Killing Moon

46 Friday

Blood moon

Markus got out of the taxi by the gate at the end of the drive.

The first thing the taxi driver had asked him when he got into the car at Oslobukta had been if he had any money. A reasonable question given that Markus wasn’t wearing his jacket over his shirt and had slippers on. But he had his credit card with him, as always — no matter what, he felt naked without it.

The hinges screeched as he opened the gate. He walked up the gravel drive, reached the top and was a little shocked when he saw the half burnt-out house standing there in the dusk. He hadn’t been here since leaving Molle and the boy with that idiotic nickname, Prim. He had read about her death in the paper, had gone to the funeral, but hadn’t known the house was so badly damaged. He only hoped enough of the backdrop was preserved for them to act out the scene in a credible manner, so to speak. Reconstruct what they had done and what they had been to one another back then. Although, what he had been to the boy God only knew.

As Røed began walking down towards the house he saw a figure step out the front door. It was him. The desire Røed had felt sitting in the TV room across from the boy had been overwhelming, almost making him lose control and lunge. But he had done that sort of thing one too many times in his life and had just about got away with it. Now his desire was under control, enough to enable rational thought, he felt. Still the craving, after so many years of stored-up memories about Prim, was so strong that nothing could have stopped him now.

He walked down to the young man, who extended his hand in welcome and smiled. It hadn’t crossed Røed’s mind until now but the two big, rodent-like front teeth were gone, and the boy had a line of nice, even teeth. For the sake of illusion, he would have preferred the childhood teeth but forgot about that as soon as he drew close and was led into the house.

Another small shock. The hallway, living room, everything black and burnt-out. The partition walls were gone rendering everything more open. The man — the boy — led him straight to the floor space that had been his room on the ground floor. With a shudder of delight, Røed realised he didn’t need any light, he had walked these steps from the bottom of the staircase to the boy’s room in the darkness of night so many times that he could do it with his eyes closed.

‘Undress yourself and lie down there,’ the boy said, shining his phone’s torch.

Røed stared at the filthy mattress and the burnt-out skeleton of an iron bed.

And did as he was told, laying his clothes over the headboard.

‘Everything,’ the boy said.

Røed took off his underpants. His erection had grown ever since the boy had taken his hand. Røed liked to dominate, not be dominated. Not up until this point anyway. But now he was enjoying the sound of the commanding voice, the cold giving him goose pimples, the humiliation in being naked while the boy was fully dressed. The mattress stank of urine and was wet and cold against his back.

‘Let’s get these on.’ Røed felt his arms being pulled upwards and something being tightened around his wrists. Looked up. In the light from the boy’s phone, he saw his hands being tied to the headboard with leather straps. Then the same with his feet. He was at the mercy of the boy. The same way the boy had been at the mercy of him.

‘Come,’ Røed whispered.

‘We need more light,’ the boy said. He had taken Røed’s mobile phone from the jacket on the headboard. ‘What’s the code?’

‘Eye recog—’ Røed began before the screen appeared in front of his face.

‘Thanks.’

Røed was blinded by the two light sources and couldn’t see what the boy was doing before discerning his figure between the two phones. He realised they must have been mounted on two stands at head height. The boy was older. Had become a man. But was still young enough for Røed to want him. Clearly. His erection was beyond reproach and the tremor in his voice owed as much to excitement as the cold when he whispered: ‘Come! Come to me, boy!’

‘First, tell me what you want me to do to you.’

Markus Røed moistened his dry lips. And told him.

‘Say it again,’ the boy said, pulling down his trousers and placing his hand around his own still flaccid penis. ‘This time without using my name.’

Røed was nonplussed. But fair enough, more than a couple of the ones at Tuesdays got off on the whole impersonal thing, preferring a stiff cock in a glory hole instead of seeing the entire person. Fortunately. He repeated his wish list without mentioning any names.

‘Tell me what you did to me when I was a little boy,’ the man between the lights said, now masturbating.

‘Just come here and let me whisper it in your ear—’

‘Tell me!’

Røed swallowed. So that was how he wanted it. Direct, crude, a harsh tone and in glaring light. Fine. Røed just needed to tune in his own receiver and transmit on the same frequency. Jesus, he’d do anything to have him. Røed began hesitantly, skirting around at first, but got going after a while. Told him. Directly. In detail. And found the frequency. Was aroused by his own words, of the memories they conjured up. Told it how it was. Used words like ‘rape’, both because that was what it had been and because it further increased the excitement, both his and the boy’s, he was groaning in any case, although no longer visible, he had taken a few steps back, into the darkness behind the light. Røed had told him everything, up to how he wiped his penis on the boy’s duvet before tiptoeing back to the first floor.

‘Thanks!’ the boy said, his voice sharp. One light was switched off and he stepped into the light of the other. He had pulled his trousers up, was fully dressed. He was holding Røed’s phone and tapping something into it.

‘Wh-what are you doing?’ Røed moaned.

‘I’m sharing the last video recording with all your contacts,’ the boy said.

‘You... recorded it?’

‘On your phone. Want to see?’ The boy held the phone up in front of Røed. On the screen he saw himself, a portly man well into his sixties, pale, almost white in the harsh light, lying on a dirty mattress with an erection, going slightly to the right. No mask this time, nothing to hide his identity. And the voice, slightly thick with excitement but clear as a bell at the same time, eager for the other man to hear the words. He noticed that the clip was framed so that a viewer couldn’t see his hands and feet were bound to the bedposts.

‘I’m sending it together with a short text message I prepared,’ the boy said. ‘Listen. Hello, world. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I’ve decided that I can no longer live with what I’ve done. So, I’m going to burn myself to death in the same house where Molle did. Goodbye. What do you think? Not exactly poetry, but loud and clear, right? I’ll send it to your list of contacts with a time delay so they get it just after midnight.’

Røed opened his mouth to say something but didn’t manage to get a word out before something was forced between his lips.

‘Soon everyone you know will discover what a perverted pig you are,’ Prim said, fixing a piece of tape over Røed’s mouth, into which he had stuffed one of the Bulgarian’s left-behind woollen socks. ‘And after a day or so the rest of the world will know as well. What do you think of that?’

No answer. Just a pair of wide-open eyes and tears rolling down round cheeks.

‘There, there,’ Prim said. ‘Let me offer you a little comfort, Father. I’m not going to carry out my original plan, which was to out you, then take my own life, and let you live with the public humiliation. Because I want to live after all. You see, I’ve found a woman I love. And tonight, I’m going to propose. Look what I bought for her today.’

Prim took the burgundy velvet-covered box from his trouser pocket and opened it. The small diamond on the ring glittered in the torchlight from the phone on the stand.

‘So I’ve decided to live a long and happy life instead, but of course that entails my identity not being revealed. And that means those who do know need to die in place of me. You must die, Father. I realise that’s hard enough in itself, never mind doing so in the knowledge that your family name is ruined. Mum told me how important that sort of thing was to you. But at least you don’t have to live with the humiliation. And that’s nice, isn’t it?’

Prim wiped away one of Røed’s tears with his forefinger and licked at it. They wrote about bitter tears in literature, but didn’t all tears actually taste the same?

‘The bad news is I was planning to kill you slowly to compensate for you avoiding the humiliation. The good news is I’m not going to kill you very slowly, given that I have a date with my beloved in not too long.’ Prim checked the time. ‘Oops, I need to get home to shower and change, so we’d best get started here.’

Prim took hold of the mattress with both hands. After two or three hard yanks he managed to pull it from under Røed, the iron bedsprings issuing a screech as the weight of his body landed on them. Prim walked over to the blackened brick wall and fetched the camping stove beside the jerrycan. He placed the camping stove on the floor beneath the bed directly below his stepfather’s head, turned on the gas and lit it.

‘I don’t know if you remember, but this is the best torture method in that book about Comanches you gave me as a Christmas present. The skull is the pot and in a while your brain will begin to bubble and boil. The consolation is the parasites will die before you.’

Markus Røed writhed and thrashed about. Some of the iron springs pierced his skin and drops of blood fell on the ash-covered floor. And then sweat also began to drip from his back. Prim watched as veins protruded on Markus Røed’s neck and forehead as he tried to scream behind the woollen sock.

Prim watched him. Waited. Swallowed. Because nothing was happening inside him. That is to say, something was happening, but not what was supposed to happen. Yes, he had been prepared for vengeance not tasting as sweet as it had in his imagination, but not this. Not that it would taste like his stepfather’s bitter tears. It came as more of a shock than a disappointment to feel this way. He felt sorry for the man lying there. The man who had destroyed his childhood and was to blame for his mother killing herself. He didn’t want to feel this way! Was it Her fault, was it because She had brought love into his life? In the Bible it said that Love was the greatest. Was that true, was it greater than revenge?

Prim began to cry, could not stop. He walked over to the charred staircase, found the heavy, old spade lying half buried in ash. Took hold of it and went back over to the iron bed. This wasn’t the plan, long drawn-out suffering had been the intention, not compassion! But he raised the spade above his head. Saw the desperation in Markus Røed’s eyes as he jerked his head this way and that to avoid the flat blade, as though he would rather live a few more torturous minutes than die quickly.

Prim aimed. Then brought the spade down. Once, twice. Three times. Wiping away the spray of blood that had hit his eye, he bent down and listened for breathing. Straightened up and lifted the spade above his head again.

Afterwards, he exhaled. Checked the time again. All that remained was to remove every trace. Hopefully the impact of the spade hadn’t left any marks on the cranium to cast doubt on it being suicide. The flames would soon remove all else. He undid the straps and stuck them in his pocket. He cut the start and the end of the film on Røed’s phone so no one would suspect another person had been present but it would seem as though Røed himself had edited the recording before he sent it out. Then he marked every contact on Røed’s list, set the time to 00.30 and pressed Send. Thought about all the horrified, disbelieving faces lit up by screens. Then he wiped his fingerprints off the phone before slipping it into Røed’s suit jacket, noticed he had eight missed calls, three of them from Johan Krohn.

He poured petrol on the body. Let it soak in and repeated the process three times until he was certain the body was properly marinated. Doused the remaining beams and the walls still standing which were flammable. He walked around igniting it. Remembered to place the lighter by the bed so it appeared as though the last thing his stepfather had done was to set himself alight. Walked out of the shell of his childhood home, stood on the gravel drive and turned his face to the sky.

The ugliness was over. The moon had risen. It was beautiful and would soon be even more beautiful. Darkened, covered by blood. A celestial rose for his beloved. He would tell her that, use exactly those words.