The Son

25

Markus had switched off the light in his bedroom. Watching others in the knowledge that they couldn’t see you was a strange feeling. Even so, a jolt like an electric shock went through him every time the Son looked out of the window and right into Markus’s binoculars. It was almost as if he knew someone was spying on him. The Son was in his parents’ bedroom now, he sat on that pink blanket box which Markus knew was empty except for some duvet covers and sheets. The room with no curtains was lit up by a ceiling lamp with four light bulbs which made it easy to see inside. And since the yellow house lay on a lower level than Markus’s own, and Markus was sitting on the top bunk of the bed which he had dragged over to the window, he could see what the Son was doing. Which wasn’t much; he had been sitting there for a long time with his earphones plugged into his mobile, listening to something. It must be a good song because every three minutes he would press the phone again as if he couldn’t get enough of it. And every time he would smile in the same place, even though he was probably feeling a little sad because of that girl. They had kissed and then she had rushed off as fast as she could. Poor guy. Markus wondered if he should go over and knock. Ask the Son if he fancied coming to their house for dinner. His mother would probably think it was nice. But the Son looked sad, so perhaps he didn’t want company. There was always tomorrow. Markus would get up early, go over and ring the doorbell, bring him some warm bread rolls. Yes, that was what he was going to do. Markus yawned. And in his head he, too, played a song. No, not really a song, it was just a sentence. But it was going around his head on a loop. Ever since that thug from Tasen had asked the Son if he was Markus’s father. ‘Might be.’

Might be. Wow!

Markus yawned again. It was bedtime. After all, he was getting up early tomorrow to heat bread rolls. But as he was about to lower the binoculars, something happened. The Son had got up. Markus pressed the binoculars to his eyes again. The Son had moved the rug and lifted up the loose floorboard. The hiding place. He was putting something in the hiding place. It was the red sports bag. He opened it. Took out a bag of white powder. Markus knew immediately what it was, he had seen bags like that on TV. Drugs. Suddenly the Son lifted his head. He looked as if he was listening out for something; he pricked up his ears like antelopes at the watering hole on Animal Planet. And now Markus could hear it, too. The distant sound of an engine. A car. There weren’t many of them in his street this late at night during the summer holidays. The Son sat very still as if paralysed. Markus saw the headlights light up the tarmac. A big, black car, what they call an SUV, stopped below the street lamp between their houses. Two men got out. Markus studied them through his binoculars. They were both wearing black suits. Men in Black. The second was the best. But the smaller of them had blond hair and that was all wrong. The taller did have black curly hair just like Will Smith, but he had a massive bald patch and his skin was as white as chalk. Markus watched them straighten their suits as they looked at the yellow house. The balding man pointed to the window in the bedroom which was lit up and they quickly walked up to the gate. The Son would have some visitors at last!

Just like Markus, they jumped over the fence rather than going through the gate. And like him, they had realised that walking across the lawn made much less noise than taking the gravel path. Markus swung the binoculars towards the bedroom again. The Son had gone. He had probably seen them, too, and had gone downstairs to let in his guests. Markus aimed the binoculars at the front door where the two men had already walked up the steps. It was too dark for Markus to be able to see exactly what happened. But he heard something smash and then the door opened. Markus stopped breathing.

They. . they had broken in. They were burglars!

Perhaps someone had told them that the house was empty. Whatever, he had to warn the Son — what if they were dangerous?! Markus jumped down from the bed. Should he wake his mother? Ring the police? And say what? That he was spying on his neighbour with his binoculars? And if they came to dust for fingerprints to find the burglars, they would find his, Markus’s, fingerprints! And the Son’s drugs so that he would go to prison as well. Markus stood in the middle of the floor; he had no idea what to do. Then he detected movement in the bedroom across the street. He held up his binoculars again. It was the men, they were in the bedroom. They were looking for something. In the wardrobe, under the bed. They. . they had guns! Markus instinctively took a step backwards when the tall man with the curls came over to the window, checked that it was shut and stared out, right at Markus. The Son must have hidden himself, but where? He appeared to have put the bag with the drugs back in the hiding place, but it wasn’t big enough for a person. Hah! They would never find the Son, he knew his house much better than they did, just like the Vietnamese soldiers knew the jungle much better than the Americans. He just had to be quiet as a mouse, just like Markus himself had been. The Son would be all right. He had to be all right! Dear God, please let him be all right.

Sylvester glanced around the bedroom and scratched the naked crescent between his dark curls. ‘Dammit, Bo, he must have been here! I’m sure the light wasn’t on in any of the windows yesterday.’ He flopped down on the pink blanket box, stuck the gun in his shoulder holster and lit a cigarette.

The small blond man stood in the middle of the floor, still holding his gun. ‘I’ve a hunch that he’s here somewhere.’

Sylvester waved his cigarette. ‘Relax, he’s been and gone. I checked both loos and the other bedroom.’

The blond man shook his head. ‘No, he’s somewhere in this house.’

‘Give over, Bo, he’s not a ghost, just an amateur who’s been lucky. Up until now.’

‘Maybe you’re right. But I’d never underestimate Ab Lofthus’s son.’

‘Am I supposed to know who that is?’

‘Before your time, Sylvester. Ab Lofthus was the toughest cop in town, by a mile.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Because I met the guy, you moron. Back in the nineties me and Nestor were in the middle of a deal at Alnabru when Lofthus and another cop just happened to drive by. Lofthus knew straight away that they had stumbled on a drugs deal, but rather than call for backup, him and his partner tried to nick us. Ab Lofthus single-handedly beat up four of our guys before we managed to floor him. Which was no easy matter, let me tell you — the guy was a wrestler. We were gonna shoot him right there and then, but Nestor chickened out, was scared that spilling cop blood would be bad for business. And while we were arguing about it, the guy was lying there screaming “Bring it on!” like that deluded knight in Monty Python — do you remember? They chop off his arms and legs, and still he won’t accept that he’s beaten.’

Bo laughed. Like you laugh at a treasured memory, Sylvester thought. The man was sick, he loved death and mutilation and would lie on his couch watching entire seasons of Ridiculousness on the Web because it consisted of footage of people properly hurting themselves, not just the funny home videos of people tripping over or spraining fingers, something the whole family could laugh at.

‘I thought you said there were two of them,’ Sylvester argued.

Bo snorted. ‘His partner backed off immediately. Very happy to cooperate, fell on his knees and begged for mercy, you know the type.’

‘Yep,’ Sylvester said. ‘A loser.’

‘Nope,’ Bo said. ‘A winner. It’s called emotional intelligence. And that guy’s strategy took him further along than you would think. But enough of that. Let’s check the house again.’

Sylvester shrugged and was almost out of the door when he realised that Bo hadn’t followed him. He turned round and looked at his partner who was still standing in the same place, staring at the spot where Sylvester had just been sitting. At the lid of the blanket box. Bo raised a finger to his lips and pointed at the box. Sylvester took out his gun and flicked the safety catch aside. He felt his senses heighten; the light grew stronger, sounds intensified and his pulse throbbed in his neck. Without making any noise Bo shifted to the left of the blanket box so that Sylvester also had a clear line of fire. Sylvester closed both hands around the gun handle and moved closer. Bo signalled that he would open the lid. Sylvester nodded.

He held his breath as Bo — with his pistol aimed at the blanket box — placed the fingertips of his left hand under the edge of the lid. Waited a second, listened. And flipped open the lid.

Sylvester felt the resistance from the trigger against his forefinger.

‘Damn!’ Bo hissed.

Apart from the bed linen, the blanket box was empty.

Together Bo and Sylvester searched the other rooms, turning the lights on and off, but found nothing. Eventually they went back to the bedroom where everything was as they had left it.

‘You were wrong,’ Sylvester said, articulating the words slowly and clearly because he knew exactly how much they would anger Bo. ‘He’s gone.’

Bo rolled his shoulders as if his suit didn’t fit him properly. ‘If the boy has gone, but left the light on, it could mean that he’s planning on coming back. And if we’re ready and waiting when he does, it makes our job easier than if we have to force our way in.’

‘Maybe,’ Sylvester said. He could see where this was heading.

‘Nestor wants us to get him asap. He can do a lot of damage, you know.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Sylvester scowled.

‘So you stay here tonight in case he comes back.’

‘Why do I always get the crappy jobs?’

‘The answer starts with an S.’

Seniority. Sylvester heaved a sigh. He wished that someone would shoot Bo so that he would get a new partner. One with less seniority.

‘I suggest you wait in the living room where you’ll have a view of the front door and the basement door,’ Bo said. ‘We can’t be sure this guy is as easy to end as that chaplain.’

‘I heard you the first time,’ Sylvester said.

Markus saw the two men leave the well-lit bedroom and shortly afterwards the small blond man left the house, got in the SUV and drove away. The Son was still in there somewhere, but where? Perhaps he had heard the car start and drive off, but did he know that one of the men was still in the house?

Markus aimed his binoculars at the dark windows, but he couldn’t see anything. The Son could have sneaked out of the back of the house and got away, but Markus didn’t think so; he had sat by the window listening out, he would have heard something.

Markus sensed movement and aimed the binoculars at the bedroom which was still the only room in the house with the light on. And saw that he was right.

The bed. It was moving. Or rather, the mattress was. It was pushed up and to the side. And there he was. He had hidden between the bed slats and the big, thick double mattress which Markus loved lying on. Just as well that the Son was so skinny; had he been as fat as Markus’s mother feared that Markus would be one day, they would have seen him. Carefully the Son made his way to the loose floorboard, lifted it up and took something from the red sports bag. Markus zoomed in. He focused. And gasped.

Sylvester had positioned the armchair so that he could see the front door and the gate outside. The gate was lit up by a street light, but he would hear in plenty of time if anyone came; he knew that from the crunching of the gravel when Bo left.

It might turn out to be a long night so he needed to think of something that would help him stay awake. He checked the bookcase and found what he was looking for: the family photo album. He switched on a reading lamp and angled it away from the window so that the light couldn’t be seen from the outside. He started flicking through the photographs. They looked like a happy family. So very different from his own. Perhaps this explained his obsession with other people’s pictures. He liked looking at them and trying to imagine what it must be like. He knew that these family photos didn’t tell the whole truth, obviously, but surely they told a truth. Sylvester paused at a picture of three people, possibly taken during the Easter holidays. Smiling and tanned, they were standing in front of a cairn. The woman was in the middle; Sylvester presumed from the other pictures that she was the mother. To her left the father, this Ab Lofthus. And to his right, a man with frameless glasses. ‘The Troika and me on a trip. Photographer: The Diver’ read the caption in feminine handwriting below. Sylvester looked up. Had he heard something? He looked towards the gate outside. No one there. And the sound hadn’t come from the front door or the door to the basement. But something had changed, the density of the air, there was something substantial in the darkness. The darkness. He would always be a little scared of the dark, his dad had made sure of that. Sylvester concentrated on the photograph again. On how happy they looked. Everyone knew you shouldn’t be scared of things that go bump in the night.

The noise sounded as if it had come from his dad’s belt.

Sylvester stared at the picture.

It was now spattered with blood and had a hole which went straight through the album. Something white floated down and got caught in the blood. A feather? It had to come from the chair’s upholstery. Sylvester thought he must be in shock because he felt no pain. Not yet. He looked at his gun which had slipped down on the floor and out of his reach. He waited for the next gunshot, but it didn’t come. Perhaps the guy thought that he had killed him. In which case he had a chance as long as he played dead.

Sylvester closed his eyes, heard the boy come in and held his breath. Felt a hand on his chest searching his jacket, finding his wallet and driving licence and removing them. Two arms clasped him around his waist, dragged him out of the chair and eased him up onto his shoulder; then the boy started walking. He must be very strong.

He heard the sound of a door opening, a light being switched on, footsteps staggering down the staircase, and felt raw air. He was being carried down to the basement.

They were downstairs now. There was a noise of plastic seals loosening their grip. Then Sylvester fell, but his landing was much softer than he had feared. He sensed pressure in his ears and it grew darker. He opened his eyes. It was completely dark. He couldn’t see anything, he was lying in some sort of box. The darkness is nothing to be afraid of. There are no monsters. He heard footsteps shuffle back and forth until they faded away. The basement door slammed shut. He was alone; the boy hadn’t noticed anything amiss. Now it was a question of staying calm, not doing anything rash. Wait until the boy had gone to bed. Then he could make his getaway. Or call Bo and get him and his guys to pick him up and kill the boy. The strange thing was he still didn’t feel much pain, only warm blood dripping down on his hand. But he was cold. Very cold. Sylvester tried moving his legs in order to twist himself into a position where he could reach his mobile, but was unable to, his legs must have fallen asleep. He managed to ease his hand inside his jacket pocket and pull out his phone. He pressed it and the display lit up the darkness.

Sylvester held his breath.

The monster was right in front of his face, staring at him with bulging eyes above an open mouth lined with tiny sharp teeth.

A codfish, probably. Wrapped in cling film. Around it lay several freezer bags, some boxes of Frionor seafood, chicken fillets, pork joints, berries. The glow from his phone was reflected in ice crystals in the snow-white walls that surrounded him. He was in a freezer.

Markus stared up at the house and counted the seconds.

He had opened the window, heard the bang coming from inside and seen a flash of light from the living room. Then everything had gone quiet again.

Markus was convinced that it was a gunshot, but who had done the shooting?

Dear God, please let it be the Son. Please don’t let it be him who was shot.

Markus had counted to one hundred when he saw the door to the bedroom open. Thank you, God, thank you; it was him!

The Son returned the pistol to the sports bag, removed the loose floorboard and started loading plastic bags of white powder into the sports bag. When he was done, he slung the bag over his shoulder and left the room without switching off the light.

Shortly afterwards the front door slammed shut and Markus saw the Son march towards the gate. Stop, look left and right and then disappear down the street in the same direction Markus had first seen him come from.

Markus flung himself down on his back in the bed. Stared at the ceiling. He was alive! He shot baddies! Because. . they had to be villains, didn’t they? Of course they were. Markus was so excited he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink tonight.

Sylvester heard the front door slam shut. The chest freezer was too well insulated for him to be able to hear much, but the door had been slammed so hard that he had felt the vibrations. At last. Of course his phone couldn’t send or receive anything from a freezer in a basement, so after three attempts he had given up trying. Sylvester was starting to feel pain now while at the same time he was growing drowsy, but the cold kept him awake. He pressed his palms against the lid and pushed. Felt a small dart of panic when it didn’t budge immediately. Pushed harder. It still didn’t give. He remembered the sound of the plastic seals, how they had glued themselves together, it was just a question of a little more force. He pressed his hands against the lid, pushing as hard as he could. There was no movement. And that was when he realised. The boy had locked the freezer.

This time the panic wasn’t just a prickling, it was a stranglehold.

Sylvester began to hyperventilate, but forced himself to block out his panic to prevent the dam from bursting, and letting the darkness, the real darkness, flood in. Think. Keep a lid on things and think clearly.

His legs. Why hadn’t he thought of them before? He knew that his legs were much stronger than his arms. He could easily lift over two hundred kilos on the leg press, against barely seventy kilos on the bench press. And this was only a freezer lock, it was designed to prevent people from nicking meat and berries, not stop a big, desperate man who really wanted to get out. There was enough space between him and the lid so that if he bent his knees and pressed his feet against the lid. .

But he was unable to bend his knees.

They quite simply refused to obey him. He had never had such a bad case of pins and needles before. He tried again. No response; it was as if they had been disconnected. He pinched his shin. He pinched his thigh. The dam started to crack. Think. No, don’t think! Too late. The hole in the photo album, the blood. The bullet must have severed his spinal cord. That would explain the absence of pain. Sylvester touched his stomach. It was wet with blood. But it was like touching someone else’s body.

He was paralysed; from the waist down. He bashed the lid with his fists, but it was no use, all that opened were the floodgates in his mind. The dam he had learned must never be opened. His dad had taught him that. But now the cracks appeared and Sylvester knew that he would die as in his nightmares. Locked up. Alone. In the darkness.