The Redbreast

18

Palace Gardens. 10 November 1999.

It was a cold, clear evening. The first thing that struck the old man as he came out of the Metro station was how many people were still in the street. He had imagined that the centre would be almost deserted, but the taxis in Karl Johans gate were shooting back and forth under the neon lights, and crowds of people were drifting up and down the pavements. He stood at a pedestrian crossing with a gang of swarthy youths jabbering away in another language and waited for the green man. He guessed they were Pakistani. Or Arab perhaps. His thoughts were interrupted by the changing lights and he stepped purposefully across the road and up the hill towards the illuminated facade of the Palace. Even here there were people, most of them young, on their way to and from God-only-knew what. On the hill he stopped for a breather, in front of the statue of Karl Johan astride his horse, staring dreamily down towards the Storting and the power he had tried to have moved to the Palace behind him.

It hadn't rained for over a week and the dried leaves rustled as the old man turned right between the trees in the gardens. He leaned back and studied the bare branches outlined against the starry sky above. A verse from a poem occurred to him:

Elm and poplar, birch and oak,

Deathly pale, blackened cloak.

It would have been better if there hadn't been a moon this evening, he thought. On the other hand, it made it easier to find what he was looking for: the huge oak tree he had rested his head against the day he learned his life was approaching its end. He followed the trunk with his eyes up to the crown of the tree. How old could it be? Two hundred years? Three hundred? The tree might already have been fully grown when Karl Johan was proclaimed King of Norway. Nevertheless, all life comes to an end. His own, the tree's, yes, even kings' lives. He stood behind the tree so that he could not be seen from the path and eased off his rucksack. Then he crouched down, opened the rucksack and laid out the contents: three bottles of a glyphosate solution, which the sales assistant in a hardware shop in Kirkeveien had called Round-Up, and a horse syringe with a strong steel point, which he bought at a chemist's. He had said he was going to use the syringe for cooking, to inject fat into meat, but that had been unnecessary because the assistant had just given him a bored look and had probably forgotten him before he was out of the door.

The old man looked quickly around before sticking the long steel point through the cork on one of the bottles and slowly withdrawing the plunger so that the shiny liquid filled the syringe. He probed with his fingers until he found an opening in the bark and stuck the syringe in. Things didn't go as easily as he had imagined. He had to press hard for the syringe to penetrate the tough wood. It wouldn't have any effect if he injected the outer layer; he had to reach the cambium, the tree's inner, life-giving organs. He applied more pressure to the syringe. The needle shook. Damn! He mustn't break it, he only had the one. The tip slid in, but after a few centimetres it came to a complete stop. Despite the chilly temperature, sweat was pouring off him. He gripped the syringe tight and was about to push again when he heard leaves rustling over by the path. He let go of the syringe. The sound came nearer. He closed his eyes and held his breath. The steps passed close by. When he opened his eyes again he glimpsed two figures disappearing behind the bushes, by the lookout point over Frederiks gate. He breathed out and turned his attention to the syringe again. He resolved to go for broke and pushed with all his might. And just as he was expecting to hear the sound of the needle snapping, it slid into the trunk. The old man mopped his brow. The rest was easy.

After ten minutes he had injected two bottles of the mixture and was well down the third when he heard voices approaching. Two figures came round the bushes at the lookout point and he assumed they were the same people he had seen before.

'Hello!' It was a man's voice.

The old man reacted instinctively. He straightened up and stood in front of the tree so that the tails of his coat obscured the syringe, which was still in the tree trunk. The next moment, he was blinded by light. He placed his hands in front of his face.

'Take the light away, Tom.' A woman.

The glare was gone and he saw a cone of light dancing between the trees in the gardens.

The pair came over to him and one, a woman in her early thirties with attractive though unexceptional features, held a card so close to his face that even in the meagre moonlight he could see her photograph, obviously taken when she was a bit younger, wearing a serious expression. Plus a name. Ellen something or other.

'Police,' she said. 'My apologies if we frightened you.'

'What are you doing here in the middle of the night, grandad?' the man asked. They were both wearing plain clothes, and under the man's black woollen hat he saw a good-looking young man with cold blue eyes staring back at him.

'I was only out walking,' the old man said, hoping that the tremble in his voice wouldn't be obvious.

'Is that so?' the one called Tom said. 'Behind a tree in the park, wearing a long coat. Do you know what we call that?'

'Stop it, Tom! Again, my apologies,' the woman said, turning to the old man. 'There was an attack here in the gardens some hours ago. A young boy was beaten up. Have you seen or heard anything?'

'I've only just got here,' the old man said, concentrating on the woman to avoid meeting the man's searching eyes. 'I haven't seen anything. Only Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.' He pointed to the sky. 'I'm sorry to hear that. Was he badly hurt?'

'Quite badly. Please excuse the disturbance,' she smiled. 'Have a nice evening.'

They went off and the old man closed his eyes and fell back against the tree trunk. The next moment he was pulled up by his lapels and felt hot breath in his ear. Then the young man's voice.

'If I ever catch you at it, I'll cut it off. Do you hear? I hate people like you.'

The hands let go of his lapels and were gone.

The old man collapsed and felt the cold moisture from the ground soak through his clothes. Inside his head, a voice hummed the same verse again and again.

Elm and poplar, birch and oak,

Deathly pale, blackened cloak.