The Writing on the Wall

Nineteen

LAILA MONGSTAD let go of my hands as though she’d scalded herself, and in unison we stood up and looked over the partition to the source of the racket.

Holger Skagestøl was herding a group of eight or nine colleagues into the room.

A man in his thirties with slightly dishevelled blonde hair, a short leather jacket and a large camera-bag over one shoulder was first, followed by a chap of the same age in a leather waistcoat and blue denim shirt. It was Bjørn Brevik, one of the journalists on the paper, who was doing his best to keep Skagestøl away from the photographer. Close behind Skagestøl followed Trond Furebø and a handful of others, a couple of them intent on pouring oil on troubled waters, the others there out of pure curiosity.

‘I want that film, do you hear?! I want it!’ yelled Holger Skagestøl so the whole editorial office reverberated.

‘Better take it up with the desk, then!’ replied the photographer.

‘Goddamn it, you lot can’t treat me like – like – like any Tom, Dick or Harry! I work on this paper, too, you know.’

‘So is that supposed to give us preferential treatment?’ Bjørn Brevik cut in.

‘Preferential treatment?’ Skagestøl seized Brevik by his lapels and pulled him close to his face. ‘I’m talking about normal protection of personal privacy! The “Be Fair” code for journalists. Ever heard of it, you little upstart? I’m damned if I’m going to have my private family affairs splashed all over the front page!’

Brevik raised his voice a few decibels too. ‘Let go of me!’

Skagestøl looked as though he was actually tightening his grip, if anything.

Trond Furebø seized him by the arm. ‘Holger…’

‘Let go of me! Do you hear? I -’

Brevik pushed his elbows up and released himself from his grip so roughly that a shirt button ricocheted over the desks. ‘There’s no question of splashing any family affairs over the front page. It’s a news item!’

‘News! They’ve already arrested the guilty party! Why don’t you use a picture of him instead?!’

‘It’s a perfectly normal illustration!’ the photographer piped up his voice rising to a falsetto.

‘Illustration! Do you want me to shove that camera down your throat, eh?’

Trond Furebø cut in: ‘Holger! This is no good. Let’s go and see the editor…’

Skagestøl was starting to calm down. There was a sudden change in his face, and when he spoke again he was dose to tears. ‘Surely you can understand… Bjørn. This is about my daughter.’

Bjørn Brevik nodded. ‘Your daughter this time; somebody else’s tomorrow. What would you have done in my shoes?’

‘I’d have made allowances…’

‘Would you?’

Skagestøl had tears in his eyes now. ‘Well?’

‘And what if it didn’t concern you personally?’

Trond Furebø came up beside Holger Skagestøl, stepped around him and stood face-to-face with Bjørn Brevik. ‘We’ll take it up with the boss, OK?’

Brevik gave him a look of contempt. ‘OK by me.’

The group broke up. Those who had merely been curious withdrew, visibly disappointed that the drama was over. The photographer was still trying to keep Brevik between himself and Skagestøl, and all of them headed for the door.

Trond Furebø ran his eyes over the rest of us, standing there like tin soldiers in our boxes in a rather nondescript toyshop sale.

‘What the hell are you lot gawping at?’ he spat out to no one in particular.

When he caught sight of me, he changed his tack slightly and raised his voice. ‘Satisfied now, are you? Bloody nosey parker!’

The door slammed behind him, and those left turned towards me as though only just realising a new specimen had been added to their collection.

I sat down and looked at Laila Mongstad. ‘Any idea what all that was in aid of?’

‘No, but we’ll find out in due course.’

‘But what was that about… have they made an arrest?’

She reached for the phone. ‘If you hang on a second, I’ll ask…’ She dialled a number, asked the same question and sat listening. ‘Oh… I see… No, it was just… Thanks a lot.’

She replaced the receiver and nodded. ‘Apparently it’s that jogger who found her. But so far he’s still a witness.’

Exactly. They had seen it then.

She kissed me quickly on the mouth when I went, as if to show what good friends we still were, unless it was just an expression of her overall generosity.