The Redbreast

20

Herbert's Pizza. 15 November 1999.

The old man let the glass door to Herbert's Pizza close behind him. He stood on the pavement and waited. A Pakistani woman with a pram and her head wrapped in a shawl passed by. Cars whizzed by in front of him and he could see his flickering reflection in their windows and in the large glass panes of the pizzeria behind him. To the left of the entrance the window had a large white cross taped over it; it looked as if someone had tried to kick it in. The pattern of white cracks in the glass was like a spider's web. Behind, he could see Sverre Olsen, still sitting at the table where they had agreed the details. Five weeks. The container port. Pier 4. Two a.m. Password: Voice of an Angel. Probably the name of a pop song. He'd never heard of it, but the tide was appropriate. Unfortunately, the price had been rather less appropriate: 750,000 Norwegian kroner. But he wasn't going to discuss it. The question now was only whether they would keep their end of the bargain or whether they would rob him at the container port. He had appealed to the young neo-Nazi's sense of loyalty by divulging that he had fought at the Eastern Front, but he wasn't sure if he had believed him. Or if it made any difference. He had even invented a story about where he had served in case the young man started asking questions. But he hadn't.

Several more cars passed. Sverre Olsen had stayed put in the pizzeria, but someone else had stood up and was staggering towards the door at this moment. The old man remembered him; he had been there the last time too. And today he had kept his eyes on them the whole time. The door opened. He waited. There was a break in the traffic and he could hear that the man had come to a halt behind him. Then it came.

'Well now, is that him?'

The voice had that very special rasping quality which only many years of heavy alcohol abuse, smoking and insufficient sleep can produce. 'Do I know you?' the old man asked without turning. I reckon so, yes.'

The old man twisted his head round, studied him for a brief moment and turned away again.

'Can't say that I recognise you.'

'Jesus! You don't recognise an old war comrade?'

'Which war?'

'We fought for the same cause, you and I did.'

'If you say so. What do you want?'

'Eh?' the drunk asked, with one hand behind his ear.

'I asked what you wanted,' the old man repeated, louder this time.

Ah, there's wanting and wanting. Nothing unusual about having a chat with old acquaintances, is there? Especially acquaintances you haven't seen for a long time. And especially people you thought were dead.'

The old man turned round. 'Do I look dead?'

The man in the red Icelandic sweater stared at him with eyes so bright blue they looked like turquoise marbles. It would be impossible to guess his age. Forty or eighty. But the old man knew exactly how old the drunk was. If he concentrated, he might even be able to remember his birthday. During the war they had been very particular about celebrating birthdays.

The drunk came a step closer. 'No, you don't look dead. Sick, yes, but not dead.'

He stretched out an enormous, grimy hand and the old man recognised the sweet stench of sweat, urine and vomit.

'What's up? Don't you want to shake an old comrade's hand?' His voice sounded like a death rattle.

The old man pressed the outstretched hand fleetingly with his own gloved hand.

'That's it,' he said. 'Now we've shaken hands. If there's nothing else you were wondering about, I'll be on my way.'

'Ah, wondering, yes.' The drunk rocked to and fro as he tried to focus on the old man. 'I was wondering what a man like you was doing in a hole like this. It's not so strange wondering about that, is it? He's just got lost, I thought, the last time I saw you here. But you sat talking to that nasty piece of work who goes round beating people up with baseball bats. And you were sitting there today too…'

'Yes?'

'I was thinking I would have to ask one of the journalists who occasionally come here, you know. If they know what a respectable man like you is doing in such company. They know everything, you know. And what they don't know, they find out. For example, how it can be that a man everyone thought died during the war is alive again. They get their information quick as fuck. Like that.'

He made a vain attempt at flicking his fingers.

'And then it's in the papers, you know.'

The old man sighed. 'Is there perhaps something I can help you with?'

'Do I look like I need anything?' The drunk spread his arms and flashed a toothless grin.

'I see,' said the old man, taking stock around him. 'Let's walk a little. I don't like spectators.'

'Eh?'

'I don't like spectators.'

'No, what do we want with them?'

The old man laid a hand lightly on the drunk's shoulder.

'Let's go in here.'

'Show me the way to go, comrade,' the drunk hummed hoarsely with a laugh.

They went through the archway next to Herbert's Pizza, where a row of large, grey, plastic wheelie bins overflowing with rubbish blocked the view from the street.

'You haven't already mentioned to anyone you've seen me, have you?'

'Are you mad? I thought I was seeing things at first. A ghost in broad daylight. At Herbert's!' He burst into a peal of laughter, but it quickly developed into a wet, gurgling cough. He bent forward and supported himself on the wall until the cough subsided. Then he stood up and dried the slime from the corners of his mouth. 'No, fortunately, otherwise they would have locked me up.'

'What do you think would be a fitting price for your silence?'

'Ah, a fitting price, hm, yes. I saw the ape take a thousand from your newspaper…'

'Yes?'

A few of them would do a bit of good, that's for sure.’

‘How many?'

'Well, how many have you got?'

The old man sighed, looked around once more to ensure there were no witnesses. Then he unbuttoned his coat and reached inside.

Sverre Olsen crossed Youngstorget with large strides, swinging a green plastic bag. Twenty minutes ago he had been sitting flat broke, with holes in his boots, at Herbert's and now he was walking in a shiny new pair of combat boots, high-laced, twelve eyelets on each side, bought from Top Secret in Henrik Ibsens gate. Plus he had an envelope which still contained eight shiny new big ones. And ten more in the offing. It was strange how things could change from one minute to the next. This autumn he had been on his way to three years in the clink when his lawyer had realised that the fat lady associate judge had taken her oath in the wrong place.

Sverre was in such a good mood that he reckoned he ought to invite Halle, Gregersen and Kvinset over to his table. Buy them a round. See how they reacted. Yes, he bloody would!

He crossed Ploens gate in front of a Paid woman with a pram and smiled at her out of pure devilry. On his way to the door of Herbert's he thought to himself that there wasn't much point in carrying around a plastic bag containing discarded boots. He went through the archway, flicked up the lid of one of the wheelie bins and threw in the plastic bag. On his way out again his attention was caught by two legs sticking out between two of the bins further to the back. He looked around. No one in the street. No one in the alley. What was it? A dipso? A junkie? He went closer. Where the legs protruded the bins had been shoved together. He could feel his pulse racing. Junkies became very upset if you disturbed them. Sverre stepped back and kicked one of the containers to the side.

'Ooh, fuck.'

It was odd that Sverre Olsen, who had almost killed a man himself, should never have seen a dead person before. And equally odd that it almost made his legs give way. The man sitting against the wall with one eye staring in each direction was as dead as it was possible to be. The cause of death was obvious. The smiling red wound in the neck showed where his throat had been cut. Even though the blood was only trickling now, it had clearly pumped out at first because the man's red Icelandic sweater was soaked and sticky. The stench of refuse and urine was overwhelming, and Sverre caught the taste of bile before two beers and a pizza came up. Afterwards, he stood leaning against the bins, spitting on to the tarmac. The toes of his new boots were yellow with vomit, but he didn't notice. He only had eyes for the little red stream glistening in the dark as it sought the lowest point in the back alley.