Killing Moon

35 Tuesday

The temperature plummeted on Tuesday. Along Operagata and Dronning Eufemias gate, the wind gathered speed, and pavement signs outside the restaurants and clothes shops were blown over in the gusts.

At five past nine, Harry picked up his suit from the dry cleaner’s in Grønland and at the same time asked if they could press the suit he was wearing while he waited. The Asian woman behind the counter shook her head regretfully. Harry said that was a pity, as he was attending a masked ball that evening. He could see her hesitate slightly before she returned his smile and said he was sure to have a lovely time all the same.

‘Xièxiè,’ Harry said, bowing slightly then turning to leave.

‘That was good pronunciation,’ the woman said before he had managed to place his hand on the door handle. ‘Where did you learn Chinese?’

‘In Hong Kong. I only know a little.’

‘Most foreigners in Hong Kong don’t know any at all. Take off your suit, I can give it a quick press.’

At a quarter past nine Prim was standing by the bus stop gazing across the road over at Jernbanetorget. Studying the people he saw there, those crossing the station square and those who loitered. Were any of them police? He was carrying cocaine and didn’t dare set foot in the square before he felt sure. But you can never be sure, you just had to make a judgement and put your fear behind. It was that simple. And that impossible. He swallowed. Crossed the street, entered the square and walked over to the tiger statue. Scratched it behind the ear. That’s it, caress the fear and make it your friend. He took a deep breath and fiddled with the cocaine in his pocket. A man over by the steps was staring at him. Prim recognised him and ambled over.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘I have something you might like to try.’

The daylight faded early, and it already felt late at night as Terry Våge crossed Operagata and stepped upon the Carrara marble. The choice of the Italian slabs had generated heated debate while the building was being constructed at the seafront in Bjørvika, but criticism had died away and the inhabitants had taken it to their hearts. Even on a September evening it was teeming with visitors.

Våge checked the time. Six minutes to nine. As a music journalist he used to arrive at least half an hour later than the artists were supposed to go onstage. Occasionally some weird band might go on at the advertised time and he would miss the first few songs, but then he would just ask some people who looked like fans what the opening number was, how the crowd had responded, and then embellish a little. It had always gone fine. But he wasn’t taking that chance tonight. Terry Våge had made up his mind. From now on there was no more arriving late or making stuff up.

He used the steps on the side instead of walking straight up the sloping, smooth marble roof like he saw most of the youngsters doing. Because Våge was no longer young, and he couldn’t afford any more slips.

When he reached the top he walked to the south side, like the guy on the phone had told him to. Stood by the wall between two couples and looked out over the fjord, which the wind was whipping white further out. He looked around him. Shivered and checked the time. Became aware of a man approaching him out of the gloom. The man raised something and pointed it towards Terry Våge, who stiffened.

‘Excuse me,’ the man said, in what sounded like a German accent, and Våge moved to give him a clear shot.

The man pressed the shutter button, the camera gave a low hum, and he thanked him and disappeared. Våge shivered again. Leaned over the edge and looked down at the people on the marble below him. Looked at his watch again. Two minutes past nine.

There was light in the villa windows and the wind rustled the chestnut trees along the side road off Drammensveien. Harry had instructed Øystein to drop him a little way off from Villa Dante, even though pulling up in a taxi would hardly be conspicuous. Parking your own car in front of the villa would after all be asking to be identified.

Harry shuddered, regretted not bringing a coat. When he was fifty metres from the villa, he put on the cat mask and the beret he had borrowed from Alexandra.

Two torches flickered in the wind by the entrance to the large, yellow-brick building.

‘Neo-baroque with art nouveau windows,’ Aune had noted when they found pictures on Google. ‘Built around 1900, I’d say. Probably by a shipowner, a merchant or some such type.’

Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside.

A young man in a dinner jacket standing behind a small counter smiled at him, and Harry showed him the membership card.

‘Welcome, Catman. Miss Annabell will be performing at ten o’clock.’

Harry nodded mutely and walked towards the open door at the end of the hall. Music was coming from there. Mahler.

Harry entered a room illuminated by two huge crystal chandeliers. The bar and furniture were in a light brown wood, perhaps Honduran mahogany. There were thirty to forty other men in the room, all with masks and dark suits or dinner jackets. Young, unmasked males wearing close-fitting waiters’ outfits sashayed between the tables carrying trays of drinks. But there were no male go-go dancers, like Alexandra had described, nor any naked man, caged on the floor, huddled with hands tied behind his back whom the guests could prod, kick or humiliate at will in other ways. The guests’ glasses suggested martinis or champagne were the tipple of choice. Harry moistened his mouth. He’d had a beer at Schrøder’s on the way back from Alexandra’s that morning but promised himself that would be the only alcohol today. A few of the guests had turned and taken brief notice of him before returning to their conversations. Except for one, a clearly young and effeminate man of slight build who continued to watch Harry as he steered towards an unoccupied part of the bar counter. Harry hoped it didn’t mean his cover was already blown.

‘The usual?’ the bartender asked.

Harry felt the twink’s eyes on his back. He nodded.

The bartender turned and Harry watched him take out a tall glass and pour in Absolut Vodka, add Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce, and something resembling tomato juice. Finally, he put a stick of celery in the glass and placed it in front of Harry.

‘I only have cash today,’ Harry said, and saw the bartender grin as though he had made a wisecrack. And realised at the same moment that cash was likely the sole currency in a place like this, where anonymity was demanded and accorded.

Harry stiffened as he felt a hand glide across his backside. He had been prepared for this; Alexandra had said it usually began with eye contact, then continued with bodily contact, often prior to a single word being said. And from there the possibilities were legion.

‘Long time no see, Catman. You didn’t have a beard then, did you?’

It was the twink. His voice was high, so high that Harry wondered if he was putting it on. The animal his mask was meant to depict was not obvious, but it wasn’t a mouse anyway. It was green, and the scaly pattern and narrow eyes pointed more in the direction of a snake.

‘No,’ Harry said.

The twink raised his glass and looked questioningly at Harry when he hesitated.

‘Tired of Caesar?’

Harry nodded slowly. The Caesar had been the number-one gay drink at Dan Tana’s in LA; apparently it was a Canadian thing.

‘Maybe we should have something that wakes us up, then?’

‘Like what?’ Harry asked.

The twink cocked his head to one side. ‘You’re different, Catman. Not just the beard, but your voice and—’

‘Throat cancer,’ Harry said. It had been Øystein’s suggestion. ‘Radiation treatment.’

‘Oh dear,’ the twink said without any appreciable interest. ‘Well, then I get the ugly hat, and that you’ve gotten so thin. Certainly was aggressive, I must say.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ Harry said. ‘How long has it been exactly, since we’ve seen each other?’

‘You tell me. A month. Or is it two? Time flies, and you certainly haven’t been here for a while.’

‘If I’m not mistaken, I was here on a Tuesday five weeks ago, wasn’t I? And on the Tuesday before that?’

The twink drew his head back a little between his shoulders, as though to regard him at slightly more distance. ‘Why the interest?’

Harry heard the scepticism in his voice and realised he had got ahead of himself. ‘It’s the tumour,’ he said. ‘The doctor says it pressed on the brain and is causing partial memory loss. Sorry, I’m just trying to reconstruct the last months.’

‘You sure you remember me?’

‘A little,’ Harry said. ‘But not everything. Sorry.’

The twink snorted at the affront.

‘Can you help me?’ Harry asked.

‘If you help me.’

‘With what?’

‘Let’s say you pay a little more for my blow than usual.’ The twink drew something halfway up out of his jacket pocket, and Harry saw the little plastic bag with white powder. ‘Then I can give it to you the same way as last time.’

Harry nodded. Alexandra had told him that drugs — cocaine, speed, poppers, emma — were bought and sold more or less openly at the gay clubs she had been to.

‘How did you give it to me last time?’ Harry asked.

‘Jesus, I thought you would have remembered that. I blew it up your lovely, tight bear-hole with this...’ The twink held up a short metal straw. ‘Shall we go downstairs?’

Harry considered Alexandra’s warning about dark rooms. Rooms where anything and anyone were fair game.

‘OK.’

They stood up and moved through the room. Eyes watched them from behind animal masks. At the far end the twink opened a door and Harry followed him into the darkness and down a steep, narrow staircase. Already halfway down he heard the sounds. Moans and cries and — when he came down into the basement — the slapping of flesh on flesh. There were small blue lights on the walls and when his eyes eventually adjusted sufficiently to the semi-darkness, he could see in detail what was going on around him. Men having sex in all manner of ways, some naked, some half dressed and some with just their flies open. He heard the same sounds behind the doors to the cubicles. Harry’s eyes met those of a man wearing a gold mask. He was big and muscular and thrusting in and out of a person bent over a bench. The pupils behind the gold mask were large and black in the wide-open eyes fixed on Harry who instinctively flinched when the man bared his teeth in a predatory leer. Harry let his eyes wander further. There was a smell in the room almost making him gag. Something other than the mixture of bleach, sex and testosterone, an acrid odour resembling petrol. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was until he glimpsed a naked man open a small, stubby bright yellow bottle and sniff. Of course, it was the smell of poppers. The stimulant had been popular in the clubs Harry had frequented in Oslo in his early twenties. They had called it rush back then, probably because that was what it was, a rush of a few seconds where the heart beat like hell, increasing the blood circulation for a brief moment, heightening all the senses. It was only later he learned that gay men — receivers — used it to boost the anal pleasure.

‘Hi.’ It was the man in the gold mask. He had sidled up next to Harry and placed a hand on his crotch. His predatory smile widened and he breathed on Harry’s face.

‘He’s mine,’ the twink said in a sharp voice, grabbing Harry by the arm and pulling him along. Harry heard the beefcake laugh behind them.

‘Seems all the cubicles are occupied,’ the twink said. ‘Shall we...?’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘In private.’

The twink sighed. ‘Might be some empty ones further in. Come on.’

They passed the open door of a room with a splashing sound like that of a running shower coming from within. Harry looked in as they walked by. Two naked men were sitting in a bath with their mouths open as other men, some wearing clothes, stood around urinating on them.

They went through a large room with strobe lighting and Joy Division’s ‘She’s Lost Control’ pounding in the background out of loudspeakers. In the centre of the room was a swing, attached to the ceiling by chains. A man appeared to be flying like Peter Pan as he, with his body outstretched, swung back and forth within a circle of men. They took turns using him, like a joint being passed round.

Harry and the twink entered a corridor with several cubicles, and again the sounds indicated what was happening behind the sliding doors. Two men exited one cubicle and the twink hurried to claim it. Harry followed him in and the twink pushed the door closed. The room measured about two metres by two metres. Without preamble, the twink began unbuttoning Harry’s shirt. ‘Maybe a little cancer isn’t such a bad thing, Catman, you feel more like a jock than a bear now.’

‘Wait,’ Harry said. He put his back to him and reached into his suit pocket. When he turned round, he was holding a wallet in one hand and a phone in the other.

‘You wanted to sell me some cocaine, right?’

The other man smiled. ‘If you pay the price.’

‘Then let’s get the deal done first.’

‘Oh, now that’s more like the old you, Catman. Cokeman.’ He laughed and produced the bag of powder.

Harry accepted the bag and handed him the wallet. ‘Now I’ve received cocaine from you, and you can take out what you’re due for the cocaine from my wallet.’

The twink’s eyes fixed on him dubiously from behind the mask. ‘You’re being awfully meticulous today.’ Then he opened the wallet, peered inside and pulled out two thousand-krone notes.

‘That should do it for now,’ he said, put the wallet back in Harry’s suit pocket and began unbuttoning Harry’s trousers. ‘You want me to suck your bear-dick? Sorry, your jock-dick?’

‘No thanks, I’ve got what I wanted,’ Harry said, placing the hand not holding the phone behind the other man’s head as though to caress him, but instead pulling the snake mask off him with a tug.

‘What the fuck, Catman! That’s... yeah, yeah, no big deal for me.’ The twink made to continue opening Harry’s trousers but Harry stopped him and buttoned them up again.

‘Oh, I get it, coke first.’

‘Not exactly,’ Harry said, taking off the beret and his own mask.

‘You’re... blond,’ the twink said in surprise.

‘More importantly,’ Harry said, ‘I’m a policeman who just made an audio and video recording of you selling me cocaine. Which carries a penalty of up to ten years.’

It was impossible to make out in the blue light if the other man’s face went pale, so Harry was unsure the bluff had been successful until he heard the sobbing in his voice.

‘Fuck, I knew it wasn’t you! You don’t walk like him, you have an East Oslo accent, and I could feel you didn’t have that doughy arse of his. I’m such an idiot. Fuck you! And Catman!’

The twink grabbed the sliding door to get out but Harry held him back.

‘Am I under arrest?’

Something in the twink’s tone of voice and in the way he looked up at him made Harry wonder if the guy was turned on by the predicament.

‘Are you going to... handcuff me?’

‘This isn’t a game—’ Harry pulled a cardholder from the man’s inside pocket — ‘Filip Kessler.’

Filip put his face in his hands and began to cry.

‘However, there is a way we can work this out,’ Harry said.

‘There is?’ Filip looked up with tear-stained cheeks.

‘We can walk out of here now, go someplace nice and quiet, and you can tell me everything you know about Catman. All right?’

Terry Våge checked the time again. Nine thirty-six. No one had tried to contact him. He reread the message he had got on his phone again and arrived at the same conclusion as before, neither the time nor the place had been unambiguous. He had given the guy an extra half-hour as a gesture to the half-hour he used to give himself. But forty minutes was too much. The guy wasn’t coming. A bluff. A practical joke, perhaps. Maybe someone was standing among the tourists on the level below having a good snigger at him now. Laughing at the disgraced, despised charlatan of a journalist. Maybe this was the punishment. He pulled his woollen coat tighter around him and began walking towards the sloping roof. Fuck them, fuck the lot of them!

Prim moved among the tourists on the marble slabs at ground level. He had seen Terry Våge arrive, recognised him from the byline photo and other images he had found online. Watched him stand on the roof and wait. Prim hadn’t seen anyone follow Våge, nor anyone who looked like police in position at the place beforehand. He had moved around, taken note of most of the people who were there, and after half an hour concluded he no longer saw any of the faces he had seen when he arrived. At twenty to ten he saw Våge make his way down from the roof, he had given up. But now Prim was certain. Terry Våge had come alone.

Prim cast one last glance around him. Then set off for home.