The Son

41

Simon sat down in the chair opposite him. Watched him hold the lighter under the teaspoon.

‘How did you find me?’

‘Your phone,’ Simon said, without taking his eyes off the flame. ‘And the background noises. Hookers at work. You know who I am?’

‘Simon Kefas,’ the boy said. ‘I recognise you from the photographs.’ The powder started to dissolve. Tiny bubbles rose to the surface. ‘I won’t resist arrest. I was going to turn myself in later today, anyway.’

‘Oh? Why? Is your crusade over so soon?’

‘There is no crusade,’ the boy said, putting down the teaspoon with care. Simon knew this was to allow the liquid heroin to cool. ‘There is only blind faith, those of us who still believe what we were taught as children. Until the day we discover that the world isn’t like that. That we’re trash. We’re all rubbish.’

Simon put the gun in the palm of his hand and looked at it. ‘I’m not taking you to the police station, Sonny. I’m taking you to the Twin. You, the drugs and the money you stole from him.’

The boy looked up at him as he tore the wrapper off a syringe. ‘Fine. It’s all the same to me. He’s going to kill me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Taking out the trash. Just let me shoot up first.’ He put a ball of cotton wool in the spoon, pushed the needle through it and pulled up the plunger. ‘I don’t know these drugs, they might not be pure,’ he said, as if to explain the cotton-wool filtering.

Then he looked up at Simon to see if he appreciated the irony.

‘Heroin from Kalle Farrisen’s stash,’ Simon said. ‘You’ve had it all this time without being tempted to sample it?’

The boy laughed harshly, briefly.

‘I put that badly,’ Simon said. ‘Delete “tempted”. But you’ve managed to resist. How?’

The boy shrugged.

‘I know a thing or two about addicts,’ Simon said. ‘The list of things that makes us quit isn’t long. Either we’ve found Jesus, a girl, our own children or the man with the scythe. In my case it was a girl. And in yours?’

The boy said nothing.

‘Your father?’

The boy simply probed Simon with his eyes as if he had discovered something.

Simon shook his head. ‘You two are so alike. It’s even clearer to me now than in the photos.’

‘They always said that he and I were nothing like each other.’

‘Not you and your father. You and your mother. You have her eyes. She used to get up at the crack of dawn, before the rest of us, and have breakfast before she rushed off to work. Sometimes I would get up early just to see her sit there, before she got ready to go out, tired, but with these amazing, beautiful eyes.’

The boy sat completely still now.

Simon kept turning the pistol over as if he was looking for something. ‘We were four people who had nothing, who shared a flat in Oslo, it was cheaper that way. Three boys who went to the Police College plus your mother. The three boys called themselves “the troika” and they were best mates. They were your father, me and Pontius Parr. Your mother had looked in the paper for a place to stay and taken our spare room. I think all three of us fell in love with her the moment we saw her.’ Simon smiled. ‘We circled each other, courting her in secret. And we were three handsome guys, I don’t think she quite knew which one of us to pick.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ the boy said. ‘But I know she picked the wrong one.’

‘Yes,’ Simon said. ‘She picked me.’

Simon looked up from his gun. Met Sonny’s gaze.

‘Your mother was the love of my life, Sonny. I nearly went completely under when she left me and started seeing your father. Especially when it turned out soon afterwards that she was pregnant. The two of them moved out, bought the house in Berg. She was pregnant, he was still at the Police College, they didn’t have a pot to piss in. But interest rates were low and in those years the banks were throwing money at you.’

Sonny hadn’t blinked once. Simon cleared his throat.

‘It was around that time I started gambling in earnest. I was already in debt when I started betting on the horses. High stakes. There was something liberating about standing at the edge of the abyss and knowing that whatever happened it would take me away from where I was. Up or down, it almost didn’t matter. At that time your father and I had drifted apart. I don’t suppose I could bear his happiness. He and Pontius had become close buddies, the troika had dissolved. I made up some excuse when he asked me to be your godfather, but I sneaked into the back of the church when you were christened. You were the only baby who didn’t cry. You just looked up calmly and smiled at the new, slightly nervous vicar as if you were christening him and not the other way round. I went right out and put 13,000 kroner on a horse called Sonny.’

‘And?’

‘You owe me 13,000 kroner.’

The boy smiled. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘Because from time to time I’ve wondered if things had to be like that. If I could have chosen differently. If Ab could have. If you could have. Einstein said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over thinking you’ll get a different outcome. But what if there was something else, divine inspiration, which could make us choose differently next time?’

The boy tied a rubber tube around his upper arm. ‘You sound like a believer, Simon Kefas.’

‘I don’t know, I’m only asking. What I do know is that your father’s intentions were good, no matter how harshly you judge him. He wanted to make a better life not just for himself, but for the three of you. Love was his downfall. And now you judge yourself just as harshly because you think you’re his copy. But you’re not your father. Just because he failed morally doesn’t mean that you will. A son’s responsibility isn’t to be like his father, but to be better than him.’

The boy sank his teeth into the end of the rubber tube. ‘Perhaps, but why does it matter now?’ he said out of the corner of his mouth, pulling his head back so that the tube tightened and the veins on his forearm stood out. He held the syringe in an underhand grip with his thumb on the top of the plunger and the needle resting against the inside of his middle finger. Like a Chinese table-tennis player, Simon thought. He held the syringe with his right hand, even though he was left-handed, but Simon knew that junkies had to learn to shoot up with both hands.

‘It matters because it’s your turn to choose now, Sonny. Do you insert that needle? Or do you help me get the Twin? And the real mole?’

A drop glistened at the tip of the needle. From the street came the sound of traffic and laughter, from the neighbouring room quiet pillow talk. The calm summer pulse of the city.

‘I’ll set up a meeting where both the Twin and the mole will be present. But I can’t do it unless you’re alive, you’re the bait.’

The boy didn’t appear to have heard him, he had bowed his head and was practically curling around the syringe, getting ready for the high. Simon braced himself. And was surprised when he heard the boy’s voice:

‘Who is he, the mole?’

Simon felt a pain in his chest and realised that he had forgotten to breathe.

‘You’ll find out if you turn up, not before. I know what you’re going through, Sonny. But there is always a point where things can no longer be put off, where you can’t be weak one more day and promise yourself that tomorrow, tomorrow you will start that other life.’

Sonny shook his head. ‘There won’t be another life.’

Simon stared at the syringe. And that was when he realised. It was an overdose.

‘Do you want to die without knowing, Sonny?’

The boy raised his gaze from the syringe and up to Simon.

‘Look where knowing has got me, Kefas.’

‘Is this it?’ Asmund Bjornstad asked as he leaned across the steering wheel. He read the sign above the entrance. ‘The Bismarck Hotel?’

‘Yes,’ Kari said and undid her seat belt.

‘And you’re sure this is where he is?’

‘Simon wanted to know which hotels in Kvadraturen had guests paying cash. I guessed that he must know something, so I called the six hotels and sent them pictures of Sonny Lofthus.’

‘And got a hit with the Bismarck?’

‘The receptionist confirmed that the man in the picture is staying in room 216. He also said that a police officer had already been there and had accessed the room. That the hotel had done a deal with the police officer which he expected us to honour.’

‘Simon Kefas?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘All right, we’d better get going.’ Asmund Bjornstad picked up the police radio and pressed the talk button. ‘Delta, come in.’

The loudspeaker crackled. ‘Delta here. Over.’

‘I give you permission to enter. It’s room 216.’

‘Received. We’re going in. Over and out.’

Bjornstad put down the police radio.

‘What are their orders?’ Kari said, sensing how tight her shirt felt.

‘To prioritise their own safety, shoot to kill if necessary. Where are you going?’

‘To get some fresh air.’

Kari crossed the street. In front of her ran police officers dressed in black and holding MP5 machine guns; some went into the hotel’s reception, some into the yard where the back stairs and the fire exit were located. She walked through reception and was halfway up the stairs when she heard the crash of a door being smashed in and the dull bang of stun grenades. She continued up the stairs and along the corridor and heard the crackling of police radios: ‘The area is cleared and secured.’

She turned into the room.

Four police officers: one in the bathroom, three in the bedroom. All wardrobes and windows opened. No one else. No possessions left behind. The guest had checked out.

Markus was sitting on his haunches, looking for frogs in the grass when he saw the Son come out of the yellow house and walk towards him. The afternoon sun hung so low over the roof that when the Son stopped in front of Markus, it looked as if it was shining out of his head. He was smiling, and Markus was pleased that he no longer looked as miserable as he had earlier that day.

‘It was nice meeting you, Markus.’

‘Are you going now?’

‘Yes, I have to.’

‘Why do you always have to go?’ he burst out before he could stop himself.

The Son squatted down as well and put his hand on Markus’s shoulder. ‘I remember your father, Markus.’

‘You do?’ Markus said, sounding unconvinced.

‘Yes. And no matter what your mother might say or think, he was always nice to me. Once he chased away a huge bull elk that had strayed from the forest and come into the neighbourhood.’

‘He did?’

‘Single-handedly.’

Then Markus saw a strange sight. Behind the Son’s head, in the open bedroom window in the yellow house, the thin white curtains billowed out. Even though there was no wind at all. The Son got up, ruffled Markus’s hair and started walking down the road. Swinging a briefcase as he whistled. Something caught Markus’s eye, and he turned towards the house again. The curtains were on fire. And now he saw that the other windows were also open. All of them.

A bull elk, Markus thought. My father chased away a bull elk.

The house made a noise as if it was sucking in air. The sound took on rumbling undertones and then singing overtones that gained strength and turned into menacing, triumphant music. And how they jumped and twirled behind the black windows now, the yellow ballerinas already celebrating the downfall, Judgement Day.

Simon put the car in neutral and let the engine idle.

Further down the street, outside his house, was another car. A new, blue Ford Mondeo. Tinted windows at the back. An identical model had been parked outside the Eye Unit at the hospital. It could be a coincidence, of course, but he knew that Oslo Police had purchased eight Ford Mondeos last year. With tinted windows at the back so that you couldn’t see the flashing blue light that was kept behind the rear headrest.

Simon grabbed the mobile lying on the passenger seat.

The call was answered before the phone had rung twice.

‘What do you want?’

‘Hello, Pontius. It must be very frustrating for you that my phone keeps moving.’

‘Stop this lunacy now, Simon, and I promise you it won’t have consequences.’

‘None at all?’

‘Not if you call it off now. Do we have a deal?’

‘You always wanted to do deals, Pontius. Well, I’ve got a deal for you. Turn up at a restaurant tomorrow morning.’

‘What’s on the menu?’

‘A couple of criminals whose arrest will be a feather in your cap.’

‘Be more specific?’

‘No. But I will give you an address and a time if you promise to bring only one person. My colleague, Kari Adel.’

There was silence for a moment.

‘Are you trying to set me up, Simon?’

‘Have I ever? Remember, you stand to win a great deal. Or more accurately: you have a lot to lose if you let these people get away.’

‘Do I have your word that we’re not walking into an ambush?’

‘Yes. Do you think I would let anything happen to Kari?’

Pause.

‘No. No, you never had that in you, Simon.’

‘I guess that’s why I never made it to Commissioner.’

‘Very funny. When and where?’

‘Seven fifteen. Aker Brygge, number 86. See you there.’

Simon opened the side window, tossed out the phone and saw it disappear over a neighbouring fence. In the distance he could hear the sound of fire engines.

Then he put the car in gear and revved the engine.

He drove westwards. At Smestad he took the exit to Holmenkollasen. Zigzagged up to the viewpoint that had always given him a sense of perspective.

The Honda had been removed by now and the CSOs had finished their work.

After all, it was no longer a crime scene.

Not for a murder, anyway.

Simon parked the car so that he had a view of the fjord and the sunset.

As it started to grow dark, Oslo began to look more and more like a dying fire with glowing red and yellow embers. Simon pulled up the collar on his coat and reclined the seat. He had to try to get some sleep. Tomorrow was a big day.

The biggest of them all.

If luck was on their side.

‘Try this one,’ Martha said, handing the young man a jacket.

He was relatively new, she had only seen him here once before. Twenty years old, possibly, but he would be lucky if he lived to see twenty-five. Or at least that was the general opinion of the others in reception at the Ila Centre.

‘Great, it suits you!’ she smiled. ‘Try wearing it with these, perhaps?’ She handed him a pair of jeans, barely worn. She became aware that someone was standing behind her and turned round. He must have entered through the cafe, perhaps he had been standing in the doorway to the clothing storeroom, watching her for a while. The suit and the bandage around his head were enough to get him noticed, but Martha didn’t even see them.

All she saw was his intense, hungry gaze.

Everything she didn’t want. Everything she wanted.

Lars Gilberg turned over in his brand-new sleeping bag. The shop assistant in the outdoor store had looked sceptically at the thousand-krone note before accepting it and handing him the miraculous sleeping bag.

Gilberg blinked. ‘You’re back,’ he declared. ‘Jesus, you turned Hindu?’ His voice echoed sharply under the arches of the bridge.

‘Perhaps,’ the boy smiled and squatted down beside him. ‘I need a place to sleep tonight.’

‘Be my guest. Though you look as if you could afford a hotel.’

‘They’ll find me there.’

‘There’s plenty of room here and no surveillance.’

‘Can I borrow some of your newspapers, please? I mean, if you’ve read them, that is.’

Gilberg chuckled. ‘You can borrow my trusty old snoozie — I use it as a mattress now.’ He pulled the old, dilapidated and filthy sleeping bag out from underneath him. ‘Know what? You take the new one and I’ll sleep in the old one tonight. There’s a little too much of me in the old one, know what I mean?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, old snoozie is missing me.’

‘Thank you so much, Lars.’

Lars Gilberg just smiled in return.

And when he lay down, he felt a pleasant warmth that didn’t come from the sleeping bag. It came from inside him.

It sounded as if the corridors heaved a collective sigh when all the cell doors at Staten were simultaneously locked for the night.

Johannes Halden sat down on his bed. It made no difference what he did. Sitting, lying or standing, the pain was the same. And he knew that it wouldn’t go away, but would only grow worse with each passing day. His disease was visible now. The cancer in his lungs had been joined by a tumour the size of a golf ball in his groin.

Arild Franck had been true to his word. As a punishment for helping the boy escape, Johannes would be eaten up by cancer in his cell without medical attention or pain relief. It was possible that Franck might send him to the sickbay when he felt that Halden had suffered long enough and could die at any moment, simply to avoid having to register a death in a cell in his annual report.

It was very quiet. Camera-monitored and quiet. In the old days prison officers would do rounds after lockdown and hearing their footsteps had been comforting. One of the officers at Ullersmo Prison, Havelsmo, an older, religious man, used to sing on his rounds. Old hymns in a deep baritone. It was the best lullaby a long-term prisoner could get, even the most psychotic ones stopped screaming when they heard Havelsmo walk down the corridors. Johannes wished that Havelsmo was here now. He wished that the boy was here now. But he wasn’t complaining. The boy had given him what he wanted. Forgiveness. And a lullaby on top of that.

He held the syringe up to the light.

The lullaby.

The boy had told him that he’d got it in a Bible from the prison chaplain, the late Per Vollan — may his tormented soul find peace — and that this was the purest heroin available in Oslo. Then he had shown him how to inject it when the time came.

Johannes put the needle on top of a thick blue vein in his arm. He took a trembling breath.

So this was all there was, this was his life. A life which could have been so different if he hadn’t said yes to smuggling the two sacks from Songkhla Port. Strange. Would he have said yes today? No. But the man he once was had said yes. Over and over again. So it could be no other way.

He pressed the needle against the skin, shuddered slightly when he saw the skin yield and the needle slide in. Then he pressed the plunger down. Evenly and calmly. It was important to empty the syringe completely.

The first thing that happened was that the pain went away. As if by magic.

Then the second thing happened.

And he finally understood what the others had been talking about. The high. The free fall. The embrace. Could it really be that simple, that all this time it had only been one needle prick away? Had she only been one needle prick away? Because she was here now, in her silk dress, with her shiny black hair, her almond eyes. And her tender voice that whispered the difficult English words with soft cherry lips. Johannes Halden closed his eyes and collapsed on the bed.

Her kiss.

It was all he had ever wanted.

Markus stared at the TV.

They were talking about all the people who had been killed in the last few weeks, it was on the TV and the radio all the time. His mum had told him not to watch it so much, it would only give him nightmares. But he didn’t have nightmares any more. And now he was on the telly and Markus had recognised him. He was sitting at a table covered with microphones answering questions and Markus remembered him because of his frameless glasses. Markus didn’t know what any of it meant or how it all went together. All he knew was that the man wouldn’t have to come over to turn on the heating in the yellow house now that it had burned down.