek between thumb and forefinger. My voice was thick and trembling. ‘That’s exactly what I do not know, Pijus.’

I don’t know if I’d ever called him by his name before. I’d thought of his name several times, must’ve done, but said it out loud? No, I’m pretty damn sure I never did.

‘But you feel you might have done?’

The stomach pains came so suddenly and so violently that I instinctively bent forward.

I remained doubled over for a while before I felt his hand on my back.

‘Come on now, Ivar, it’ll be all right.’

‘Will it?’ I gasped. Completely fucking out of control.

‘I could tell when you came to work today that something had happened. But I don’t believe you’ve killed your little wife.’

‘What the hell would you know about it?’ I bellowed from between my legs.

‘You walked away from your wife because you didn’t want to do anything rash,’ he said. ‘And that was after you’d received confirmation of something you’d suspected for some time. You left to give your frontal lobe a chance to process something you knew your amygdala couldn’t handle in the appropriate manner. That was a mature act, Ivar. It shows that you are beginning to understand how to deal with your anger. I think maybe you should call home and check your wife’s OK, OK?’

I lifted my head and looked at him. ‘Why do you care?’

‘Because you cared?’

‘Eh?’

‘When I had just started and was the driver’s mate on your truck. You helped me, told me in English what to do. Even though I could tell you hated speaking English.’

‘I don’t hate English, I’m just not good at it.’

Pijus smiled. ‘Exactly, Ivar. You were willing to seem a little stupid in order to help me be a little less stupid.’

‘Steady now, all I wanted was a driver’s mate who knew what to do, or it would have meant long days and hard work for me, understand?’

‘I understand. More than you know, maybe. You can tell when people are willing to help you. Don’t you notice it now? Or do you think I only want to help because I don’t want my driver’s mate to screw everything up for me?’

I shook my head. Sure, I knew Pijus was helping me. The way he always did. Today with that crazy old baggage on the balcony wasn’t the first time he’d covered for me. It’s just that it’s so fucking annoying when a foreigner comes and doesn’t just take your job but ends up your boss. It just doesn’t seem right. A guy can’t just come along and take over something he has no right to. Something I have a right to. That means war. Someone has to die. OK, OK, you’re not supposed to think like that, that’s the kind of thinking that gets me in trouble, I know, I know. But what the fuck.

‘I’ve got too much testerone,’ I said.

‘Testosterone,’ said Pijus. OK, so he said it with that irritating grin of his.

‘It makes you aggressive,’ I said.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Pijus.

‘More aggressive than horny, anyway. Maybe not surprising Lisa went looking somewhere else.’

‘Wrong, wrong and wrong again,’ said Pijus, and oh yeah, I could hear he was imitating me. ‘When tests done on animals seem to show that testosterone exclusively promotes aggression, that’s because the animals that have been given the testosterone are the ones that resort to aggression when a crisis occurs. But that’s because the animal brain doesn’t necessarily see any alternative solution. More up-to-date research actually shows that testosterone’s function is more general than that. It prepares you to do whatever is necessary in critical situations. Whether than means aggression and anger or the opposite.’

‘The opposite?’

‘Suppose there’s a diplomatic crisis that threatens world peace. What’s needed then is not aggression but a rapid changeover to self-negating generosity and empathy directed towards someone you actually hate. Or say your job is to control a rocket landing on the moon. The computer fails and you have to work out the speed, the angle of approach and the distance in your head. Anger isn’t the thing. And yet it’s testosterone that comes to our aid in such situations.’

‘Come on, you’re making this up,’ I said.

Pijus shrugged. ‘Remember up by Storo?’

‘Storo?’

‘The freezing rain. We’d reversed up to the wall and were about to empty the bins there.’

He looked at me. I shook my head.

‘Come on, Ivar. The truck was on a slope, and it began to slide down?’

I just shook my head again.

‘Ivar, I was standing with my back to the truck and I would have been crushed to death if you hadn’t lightning-quick turned the biggest wheelie bin up on its side between the truck and the wall.’

‘Oh, that. Well, you wouldn’t exactly have been crushed to death.’

‘My point is that you showed you are capable of reacting both spontaneously and rationally at the same time. It is not the case that you have to lose your head when you feel the rush of adrenaline and testosterone. Don’t worry, you’re smarter than you think, Ivar. So call her. Use your testosterone to show empathy. And calculation.’

Well, I’ll be damned. So I did call her.

No answer.

‘She’s probably asleep,’ said Pijus.

I looked at my watch. Eight. Of course it could be that she was on the bus on the way to work, she wouldn’t take the call then. I sent a text message. My feet were beating like drumsticks against the floor as I waited. The sun rose and was shining through the windscreen. It was going to be a hot day. A hot day in hell, I thought as I pulled off my jacket.

‘We better get moving,’ said Pijus and turned the key in the ignition.

I met Lisa at a party at a friend’s place when I was at training college.

I had a go at this guy from Ljan who thought there was something he could teach me about respect. I knew he’d provoked me because he’d heard I was easy to wind up and I knew he did it because he was a good fighter and wanted to show off in front of the girls there. But knowing all that is no help at all, not when the guy in question came out with the type of stuff that was just asking for a sock on the jaw. To make a short story even shorter, the guy beat me up. Lisa wiped the blood from my nose with a toilet roll, helped me to my feet and walked home with me to the students’ lodgings I had in Sogn. And stayed the night. And the next day. And the next week. In a word, she stayed.

We never had time to fall in love, never had time for the painful but at the same time wonderful uncertainty about whether or not the other one really does want you. The game, the doubt, the ecstasies — we gave it all a miss. We were a couple. Say no more. Some thought I’d got a woman who was too good for me, at least that’s what they thought as time went by, because Lisa was actually in those early days quiet and sort of mousy, without the figure she acquired later when she put on a few kilos, and without that radiance that others besides me noticed she had once she got over the worst of her shyness.

They said she was good for me, that I’d quietened down, that I didn’t seem so volatile, as the child psychiatrist called it, since he didn’t dare call me unstable. And it’s true, Lisa knew how to calm me, it was when she wasn’t around or if I’d had one too many that things spiralled out of control. I was done once or twice for grievous bodily harm, but only served a couple of short stretches. And as I say, I had never laid a hand on Lisa. Never had any reason to. Not until now. I don’t think she was ever scared of me, not once in her life. Scared for others maybe, friends and relations, if they said the wrong thing to me. And I suspect she was halfway relieved when the doctor told us we couldn’t have kids. Shit, I was relieved myself, but of course I didn’t say that. But Lisa was never afraid for her own safety, and that was probably why she’d dared to admit that stuff about Ludvigsen. But how could she kid herself she knew my limits when I didn’t bloody know them myself and was sitting here wondering exactly what the fuck I might have done?

When I was ten years old my big brother and me were each given a glass of lemonade before our parents went out on a Saturday night. But the moment they were out the door my big brother spat in them both, two big, slimy blobs, and probably figured that now both drinks were his. But the thing is, you can’t drink out of a glass with a busted jaw, and at the hospital all he got through the straw was water.

Anyway, what had happened now was that Lisa was like one of those glasses of lemonade. Spat on, spoiled. There was no other way I could look at it. I’d lost what I’d been given, and all that was left after that was useless retaliation, the levelling out of the pressure. Fuck you. Fuck me.

And now I felt it coming back. The pulsing in my temples.

Maybe because we were in Kjelsåsveien and had just passed number 600.

As we moved between houses and bins I was sometimes in and out of the cab, sometimes standing on the ladder at the back. Checking the mobile every time.

Maybe she was at a meeting.

With Ludvigsen.

OK, I mustn’t think like that. And anyway, she wasn’t. I don’t know how come I was so certain about that, but I was.

And then there we were, Kjelsåsveien 612.

It was a villa, no more and no less flashy than any of the others in that area. The kind you don’t have to be rich to live in if you’d inherited it from your parents, and they didn’t need to have been rich either. But if you wanted to buy one now, it would set you back a few hundred thousand. Orchards cost money, even in the east end of town, where I live.

I noticed that the outside light above the porch was on. Either Stefan Ludvigsen didn’t care about the cost of electricity, or he was the forgetful type. Or maybe he wasn’t at work but still at home. Was that what had my pulse hammering away as I walked towards the garage? That he was going to come out, tell me that he hadn’t been able to get hold of Lisa on the phone and that he’d called the police and they were on their way to our place? And it wasn’t just the pounding of my heart that told me, I knew it with a sudden and absolute certainty: I’d done a murder last night. I felt it not just in my aching forearms, in my fingertips, in the thumbs that had pressed against the little larynx, but deep inside me. I was a killer. I saw the bulging eyes, the pleading, dying gaze up at me in resignation and despair before out they went, like red warning lights when the current’s turned off.

Did he know, Ludvigsen? Was he sitting behind a window somewhere in there, looking at me? Maybe he didn’t dare come out but was just sat there waiting for the police to arrive? I listened out through the quiet of the summer morning for the sound of sirens before opening the unlocked door to the garage where his four-wheel bin was. And there was a car. A spanking-new black BMW. Villains drive BMWs, right? Only I was the villain here. I wheeled the bin out; it was so heavy the wheels sank into the gravel and I had to push hard. I hooked it onto the hydraulics and met Pijus’s gaze in the mirror. He shouted something, but it was lost beneath the whirring of the lift.

‘Eh?’ I shouted back.

‘Isn’t that your car?’ I heard him say.

‘I don’t have any bloody BMW.

‘Not that one!’ shouted Pijus. ‘That one.’

I saw he was pointing further up the road. And there, fifty metres in front of us, stood a white Corolla. A car due any time now its EU check. A car that had a prominent dent in the bonnet from where a fist had landed to emphasise a point in a discussion with a traffic warden.

It dawned on me. I think ‘dawned’ is the right word, because it means something that happens very slowly. It happened slowly because it was so hard for me to understand that Lisa would do something like that to me. There was the BMW that Ludvigsen should’ve gone to work in, and there was the Corolla that should’ve been at home in my garage. In other words Lisa had got up, seen the car was in the garage and driven it up here to where Ludvigsen was waiting for her.

I stared up at the house. They were inside. What were they doing now? I tried to blank out the images but I couldn’t fucking do it. I wanted to kill somone. As in, murder them. As in, take someone’s life and take the punishment for doing it. And it wasn’t anger that was talking now. Or actually, it was. But it was the kind of anger I knew I’d never be able just to walk off. It had to come out. There was no other way for it. I had to get rid of Ludvigsen. Lisa... I couldn’t finish the thought. Because even though I had this image of them on my brain, both naked in a big, hideous four-poster, there was something about the picture that didn’t add up. Something that doesn’t make sense. Like something you know you’ve forgotten someplace or other but you just can’t remember where.

Anyway, soon as I was finished emptying this bin I was going to get the jack from the toolkit, march up to his house, get inside and become a killer. Now the decision was taken I felt a strange lightness in my head, as though the tension had already smoothed itself out. I was watching the bin rise when up the phone rang. I answered.

‘Hi,’ said Lisa.

I froze. I recognised the sounds in the background. She was in the Distribution Centre. She was at work.

‘I see you’ve tried to call me several time,’ she said. ‘Sorry, but it’s all a bit chaotic here today, no one knows where Ludvigsen is. Can we talk later?’

‘Sure,’ I said, watching as the bin reached the top of its arc. ‘I love you.’

In the silence that followed I could sense her confusion.

‘You’re not...’ she began.

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I’m hurt and upset.’ The bin began to empty. ‘But I love you.’

I hung up and looked at the Corolla. It was standing in shadow and still had dew on the windscreen. It must have been there all night.

The contents of the green wheelie bin came sliding out, and something hit the metal bottom of the hopper with a soft splash. I looked inside. There, between the bulging and knotted plastic bags and empty pizza cartons, lay a pale, plump body in blue pyjamas. And I must have met Stefan Ludvigsen before, because I recognised him. His staring, ruptured eyes looked straight past me. The marks on the throat had turned black. And it was like when the fog first starts to lift and the sun breaks through and suddenly seems twice as strong. Like ice melting from around the poles, the landscape of memories emerged with accelerating speed.

I recalled his sobbing and choked confession. His excuse was that he was recently divorced, he’d made a mistake. The kitchen knife he grabbed and began waving about in my face, thinking probably I was too drunk to be able to react quickly enough. He’d caught me one nick in the forehead before I knocked the knife out of his hand. The knife was good, it was what got me fired up. Gave me an excuse. Self-defence, for fuck’s sake. So I’d squeezed the life out of him. Not too quickly and not too slowly. Not saying I enjoyed it, that would be an exaggeration, but at least it gave him time to understand. Time to regret. Time to suffer. Just like I did.

I watched as the compressor squeezed the half-naked body into something like a foetal position.

Standing on the ladder I turned and looked at the gravel pathway leading to the front door. No drag marks. I had tidied up after me, got rid of any possible traces I’d left, inside and out.

If I was drunk when I jumped into the Corolla and drove up here in the middle of the night and rang on his bell I sobered up instantly the moment I saw him lying dead on the kitchen floor. And sober enough to realise that if I got stopped for driving under the influence on the way home I would be on record, and later on it could be connected to Ludvigsen’s disappearance. Because he had to disappear. Vanish, actually. Had I planned it all even before I rang his doorbell? Because Pijus, Pijus was right. I did have the ability to act quickly and at the same time be rational.

I went up to the cab and climbed in.

‘Well?’ said Pijus, looking at me.

‘Well what?’ I asked.

‘Anything you want to tell me? As I told you, I’ve taken an oath of confidentiality.’

What the hell was I supposed to say to that? I looked eastward, to where the sun had risen over the ridge. The round would soon be over, and we would be heading that way, to the waste disposal centre at Klementsrud where the robot scanners would sort Ludvigsen away as the organic waste he was, and the conveyer belt transport him to the hell he deserved, where every trace, every memory, everything that lay behind us would be annihilated, and nothing of what we have lost will be recycled.

And I found the words, the ones that usually get stuck somewhere on the way out; this time they flowed from the tongue like music.

‘Someone has to do the cleaning up,’ I said.

‘Amen to that,’ said Pijus.

And the garbage truck shivered into life and set off down the road.

The Confession

‘Am i being of any help, officer?’

I put Simone’s coffee cup down on the tablecloth on her coffee table. Her coffee cup. Her tablecloth. Her coffee table. Even the dish of chocolates in the middle of the table is hers. Things. Strange how little things mean once you’re dead. One way or another.

Not that things were so important for her when she was alive either. I’ve just been explaining all this to the officer. That she told me I could take anything I wanted when she threw me out — the stereo, the TV, books, kitchen equipment, you name it. She was ready for it. She’d decided this was going to be a civilised break-up.

‘In our family we don’t argue over teaspoons,’ she said.

I didn’t argue either. Just stared at her, trying to discover the real reason hidden behind those vapid clichés she’d been spouting: ‘Best for us both’, ‘moving in different directions’ and ‘time to move on’. And so on.

Then she put a sheet of paper down on the table and asked me to tick off whatever I wanted.

‘It’s just an inventory I’ve made. Don’t let your feelings get in the way of common sense now, Arne. Try to see this as a controlled liquidation.’

She said. As though it was one of her father’s subsidiary companies and not a marriage she was talking about. Naturally, I had been much too proud to even look at her list. Too hurt to take anything at all from the overgrown villa in Vinderen where we had shared both the good and — the way I remembered it — the very few bad days.

Maybe it was a bit hasty of me to just give up everything like that. After all, she was a wealthy young woman, good for fourteen million, whereas I am a debt-ridden photographer with a little too much faith in his own business skills. Simone supported my idea of starting my own studio along with six other photographers. If not financially then at least morally.

‘Father doesn’t see the economic benefits,’ she said. ‘I think you should back yourself, Arne. Show him what you can do, he’s bound to invest in the project once he sees.’

On paper the money was hers, but it was her father who pulled the strings. The insistence on a prenup when we got married was, of course, his idea. He probably saw it all, how she’d soon grow out of her long-haired young photographer with his lofty dreams and his ‘artistic ambitions’.

So I went for it, aggrieved and determined to show how wrong he was about me. Took the gold medal for borrowing at a time when banks were chucking money after you if you had anything at all that looked like a business idea. It took me six months to prove that Simone’s father was right. As a rule it’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment at which a woman stops loving you. With Simone it’s easy. It happened when she opened the front door and the man standing on the steps told her he was from the enforcement court with a demand for the seizure of my assets. She treated the man with an icy politeness, wrote out a cheque, and we kept the car. She employed that same icy politeness when she asked me to take what I wanted when I left. I took my clothes, some bedlinen and a personal debt of just over one million kroner.

I should have taken the coffee table. Because I like this coffee table. I like the small dents on its surface, souvenirs of our wild parties, the paint splashes from the time I decided to paint everything in the living room green, and the one leg that was ever so slightly crooked from the first and only time we ever made love on it.

The investigating officer sits in an armchair facing me, and the notebook lies untouched on the table in front of him.

‘I read that she was found on this sofa,’ I say as I raise my coffee cup.

An unnecessary detail, of course. It was on all the front pages. The police couldn’t rule out suspicious circumstances, and her family name was enough to arouse media interest. According to the coroner’s report the cause of death was cyanide poisoning. At one time Simone took a course in goldsmithing with the idea of taking over her father’s chain of shops, but as so often before she soon got bored with it. The bottles of cyanide she had smuggled out of the workshop were still down in the cellar. For the thrill of it, she maintained. But since there was nothing to suggest the poison came from her own bottles and no indication of how she had ingested it, the police were unwilling to conclude without further investigation that it was suicide.

‘I know what you’re thinking, officer.’

I can feel the springs beneath the sofa cover against my thighs. An old rococo sofa, her style. Had he had her on this sofa, her new guy, the architect? He moved in just a few weeks after I moved out. For all I know he was screwing her on the sofa while I was still living in the house. The officer doesn’t ask me to explain what I mean when I say I know what they’re thinking, so I go ahead on my own initiative:

‘You’re thinking she wasn’t the type to take her own life. And you’re absolutely right. Don’t ask me how, officer, but I know she was murdered.’

He doesn’t appear to be all that interested in my observations.

‘And I also know that murder is bound to look bad for me as the scorned husband. It gives me a motive. I could have come to see her, I knew where she kept the poison, I could have slipped it into her coffee and then left. I imagine that’s why you’ve been to my place, to see if there’s a match between any of my clothes and the fibres you found here in Simone’s house.’

The officer doesn’t respond. I sigh.

‘But since neither the fibres nor the footprints or fingerprints are mine you have no definite proof against me. So some bright spark has suggested bringing me here to the villa to see how I deal with being back at the scene of the crime. A little bit of psychological warfare. Am I right?’

Still no response.

‘The reason you haven’t found anything is simple. I haven’t been here, officer. At least not this past year. And the housekeeper does a thorough job with her vacuum cleaner.’

I put down my coffee cup and take a Twist from the dish of chocolates. Coconut. Not my favourite, but perfectly acceptable.

‘It’s almost sad, officer. The way all traces of a person can be removed so quickly and so easily. As though one had never existed.’

The chocolate spins round four times when I pull on the ends of the wrapper. I remove the silver foil, fold it four times, run a fingernail over the folds and put it on the coffee table. Then I close my eyes and pop the chocolate into my mouth. Holy Communion. The absolution of sins.

Simone loved chocolates. Especially Twist. Every Saturday when I did the shopping at Kiwi I used to buy a big bag of them. It was one of our few routines. It was a sort of anchor in a life based on opportunism, whims, the occasional evening meal together and, as a rule, waking up in the same bed. We blamed our jobs, and I believed that everything would be different once we had a child. That would bring us together. A child. I remember how shaken she was the first time I brought it up.

I open my eyes again.

‘We were the perfect Twist couple, Simone and I,’ I say, and halfway expect the officer to raise one eyebrow and give me a puzzled look. ‘I’m not thinking of the dance but the chocolate,’ I explain. The officer evidently doesn’t have a sense of humour. ‘I like liquorice and nougat and I hate banana creams. As it happens she loved the banana creams. You know, the ones with the yellow-and-green wrapping. Oh yes, of course, you’ve already... If ever we had guests I had to take them all out before I put the dish out, so she could have them herself the next day.’

I think about adding a light laugh, but instead — and quite unexpectedly — the little anecdote gives rise to an emotional avalanche. I feel something swelling in my throat. I’ve no intention of saying anything at all but then I hear my own tormented whisper:

‘We loved each other, officer. We more than loved each other. We were the air each other breathed, we kept each other alive, do you understand? No, of course, why should you?’

By this time I’m almost angry. Here I sit, exposing my most private and painful thoughts to him, fighting back the tears, and the officer just sits there completely expressionless. He might at the very least offer a nod of commiseration or pretend to be taking a note.

‘Until she met me Simone’s life was meaningless and directionless, she was on the skids. On the surface everything seemed fine — the looks, the money, the so-called friends — but there was no substance, no direction, you understand? I call it the terror of things. Because things can be lost, and the more things you have the more afraid you are of losing them. She was drowning in her own affluence, she couldn’t breathe. I came along and gave her space. Gave her air.’

I stop. In front of me the officer’s face has started swimming.

‘Air. The opposite of cyanide, officer. Cyanide paralyses the cells in the respiratory organs, you can’t breathe and in a matter of seconds you choke to death. But I’m sure you know that?’

That’s better. Talk about something else. I swallow, pull myself together and continue.

‘This architect, Henrik Bakke, I don’t know how she met him. She always said she met him after I moved out, and at first I believed her. But friends have told me how naive I was, pointing out that the guy moved in almost immediately. Before my side of the bed was even cold, as one of my friends put it. And yet, officer — and I know this may sound strange — it’s actually a sort of comfort to know that it was her feelings for someone else that ruined everything for us. That what Simone and I had wasn’t the kind of thing that just burns itself out of its own accord. That it took love to conquer love.’

I cast a quick glance at the officer but look away when his eyes meet mine. I’m usually careful when it comes to talking about feelings, especially my own. But there’s something inside me now that has its own momentum and I can’t stop. Maybe don’t even want to stop.

‘I think I’m a normally jealous guy. Maybe Simone wasn’t a classic beauty, but she had an animal quality that made her beautiful in a dangerous way. She had a way of looking at you that could make you feel like the goldfish alone at home with the cat. But the men swarmed around her. Like crocodile birds around the mouth of the crocodile. She did something to their heads, she... well, you’ve seen her yourself. My black angel of death, I used to call her. I used to joke that she’d be the death of me, that one of her fanatical admirers would decide to do away with me. But deep down that didn’t frighten me as much as the thought that one day she’d fall for one of those insistent suitors of hers. Like I say, I’m a normally jealous man.’

The officer has slumped deeper into the armchair. Not surprising really; so far I’ve said nothing of interest to the investigation. But he shows no sign of wanting to stop me either.

‘And yet I’ve never been jealous of Henrik Bakke. Isn’t that funny? At least not in the sense of hating him or having a grudge against him. I think the way I looked at it was that he was just another guy same as me, he loved Simone more than anything else on earth. I actually thought of him more as someone in the same boat as me than as a rival.’

I fish around with my tongue in the corner of my mouth where a shred of coconut has got stuck and feel a momentary stab of discomfort. The officer’s silence is deafening.

‘OK. So that wasn’t exactly true. I was jealous of Henrik Bakke. At least the first time I met him. Let me explain. One day he called me at my office and asked if we could meet, he had some papers for me from Simone. I knew these must be the divorce papers, and even though it was, of course, unspeakable of her to use her new lover to deliver them I was curious to know who he was and so I agreed to a meeting at a restaurant. I presume he was just as curious about me.

‘Anyway, he turned out to be a really nice person — polite without being servile, intelligent but in a discreet way, and with a humorous appreciation of the comical aspect of our situation. We drank a couple of beers, and when he began after a while to talk about Simone it didn’t take long for me to realise that he was having exactly the same trouble with her as I had had. She was a cat. She came and went as she pleased, she was spoiled and moody, and loyalty was not her most outstanding quality. If I can put it like that. He complained of all the men friends she had and wondered why she couldn’t have female friends like other women. Talked about the nights she’d come home drunk after he’d gone to bed, and all the new and exciting people she’d met who she was so keen to tell him about. In a sort of aside he asked if I’d seen her since we’d split up and I’d moved out, and with a smile I had to tell him no. The smile was because I had realised that he was probably more jealous of me than I was of him. Isn’t that something of a paradox, officer?’

The officer opens his mouth but then he changes his mind and leaves his jaw hanging half open. It looks very silly. Actually I had decided not to say too much, but it’s funny how another person’s silence can affect you. To start with I experienced it as threatening, but I can see now that it isn’t what you might describe as a speaking silence. Not that the officer looks especially interested or attentive; what he exudes is more a sort of neutral nothingness. It’s an absence of speech, a vacant space that operates like a vacuum sucking up my own words.

‘We had another beer and a few good laughs as we swapped stories about some of her foibles. Such as how she always changed her mind after she ordered the food, so you had to get the waiter over and change the order. Or the way she always had to go to the toilet after she’d turned out the light and said ‘goodnight’. And of course the Saturday shopping expedition and what a catastrophe it was if you forgot to buy the Twists.

‘So I wasn’t all that surprised to meet Bakke again at the Kiwi store on Saturday morning a couple of weeks later. We both laughed when I looked in a very demonstrative way at the bag of Twists in his shopping trolley. And he asked about the divorce papers, he said Simone’s lawyer was waiting for them. I said I’d had a lot to do but that I would see to it next week. I was perhaps a little annoyed with him for bringing it up. I mean, what was the rush? He’d taken my place in her bed, surely that was enough to be going on with? It almost seemed as though he could hardly wait to get married to her. And her millions. So I asked him straight out if they were planning to get married. He looked bewildered, so I repeated my question. He smiled wanly and shook his head. And then I got the picture.’

I straighten the liquorice wrapper between my fingers. ‘Lakris — lakrits — lakrids’ it says. Danish and Swedish as well as Norwegian. Easy to understand anyway. It’s good when neighbours speak almost the same language.

‘There was something in his eyes, a pain I recognised from my own reflection in the mirror back then. Bakke was on his way out. Simone was bored. It was just a question of time, and he knew it, already he could taste the bitter fruits of defeat. Have you investigated that, officer? Asked her girlfriends if she had any such plans? You ought to, because that could give him a motive, don’t you think? Crime passionnel, isn’t that what you call it?’

Is that a smile I see curling the officer’s lips? He doesn’t respond. Of course not, he’s under an oath of silence as regards anything to do with the investigation. All the same, at the thought of Henrik Bakke being a suspect I can’t help but smile as well. I don’t even try to hide it. We smile.

‘Quite a paradox, isn’t it? I never did get round to sending in those divorce papers, so Simone and I were still man and wife when she died. That makes me the sole heir, officer. So if it really was Henrik Bakke who killed her, what that means is that the man who stole the love of my life from me has made me a millionaire. Me. How’s that for one of life’s little ironies?’

My laughter echoes back at me from the flock wallpaper and the oak parquet flooring. I exaggerate it slightly, slap my thighs and put my head back. Then I see the officer’s eyes. Cold, like a shark’s. They nail me to the sofa. I stop instantly. Has he realised? I take another chocolate, a Daim, have already unwrapped it, but then change my mind and take a Nougat Bali instead. I repack the Daim in its wrapper. Must think. No, no need to think. One look at the officer is enough.

‘The good thing about Twist is the wrapping,’ I say. ‘That you can change your mind. You can wrap it up again without anyone’s being able to see it’s been opened. Unlike most other things. Confessions, for example. Once a confession has been so to speak unwrapped then that’s it, it’s too late.’

The officer nods his head. It’s more like a bow.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘No more games.’

I say this as though I’ve just made up my mind here and now, but of course that’s not the case. For several minutes now I’ve just been waiting for the right moment. And the right moment is now.

‘You found those little bottles of cyanide solution in the cellar, didn’t you, officer?’ The chocolate melts on my tongue, and I can feel the hard centre against my soft palate. ‘One was missing. I took that with me when I was thrown out. Not really sure why. I was pretty far down, maybe I had some idea of doing away with myself. You make hydrocyanic acid from cyanide, but you probably know that?’

My fingers sift through the chocolate bowl and find a banana cream but then put it straight back. Old habits.

‘A couple of days after I met Bakke at the Kiwi store I bought a bag of Twists. At a chemist’s I bought a disposable syringe which I filled with cyanide when I got home. I then opened the bag of chocolates, took out the banana creams and carefully unwrapped them, injected the poison, wrapped them again and put them back in the bag. The rest was simplicity itself. The following Saturday I waited outside the Kiwi store until Bakke pulled up in Simone’s Porsche, slipped into the store in front of him with the bag of Twists under my coat, placed the bag at the front of the shelf with the Twists and from my position behind the shelving was able to see that he had picked the right bag.’

The officer sits with head bowed. As though he’s the one confessing to murder by poison rather than me.

‘I read that when Henrik Bakke found her he thought at first she was asleep. Pity he wasn’t there when she died. He might have learned something. I mean, it must be fascinating to study a human being in transit between life and death, don’t you think?’

The officer looks as though he might be preparing a response, a long and complex response that’s going to require a lot of thought. I continue.

‘I counted on you arresting Henrik Bakke as soon as you had the results of the autopsy. I presumed it would be an easy matter to work out that the cyanide came from the chocolates that Bakke had indisputably brought into the house.

‘But you didn’t, officer. You didn’t manage to connect the poison to the remains of chocolate you found in her stomach because the chocolate had already melted and dissolved. So I began to worry that Henrik Bakke might get away with it.’

I drink what’s left of my coffee. The officer’s cup is still there, untouched.

‘But once a second body arrives on his slab I’m pretty sure the coroner is going to be able work it out, don’t you think? That the murder weapon was right there in front of you the whole time?’

I point to the dish of chocolates and fix him with a smile. No response.

‘One last Twist before I raise the alarm, officer?’ In the ensuing silence I can hear the faint crackling of a banana cream wrapper as it slowly begins to unfold like a yellow-and-green rose on the coffee table in front of him. That beautiful coffee table.

Odd

Odd was — seen from the auditorium — standing in the wings on the right-hand side.

He tried to breathe normally.

How many times had he stood like that, dreading the prospect of making his entrance in front of a crowd as he listened to the person who was going to interview him build him up, ratchet up the expectations? And this evening they would already be high, given that tickets to enter cost twenty-five pounds, more than the price of any of his slender books. With the possible exception of English first editions of his debut book, which could no longer be found in the second-hand bookshops and was selling for three hundred pounds on the net.

Was that what made it so difficult to breathe? The fear that, as himself, the actual flesh-and-blood Odd Rimmen, he wouldn’t live up to the hype? Couldn’t live up to the hype. After all, they’d turned him into a kind of superman, a psychic intellectual who hadn’t just analysed the human condition but also predicted sociocultural trends and diagnosed the problems of modern man. Didn’t they understand that it was just writing?

And yes, naturally, an author’s thought always had a subtext the author himself didn’t necessarily understand or see. That applied even to those authors whom he himself admired. Camus, Saramago — he suspected that even Sartre hadn’t fully plumbed his own depths, being more concerned with the external sex appeal of formulation.

Face-to-face with the page’s — the computer’s — neutral surface and the option of retreat it offered, he could be Odd Rimmen, the man whom the reviewer in the Boston Globe had, with the greatest respect, dubbed Odd Dreamin’, a nickname that had stuck. But in person he was just Odd, a guy waiting to be exposed as a man of average intelligence with a slightly above average gift for language, and a distinctly below average control of his self-criticism and impulses. And he thought it was this latter — his lack of impulse control — that had led him to expose his emotional life so recklessly in front of thousands, indeed hundreds of thousands (not millions) of readers. Because even though the page/screen offered the option of retreat, the opportunity to regret and make changes, he never did so if he saw that it was good. His literary calling took precedence over his personal comfort. He could defy the weakness in his own character and move out of his comfort zone, as long as it all happened on the page, in his imagination, his dreams and his writing which, no matter what the theme or the degree of intimacy, was a comfort zone all its own, securely cut off from the life out there. He could write anything at all, and tell himself it was bound for the bottom drawer of his desk and would never be published. And then, once Sophie, his editor, had read it and massaged his writer’s ego to the point at which he believed her claim that it would be a literary crime to deprive readers of this, it was just a question of closing the eyes, trembling and drinking alone, and letting it all happen.

But not with an interview onstage.

Esther Abbot’s voice reached him like a far-off rumbling, a storm approaching across the stage. She was standing at a podium, with the armchairs they were to sit in ranged behind her. As though the creation of a setting that looked vaguely like a living room could make him feel more relaxed. An electric chair placed in a meadow full of flowers. Screw them.

‘He has given his readers a new vantage point from which to view ourselves, our own lives, the lives of those closest to us, the world about us,’ the voice said.

He could just about make out the English words. He preferred to be interviewed in English rather than his native language, exaggerating his accent so that the audience would suppose his inability to formulate himself clearly was an obvious result of the fact that he had to speak in a foreign language, and not the fact that in every oral encounter, even when speaking his own language, he became a clown who stumbled his way through even the simplest sentences.

‘He is one of the most acute and uncompromising observers of our time, of our society, and ourselves as individuals.’

What rubbish, Odd Rimmen thought, drying the palms of his hands against the thighs of his G-Star jeans. He was a writer who had achieved a commercial breakthrough entirely on the basis of his descriptions of sexual fantasies that balanced so delicately on the edge of what was acceptable that they were described as controversial and brave, but were not so on the edge that they really did shock and upset anyone, at the same time as it was all therapy for any feelings of shame readers might have experienced at having entertained the same fantasies as the author. As he presently realised, the rest of what he wrote rode on the back of these sex descriptions. And Odd Rimmen knew — as did his editor, even though they had never talked about it — that in the books that followed he had gone on to offer variations on these sexual fantasies, despite the fact that they were, thematically speaking, alien elements. They were like long, misplaced guitar solos, with no other relevance than that they were something the public expected, and even demanded of him. A provocation that had become so normal it ought to have occasioned a yawn rather than a gasp, a routine that almost made him throw up, but that he excused by telling himself it was the wheels the rest of the text needed, the element that could deliver his real message to a larger readership than he would otherwise have reached. But he had been mistaken. He had sold his soul, and as an artist he had been damaged by it. Well, then let there be an end to it.

In the novel he was currently working on, and which he had not yet shown to his editor, he had weeded out everything that smacked of a commercial sell-out and cultivated only the poetic, the dreamlike vision, the real. The painful. No more compromises.

Nevertheless, here he was, and in a few seconds he would be brought onstage to deafening applause from a packed Charles Dickens Theatre, an audience that even before he opened his mouth had made up its mind that it loved him, just as it loved his books, as though the two were one and the same thing, as though his writing and his lies had told them all they needed to know about him long ago.

Worst of all was that he needed it. He actually needed their ill-founded admiration and unconditional love. He had become addicted to it, because what he saw in their eyes, the stolen goods he made away with, was like heroin. He knew that it was destroying him, corrupting him as an artist; and yet he had to have it.

‘...translated into forty languages, read all over the world, crossing cultural barriers...’

Charles Dickens himself must have been the same kind of heroin addict. Not only had he published many of his novels chapter by chapter, and closely studied the public’s response before starting on the next one, he had also undertaken tours in which he read from his own books, and not with the shy distance to his own text of the intellectual author, the lovable diffidence of the humble man, but with a shameless passion that exposed not just his thespian ambitions and, as far as that went, his acting talent too, but also the avidity of his desire to seduce the masses, both high and low, regardless of their position and intellect. And had not that same Charles Dickens — the social reformer, the defender of the poor — been every bit as interested in money and social status as some of his own, less sympathetic characters? And yet it wasn’t this, as such, that Odd Rimmen objected to in Charles Dickens. It was that he had performed his art. Performed in the worst sense of the word. A combination of street trader and dancing bear, kept in chains by its owner so that it looks dangerous when, in reality, its testicles, claws and teeth have all been removed. Charles Dickens had given his public what it wanted, and what the public wanted at that particular point in time was social criticism.

Would Charles Dickens’s writing have been better — or let’s say even better — had he kept to the straight and narrow path of art?

Odd Rimmen had read David Copperfield and thought at the time he could have made a better job of it himself. Not a lot better, but better. But was that still the case? Or had his pen, his claws and his teeth lost the edge needed to create an art for posterity as a result of his submission to this circus? And if that were indeed the case, was there any way back?

Yes, he told himself. Because the new novel he was working was exactly that, wasn’t it?

Nevertheless, here he was, with seconds to go before he was due onstage, about to bask in the admiring gazes, and the spotlights, milking the applause as he mechanically delivered his truisms; in a word, get his shot for the evening.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve been waiting for him, and now here he is...’

Just do it. Not only was this the best slogan ever for trainers — or for any other product — it was also the answer he always gave whenever young people asked for his advice on how to start writing. That there was no reason to postpone it, no preparations needed, it was just about putting pen to paper, and not metaphorically but quite literally. He told them they should start writing that evening. Anything, anything at all, but it had to be now, that very evening.

It had been like that with Aurora, when he finally managed to leave her, after the endless rounds of discussions, tears and reunions that always ended with him back at Start. It had been about just doing it. Physically walking out the door and never returning. So simple, and yet so difficult. When you’re addicted you can’t just cut down on it and take a little heroin. Odd had seen his own brother try that, with fatal results. There was only one way out, and that was to go cold turkey. This evening. Now. Because it won’t be better or easier tomorrow. It’ll be harder. Postpone things and you end up standing even deeper in shit. What difference is it going to make to put things off for another day?

From the wings Odd Rimmen stared into the blinding backlight out there. He couldn’t see the audience, just a wall of blackness. Maybe they weren’t there. Maybe they didn’t exist. And for all they knew, maybe he didn’t exist either.

And there it was. The liberating, redemptive thought. His horse. It was standing there in front of him. All he had to do was put one foot in the stirrup and mount up. Just do it. The other option was not to do it. These were in fact his only alternatives. Or alternative, if he was going to be grammatically strict about it. And from now on he would be. Strict. Truthful. Uncompromising.

Odd Rimmen turned and walked away. He removed the microphone and transmitter from around his neck and handed them to a technician who looked up in bewilderment as he walked past him. He went down the stairs to the dressing room where he, the interviewer Esther Abbot and the publisher’s PR had gone through some of the questions. Now the room was empty, and the only sound was Esther’s voice from up there, a wordless, hollow booming that echoed through the ceiling. He grabbed the jacket he had left hanging over the chair, an apple from the fruit bowl, and headed out towards the performers’ exit. Pushed it open and breathed in the London air of the narrow alleyway, a combination of exhaust fumes, burnt metal and cheese from the restaurant’s extractor fan. Odd Rimmen had never smelled freer, fresher air.

Odd Rimmen had nowhere to go.

Odd Rimmen had everywhere to go.

One could say that it all began with Odd Rimmen leaving the Charles Dickens Theatre just seconds before he was due onstage to talk about his most recent publication, The Hill.

Or that it began with the Guardian writing about it, and saying he had let the paying public down, the arrangers of the Camden Literature Festival and Esther Abbot, the young journalist who had arranged the interview and said how much she had been looking forward to it. Or you could claim it started when the New Yorker contacted Rimmen’s publisher and asked for an interview. When the publisher’s press office told them that, unfortunately, Odd Rimmen didn’t do interviews any more, the magazine had asked for his telephone number, hoping to try to get him to change his mind, only to learn that he no longer had a telephone. Indeed, that the publishing house didn’t actually know where Rimmen was. No one had heard from him after he left the Charles Dickens Theatre that evening.

This was only partly true, but the New Yorker wrote an article about Odd Rimmen in absentia in which other writers, literary critics and cultural personalities spoke of their attitude to the author in general and to The Hill in particular. Living at his parents’ summer place in France, Odd Rimmen could only react with astonishment at the list of famous names who suddenly seemed not only to have read him but to know him personally. That they should lie about their knowledge of his output in order to see their names in the pages of the prestigious New Yorker was perhaps no great surprise. And with a couple of days’ warning they had naturally had time to glance through a couple of the books in order to get the feel of them, or skim the outlines on some website aimed at students. But that they should also express themselves on his enigmatic personality and his very special charisma was more surprising, since he could just about remember having met these people in a professional setting — at festivals, book fairs, prize-givings — and exchanged professional courtesies in a business in which courtesy borders on paranoia. (Odd Rimmen’s theory was that writers are terrified of offending other writers because better than anyone else they know that a sensitive mind armed with a pen is like a child equipped with an Uzi.)

But in the light of the promise Odd Rimmen had made to himself to be ascetic and pure and to refrain from anything that might be construed as (correction: that might be) selling out, intellectual swindle or self-aggrandisement, he had denied himself the right to correct the impression readers of the New Yorker might form of him as a kind of literary cult figure.

Regardless of where it began, it continued. And that was what his editor told him when she called him at his remote village home.

‘Something’s happened, Odd. And it’s not stopping, it’s just getting bigger.’

Sophie Hall was referring not just to the sales figures but to all the requests for interviews, the invitations to festivals, the pleas from foreign publishers that he visit them for the launch of The Hill.

‘It’s just crazy,’ she said. ‘After that thing in the New Yorker—’

‘It’ll blow over,’ he said. ‘One piece in a magazine doesn’t change the world.’

‘You’ve cut yourself off so you don’t know what’s happening. Everyone’s talking about you, Odd. Everyone.’

‘Oh really? And what are they saying?’

‘That you...’ She gave a little laugh. ‘That you’re slightly crazy.’

‘Crazy? In a good way?’

‘In a very good way.’

He knew exactly what she meant. They had talked about it. That the writers who fascinate us are the ones who describe a world that is easy enough to recognise but one viewed through glasses that are very slightly different from the ones we wear. Or they wear, thought Odd Rimmen, since what his editor was telling him was that he had now been promoted to the league for those who see things differently, the intellectually eccentric. But did he belong there? Had he always done so? Or was he a bluff, a conventional wannabe who acted weird just for effect? As he listened to his editor describing the interest in Odd Rimmen, could he not also hear a greater respect in her voice? As though not even she, who had followed him so closely, from sentence to sentence so to speak, was immune to this sudden change of mood, all brought on by a single event: that, almost on impulse, he had run out on an interview just before he was due onstage. Now she was telling him she had just reread The Hill and been struck by how good the book they had worked on together really was. And even though Odd Rimmen suspected she had merely read the book in another light — the light of the admiration of others — he said nothing.

‘What is this about, Sophie?’ he asked when she paused for breath.

‘Warner Brothers have been in touch,’ she said. ‘They want to buy an option on The Hill.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘They want to get Terrence Malick or Paul Thomas Anderson to direct.’

‘They want to?’

‘They’re wondering if you’d be happy with either of them.’

Would I be happy with Malick or Anderson? thought Odd Rimmen? Thin Red Line. Magnolia. Here were two top-quality directors who had managed the almost impossible feat of getting the public at large to go to art films.

‘What do you say?’ Sophie’s voice had the whining overtones of a fourteen-year-old, as though she herself could hardly believe what she was telling him.

‘I would’ve been very happy with either of them,’ he said.

‘Great, I’ll call Warner Brothers and—’ She stopped. She had probably heard it.

Conditional sentence, type 2. Would’ve been. Which, as she had once pointed out to him, was actually a verbal contraction of I would have been, but one which the copy editor had let pass. Nevertheless, the Conditional. Something that would have happened, had certain conditions been fulfilled. And now she was wondering what the conditions might be. So he told her.

‘If I’d’ve wanted to sell the film rights.’

‘You... you don’t want to?’ The whining overtone was gone. Now she definitely sounded as though she couldn’t believe what she herself was saying.

‘I like The Hill fine just the way it is,’ he said. ‘As a book. As you said yourself, just lately the book seems to have turned out to be really quite good.’

He didn’t know if she registered the irony in what he had just said. Normally she would have done. Sophie had a good ear, but right now she was so shaken by everything that was happening that he wasn’t so sure.

‘Have you thought this through properly, Odd?’

‘Yes,’ he said. That was the strangest thing. Less than a minute ago he’d been told that one of the biggest film companies in the world wanted to ask two of the world’s best directors to direct The Hill and make a film, something that would boost not just this book but every book with Odd Rimmen’s name on it, past and present, and turn him into a global superstar. But he had thought through the possibility of getting a really big film offer. Daydreamed about it would be a more accurate description. Because apart from the aforementioned sex scenes there was nothing filmatic about Odd Rimmen’s novels. Rather the opposite, in fact. They were largely interior monologues with few external events and little conventional dramaturgical structure. And yet still he had thought it through. Only as a hypothetical possibility, naturally, a thought experiment, in which he weighed the arguments against each other while gazing out over the Bay of Biscay. Charles Dickens wouldn’t just have yelled out a jubilant Yes! The old ham would have insisted on playing at least one of the main characters himself.

The old, pre-Charles Dickens Theatre Odd Rimmen would have said yes as well but it would have left a bad taste in his mouth. He would have justified himself by saying that in an ideal world he would have said no thanks and kept his book pure. Reserved it for the patient reader, the reader who did not accept simplifications, who would take each sentence at his own pace, guided by the speed of the eye, the maturing of contemplation. But in world ruled by money and vacuous entertainment he could not say no to the kind of attention his type of book (serious, literary) was being offered here, since he was under an obligation to spread the (literary) word, not just to himself, but to everyone who was actually trying to say something in their writing.

Yes, that’s what he would have said, and in secret savoured all the attention garnered by the film, the book, and by his own apparent dilemma.

But the new Odd Rimmen rejected that type of hypocrisy. And because he had thought it through, and reality was turning out not to be all that different from the daydream, he was specific about it to his incredulous editor.

‘I’ve thought it through, Sophie, and the answer’s no, I’m not going to let The Hill get cut down to a two-hour synopsis.’

‘But it’s so short anyway. Have you seen No Country For Old Men?’

Naturally Odd Rimmen had seen this, and naturally she would mention it, he thought. Sophie knew that he loved Cormac McCarthy, knew that he knew that the Coen brothers had managed to film that short novel in a one-to-one correlation unlike any other film he could think of. And Sophie also knew that Odd Rimmen also knew what that film had meant for the spread of the books of a writer who had until then been a literary cult figure — and without doing (too) much apparent damage to his reputation among the literary elite.

‘Cormac wrote it first time around as a screenplay,’ he said. ‘The Coen brothers themselves said that when they were writing the screenplay one of them held the book open while the other copied from it. That won’t work with The Hill. Anyway, I’m in the middle of something in the new book, I’m going to have to hang up now and get back to the writing.’

‘What? Odd, don’t...’

Odd Rimmen was standing in the queue outside the Louvre in Paris when he saw her coming out. Esther Abbot looked as though she wanted to pretend she hadn’t seen him but must have known that her surprised expression gave her away.

‘So, we meet again,’ she said. She was walking arm in arm with a man whom she pulled in closer, as though the mere sight of Odd Rimmen was a reminder that men could disappear at any moment unless she kept a close eye on them.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Odd Rimmen. ‘I never got the chance to apologise.’

‘Never? Was there someone or something preventing you?’

‘No, not really. I apologise.’

‘Perhaps you should have saved it for all those people who turned up to hear you.’

‘Absolutely. You’re right.’

He thought she looked good. Better than he remembered her from the theatre. He thought that perhaps then she had been concentrating too much on the job. Too ingratiating for her to have aroused the seducer in him, the way prey will play dead until the predator loses interest. But standing here now, with a summer tan, slightly angry, with the wind in her hair and a man on her arm, she was quite simply attractive. So attractive that it seemed strange to Rimmen that she had automatically drawn the man she was with closer to her as soon as she saw him. It should really have been the other way round, with the male discreetly marking his territory when confronted by another male of about his own age, and one of a presumably higher social status now, following that article in the New Yorker.

‘Could I buy you both a glass of wine to show that I mean it?’ asked Odd Rimmen. He looked enquiringly at the man, who seemed to be looking for a polite way to decline the offer when Esther Abbot said she thought that sounded nice.

Her companion smiled like a man with a drawing pin in his shoe.

‘Some other time, perhaps,’ he said. ‘You’re on your way in, and the Louvre is so big.’

Odd Rimmen studied the ill-matched couple; her bright and light with the sun in her eyes, him as dark and heavy as a trough of low pressure. How could such an attractive woman fall for something as charmless as that? Had she no idea of her own market value? Indeed she did. He could see that, and it struck him that Esther had pulled her boyfriend/husband/lover closer to show him that this Rimmen wasn’t something he had to consider a threat. And why did her man need this kind of reassurance? Did she have a history of promiscuity, of being unfaithful? Or had they talked about him, this unpredictable author? Had Esther somehow indicated to the man at her side that he had reason to fear competition from Odd Rimmen? Was that what lay behind the expression of mingled hatred and fear he saw in the other man’s gaze?

‘I often go to the Louvre, I’ve seen most of what’s worth seeing,’ said Odd, responding to the gaze with a friendly calm. ‘Come on, I know a place where they serve a good burgundy.’

‘Perfect,’ said Esther.

They found the restaurant and even before the first glass had arrived Esther had started to ask questions that Odd suspected were left over from the interview that had never been. Where did Odd get his inspiration from? How far were the main characters based on himself? Were the sex scenes based on personal experience or were they fantasies? At this last question Odd saw the man’s face twitch. (His name turned out to be Ryan and he worked at the Embassy in Paris). Odd replied but made no attempt to improvise or be amusing as he usually did (often successfully) when ‘performing’. When he did perform. But in due course he turned the conversation around to Esther and Ryan.

Ryan seemed to make a point of not revealing what his job at the Embassy actually involved and in doing so clearly hinted that it was something secret and important. Instead he spoke of how the techniques of international diplomacy had been influenced by research done by the psychologist Daniel Kahneman on ‘priming’ — the idea that by using simple means you can place a thought or an idea in a competitor’s head without their being aware of it. That if you show people a poster with the letters E A T and then S O _ P and asked them to fill in the blank, far more of them will write SOUP rather than SOAP by comparison with those in a research group who have not been previously shown E A T.

Odd could see that Ryan was making a real effort to be interesting, but since the pop psychology he was dishing up was already stale news Odd presently turned his attention to Esther. She said she lived in London, where she worked as a freelance culture journalist but that she and Ryan commuted to see each other ‘as often as they could’. Odd noticed that she seemed to be directing this more to Ryan than to him, perhaps with a subtext along the lines of: Do you hear that, Ryan? I’m describing things as though we still have a passionate relationship, that all we wish was that we could spend more time together. Happy now, you fucking boring whitewasher?

Odd guessed all of this must be just one of Odd Dreamin’s excursions. But maybe it wasn’t so far off the mark either?

‘Why have you just stopped?’ Esther asked as the waiter poured out a third glass.

‘I haven’t. I’m writing more than ever. And better, I hope.’

‘You know what I mean.’

He shrugged. ‘Everything I have to say is on the pages of the books. The rest is just distraction and bluff. I’m a sad and pathetic clown. Exposing myself as a person doesn’t do my work any favours.’

‘No, on the contrary, it seems,’ said Esther and raised her glass. ‘It seems like the less people see of you, the more you get talked about.’

‘My books, I hope you mean.’

‘No, you.’ Her eyes lingered a little too long on his. ‘And, as a result of this, your books, naturally. You’re in the process of turning from a cult-cult writer into a mainstream-cult writer.’

Odd Rimmen savoured the wine. And the characterisation. Licked his lips. Hm. Could already feel himself wanting more. More of everything.

When Ryan left to go to the toilet he leaned forward and put his hand over Esther’s.

‘I’m a little bit in love with you,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she said. And he thought she couldn’t possibly know, because until that very moment he hadn’t been. Or had he — unlike her — simply not realised it until now?

‘What if it’s just the wine?’ he said. ‘Or that with Ryan sitting there you’re unattainable?’

‘Does it make any difference?’ she asked. ‘If it’s because you’re lonely or because I happen to have been born with a symmetrical face? Our reasons for falling in love are banal. It doesn’t make falling any the less delightful, does it?’

‘Perhaps not. Are you in love with me?’

‘Why should I be?’

‘I’m a famous writer. Isn’t that banal enough?’

‘You’re a nearly-famous writer, Odd Rimmen. You aren’t rich. You left me just when I needed you most. And I’ve a feeling you could do it again if you got the chance.’

‘So you are in love with me?’

‘I was in love with you before I met you.’

Both raised their glasses and drank without taking their eyes off each other.

‘It’s just incredible,’ Sophie almost shouted into the phone. ‘Stephen Colbert!’

‘Is that big?’ Odd Rimmen leaned back and the rickety wooden chair gave a warning groan. He looked out at the old apple trees that his mother claimed she could remember bearing fruit. The air smelled of wild, neglected garden and of the sea, borne on the pleasantly cooling Atlantic breeze from the Bay of Biscay.

‘Big?’ gasped Odd Rimmen’s editor. ‘He’s overtaken Jimmy Fallon! You’ve been invited onto the biggest talk show there is, Odd!’

‘Because...?’

‘Because of the filming of The Hill.’

‘I don’t understand. I said no to the film.’

‘That’s exactly it! Everyone’s talking about it on social media, Odd. Everyone’s raving about your integrity. The man who sits in a run-down old house in France and writes a book about nothing, that won’t sell any copies, says no to worldly fame and stinking riches in the name of the art of writing. Right at this moment you are the coolest writer in the world, do you realise that?’

‘No,’ Odd Rimmen lied. Because naturally he had been well aware that the uncompromising and apparently puritanical choices he had been making since that evening at the Charles Dickens Theatre not necessarily would but very likely could result in exactly the same thing as was happening now.

‘Let me think about it.’

‘The recording is next week but they need an answer today. I’ve booked your flight to New York.’

‘I’ll get back to you.’

‘Great. You sound very happy by the way, Odd.’

There was a pause, a moment in which Odd wondered whether she might have unintentionally identified what he was really feeling. Triumph. No, not triumph, for that would suggest a goal he had consciously been aiming for. And all he had been aiming for was to organise things in such a way that he could write truthfully, without worrying about anyone or anything, and certainly not his own so-called popularity.

All the same. He had just been reading the neuroendocrinologist Robert Sapolsky’s description of how a recovering alcoholic’s reward centre in the brain can be activated simply by walking down the street where his favourite bar from the old days is; even though he has no intention of drinking, the acquired expectation from the days of his drinking will liberate the dopamine. Was that what was happening to him now? Was it the mere prospect of a worldwide attention focused on his person that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up? And he wasn’t sure, but was it maybe panic at the thought of ending up in the same old mess as before that made him grip the phone tighter and say a cold, hard no.

‘No?’ Sophie repeated, and from the slight confusion in her voice Odd realised she thought he was responding to what she had said about him sounding happy.

‘No I won’t be going on the talk show,’ he specified.

‘But... your book. Odd, honestly, this is a fantastic opportunity to tell the world that it exists. That real literature does exist. You’ve got to do it!’

‘If I did do it then I would have betrayed my vow of silence. I would have betrayed all those who, according to you, praise me for my integrity. I would have become the clown again.’ (He noticed that he was using the Conditional.)

‘In the first place there’s no one to betray, Odd. You’re the only one who’s committed to your silence. And as for being a clown that’s your vanity talking, not the man to whom literature is a calling.’

There was an edge to the editor’s tone Odd Rimmen hadn’t heard before. As though she’d just about had enough. Had already had enough. She simply didn’t believe he was being honest. That he, with his anti-Charles Dickens attitude, had become more like Charles Dickens than Dickens himself. Was that it? Was he just playing the part of the principled artist? Well, yes and no. His frontal lobe, the part of the brain that, according to Sapolsky, was responsible for considered decisions, that was probably honest. But what about the nucleus accumbens, the pleasure centre that demanded enjoyment and immediate reward? If the two of them were devil and angel, one on each shoulder whispering into his ears, it wasn’t easy to know which he was listening to, which was his true master. All Odd Rimmen could say with certainty was that he had been honest that evening he left the theatre. But hadn’t something happened once he discovered that his steadfast resistance to being publicly promoted had resulted in exactly the opposite, that he had become the priest who, with his vow of celibacy, had paradoxically become a sex symbol, and who in all secrecy — secretly even from himself — enjoyed it?

‘Odd,’ said Sophie, ‘you’ve got to head for the light. D’you hear? Head for the light! Not the darkness.’

Odd coughed. ‘I’ve got a book to write. Tell them that, Sophie. And yes, you’re right, I am happy.’

He ended the call. Felt a warm hand touch his neck.

‘I’m so proud of you,’ said Esther, sitting in the garden chair beside him.

‘Are you?’ Odd turned and kissed her.

‘In an age where all people do is run after the clicks and the likes? You bet I am.’ She stretched her arms in the air and yawned, supple as a cat. ‘Shall we go into town or just eat home this evening, what d’you think?’

Odd wondered who it was who’d leaked the news that he’d said no to a film of The Hill. Whether it was Sophie. Or whether indirectly he was responsible himself, since he had, after all, mentioned it to several people who might have spread it about.

Going to bed that evening he thought of what Sophie had said about heading for the light. Wasn’t that what you said to people who were about to die? That when they reached the other side they would see a bright light and they should turn their steps in that direction? Like a moth to the garden lamp that in another moment would scorch off its wings, Odd thought. But he had another thought too: had Sophie meant that, as a writer, he was dying?

Autumn came, and with it a withering of Odd Rimmen’s creativity.

He’d heard other writers talking about writer’s block but never quite believed in it himself. At least not for him. He was Odd Dreamin’. The golden goose. The stories just rolled out of him whether he liked it or not. So he assumed it was something that would pass and took the chance to spend more time with Esther. They went for long walks together, discussed literature and films. A couple of times they drove to Paris in Odd’s old Mercedes and visited the Louvre.

But the weeks passed and still he couldn’t write. His head was empty. Or rather, it was filled with things that didn’t make for good literature: good sex, good food, good drink, good conversation, real closeness. The suspicion arose: was it the fault of all this happiness? Had it made him lose the despairing courage that had driven him to explore those dark corners from which he had sent back his reports? But even worse than the euphoric happiness was the sedate security. The feeling each day that nothing was really all that important, just as long as he and Esther had each other.

They had their first quarrels. The way she did the housework. Whereabouts things were kept. Trifles, things that he had never normally bothered with. But enough for her to pack a bag and say she was off to London to spend a few days with her parents.

Odd thought it was a good thing. Now he’d find out if that was enough to get Odd Dreamin’ up and about again.

Sunday morning he had moved out from his study to the garden table under the dead apple trees, and then indoors again to the dining-room table. Didn’t help. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t manage more than a couple of meaningless sentences.

He considered ringing Esther to tell her he loved her but didn’t. Instead he asked himself if he would be willing to exchange happiness and Esther for the ability to write again.

Maybe the answer didn’t surprise him, only the speed with which it came: yes, he’d make that trade.

He loved Esther, and right now he hated writing. But he could live without Esther. On the other hand, without writing, he would die, wither and rot.

He heard the door open.

Esther. She must have changed her mind and taken an earlier train.

But from the sound of the footsteps Odd knew it couldn’t be her.

Someone was standing in the living-room doorway. Long, open raincoat over a suit. Dark hair and a sweaty quiff plastered against his forehead. Panting.

‘You stole her from me,’ said Ryan, his voice hoarse and quavering. He stepped forward and raised his right hand. Odd saw that it held a gun.

‘And for that you want to kill me?’ asked Odd. He was a little surprised to hear how matter-of-factly he spoke, but he was only saying what was on his mind. He really was more curious than afraid.

‘No,’ said Ryan, turning the pistol in his hand and holding it out to Odd. ‘I want you to do it yourself.’

Odd, still seated, took the gun and looked down at it. Long lines of numbers — he was reminded of telephone numbers — were engraved along the black steel barrel. And now that he was safe he felt an even stranger sensation. A mild disappointment that the threat had gone as quickly as it had come.

‘Like that, you mean?’ asked Odd and placed the muzzle of the gun against his temple.

‘Exactly like that,’ said Ryan. His voice was still quavering, his eyes glazed in a way that made Odd wonder if he might perhaps be under the influence of some chemical substance.

‘You know you won’t get her back even if I’m gone?’ said Odd.

‘Yes.’

‘So why get rid of me? It’s not logical.’

‘I insist that you take your own life. All right?’

‘What if I refuse?’

‘Then you’ll have to kill me,’ said Ryan. His voice was no longer just hoarse, it was choked with tears.

Odd nodded slowly as he went through it: ‘So one of us has to go. Does that mean you can’t bear to live in a world in which I exist?’

‘Shoot one of us now and get this over with.’

‘Or do you want me to kill you so that when Esther finds out she’ll leave me and dream of you, the one person she can’t have back?’

‘Shut up and do it!’

‘And if I still refuse?’

‘Then I’ll kill you.’ Ryan reached inside his coat and pulled out a second black gun. The paint on it seemed strangely dull. He squeezed the grip so tightly Odd could hear the plastic crack. Ryan pointed the barrel at Odd, who raised the gun he was holding himself and pulled the trigger.

It happened quickly. Very quickly. So quickly that afterwards Odd Rimmen’s defence attorney would have (Conditional) been able to convince a jury that it was only the brain’s quicker amygdala, with its fight, flight or freeze response, that had had time to react. That the frontal lobe, the one that says to you hey, wait a sec, think this through, had never had time to engage.

Odd Rimmen got up from his chair, walked over to Ryan, looked down at him. At Esther’s former boyfriend. At this formerly living human being. At the bullet-hole on the right-hand side of the forehead. And at the toy pistol lying at his side.

Odd bent down and lifted it up. It weighed almost nothing and the butt was cracked.

He’d be able to explain to a jury. But would they believe him? That the dead man had given him his own, real gun and then threatened him with a harmless, broken toy? Maybe. Maybe not. Of course the pain of love can drive a man mad, but a trusted member of the British diplomatic service would hardly have a history of abnormal behavioural or psychiatric problems. No, a defence based on the claim that Ryan had deliberately solicited his own death as a sublime revenge would seem too far-fetched for the average male or female juror to take.

But then something else struck Odd: that reporting it would be a news sensation. And give birth to a thousand myths. Author kills rival in love drama. But this thought at least had time to be processed in the frontal lobe. And there, of course, dismissed.

He crossed to the door and looked out. An unfamiliar Peugeot was parked just outside the gate. The nearest neighbour was so far away that it was unlikely the shot from within the living room had carried. He returned to the corpse, searched the coat pockets and found car keys, a mobile phone, wallet, passport and a pair of sunglasses.

Odd spent the next few hours burying Ryan’s body in the garden. Ryan’s grave was directly under the largest apple tree, where Odd usually placed the table when he was working, or when he and Esther were eating. He didn’t choose the site because he was morbid but because the ground was already well trodden and no one would find a bare patch of grass there unusual. And on the few occasions he had seen dogs on their property it had been on the periphery of the garden, they never ventured that close to the house.

Light rain had started to fall, and by the time he was finished his clothes were wet and dirty. He showered, put his clothes in the washing machine, scrubbed the floor in the living room and waited for night to fall.

When it was dark enough he put on Ryan’s coat and sunglasses, his own gloves and a dark cap he found in one of Esther’s drawers. He stuffed a lightweight rain jacket into the coat pocket and went out.

In a strangely elated mood he drove Ryan’s Peugeot the six kilometres to the clifftop at Vellet. There were often people here during the daytime, especially at weekends, but seldom after dark, and Odd had never seen anyone there when it was raining. He left the car in the car park and walked the hundred metres up to the lookout point. Stood on the very edge of the cliff and looked down at the waves below as they smashed into foaming white surf. He took Ryan’s mobile phone from his pocket and dropped it over the edge. Watched it disappear soundlessly into the darkness. Then he pulled the rain jacket out of one coat pocket and made sure the car keys, passport and wallet were still in the other before folding the coat and placing it on the ground, clearly visible and with a stone on top to stop it blowing away.

Then he put on the rain jacket and headed towards home. Thoughts came and went in his head as he walked. Deep down had he always known that the gun Ryan was holding when he shot him was a toy? If so, why had he pulled the trigger anyway? Had his brain had time to consider the alternatives? What would have happened had he not shot him? What would Ryan’s next move have been? To attack him physically? So that Odd would still have had to shoot him, but it would have left him without the excuse of feeling that his life was threatened?

It was ten o’clock by the time Odd got back to the house and he made himself some coffee. Then he sat down at his computer and wrote. And wrote. He did not return to this world until gone midnight, when he heard the door open.

‘Hi,’ she said, and just stood there, sort of waiting.

‘Hi,’ he said, walked over to the woman he loved and kissed her.

‘Well, hello,’ she said softly as she put her hand against his crotch. ‘You have been missing me.’

The police made no attempt to hide the fact that they regarded Ryan Bloomberg’s disappearance as a suicide. Not just because all the finds and circumstantial evidence pointed in that direction but also because Ryan’s close friends and family spoke of his despair following the break-up with Esther, and of how he had voiced suicidal thoughts. The presumption of suicide was further strengthened by the fact that he had recently purchased a Heckler & Koch pistol, and had chosen to kill himself close to where Esther was living with her new love Odd Rimmen.

On the Sunday in question Esther had been in London and not returned home until late, but Odd Rimmen had been at the house and was able to tell police that he had seen a Peugeot parked by the gate outside the house, and that he thought he saw a man sitting inside it, and presumed that he was waiting for someone. This fitted with the police trace on Ryan Bloomberg’s mobile, they said. Signals from local base stations enabled them to see how Ryan/Ryan’s phone had started moving westward from Paris at first light in the morning, that it had been in the vicinity of Rimmer’s house for some hours before the last signal was received close to the clifftop at Vellet.

So police activity in connection with the disappearance was confined to a short and intense search, and no one was surprised — given the strong ocean currents in the area — that no body was found.

After some hesitation Esther decided not to go to the commemorative ceremony in London, fearing it might upset those of Ryan’s friends and relatives who blamed her for his death. She told the Bloomberg family of her decision, adding that she would pay her respects later.

Odd Rimmen wrote with renewed zest. And made love with new zest too.

‘Let us celebrate this glorious day with a glass of something,’ he might say as the sun set in yet another blaze of red, orange and lilac. Then head down into the cellar to fetch one of the dusty bottles of apple wine. And then sometimes he might cross to the small, disused woodstove standing hidden in the darkest and most remote corner. Open the door, poke his hand inside and feel the cold steel of the Heckler & Koch, run his fingertips over the numbers on the barrel.

‘I’m pregnant,’ said Esther.

She stood by the kitchen window with an apple in her hand, looking out across the Bay of Biscay where the livid sky and the whitecaps showed that yet another winter storm was on its way.

Odd put down his pen. He had been writing since morning. He was now several weeks past his deadline. But he was writing again, that was the most important thing. And he was writing well. In fact damned well.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Pretty sure.’ She laid a hand on her stomach as though she could already feel it growing.

‘Well, that’s...’ He looked for the word. And suddenly it was as though his writing block had returned. He knew that there was only one, absolutely correct word. Situations were like bolts. There was one, and only one, nut that fitted. It was just a question of rooting around long enough in the drawer until you found it. In recent weeks the words had just come, presented themselves without his having to look; now, suddenly, it was pitch-dark. Was fantastic the right word? No, getting pregnant was trivial, something nearly all healthy humans could manage. Good? That would sound like a deliberate understatement, ironic and therefore doubly dishonest. During the nine months in which they had lived together he had explained to her that his work was everything; that nothing could be allowed to stand in its way. Not even her, the woman he loved more than anything (more correctly: than any other woman). Catastrophe? No. He knew she wanted to have children. If she never said so explicitly the tacit assumption was that they wouldn’t be spending the rest of their lives together, that at some point she would have to find someone who would be father to her child/children. Now she’d managed it without that, and she was an independent woman who would be very well able to manage as a single mother. So inconvenient, perhaps, but not catastrophic.

‘Well, that’s...’ he repeated.

Did he suspect that she’d done this on purpose? That she’d been careless with her birth pills in order to test him? And if so: had it worked? Too bloody right it had. To his own surprise Odd Rimmen realised that he was, if not happy, then at least pleased. A child.

‘That’s what?’ she asked at length. It was clear he’d missed a deadline here too. Odd stood up and crossed to where she was standing by the window. Put his arms around her as he looked out into the garden. At the big apple tree that after twelve barren years had suddenly started to bear fruit again. As they harvested the big red apples and carried them into the kitchen Esther wondered what the cause might be. He replied that the roots were probably getting richer nourishment than usual. He could see she was going to ask him what he meant by that, and to be honest he didn’t know what he would have said if she’d done so. But she let it pass.

‘That’s a miracle,’ replied Odd Rimmen. ‘Pregnant. A child. It really is a miracle!’

The news that Odd Rimmen had declined the invitation to appear on the world’s biggest talk show circulated for a while, but as far as Odd could see it didn’t have the same effect as the article in the New Yorker and the way he’d turned down the film project. It was as though the story of ‘Odd Rimmen: The Recluse’ had already been taken on board, and this was just one more version of the same thing.

The reason Odd was able to reach this conclusion was that he had once again started using social media and was keeping up with the news. He told himself it was because as a father-to-be he had to emerge from his self-imposed isolation and reconnect with the world, as he put it to Esther.

He travelled with her to London, where she had accepted an invitation to take part in a project aimed at mapping and interviewing the most important female voices in literature, film and music. They lived in a cramped little flat and Odd longed to be back in France.

Each day after Esther left for work he sat down at his laptop and searched out what had been written about him on the internet. In the beginning he had been shocked by how much interest there was, or how much time people obviously had. Not only did they analyse his writing to pieces, they also shared news of where and with whom he had recently been seen (Odd was able to confirm that in ninety per cent of cases it was complete fiction), stories about secret children with secret mothers, what kind of drugs he was into, his probable sexual orientation, and which of his characters was really him. He had to admit all that scribbling delighted him. Yes, even those who criticised him or damned him as an arrogant and out-of-touch wannabe artist made him feel... what was the word? Alive? No. Relevant? Maybe. Noticed? Yes, that was probably it. He was forced to admit that it was banal, even depressing that he was so uncomplicated. That he should long so greatly for something that he despised so much in others, the insistent and irritating cry of the spoiled child to ‘look at me, look at me!’ when there was nothing to see beyond a profound egocentricity.

But naturally, these reflections and this (shall we call it?) self-insight did not stop him searching. He told himself it was important to know his status in the world with a new book about to be published. Because not only was it his best book so far — he’d known that for a long time — it was also — and this was something he’s only recently come to realise — his masterpiece. The only novel he’d written that might turn out to be of lasting value. And because it was a masterpiece, the obvious problem was that it was also very demanding. It had cost him a lot of hard work, and readers would have to work hard on it too. It wasn’t that the writer Odd Rimmen was unaware of the fact that great literature could be exhausting, for he had come close to giving up on both James Joyce’s Ulysses and David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. But since the latter had become his favourite novel he knew he would have to do the same thing: aim for the goal without the slightest deviation. But in order to be a masterpiece, a masterpiece must be presented in the correct context. God alone knows how many masterpieces the world has missed out on, forgotten, or not forgotten but never even discovered, disappearing instead beneath the avalanche of the hundreds and thousands of books published every day all over the world. So, to get some idea of what his own contextual status was, Odd Rimmen began going through stuff on social media chronologically from several years back. He noticed that the number of tweets, references to his name and press stories showed a decline over the past year, and that for the most part those writing now were the same old same olds. And most of them didn’t get out much either.

The book wasn’t due out for another four months (five months to term) and at a meeting at the publishers on Vauxhall Bridge Road Odd Rimmen discussed the launch with Sophie and her very young colleague (Jane something, Odd couldn’t remember the surname).

‘The bad news is that this is of course a difficult book to promote,’ Jane said, as though this was something everybody knew. She adjusted her oversized and presumably trendy spectacles and smiled broadly, showing a lot of gum.

‘What do you mean?’ said Odd, hoping that he didn’t sound as irritated as he was.

‘In the first place it’s almost impossible to describe what it’s about in two or three sentences. Secondly it’s difficult to find a target group beyond the very literary-interested and your own regular readers. Which is one and the same thing really. And that is, anyway, a...’ She exchanged looks with Sophie. ‘...quite small and rather exclusive group.’

She took a deep breath and Odd realised there was a third thing too.

‘Thirdly, it’s a very dark and empty novel.’

‘Empty?’ exclaimed Odd Rimmen, who had no problem with its being dark.

‘Dystopian,’ Sophie added.

‘And there are hardly any characters in it,’ said Jane. ‘At least, not characters the reader can identify with.’

Odd Rimmen realised that the two of them had conferred beforehand. He was at least pleased they hadn’t complained that the new book (Nothing) was lacking in the sex scenes that had become his trademark. He shrugged. ‘It is what it is. Take it or leave it.’

‘OK, but we’re here to focus on how to get them to take it,’ said Sophie. Odd recognised the sharp undertone now.

‘The good news,’ said Jane, ‘is that we have you. You are what the media are interested in. The only question is if you’re prepared to help your book by making public appearances.’

‘Hasn’t Sophie explained it to you yet?’ asked Odd Rimmen. ‘That I help the book by not making public appearances? That — for what it’s worth — is now my image.’ He spat the word with all the contempt he could muster. ‘Surely the sales department doesn’t want to spoil that and ruin the author’s selling point, do they?’

‘Silence can work,’ said Jane. ‘But only for so long, then it gets boring and counterproductive. Look at it like this: what silence has sown we must now reap. Every newspaper and magazine will be standing in line for the first, exclusive interview with the man who stopped talking.’

Odd Rimmen thought about what she’d said. There was something a little strange about the words, some kind of hidden contradiction.

‘If I’m going to prostitute myself anyway, why do so exclusively?’ he asked. ‘Why not the full gangbang, total blanket coverage?’

‘Fewer column inches,’ said Sophie quietly. Her and Jane-something had definitely already talked this over.

‘And why not a talk show?’ he asked.

Jane sighed. ‘Everyone wants to do those, and unless you’re a movie star or a famous athlete or reality star it’s very, very difficult.’

‘But Stephen Colbert...’ Now it was no longer the irritation but the pathos Odd Rimmen hoped they didn’t notice.

‘That was then,’ said Sophie. ‘Doors open, doors close, that’s the way of the world.’

Odd Rimmen sat up straight in his chair, raised his chin, directed his gaze at Sophie. ‘I take it for granted you understand I’m asking out of curiosity, not because there’s any chance of my playing the media clown again. Let the book do its own talking.’

‘You can’t have your cake and eat it,’ said Jane. ‘You can’t both be an icon of cool and be read by the masses. Before we decide on a marketing budget for this book we need to know which is most important to you.’

Odd Rimmen turned slowly, almost reluctantly to face her.

‘And one more thing,’ said Jane-something-or-other. ‘Nothing is a lousy title. No one buys a book about nothing. There’s still time to change it. The marketing department suggested Loneliness. It’s still dark, but at least it’s something a reader can identify with.’

Odd Rimmen turned back to Sophie. The look on her face seemed to say that she felt for him, but that Jane was right.

‘The title stays,’ said Odd Rimmen and got to his feet. Suppressed anger make his voice shake, which made him even more angry, and he decided to shout in order to overcome it. ‘And the title also tells you just how much I intend to contribute to this damned commercial media circus. Fuck them. And fuck...’

He didn’t finish but marched from the room and down the steps, since waiting for a lift that didn’t come might possibly spoil his exit, out through Reception and onto Vauxhall Bridge Road where it was, of course, raining. Fucking shit publisher. Shit town. Shit life.

He crossed the road on green.

Shit life?

He was about to publish the best book he’d written, about to become a father, had a woman who loved him (maybe not expressed quite as openly as in their first days together, but everyone knows the strange effect hormone chaos in a pregnant woman can have on her moods and desires), and had the best job a person can have: to express something that is important to him, to be listened to, to be seen — read, for chrissakes!

And that was exactly what they wanted to take away from him. Take away the only thing he had in life. Because it was the only thing. He could pretend all the rest of it was meaningful. Esther, the child, their life together. And of course it was meaningful. Simply not meaningful enough. No, truly not meaningful enough. He needed it all. The cake and eating it. Jam today and jam tomorrow. Overdose on overdose, he needed to kill off this shit life. Now.

Odd Rimmen stopped abruptly. Stood there until he saw the lights change to red and the cars on both sides begin to rev their engines, like beasts ready to attack.

And it occurred to him that it could stop here, like this. That it wouldn’t be a bad way of ending the tale. Sure. Great writers before him had chosen such an ending. David Foster Wallace, Édouard Levé, Ernest Hemingway. Virginia Woolf, Richard Brautigan, Sylvia Plath. The list went on. It was long. And strong. Death sells. Gore Vidal called it a ‘good career move’ when his fellow writer Truman Capote died; but suicide sells better. Who would still be downloading Nick Drake and Kurt Cobain if they hadn’t both killed themselves? And had the thought really never occurred to him before? Hadn’t it flitted through his mind when Ryan Bloomberg told him to shoot one of them? If only the book had been finished...

Odd Rimmen stepped out into the road.

He had time to hear a cry from the person who had been standing next to him on the pavement before it drowned in the roar of the traffic. He saw the wall of cars on its way towards him. Yes, he thought. But not here, not like this, in a banal road accident that could be dismissed as just bad luck.

The amygdala decided on flight and he just reached the pavement on the far side before the cars flashed past him. He didn’t stop, carried on running, slipping between people on London’s overcrowded pavements, knocking them. Got a few choice swear words in English yelled after him and yelled a few back in French, better ones too. Crossed streets and bridges and open squares, climbed steps. After an hour’s running he finally let himself into the cramped and damp apartment. His clothes, even the jacket, were drenched in sweat.

He sat at the kitchen table with pen and paper and wrote a farewell note.

It only took him a couple of minutes. It was a speech he had given to himself so many times before he didn’t need to weigh the words, didn’t need to edit anything. And on the instant it was back again — the spark. The spark he had lost when Esther entered his life. Rediscovered when he killed Ryan, and almost lost again when Esther got pregnant. And as he placed the suicide note on the kitchen worktop it occurred to him that it was the only absolutely perfect thing he had ever written.

Odd Rimmen packed a small bag and took a taxi to St Pancras, from where an express train to Paris departed every hour.

The house lay dark and silent and waited for him.

He let himself in.

All was as silent as the grave.

He went upstairs, undressed and showered. He thought of Ryan dying on the living-room floor and went to the toilet. He didn’t want to be found with his pants full of excrement and piss. Then he put on his best suit, the one he had been wearing that evening at the Charles Dickens Theatre.

He went down into the cellar. It smelled of apples and he stood still in the middle of the floor, the neon tube in the ceiling blinking on and off as though unable to make up its mind.

Once it had stabilised he crossed to the stove, opened the door and took out the pistol.

He’d seen it in films, read it in books, had even himself declaimed Hamlet’s thoughts on suicide (to be or not to be) when a secondary school student, when he had given a remarkably unsuccessful reading from the play. The hesitation, the doubt, the interior monologue that drags you this way and that. But Odd Rimmen no longer felt any such doubt. One way or another, all roads had been leading here, and this was the right, the only way to end it. So right it wasn’t even sad but quite the opposite. A storyteller’s last triumph. Put your gun where your pen is. And let other so-called writers sit there onstage and bathe in the audience’s bargain-price love, lying to themselves and to everyone else there.

Odd Rimmen released the safety catch and pressed the pistol against his temple.

Already he could see the headlines.

And after that: his place in the history books.

No, Nothing. The novel’s place.

Like that.

He closed his eyes and pressed his index finger against the trigger.

‘Odd Rimmen!’

It was Esther’s voice.

He hadn’t heard her come, but now she was calling his name. She wasn’t far away. Maybe up in the living room. And strangely enough calling his full name, as though she wanted all of him to step forward and show himself.

Odd fired. There was a crackling sound, like the roaring of a fire. As though time was distended by his senses he could hear the powder ignite and burn in superslow motion, the sounds rising to a crescendo of applause.

Odd Rimmen opened his eyes. At least, he thought he opened his eyes. Leastways, he saw it.

The light.

Head for the light. Sophie’s words. The editor he had listened to and trusted all his writing life.

And then he walked towards the light. It blinded him. He saw no one in the darkness behind the light, heard only the crackling applause as it grew even louder.

He bowed slightly and sat down in the chair beside Esther Abbot, the journalist who, despite her rough and almost masculine manner, had a softness about the eyes that he had noticed in the dressing room a few minutes earlier.

‘Let’s get straight to the point, Mr Rimmen,’ said Esther Abbot. ‘I’m sitting here with a copy of The Hill in my hands and we’ll be talking about that. But first: do you think you’ll ever be able to write such a good book again?’

Odd Rimmen peered out across the auditorium. He could make out a few individual faces on the first rows. They stared at him, some half smiling, as though they had already discounted any possibility that he might say something funny or brilliant. And he knew that no matter what he said, he would be given the benefit of every doubt. It was like playing on an instrument that half played itself. All you had to do was touch the keys, open your mouth.

‘You’re the ones who decide what is and isn’t good,’ he said. ‘All I can do is write.’

A sort of sigh passed through the audience. As though they were concentrating in order to penetrate to the real depths of what each individual word meant. Jesus Christ.

‘And that’s exactly what you do, you’re Odd Dreamin’,’ said Esther Abbot as she shuffled her papers. ‘Do you write all the time, make things up all the time?’

Odd Rimmen nodded. ‘All the time. Every spare moment I get. I was writing just now. Just before I walked out onto the stage.’

‘Really? And are you writing this now?’

The audience’s laughter dwindled to an expectant silence as Odd Rimmen turned and looked out towards them. Smiled slightly. Waited. These trembling, breathless, holy moments...

‘I hope not.’

There was a wave of laughter. Odd Rimmen tried not to smile too broadly. But of course it’s hard not to, not when you can feel unconditional love being injected directly into your heart.

The Earring

‘Ouch!’

I looked in the mirror. ‘Something wrong?’

‘This,’ said the fat lady in the back seat, and held up something between her thumb and forefinger.

‘What is it?’ I asked as I switched my gaze back to the road.

‘Can’t you see? An earring. I sat down on it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘A passenger must have lost it.’

‘Well, of course I realise that. But how?’

‘Sorry?’

‘An earring doesn’t just fall off while you’re sitting up straight.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, braking as we approached a red light at the only junction in town. ‘You’re my first passenger today, I’ve only just taken over the car.’

With the cab at a standstill I glanced again at the mirror. The lady was studying the earring. It has probably been lying in the crack between the seats and got squeezed up when her huge arse pressed down the cushions on both sides.

I looked at the earring. And something struck me. I tried to dismiss it at once, because there must have been at least a thousand different varieties of a simple earring like that.

The lady looked up and met my eyes in the mirror. ‘It’s genuine,’ she said, and handed the earring to me. ‘You better try to trace the owner.’

I held it up against the grey morning light. The pin was gold. Jesus. I turned it, and sure enough, there was no engraved logo and no manufacturer’s name. Told myself not to draw any hasty conclusions, one pearl earring looks pretty much like any other pearl earring.

‘It’s green,’ said the lady.

Palle — who owned the taxi — had taken the night shift, so I waited until ten and the cab was parked up at the rank next to the kiosk steps before I phoned him. Twenty years ago Palle had come here from playing second division football for Grenland to help get our team up out of the third tier. If he didn’t manage that then he did manage — at least by his own account — lo bed every available female in the town between the ages of eighteen and thirty.

‘I think we can safely say I was the team’s top scorer,’ he said once in the pub, stroking his magnificent blond moustache between thumb and forefinger. Maybe so, I was just a kid in his playing days and knew only that he’d married one of the more obviously available. She was the daughter of the foreman in the taxi owners’ union, and when Palle retired from football he got his taxi driver’s licence without the waiting period others had to go through. As a subcontracted driver for Palle I’d been waiting five years now with still no sign of that golden ticket.

‘Something wrong?’ Palle asked in that threatening tone he always used whenever I called him during my shift. He was terrified I might have had a crash or that there was a problem with the car, something I knew he’d halfway blame me for, even if it was someone else crashed into me or some mechanical fault in the worn-out old Mercedes that Palle was too mean to book in for regular servicing.

‘Has anyone called in about an earring?’ I asked.

‘Earring?’

‘In the back seat. In the crack between the cushions.’

‘No, but I’ll let you know if I hear anything.’

‘I was wondering...’

‘Yes?’ Palle sounded impatient, as if I’d woken him. The evening shift usually wound down around two o’clock, that being an hour after the two bars closed. After that there was just the one taxi on night shift, a shift that was shared around between the cabs.

‘Did Wenche take our taxi yesterday?’

I knew Palle didn’t like it when I called it our taxi when in actual fact it was his, but now and then I forgot.

‘Is it her earring?’ I heard Palle yawn.

‘That’s what I’m wondering. It’s similar.’

‘So why not ring her instead of waking me up?’

‘Well.’

‘Well?’

‘An earring doesn’t just fall off. Not while you’re sitting up straight,’ I said.

‘It doesn’t?’

‘That’s what people say. Was she in the car yesterday?’

‘Let me think.’ I heard the click of Palle’s lighter at the other end before he continued. ‘Not in my car, but I think I saw her in a taxi queue around one, outside Fritt Fall. I can ask around.’

‘I’m not wondering which taxi Wenche took, I’m wondering who owns the earring,’ I said.

‘Well, can’t help you there, obviously.’

‘You were the one driving.’

‘So what? If it was in the crack between the seats it could have been there for days. And I can’t be expected to remember the name of every fucking fare I pick up. If the earring’s worth something then whoever owns it’ll ring. Did you top up the brake fluid? I nearly ended up in the sea when I started work yesterday.’

‘I’ll do it when things have quietened down a bit,’ I said. It was typical of that miserable bugger Palle to send me to the garage instead of going there himself. As a subcontracted driver I wasn’t paid an hourly rate, all I got was forty per cent of my takings.

‘Remember the hospital pickup at two,’ he said.

‘Sure sure,’ I said and hung up. Studied the earring again. I was hoping like hell I was mistaken.

The rear door opened, and I recognised the smell before I heard the voice. You might think that a taxi driver would get used to the rancid but also sickly-sweet smell that’s a combination of stale and fresh booze once the social security money’s been picked up, a new round of bottles bought, and everything’s set up for a morning session at the home of one of the social security drunks. But the opposite happens. The smell gets worse with each passing year, and nowadays it can really turn my stomach. There was a chinking sound from the off-licence bag and a slurred voice: ‘Nergardveien 12. Chop-chop.’

I turned the key in the ignition. The brake fluid warning light had been blinking for over a week, and you had to press your foot down a little harder on the pedal, but of course Palle was exaggerating when he said he’d almost rolled into the sea, even if the slope down from his garage to the edge of the quay was steep and dangerous in winter. And yes, when I was sick and tired of Palle giving me all the day shifts at the weekends and the night shifts on the weekdays while he helped himself to every shift it was possible to earn good money on, it did happen — when I parked the car outside his garage some winter night and picked up my own car to drive home — that I offered up a silent prayer that he might skid on the ice and I might jump forward one place in the taxi driver’s ticket queue.

‘No smoking in the car please,’ I said.

‘Shut your mouth!’ came a bark from the back seat. ‘Who’s paying for this, you or me?’

That would be me, I thought. I work for forty per cent of the takings, minus forty per cent tax which pays for you to drink yourself to death, and the best I can hope for is that you do it as quickly as possible.

‘What did you say?’ said the voice from the back seat.

‘No smoking,’ I said, and pointed at the sign on the dashboard. ‘There’s a fine of five hundred kroner.’

‘Take it easy, son.’ Cigarette smoke drifted forward between the seats. ‘I’ve got the cash.’

I lowered the windows front and back and thought how that five hundred wouldn’t be on the meter and would go straight into my pocket, because Palle smoked so much there was no chance he would notice the smell. But at the same moment I knew I would actually be a good boy and hand over the five hundred and get nothing myself. Because Palle claimed that it was him who cleaned the inside of the car, something we both knew he never did, that it never happened until it was so filthy inside I ended up doing it because I couldn’t stand it any more.

The meter showed 195 when I pulled up on Nergardveien.

The drunk handed me a 200-krone note. ‘Keep the change,’ he said and was on his way out.

‘Hey!’ I shouted. ‘I want 695.’

‘It says 195.’

‘You smoked in my cab.’

‘I did? Don’t remember. All I remember is that fucking draught.’

‘You were smoking.’

‘Prove it.’

He slammed the door behind him and headed for the entrance to the block to the cheery chinking of the bottles in his bag.

I checked the time. Six hours left of what was already a shitty working day. Then off to my in-laws for dinner. I don’t know which I dreaded more. I took the earring out of my pocket and studied it again. A pin sticking out from the round grey pearl, like a balloon on a string. I was reminded of the time when I was too young to join the National Day parade on 17 May and stood watching it with my grandfather. He had bought a balloon for me, and for just a second I must have lost concentration and let go of the string, because suddenly the balloon was floating high above me, and of course, I bawled. Grandad let me cry myself out, and then he explained why he wouldn’t buy another one for me. ‘It’s to teach you that when you’re lucky enough to get something you wished for, when you’ve been given a chance, you’ve got to hang on to it, because you don’t get second chances here in life.’

And maybe he was right. When I hooked up with Wenche I felt as if I’d been given a balloon I’d been longing for and couldn’t afford but had been given anyway. A chance. And so I’d held on tight. Not slackened my grip, not even for a second. Maybe I held on a little too tight. Now and then it seemed to me I could feel something tugging at the string. Those earrings had been a slightly-too-expensive Christmas gift, at least compared to the Björn Borg underpants she had bought for me. But was this one of those earrings? It looked like it. It actually looked completely identical as far as I could see, but neither this earring nor the ones I had bought had any particular distinguishing marks that would have told me one way or the other. Wenche came home after I fell asleep last night, she’d been on a long-planned pub crawl with two friends, young mothers who’d finally managed to arrange a kid-free night for themselves.

I took the chance to point out to her that it showed you could still have a life, even with kids; but Wenche had just groaned and told me to stop going on, she just wasn’t ready yet. She didn’t specify who it was she wasn’t ready for, me or the kids. She just left it at that. Wenche needed room to breathe, more room than most. I knew that. Yes, I understood. And I really wanted to give it to her, but somehow I just couldn’t. Couldn’t quite manage to slacken my grip on that string enough.

An earring doesn’t just fall off, not while you’re sitting up straight.

If she’s been fooling around with some guy in the back seat with Palle driving she must have been well pissed because she knew he was my employer. But then she could do crazy stuff when she’d been drinking. Like the first time we ever screwed, both of us drunk, two in the morning, and she insisted we do it out on the football pitch, up against one of the goalposts. It was only later I found out she’d had an on — off thing with the goalkeeper and he’d just dumped her.

I got her number up onto the screen, stared at it for a moment, then dropped the phone into the console between the seats and turned up the radio.

I parked outside Palle’s garage at five. By five thirty I’d showered, changed and was in the hall waiting for Wenche, who was in the bathroom putting on make-up and talking on the phone.

‘Yeah yeah yeah!’ she said irritably as she emerged and caught sight of me. ‘We’ll only be even later if you start going on at me.’

I hadn’t said a word and knew that the only thing to do was carry on like that. Keep my mouth shut and keep hold of the string of that balloon.

‘Do you have to stand there like that?’ she groaned as she struggled into her long black boots.

‘Like what?’

‘With your arms folded.’

I unfolded them.

‘And don’t look at your watch,’ she said.

‘I’m not loo—’

‘Don’t even think about it! I’ve told them we’ll be there when we’re there. Christ, you do get on my nerves.’

I went outside and sat in the car. She followed, checked her lipstick in the mirror, and for a while we drove in silence.

‘Who were you talking to on the phone?’ I asked her.

‘Mamma,’ said Wenche, drawing an index finger beneath her lower lip.

‘For so long and just five minutes before you’re due to meet?’

‘Is there a law against that?’

‘Anyone else coming today?’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Besides your parents and us? Since you’re all dolled up.’

‘No harm in trying to look smart if you’re invited out to dinner. You, for example, you could have worn that black blazer instead of looking like someone off for a holiday in his cabin.’

‘Your dad’ll be wearing his knitted sweater, so I’m doing the same.’

‘He’s older than you. It won’t do you any harm to show a bit of respect.’

‘Respect, yeah,’ I said.

‘What?’

I shook my head to say it was nothing. Keep a hold of that string.

‘Nice earrings,’ I said, without taking my eyes off the road.

‘Thanks,’ she said, in a tone almost of surprise, and from the corner of my eye I saw she automatically raised one hand to her ear.

‘But why aren’t you wearing the ones I gave you for Christmas?’ I asked.

‘I wear those all the time.’

‘Yes, so why not now?’

‘Christ, you do go on.’

I could see she was still fiddling with her earrings. Silvery things.

‘I got these from Mum, so maybe she’ll think it’s nice to see me wearing them. OK?’

‘Sure sure,’ I said. ‘I only asked.’

She sighed, shook her head and didn’t have to say it again: I was getting on her nerves.

‘So I hear it’s soon going to be your turn to get a taxi licence,’ said Wenche’s father as he poked the big, three-pronged serving fork into one of the dry slices of roast beef and dumped it onto his plate. I hadn’t tasted it yet, but knew it was dry, they always had roast beef when I was there, and it was always dry. Sometimes I imagined it might be a kind of test, that they were just waiting for the day I threw the plate at the wall and bellowed that I couldn’t fucking stand it any more, not them and not the roast beef and not their daughter. And that they would heave a great sigh of relief.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Brorson inherits the licence when his uncle retires this summer, and I’m next on the list after that.’

‘And how long do you think that might turn out to be?’

‘That depends on when the next taxi owner retires.’

‘I understand that, what I’m asking is, when will that be?’

‘Well. Ruud is the oldest. He’s probably about fifty-five now.’

‘Well then, he might carry on driving for at least another ten years.’

‘Yes.’ I raised the glass of water to my lips, knowing I needed moistening up for the chewing job ahead.

‘I was just reading that Norway has the most expensive taxis in the world,’ said my father-in-law. ‘It’s probably not surprising, bearing in mind we also have the world’s most dysfunctional taxi business. Idiot politicians who let the villains who run the business rob people who have no alternative form of transport and who in any other country would have something approaching a halfway decent taxi service.’

‘You must be thinking of Oslo,’ I said. ‘And don’t forget either, running costs are very high in this country.’

‘There are lots of countries more expensive than Norway,’ said Wenche’s father. ‘And the taxis in Norway are not only the dearest in the world, they’re in a class of their own completely. I read that, in Oslo, five kilometres during daylight hours costs twenty per cent more than in Zurich, the next dearest, and fifty per cent more than in Luxembourg, which is third. Oh yes, you’ve got everyone else on the list beaten hands down. Did you know that in Kiev — which is not even the cheapest city in the world — you can, for the price of one taxi in Oslo, hire not just two. Not three. Not five. Not ten. But twenty. I could transport an entire class of schoolchildren in Kiev for what it costs to drive one poor sod here down to the railway station.’

‘In Oslo,’ I said, and shifted in my seat. The earring in my trouser pocket was sticking into me. ‘Not here.’

‘So what surprises me,’ said Wenche’s father as he wiped his thin lips with a serviette while her mother filled his glass of water, ‘is why a taxi driver in this country, even if he doesn’t own his own car, can’t earn himself a decent annual wage.’

‘Yeah, you tell me.’

‘OK then, I will. In Oslo they issue so many taxi licences that they have to screw up the price to maintain the high standard of living they’ve become accustomed to, which means fewer customers, so prices have to rise even higher, so in the end it’s the handful of people with no alternative form of transport who are being ripped off, so they can keep a whole army of taxi drivers parked up at cab ranks with nothing to do but scratch their arses and complain about people living off unemployment benefit. Whereas in actual fact they’re the ones living off unemployment benefits, only it’s the passengers who are paying for it. So when Uber comes along and shakes things up a bit in a business that’s already a bit shaky, the taxi drivers’ union and all its tax-dodging members fly into a rage and insist on keeping their sole right to get paid for just sitting in a parked-up cab. And the only winner is Mercedes, who can sell cars there’s no use for.’

His voice hadn’t got any louder, only more intense, and I knew that Wenche was looking at me in a sort of amused way. She liked it when her father laid down the law for me like that. She even actually said that the way he acted and spoke was how a real man should, and I should try to learn from him.

‘That, at any rate, is the plan,’ I said.

‘What is?’

‘Wait until I get the licence and then buy a Mercedes there’s no use for.’ I gave a little laugh, but no one else around the table even smiled.

‘See, Amund is the same as the taxi drivers in Oslo,’ said Wenche. ‘He likes to wait in a queue and hope that sooner or later something good will happen. He isn’t a doer, like some I could mention.’

Her mother spoke up and changed the subject, I don’t remember to what, only that I sat there chewing and chewing on a slice of beef that tasted as though it too had had a tough life. And wondered what Wenche had meant by some she could mention.

‘You can drop me off at the pub,’ said Wenche as we drove home.

‘Now? It’s nine o’clock.’

‘The girls are there already. We agreed to meet up for a hair of the dog tonight.’

‘Sounds like a good idea. Maybe I should come along...’

‘The whole point is to get away from the husband and kids for a while.’

‘I could sit at another table.’

‘Amund!’

Don’t hold so hard, I thought. Don’t get cramp in your hand, you’ll lose all feeling, you won’t be able to feel the string.

After letting myself into the house alone I went up to the bedroom and began to rummage through the drawer where Wenche kept her trinkets. I opened jewellers’ boxes and saw rings and gold chains. One of them looked new and I couldn’t remember having seen it before. Then I looked through the earrings. First there was an empty box — that was probably where she kept those silver things she was wearing this evening. Then a pair of unusual-looking pearl earrings with a blue ring that encircled the grey pearls like a narrow equator. She’d got them from her father and called them her Saturn studs. But I didn’t find the earrings I had given her, nor the box they came in. I looked in the other drawers. In the wardrobe. Her toilet bag, her handbags, the pockets of her jackets and trousers. Nothing. What could it mean?

I went into the kitchen, took a beer from the fridge and sat at the kitchen table. I had no proof. I couldn’t be certain, but all the same I knew there was no way round it now. I would have to look through all those half-thoughts I’d been thinking but dismissing and postponing until I found the box with the other stud in it. Until I could be certain.

It wasn’t really the suspicion that Wenche had been fooling around in the back seat that bothered me most. It was Palle denying that Wenche had been in the car at all last night. Why would he lie about that? There were only two possible answers. That he didn’t want to gossip, and perhaps she’d even asked him not to. Or that Palle himself had been the other occupant of the back seat. And once that possibility was raised I couldn’t block out the rest of it either. I visualised Palle’s little arse pumping up and down on Wenche, who was shouting out his name the way she had shouted mine down the football pitch, and continued to do so that first year, until we got married. The mental image made me nauseous. It truly did. Wenche was the best and the worst that had happened to me, but — and this was more important — she was the only thing that had happened to me. Not that I’d been a virgin when I met her, but the others had been the ones anyone could have. Wenche had been the only woman who improved my self-image just by allowing me to screw her. As time went by and it became ever clearer to her that she could have done better than me, naturally she made a point of obliging me to ratchet my self-image back down again. But never back down to the level it had been at before I met her. Wenche was and remained my helium balloon. As long as I held on tight to the string I felt a little lighter, I had a little more lift.

The way I looked at it I had two options. To confront her with the findings and facts. Or keep my mouth shut and just carry on as before. The first option carried the risk of losing both her and the job — at least, if it was Palle who’d been screwing her.

Option two would involve the risk of a loss of self-respect.

My immediate preference was for option two.

But option one, confrontation, naturally also included the possibility that she could invent a completely different explanation for how the earring had ended up between the seats. An explanation I would be able to convince myself was credible. An explanation that meant I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of my life imagining Palle’s ageing but still firm football arse. And maybe the fact that I had confronted her, shown her that I was willing to risk everything, would make her bloody well understand that I was not just somebody who waited around for things to happen to me, that I could act, I could be master of my own fate. That it wasn’t my bloody fault that the licence regulations are the way they are.

Right. I would have to confront her.

I opened another beer and waited. Sweated and waited.

There was a picture of us with our gang on the fridge. It was taken eight years ago, at the wedding, and we all looked so young, younger than those eight years would suggest. Jesus, how proud I was that day. And happy. I believe I can say that: happy. Because I was still at the age when you think that every good thing that happens to you is the start of something, not the end. The thought never occurs that this day, those months, maybe that single year, is all the happiness life has to offer you. I had no fucking idea I was at the top, so I hadn’t taken the time to savour the view but carried on in the belief that there were new heights to be reached. I had seen that picture hanging there for a few thousand days, but this evening it made me weep. Yes it did. I wept.

I checked the time. Eleven. Opened another beer. It eased the pain, but only a bit.

I was about to open a fourth when the phone rang.

I answered in a flash, it had to be Wenche.

‘Sorry for disturbing you this late,’ said a female voice. ‘My name is Eirin Hansen. Is this Amund Stenseth, the taxi driver?’

‘Yes?’

‘I got your number from Palle Ibsen. I believe you might have found the earring I lost in his cab yesterday evening?’

‘What kind...?’

‘An ordinary pearl stud,’ said Eirin Hansen. And if she’d been standing there in my kitchen I would have put my arms around her. My inner jubilation was so great I thought she had to be able to hear it.

‘I’ve got it,’ I said.

‘Oh, what a relief! It was a present from my mother.’

‘Well then, I’m extra pleased I found it,’ said I, and thought how fantastic it was that I could be sharing so much joy and relief over the phone with Eirin Hansen, a complete stranger to me.

‘Isn’t it strange,’ I said, ‘how when you get bad news one day that turns out to be wrong, the day becomes even better than it was before you got the bad news?’

‘I’ve never thought about it but yes, you might be right,’ she said with a laugh.

I know it was the euphoria, but I thought Eirin Hansen’s laughter sounded so good, she sounded like a nice person. In fact, she even sounded as if she was quite beautiful.

‘Where and when can I, er... pick up the earring?’

For a moment I was on the point of suggesting I take it to her there and then, wherever she was, before I regained control of the thoughts and feelings that were racing through me.

‘I’m driving a day shift tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Call me and I’ll let you know when I’m at the taxi rank by the kiosk near the steps, or at least nearly there.’

‘That’s wonderful! Thank you so much, Amund!’

‘No problem, Eirin.’

We ended the call. And with the joy still singing away inside me I drank the rest of the beer.

It was gone midnight by the time Wenche crept into bed. She probably knew I wasn’t asleep, but she kept very quiet and moved around very carefully. I heard her lying down behind my back and sort of hold her breath, as if she was listening to mine. Then I fell asleep.

Next day I woke up bright and raring to go.

‘What’s up with you?’ Wenche asked over breakfast.

‘Nothing.’ I smiled. ‘You’re still not wearing my earrings.’

‘Will you stop going on about those?’ she groaned. ‘I lent them to Torill, she thought they looked so good on me and asked if she could borrow them for the office party. I’m meeting her tonight and I’ll get them back then, OK?’

‘It’s nice that other people think they suit you,’ I said.

She gave me a funny look as I drained the rest of my coffee and with wings on my heels almost flew out the room.

I felt like a teenager on his first date, excited and afraid at the same time.

After parking at Palle’s I got into the taxi and coasted down the slope. I could feel the brake pedal was even slacker and I called the garage and asked Todd if he could fix it tomorrow.

‘I could, but if you can bring it in today that gives us more time,’ said Todd.

I didn’t reply.

‘I get it,’ Todd said, and I could hear him grinning. ‘Palle’s driving the day shift tomorrow and you’re pissed off it’s always you who has to spend his shift at the garage.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

At ten the phone rang.

I saw from the display it was Eirin.

‘Hi,’ was all I said.

‘Hi,’ she said, as though she knew she didn’t have to give her name, that I recognised her number. And didn’t her voice sound a little tense, almost nervous? Maybe not, maybe it was just that I wanted her to sound like that.

We agreed to meet at the taxi rank at ten thirty. I did one quick pickup and afterwards parked the taxi and waved Gelbert’s and Axelson’s cabs in ahead of me. While I was waiting I tried not to think. Because now all the fantasies, all the expectations that had been fighting for a place in my brain were as nothing; soon I would know.

The passenger door opened, and I smelled the perfume before I heard the voice. A meadow in flower outside a cabin in June. Apples in August. The western wind on the sea in October. Sure, I know I’m exaggerating, but those really were the associations I got.

‘Hello again.’ She sounded slightly out of breath, as if she’d been walking quickly. She was perhaps a little older than I’d imagined. The voice was younger than the face, in a manner of speaking. Maybe she thought something similar about me, that I’d seemed more attractive on the phone, I don’t know. But Eirin had been beautiful once, there was no doubt about that. Available, I thought. Yes, I actually did, I thought that word, Palle’s word. Doable. Did I want to? Yes, I wanted to.

‘Thank you so much for looking after my earring for me, Amund.’

So she got straight to the point. As though she wanted to get it over with. I don’t know whether from shyness, nervousness or because I’d been a disappointment to her.

‘Here it is,’ I said and handed her the stud. ‘At least, if it’s the right one I found.’

She examined the earring. ‘Oh yes,’ she said slowly. ‘You found the right one.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘I guess it’s so unusual it wouldn’t have been easy to find a match for the one that was left.’

‘True, true.’ She nodded as she stared hard at the earring, as though she didn’t dare look at me. As though something she didn’t want to happen would happen then.

I said nothing, felt just the hammering of my pulse in my throat, beating so hard that I knew if I tried to talk the tremor in my voice would betray me.

‘Well, thanks again,’ said Eirin as she fumbled for the door handle. Probably, like me, she’d felt a moment’s panic. Naturally. She was sitting there with a wedding ring on her finger. She was wearing make-up, but the morning light was pitiless. She was at least five, perhaps ten years older than me. But certainly still doable. And she would definitely have been doable back when I was a young lad.

‘Do you know Palle?’ I asked, without a tremor in my voice.

She hesitated. ‘Well, know him and know him.’

That was all I needed. An earring doesn’t fall off, not while you’re sitting up straight. I glanced in the wing mirror. It looked as if it had taken a knock and needed tightening.

‘Looks like I’ve got a fare,’ I said.

‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘But thanks again.’

‘You’re welcome.’

She got out and I watched her as she crossed the square.

She didn’t know it, no one knew it, but I had just stepped out of jail. I was outside now, breathing in that unfamiliar air, savouring the new and frightening freedom. Now it was just a question of carrying on, exploiting it, not slipping back into old ways and ending up back inside the walls again. I should probably be able to manage that. And with what I did next I would demonstrate it to myself.

By the time it turned five o’clock I’d had a good day. I’d even got a few tips, something that rarely happened. Was it because of the unusually good mood I was in? The new me, so to speak?

I parked the cab in Palle’s garage. He kept his tools hanging on the wall, and it took me twenty minutes to do the job that had to be done.

I got into my own car, called Wenche and told her I’d bought a bottle of white wine to have with dinner, her favourite type.

‘What is it with you?’ she asked again, only this time without the tone of annoyance she used at breakfast. Almost curious. And why not? Now I was a new me, maybe I could be a new me for her too.

I was humming I drove along, one hand on the wheel. Steering. I liked steering. The other hand was in my trouser pocket and I was thinking about the brake fluid I’d drained back there in the garage. Wondered what it was Palle had on Eirin, or did they have something on each other? Wondered how far back the two of them went. Long enough at least for him to be able to ask her to step up once he realised I was bound to make the connection between him, the earring and Wenche. He’d probably called Wenche immediately after I rang him to ask about the earring. And she’d immediately hidden the box with the one remaining earring. It was a smart move to claim she’d lent them to a friend. She was going out tonight, yes, but she wouldn’t be meeting Torill or any of her other friends, she’d be meeting Palle who, according to plan, would have the earring I’d given to Eirin. But Wenche would never get that earring from Palle. And not because Palle had noticed the earrings Wenche was wearing as they lay there in the back seat. There’s no way he would have noticed that the earring Eirin handed to him had a narrow band around it, like a blue equator. No way.

No, Palle wouldn’t be giving Wenche the Saturn stud. And he wouldn’t be giving her any lost earring either. And she would never know they’d been tricked, the pair of them. Because from this afternoon onwards, Palle will no longer be among us, as they say. And she’ll have to make do with what she has. Meaning me. But I think she’ll get to like me. The new me. Next in line for a taxi licence following Palle’s unexpected demise. I smiled to myself in the mirror, steering with one hand, the other in my pocket, where I held the pin of the pearl earring I had once given Wenche. Held it gently, but firmly. The way you hold a balloon on a string.