Bad Intentions

CHAPTER 29

Axel Frimann was speechless when Reilly told him about the letter and his silence lasted for quite some time. Reilly pressed his mobile to his ear. He could clearly visualise Axel’s jaw muscles twitching as he reacted to the news.

‘Bloody hell,’ he heard.

And he repeated the oath with more emphasis.

‘Bloody hell.’

While he waited for Axel to continue, Reilly wandered around the flat in circles. The kitten chased him and clawed at his trouser leg.

‘Jon has exposed us,’ Axel said.

‘Never,’ Reilly said.

‘Who else could it be?’ Axel said. ‘Use your head, man!’

Reilly carried on wandering; the kitten carried on stalking him.

‘Posted locally?’ Axel asked.

‘Yes. Nice envelope. Nice paper and pen. Capital letters.’

‘Nice paper? A girl’s behind it,’ Axel declared. ‘It’s got to be Molly.’

‘But it says “we”,’ Reilly reminded him. ‘“We know what you did.”’

Axel fell silent again and Reilly wondered if he, too, was walking around his flat but in larger circles, as his living room was three times bigger.

‘I think we may have to go away for a while,’ he heard Axel say.

Reilly stopped pacing. From where he was standing, he could see the letter lying on the table, shiny and white.

‘I have work,’ he said. ‘I can’t go away.’

‘For a couple of days, I mean,’ Axel said. ‘We’ll go this Friday. You’ve got the weekend off, haven’t you? We’ll go up to Dead Water. We need a break. And we need to discuss some important stuff. There’s a lot at stake. Wouldn’t you agree?’

Reilly stared out at the autumn weather. The wind was rising and the treetops outside his window were swaying.

‘I’ll buy some delicious food,’ Axel tempted him. His voice was enticing. He wanted to enforce his will. ‘I’ll pick you up around six,’ he added. ‘Reilly, are you listening?’

‘But why are we running away?’ Reilly asked. ‘Someone saw us. They’re watching our every move. It’s only a matter of time before they come knocking on my door.’

‘Everything is a matter of time,’ Axel said. ‘The world will end, it’s only a matter of time. You and I are going to die, it’s only a matter of time. We’ve made it this far and we’ll manage the rest.’

Reilly finally agreed to a weekend at the cabin. For years now he had allowed himself to be controlled by Axel’s strong will. When the conversation was over, he sat in his chair for a long time with the kitten on his lap. He took some GHB, but it failed to calm him, so he took some more, and then he grew agitated. He was starting to have doubts. Why did Axel want to go to Dead Water? What were his motives? He glanced at the letter again.

We are watching you. How? he wondered. Were they following him in the street? Were they waiting outside the hospital when he turned up for work? Were they hiding behind the screens in the corridors watching all his mistakes as he wandered aimlessly, still unsure of his way around the vast building? Did they know that he had wheeled a ninety-year-old woman into the maternity ward and that Nader had slapped his thighs and laughed with his bright white Arab teeth when he heard about it? Did Axel know that he was losing his grip? That he sat on the sofa with the kitten all day long, seeking refuge in substance abuse, that he was no longer capable of taking pleasure in anything but turned to the Koran, actively seeking condemnation in order to torment himself and to atone for what they had done? Perhaps the trip to Dead Water is a trap? He shuddered. Axel wants to make sure he’s still in control. He will never give that up. I’ve got to be on my guard.

His mother looked perplexed as she opened the door.

‘Philip,’ she said. ‘Is that you? Is something wrong?’

Instantly she thought that something bad had happened. It was as if she could smell it. She looked at him through greasy spectacles before quickly raising her hand and patting him on the arm. As always, her hair was aggressively permed, and she wore down-at-heel sandals that creaked as she walked. He entered and passed her. There was a smell of fried food mixed with sour tobacco coming from the kitchen.

‘No,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘I’m just here to get something.’

She closed the door after him and walked through the house. The floorboards creaked too. She sounded like an old cart rolling across the floor. She was very bowlegged. It had got worse over the years, as if her bones were softening. You could roll a barrel through those legs, he thought.

‘But you can stay for a while, can’t you?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got fresh spice cake. Sit down and I’ll make you a cup of coffee. By the way, have you seen the newspapers? They found that boy, you know the one who went missing right before Christmas. You were at that party with him. Did you see it, Philip? About the Vietnamese boy.’

‘Yes.’

She disappeared into the kitchen and called towards the living room.

‘Have the police been round to talk to you again?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They’re talking to everyone. It’s the same drill as before. They’ve interviewed all sixteen of us again.’

He sat down in an armchair and drummed his fingers on the armrest while he listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen, the clattering of cups, running water, a knife on a chopping board. Everything about her was energetic and there was force behind everything she did, a raw decisive power. Five minutes later she returned with a tray. He thought that some of her greying hair was bordering on green, like lichen in the mountains. He wanted to give her something, but he was far too wound up to be generous, so he replied mechanically to all her questions.

‘And what about Axel?’ she wanted to know.

‘Well, Axel,’ he said evasively. ‘We stick together, you know. As always.’

‘It must be strange Jon not being there,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is strange.’

‘Poor Jon Moreno.’

‘Yes, that was bad.’

‘I’ve heard some nasty rumours,’ she said.

His heart skipped a beat.

‘That you couldn’t carry his coffin. That you dropped it with a crash.’

‘Some dog ruined it all,’ he said. ‘It came at us and we lost our balance.’

‘Oh? They said it was a white poodle.’

He helped himself to a slice of spice cake. It crumbled into small pieces, which he pushed together with his fingers. She sat down across from him. Her faded dress was covered with tiny holes from cigarette sparks.

‘So what have you come to get?’ she asked, munching her cake. ‘The shed is nearly empty, you know, there’s nothing there, Philip, no clothes or old sports equipment. You and sports, ha ha. I can picture it. You in hockey clothes, Philip. Or swinging a golf club.’

Reilly slurped his coffee. He watched her furtively. She might be unkempt, but she was no fool. Her mouth lived a life of its own. All sorts of superficial nonsense poured out of her mouth, while her brain reasoned sharply and wisely. But she was not sentimental. She dealt only in reality. She had made her fair share of packed lunches for him over the years, she had put her clumsy signature on his school report, she had washed his clothes, she had cooked and cleaned and put food on the table. And she thought that this made her a mother. I don’t like you, he thought, but you would never notice because it requires a sensitivity which you don’t possess.

‘No,’ he cleared his throat. ‘This is something I’ve always wanted. And it’s not as if you need it.’

She frowned.

‘Dad’s old revolver.’

She put down her cup with a bang. He thought the saucer would shatter.

‘Revolver? What do you want that for?’

He managed a smile though it felt like a snarl.

‘I’ve always fancied that revolver,’ he said. ‘It’s my inheritance. The fact that it was in the war appeals to me.’

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her fingers were stained yellow with nicotine.

‘But, strictly speaking, you’re not legally allowed to have it, are you?’ she said. ‘Dad had a licence. You don’t. Or have you got yourself a licence?’

He tried to act casual. ‘It’s not as if I’m thinking of shooting anyone,’ he said. ‘I just want to have it lying around. In a drawer.’

She took a second piece of cake and started to chew with her mouth open. Her tongue was pale and grey.

‘Of course you can have the old revolver,’ she said. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. You’ve never mentioned it before, and it’s been here for God knows how many years. And you’re a man of peace, so to speak. But you need to keep it in a locked cabinet. You could get fined.’

‘I will. Don’t nag.’

He took another slice of cake from the plate. There was nothing wrong with her baking. The cake tasted of cinnamon, ginger and cardamom and it was rich with butter. His fingers were greasy.

‘I’ve got myself a kitten,’ he said.

‘God Almighty. What are you going to do with it?’

She reached for the pouch of Petterøe loose tobacco lying on the coffee table and fished out a pinch.

‘A kitten?’ she said again. ‘Please tell me it’s not a female, it’ll have kittens before you know it. They’ll take over your whole flat and then you’re stuck with them. You’ll end up having to drown them in a tub because nobody wants them. They’re nothing but trouble.’

‘It’s a tom,’ he said quickly. ‘It keeps me company. But it’s an indoor cat. It follows me everywhere. It lies in my lap and on my bed.’

‘You’ll never grow up,’ she declared. ‘A kitten in your bed. You’re a grown man. Anyone would think you’d been deprived of something when you were little.’

Her lips tightened around the cigarette. Sparks scattered in her lap, but she was oblivious to them.

They sat at the coffee table for a while. She chatted away. He was happy to make the right noises, and she did not register his lack of interest. Then he thanked her for the coffee and cake, pushed back his chair and nodded towards the cabinet where his father’s old Enfield revolver was kept. Next to the weapon was a box of ammunition. He took that from the cabinet as well.

‘You’re taking the bullets too?’ she frowned. ‘What do you need them for?’

‘They’re part of it,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you pleased to be rid of them?’

‘They must be stored separately,’ she dictated. ‘The bullets. And the revolver. It’s the law.’

It seemed as though she had changed her mind and wanted to hold on to the revolver after all. A sudden suspicion had flared up in her eyes.

‘But you’ve been storing them in the same cabinet all the time,’ he protested.

She shrugged. Then she hurried out into the kitchen and started opening cupboards.

‘There’s something else,’ she called out, ‘as you’re here with your hand out anyway.’

He waited patiently. He held the revolver with awe; it was surprisingly heavy. He heard clattering and mumbling. Now where did I leave it, and then, oh yes, there it is. My, oh my, it’s good stuff this. Finally he heard a brief laugh. She reappeared. He stared at the object in her hands. A glass bottle in the shape of a Viking ship.

‘Cognac,’ she explained. ‘Dad got it for his fiftieth birthday, remember? From his mates at the foundry.’

‘Cognac?’ he said.

‘Yes, do you get it? Your ship has come in,’ she giggled. ‘I believe it’s very good cognac too, but alcohol in a ship-shaped bottle is ridiculous. Take it, please,’ she ordered him. ‘It’s Larsen. I don’t drink cognac.’

‘Neither do I,’ he said.

‘And it’s well matured now,’ she went on, as though she hadn’t heard him. ‘Remember, it needs to be served at room temperature.’

He accepted the cognac ship. He felt like an idiot.

‘I don’t drink cognac,’ he repeated.

She continued to ignore him.

‘You never know what life might throw at you,’ she went on, ‘and the day will come when you’ll need a stiff cognac, believe you me. Then you’ll be glad you have some Larsen. Real men drink cognac,’ she concluded.

He nodded. He moved towards the door in an attempt to leave. She followed him in her creaking sandals.

‘I was wondering,’ she said. ‘Do you still see Valentino?’

She meant Axel.

‘Is he one of those who prefer men?’ she wanted to know. She winked at him as she said it.

Reilly shrugged. ‘That’s just a joke. He flirts with everyone.’

‘He certainly is a bit peculiar,’ she said, shaking her head. Her curls didn’t move a millimetre. But she was smiling now. Women tended to do that whenever they thought of Axel Frimann.

‘I need something to carry this in,’ Reilly said.

She popped into a closet and came out holding a dreadful plastic bag with pink handles.

‘That’s the worst bag I’ve ever seen,’ he said. ‘I can’t walk down the street with that.’

‘Have you turned into a show-off like Axel?’ she asked.

That evening he got very high. Afterwards he went on the Internet to read about the revolver he now owned. There were several models, but he soon pinpointed the one lying on the table. It had been in his family since the war and was a British handgun produced by the government-owned Royal Small Arms Factory in Enfield. The first model was used by the police and a later one had been standard issue in the Second World War. The revolver weighed 765 grams and the chamber held six bullets. He also learned that when he cocked the hammer he could fire all six bullets in one sequence. He got up from his chair, raised the revolver and aimed it at a jar on the windowsill. Axel may have made plans, he thought. But with this in my hand, I’m in control.