Burned

Chapter 21

Henning’s flat reminds him of a garage sale. He doesn’t like garages. He doesn’t know why, but they make him think of cars, idle engines, closed doors and screaming families.

Back in Klofta, the Juuls’ garage contained tyres that should have been thrown out long ago, ancient and unusable bicycles, rusty gardening tools, leaking hoses, bags of shingle, skis no one ever used, tins of paint, paintbrushes, logs stacked against the wall. Even though Henning’s father never tinkered with any of the cars he owned, the place always smelled like a garage. It smelled of oil.

The smell of oil will always remind him of his father. He doesn’t remember all that much about him, but he remembers his smell. Henning was fifteen years old when his father died suddenly. One morning, he simply failed to wake up. Henning had got up early; he had an English test later that day. His plan was to do some last-minute revision before the rest of his family stirred, but Trine was already awake. She was sitting on the bathroom floor, her legs pulled up to her chest. She said:

He’s dead.

She pointed to the wall, the wall to their parents’ bedroom. She wasn’t crying, she merely kept saying:

He’s dead.

He remembers knocking on the door, even though it was ajar. The door to his parents’ bedroom was always closed. Now it swung open. His father lay there with his hands on the duvet. His eyes were shut. He looked at peace. His mother was still asleep. Henning went over to his father’s side of the bed and looked at him. He looked like he was sleeping. When Henning shook him, he didn’t move. Henning shook him again, harder this time.

His mother woke up. At first, she was startled, wondering what on earth Henning was up to. Then she looked at her husband — and screamed.

Henning doesn’t remember much of what happened next. He only recalls the smell of oil. Even in death, Jakob Juul smelled of oil.

*

After a breakfast consisting of two cups of coffee with three sugars, Henning decides to go to work. It is only 5.30 a.m., but he thinks there is no point in hanging around the flat.

He visualises the sea as he turns into Urtegata. He should be feeling tired, but the coffee has woken him up. Solvi isn’t there yet, but he visualises her, too, as he swipes his card.

There is only one other person in the office when he arrives. The night duty editor is hunched over his keyboard, sipping a cup of coffee. Henning nods briefly to him as they make eye contact, but the duty editor soon returns to his screen.

Henning lets himself sink into his squeaking chair. He catches himself wondering when Iver Gundersen gets to work, if he is post-coital and glowing, if it’s plain for all to see that Nora gave him a good start to the day.

By the time Henning snaps out of his self-flagellating fantasy, he could have sworn he could detect Nora’s scent. A hint of coconut against warm skin. He doesn’t recall the name of the lotion, the one she loved and which he loved that she wore. But he can smell coconut all around him. He turns, gets halfway up from his chair and looks around. The duty editor and he are the only two people there. And yet he can smell coconut. Sniff, sniff. Why can’t he recall the name of that lotion?

The scent disappears as quickly as it came. He falls back into his chair.

The sea, Henning, he tells himself. Focus on the sea.