Burned

Chapter 67

When Henning arrives at the office an hour later, he senses immediately that the mood has changed. Yes, it’s a Friday, and Fridays have their own momentum, but it’s like Christmas has come early. He can tell from people’s smiles, hear it in their carefree laughter, see it in the relaxed way a woman moves, as he passes her on the stairs.

He walks down the narrow corridor and into the kitchenette, where the coffee machine stands strangely abandoned. It is just after 3 p.m. There are still plenty of people around. Kare Hjeltland is hovering behind a journalist at the news desk, as usual.

‘Henning!’ he shouts, when their eyes meet. He gives the journalist some instructions and races to the kitchenette. Henning takes a step back in anticipation of Kare’s impact, so as not to be knocked over. Heidi crosses behind Kare. She sees them, but she doesn’t join them.

‘Have you seen Iver’s story?’ Kare roars.

‘Eh, no?’

‘He has solved the Hagerup case. The stoning, all of it. I believe there was a showdown in the tent at Ekeberg Common earlier today. Bloody hell. Our hits are GOING THROUGH THE ROOF! Fuck, FUCK!’

Kare laughs out loud and slaps Henning on the shoulder, hard.

‘Are you coming with us after work? We’ve got to celebrate this.’

Henning hesitates.

‘It’s Friday, for God’s sake.’

‘Is Iver coming?’

Not that it would make a difference either way, but he prefers to know.

‘No. He’s on 17.30 on Radio 4 later today. Got to stay sober. And he has a TV talk show afterwards, I don’t remember which one, ha-ha.’

At that moment, Gundersen comes out from the lavatory. He wipes his wet hands on his worn, slightly mucky jeans, but stops mid-movement when he sees Henning. They look at each other. Kare shouts something Henning fails to hear. He looks at Gundersen, who nods cautiously. There is gratitude in his eyes combined with a strange mix of respect and wonder.

‘Some other time,’ Henning says to Kare. ‘I’m meeting someone.’

‘Oh, no,’ Kare exclaims. ‘What a shame.’

Gundersen starts walking in their direction, but passes them without saying anything. His eyes flicker as he scratches his stubble. Henning smiles to himself.

‘Got to go,’ he says, looking at Kare.

‘Okay. See you on Monday.’

When he steps outside, the afternoon has turned colder, more merciless. He wraps his jacket tightly around his body. He is walking towards the black gate, wondering where the nearest off-licence is, when he hears a voice.

‘Juul!’

He turns around. The voice belongs to a man Henning recognises. The sun reflects in his sunglasses. Now that Ray-Ban is close to him, he sees what Gunnar Goma saw when he peered out through his spyhole. The hair looks like it has been painted on to his skull. The pattern resembles corn circles. A thick, shiny chain dangles around his neck. He wears a black leather jacket, which undoubtedly has a flame motif on its back.

‘Do you see that car over there?’ the man says, indicating a black car outside the gate. ‘Go over to it. If you scream or try anything, we’ll kill your mum.’

He receives a persuasive nudge to his chest. Henning starts to move. He glances from side to side, looking for faces, but he sees no one he can wink or make a hidden gesture to. His pulse is throbbing in his neck. He is walking, but he can’t feel the ground.

What the hell do I do now, he thinks?

The man in the driver’s seat stares at him as Henning approaches the car. His left arm leans on the windowsill. One finger is bandaged. Gunnar Goma doesn’t miss a trick, Henning thinks, although he hasn’t picked up anything remotely camp about the men.

‘Drive,’ orders the man, who sits down next to Henning in the rear. The car accelerates. Henning is forced back into his seat. The car hums contentedly, but he is incapable of paying attention it, the people or the surroundings they pass. Again he thinks that he ought to alert someone, signal that he is being kidnapped, but what will happen to his mother then? And what’s going to happen to him?

‘We’re on our way.’

The driver is talking into a small microphone. He wears an earpiece.

What do you do when you can see no future? Henning has asked himself that question many times in the last two years, standing in the shadow, feeling it was about to swallow him up. There are no comforting words like when he was little and his mum would kiss everything better and he would know it was all going to be all right; there is nothing. Calm down, it will pass. The fear is paralysing, like frost. Floating on the gentle sea won’t help you now, Henning. The only one who can, is you.

But how? What do you do? What do you say?

They haven’t been driving for long, but before he realises where they are the car has disappeared into a car wash. It grows dark around them. The car has stopped, but nobody gets out. Behind them, the door rolls down slowly.

Henning feels a pistol in his side. He hears himself gasp.

‘Get out.’

He stares at the weapon, pressed against one of his ribs.

‘Get out, I said.’

The voice is deep. Henning opens the door and steps out on to a wet concrete floor. It smells the way it always does in a car wash. A mixture of humidity and some indeterminate detergent. But there are no other cars around. And it isn’t an automatic one, where you drive the car in yourself and the machine does all the work, apart from wash the car properly.

The door closes with a bang and the walls echo. Why didn’t I say anything about this to Bjarne, he wonders, why didn’t I say that I had unfinished business with Bad Boys Burning, that they had been to my flat and stolen my computer, that they’ve been following me? Brogeland had already mentioned it. That these guys were hardcore. Christ, even Nora warned me.

Nora, he thinks. Will I ever see you again?

A door opens. Henning sees a glass cage. A man comes out, smiling.

‘Henning,’ he says, as though he is greeting an old friend. Henning doesn’t reply. He merely looks at the smiling man.

‘I’ve many names, but everyone calls me Hassan,’ he says, holding out his hand. Henning takes it and squeezes it. Hard. Hassan’s smile reveals a gold tooth in the upper row of otherwise healthy teeth and gums. He wears a vest and has a gold chain around his neck. Henning stares at the tattoos on Hassan’s arms. There is a green frog on one and a black scorpion on the other. Frogs live on land and in water. At night, they prefer to be on dry land. They hunt invertebrates there. During the day, they hide from predators in shaded and damp places. Scorpions are mainly nocturnal. And they have a vicious sting.

Hassan strokes his beard.

‘So,’ he says, circling Henning. ‘Perhaps you know why you’re here?’

Henning gestures towards his wet clothes.

‘I don’t suppose I’m here to have a shower.’

Hassan laughs out loud. The sound sets off a hollow echo around the walls. Hassan looks at his men while he carries on moving.

‘You’ve been making things difficult for me,’ Hassan says, without looking at him. Henning stands motionless on the floor, concentrating on his breathing. He is only just holding it together; at any moment he could crumple, lose contact with the ground and collapse. His thoughts are all over the place, he tries to contain them, but he is paralysed by an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. Perhaps it’s meant to be this way, he thinks, it’s what he has coming. What he deserves. No one is on his side when push comes to shove.

Don’t show your fear, he tells himself. Don’t let them see you at your most pathetic, stripped of honour and dignity. If you’re about to die, then go out with your head held high.

The thoughts are like a kick up the backside. And that’s why he says:

‘I’ve worked it out.’

Hassan stops

‘You have?’

‘Yes, it wasn’t difficult. Yasser Shah, one of your thugs, is wanted by the police because he killed Tariq Marhoni. It’s not easy being you right now with so much heat around. Have you seen Heat, Hassan? Al Pacino and Robert De Niro?’

Hassan smiles, but shakes his head. He starts circling him again.

‘A classic. The point is, if you want to be a successful criminal, don’t fill your life with anything you aren’t willing to leave in thirty seconds, if it gets too hot. And you have no plans to leave, have you, Hassan?’

Hassan laughs briefly, but he doesn’t reply.

‘Then we have a problem.’

Hassan looks at Henning.

‘We?’

‘Surely you’re not dumb enough to kill me, just because Yasser Shah didn’t do his job properly?’

Hassan’s steps shorten. Henning decides to keep talking while Hassan reviews his options.

‘Yasser Shah is on the run from the police, who can link Tariq Marhoni’s brother to you, and it doesn’t take much imagination to work out that they’ll turn the heat up on you from now on. You see, Mahmoud Marhoni is about to be released from custody. Detective Inspector Brogeland told me so an hour ago. Do you know what else he told me?’

Henning doesn’t wait for a response.

‘He said that Mahmoud has enough evidence to bring you down. In which case, is it a stupid or a smart move to kill a journalist, even though he witnessed a killing you ordered?’

‘One killing more or less makes very little difference,’ Hassan says brusquely and looks to the others for confirmation. ‘Besides, no one will ever find you.’

‘No, perhaps not. But if you think it’s going to make your life easier, you’re wrong. You drug dealers bumping each other off is one thing. Most people don’t have a problem with that. But murdering a journalist — now that’s something else. We journalists aren’t always popular, far from it, and many people would happily tell you that they loathe us, but deep down, I think they’re glad that we exist. And, if anyone kills a reporter or makes him disappear because he was doing his job, there’ll be hell to pay, believe you me. The police already know you’ve taken an interest in me and, if you think it’s bad now, then wait and see what happens from tomorrow onwards, when they start looking for me. Brogeland offered me protection against you, but I declined. Do you know why? Because I’ve no intention of going into hiding or looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life and because I don’t think you’re stupid enough to make it worse for yourself by hurting me. But if you want to kill me, Hassan, then do it now, don’t hesitate. You’ll be doing me a huge favour.’

His voice sounds thick against the walls. His heart is pounding. He looks at Hassan, who is still prowling around. His shoes make soft, slurping noises against the wet floor. The rest of the gang are following their boss with their eyes.

‘What happened to your face?’ Hassan asks after a while.

Henning sighs. Perhaps it’s right that Jonas is here now, he thinks. My lovely, lovely boy. He remembers the leap through the flames, how he tried to shield his face with his hands and arms, his hair which caught fire, the burning and the stinging, Jonas’s eyes when he saw him, how he helped extinguish the flames before they got to them.

He remembers them standing on the balcony, greedy flames chasing them from the living room, he remembers how Jonas looked to him for support and safety, the words he said to him, words he will never forget, it’ll be fine, don’t be scared, I’ll take care of you, he remembers how they climbed up on the top rail of the balcony, he grabbed hold of his son’s hand, looked into his eyes and said it was only a little jump and they would be safe, but it was so cold, it had been raining for days, the railing was slippery, he felt it as he climbed it, but he thought that it didn’t matter what happened to him, as long as I save Jonas, I need to land first, so I can cushion his fall, Jonas can land anywhere on me, it doesn’t matter as long as he survives, and Jonas resisted, he cried, he said he didn’t want to, he was too scared, but Henning made him, his voice became strict, he said that they had to, or they would both die, he promised they would go fishing next weekend, just the two of them, once they were back on the ground, and finally Jonas nodded, shedding tears of bravery, he pulled himself together, he was a big boy. Henning’s eyes were stinging and he struggled to find his way, but he had to make it, had to be in front and do all he could do to save his son. He climbed up on the railing, he balanced on the top, he grabbed hold of Jonas’s trembling hands, lifted him up, reassured him once more, those damn words, but when he looked down, when he tried to look down, he got dizzy, everything started spinning, there was a smell of burning from the flat or perhaps it was coming from his own face, smoke was pouring from the balcony door, which they had left open, but it was now or never, they had to jump, he took a small step to steady himself, only to discover there was nothing under his feet, the railing was gone, so was his hold, so was the child in his arms, Jonas, where the hell is Jonas, he couldn’t see anything, his eyes were stuck together, and he floated, he fell towards the ground, anticipated the impact, felt it even before it came; he was trapped by a wall of darkness, and he saw nothing, he felt nothing, he sensed nothing, everything was darkness, the darkness was total.

He had never seen darkness before. Never seen what the darkness could conceal.

But he saw it then.

Jonas was scared of the dark.

How he loved Jonas.

Jonas.

‘My flat burned down,’ he says, quietly. ‘Do you have children, Hassan?’

Hassan shakes his head and scoffs.

‘Not going to have any, either.’

Henning nods.

‘Let’s get it over with,’ he says, filled with serenity. He is ready. It doesn’t matter. Let eternity come. Hassan stops right in front of him. He takes out a pistol. He raises it, making sure that Henning has seen it, and presses it against his forehead.

And now the darkness returns, the darkness I’ve been waiting for, where dawn never breaks, where voices fall silent, dreams are still and the flames have gone. Come to me. Take me to the land of the dead, but please, let there be someone waiting for me.

He waits for a bang, or maybe just a puff or a pop, if Hassan uses a silencer. Henning wonders if he will hear anything before his head explodes in a mass of blood and brains. Death is terrible, but at least it takes away the pain.

The pressure against his forehead disappears. Henning opens his eyes and looks into Hassan’s. Hassan has lowered his arm.

‘Okay,’ he says, taking a step closer and coming right up to him.

‘But if they catch Yasser,’ he hisses, ‘and there’s a trial and you’re the prosecution’s only witness, we’ll come back for you. Understand? We may not even offer you a lift first.’

He takes a step backwards, makes a cutting movement across his throat with the pistol. Henning swallows, hard. They stand there, looking at each other. For a long time.

‘Understand?’

Henning nods.

He understands.

‘Open the door,’ Hassan orders one of the men, while still looking at Henning.

‘But — ’

‘Just do it.’

The man shuffles along the concrete. He presses a button. The door protests as it rolls open, but it only sounds loud because of the silence in the hall. Henning looks at Hassan as the space fills with light again. Still tough. And Henning doesn’t doubt for a second that Hassan means what he says.

The door has rolled back completely and stops with a bang.

‘My computer,’ Henning says. ‘Can I have it back?’

Hassan jerks his head towards one of the men, who obeys, but with disapproval in his eyes. A few seconds later he comes back and shoves Henning’s computer into his arms.

When Henning is back outside and walking on dry tarmac again, a smart Alfa Romeo sweeps past him. He turns and looks at the car wash. The door slowly closes again. What a strange sight. Bad Boys Burning, standing together, watching him. They look tough. Hardcore. They would make a good CD sleeve, he thinks, for a band about to release its final album. And it feels very quiet and empty, when the door has rolled all the way down and he can no longer see them.