When The Devil Holds The Candle

AND I'M GONNA RUB SALT IN THEM SO THEY HURT

LIKE HELL.

YOU FUCKING BLACK!"

C H A P T E R 6

As I said, Andreas was handsome. He had a flawless complexion. Fair and smooth, with rosy cheeks. And clean. I've always been cautious of the importance of cleanliness; it's something I learned early on. Nothing is ever left lying around at my house, either inside or out. I go out in the evening to check. The neighbours are not so meticulous. I've seen everything from bikini tops to dirty coffee cups on the patio table next door. Now, I don't mean it's a catastrophe, but I don't understand it. How can they stand at the window and see those dirty cups, and still sleep soundly? For myself, I am always considerate. I think that's important. We're not alone in the world, after all.

I sit in the red chair in the dark and listen. Even though it's quiet, I think I can sometimes hear someone outside. A warning of everything that is to come. A silent stream of people coming to the house, curious. Ingemar won't miss me, but he will do his duty. Put a notice in the paper. Send word to my two sisters, who are far away. But they always write at Christmas. Everything is fine. We keep in contact with other people.

We're not really afraid to die. We're only afraid of being forgotten. We know that we'll be forgotten, and the idea is unbearable, don't you agree? As time passes we become infrequent visitors in the minds of those left behind. The ones who clear out the house and divide up the belongings. Throw away the rubbish. And forget. If we knew that every evening someone lit a candle and sat down to think – thought about us if only for a few seconds – then we could depart this earth in peace. No-one will light a candle for me. Who would do that? But I've arranged things so that when my name is mentioned it will be with horror and amazement. A picaresque story. Maybe my picture will be in the paper. I've got rid of all of them except one which shows me almost young, 40 or so. The worst thing about dying is not being dead and buried. Something as proper and final as that: dead and buried. It's the hours before, when you fall into the hands of the living. They're only human, after all. I can imagine some of the things they'll say. I won't repeat them here, but they'll be said. I know what they are.

*

Andreas sauntered along, taking giant strides, with Zipp plodding diligently at his side. They were making for the river. It wasn't because of its steady roar or the way lights flickered in the black water, those weren't things they thought about. Nevertheless the water drew them. There was a raw wind, and Zipp stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets to warm them. They found a bench. Sat there in silence. When water is flowing past, it's not necessary to talk. Instead each was lost in his own thoughts, fantasising about falling in, struggling against the current and the cold of the water. A sense of solemnity came over them. Zipp was gloomily thinking about the girl in the striped jumper. Annoyed, he scratched his crotch.

"A nightcap right about now. That would be good."

Andreas nodded and squinted down at the river. Something black and heavy that never really got going. They had spent all of Gina's money.

"If an old lady with a handbag came along, I'd fucking grab it," he said. "Just grab it and run."

"We've done enough for one day," Zipp said.

"And by the way, all the old ladies are in bed by now."

They fell silent again. A low murmur could be heard from the square behind them. Laughter and curses. Lots of people were drunk. They'd been drinking all night, at last finding courage and selfconfidence, and now they were bent on showing it.

Ready for a fight, in other words. There were signs of a brawl in the taxi queue, and they could hear a few words: "You ape." "Damn Turkish devil."

"Shit," Andreas snapped. "Let's mug someone."

"Mug who?"

"Anyone."

"Calm down!"

Zipp couldn't understand what was bugging Andreas. He wasn't himself. Something was building inside him. But they both turned around to look at the city. Searching for a wounded animal, an easy prey. Most people could defend themselves pretty well, and it was also possible that they might get beaten up themselves. In their search for a release they were also frightened. Nervous of their plan, that was chafing deep inside. An intuitive sense of what it might lead to. As if they were coming to the end of a lengthy process that had begun long ago. Their fear gave them a dose of adrenaline, and it felt good. They headed up towards the taxi rank, passed the tent where beer was being served; it was still in use though it was early autumn as they had installed a heater. Clenched their teeth in irritation when they heard the glasses clinking. They cut across the main street, went past the Town Hall. Zipp realised that they were approaching the church. Andreas led the way, Zipp jogged along behind. He didn't understand why they were going there. No-one would be out tending the graves. No old people with pension cheques in their handbags. The church spread over a hill above the square and was without a doubt the building with the best aspect of any in the whole city. That's where the castle would have stood if the city had had a king, Zipp thought. They walked among the gravestones, reading the inscriptions. "I am the way, the truth and the life." Andreas stood with his hands on his hips and stared at the words. Zipp kicked at the ground, puzzled.

"It ends here," Andreas said in a low voice.

"What do you mean?"

"All of it. Everything that we are." Zipp looked around in bewilderment. They were enveloped in silence and darkness. "What's with you? Skip work tomorrow," he suggested. "We can catch a lift out of town. We'll think of something. We could go to fucking Sweden."

"I've missed enough days as it is." His voice had a dejected tone to it, Zipp noticed. Something was definitely up. Zipp was suddenly nervous.

"I'm kind of in the doghouse right now," Andreas said. "I've got to watch my step."

"But your boss is a woman. I can't understand how you can let some bitch order you around."

"A boss is a boss. She's the one who pays my wages."

"What about buck naked?" Zipp said. "A shag for a day off!"

"You have to draw the line somewhere."

"And where would that be?"

"At varicose veins and a moustache."

"What about the Woman? You like them that way, don't you?"

Andreas didn't reply.

"Hey!" A devil had got into Zipp, but he was trying to cheer Andreas up. "Do you lie on a sheepskin rug, or what?"

Andreas gave him a long look. Zipp couldn't restrain his laughter. He could picture Andreas, naked on a sheepskin rug. And an old lady with a brush and artist's smock. He was hysterical at the idea. Maybe Andreas was holding a brightly coloured ball in his hands. Maybe an orange. And then he laughed even harder. He roared into the silence among the graves, doubled over with laughter, and then stood there in the grass, gasping. He snorted several times through his upturned nose, followed by a few hoarse squeaks, then more snorts. Andreas gave him a weary smile. Pulled his hands out of his pockets, jumped forward, grabbed hold of Zipp's jacket, and started boxing him. Not hard, they were friends after all, but Zipp almost lost his balance. He stumbled backwards a few paces as he raised his hands in a half-hearted attempt to defend himself. But the comic image wouldn't let go, and he laughed so hard that tears poured down his cheeks while he fumbled to hold his friend at bay. Andreas launched a new attack. He lunged forward. There was grass underfoot and Zipp fell, but didn't hurt himself. He was still fighting to control his laughter. But then he caught sight of Andreas' face. There was something demonic about his expression, as if he'd gone berserk. And now he was on top of Zipp. What the fuck! Andreas had made up his mind, his strength was based on sheer will, and Zipp was helpless, overcome by hysterical sputtering; he was gasping for air while he wondered what was coming. A fist in the head or a knee in the stomach? Andreas looked so strange. Zipp waited for him to let go his grip, but he didn't. While he stared at Andreas through tears of laughter, he tried to remember what he had said that could provoke such a serious expression on the face he knew so well. This face that was now so close to his own. The shining eyes, the red cheeks, the teeth gleaming white in the darkness. Zipp felt warm breath against his chin. Andreas had locked his hands so that he lay helpless on his back in his tight jeans. And then, slowly, Andreas began thrusting against him in a steady rhythm. Zipp stared at him in surprise, couldn't understand what he was doing. He wasn't very bright, and Andreas seemed somewhere far away as he kept thrusting and thrusting. Suddenly he stopped. His eyes could see again; they looked at Zipp with such vulnerability. He loosened his grip. Zipp stayed where he was as he struggled to understand. And then, before he managed to work it out, he felt a hand between his thighs. It began rubbing him, the slender hand, it rubbed and rubbed. He was caught off guard. To his horror he felt desire seize him, and something terrifying struck him like thunder inside, a terror so great that he felt as if he would split in half. From the depths of his soul he managed at last to summon a scream. It came all the way from his feet, it sliced through his body and into Andreas' face, blasting him away, and with a mighty leap he was on his feet. He was still screaming, an incoherent bellowing, in a voice that he didn't recognise. He clenched his fists, ready to strike anything, to crush and rip, smash to pieces!

Very slowly, Andreas got to his feet, without releasing his gaze. Zipp was a raging animal, ready to attack. Andreas stood at a reassuring distance, keeping an eye on him and preparing himself. At that moment Zipp was the stronger one, strong enough to kill. One wrong move and he'd kill with his bare hands.

"Shit, Zipp," Andreas whispered. "I didn't mean to."

"Shut up! Shut up, you arsehole, you fucking poof!"

"I didn't mean . . ."

"I don't want to hear it! I don't want to know anything. Don't touch me, God damn it!" Andreas raised his voice. Zipp could hear anger behind his words.

"That's just the way it is! It's always been that way!" There was a plea in his eyes. Zipp was thunderstruck. He had never imagined this, not in his wildest imaginings. Anything but this. So what if he was particular about girls, if he preferred older women, that was all fine, appealing almost, it suited the way he was. But gay?

"What about the Woman?" he whispered, out of breath. "Was it all a bluff?"

"No." Andreas stared at his feet. "She's . . . a cover."

"What the fuck! A cover?"

"You believed it, didn't you?"

"Do you sleep with girls or don't you?" Zipp couldn't control himself, his emotions were tied in knots. He'd been oblivious, hadn't suspected a thing, but now it was so clear. Andreas had never been interested in women, and Zipp, idiot that he was, had been blind as a bat. He felt such a fool.

"I sleep with her, but it's just a cover." Now there was total silence. A floodlight near the church wall sent a white light over the patch where they stood, facing each other with fists clenched. Zipp felt as if everything had been staged by some higher power. Someone had placed them here, someone had put the words in his mouth. And what he had felt. The desire when Andreas touched him, and the urge to destroy him which followed. Confused, he stood there, stamping his feet. There was nothing to do but leave. This was too much for him. If only he had suspected something, thought it through over time, been able to prepare himself. But if he left now, everything would be over. For ever. He knew that, and Andreas knew it too. He was still waiting, his fists ready, whether to attack or to defend. From now on he would have to live with the knowledge that Zipp knew. That he might talk about it. And Zipp had to live with what Andreas had done. For several seconds desire had swelled inside him. It was just a hand, like all other hands, like a girl's hand. His head couldn't control what was between his legs, God damn it! There was a difference, wasn't there? Was there a difference? He wanted to knock down all the headstones, rip up all the plants, smash the whole town!

"The fact that you . . ." Andreas stammered. "It doesn't mean anything that you reacted that way. It's normal. Everybody . . ."

"Shut up!" Zipp was getting worked up. "I know that I'm not a fucking poof. You don't have to tell me that. For God's sake, shut up, Andreas!" He tugged at his hair. He started sobbing, then wiped away the snot and tears, and looked at Andreas' yellow shirt gleaming in the dark. His world was in ruins, but the damn church was still standing, holding its own. He wanted to smash that too! You couldn't be friends with someone who was gay. People might find out and then obviously they'd think that he was one too. That's how people thought: that they were together, or something, had been fucking each other for years. He turned and walked away. Reached the corner of the church. There, in front of the church, stood a bench. He sat down, had to think. Go home to bed and fall asleep, after this? Impossible. After the whole future had been wrecked. For years he had been living a lie, he had been duped. Maybe Andreas had wanted him at that time? Maybe he had been a figure in Andreas' dreams? Zipp's shoulders began to shake. He was crying soundlessly. Andreas, gay. So it was impossible to tell. God and the entire world could be gay! Perhaps other people he knew too, ordinary people. Girls even. He thought about Anita. What if Robert had been an alibi? Robert, and all the others she'd slept with. But Anita was dead now, so it didn't matter. Possibly, nobody was what he pretended to be. What about himself? Hell, no! He was a good friend. Was he? Did Andreas really expect him not to turn his back? That was asking an awful lot. At the same time, it was a matter of their friendship, all those years! He needed time. A few days to think things over, but he wasn't used to solving problems by thinking, and besides, he was freezing. Behind him he heard stumbling footsteps. It was Andreas, he knew. You'd think he would have gone a different way. Zipp stared at the gravel, wanting to be out of this situation, back to what they had before, but that could never happen. They would have to find a new way. What would people say if they suddenly stopped hanging out together? They were always together. It would make the rumours start buzzing. The story would be launched, at first as a joke. Have you heard? Zipp has broken up with Andreas.

His shoes were wet with dew. His feet were frozen.

"If you ever do that again, I'll kill you!" Andreas put up his hands. "I won't!" They both shrugged. Zipp got to his feet, almost mechanically. At the same instant they started walking at a slow pace to the stone gate. As they passed through it, it was as if something closed up behind them and was gone for good. Hidden in the dark among the graves. Zipp wiped his nose. He took some pride in his own generosity when he said: "Shit!

People don't understand a thing. I hate this town." Andreas nodded. It was a shitty town. Were there any decent people in this place? What did anyone know about how hard it was, all those people sitting in their warm living rooms, staring at American soap operas and criticising anyone under 20? Fucking shitheads! And what did they say in Blade Runner when the storm was at its worst? "You're our best and only friend." And then, in the dark, two faint voices:

"You're not going to tell?"

"No."

It was over. For a moment they had stared into an unfamiliar deep. Now it was closed again. For a few minutes they walked along as they had before, side by side. Zipp understood that Andreas needed him. Hadn't Zipp always given his friend the utmost respect? But what could he demand in return for keeping Andreas' secret? Something that he had never been given? THE UTMOST RESPECT!

He felt a singing inside, a brand-new sensation. He would no longer cower. Their relationship would have to have a new quality. Andreas was more handsome, more intelligent, more popular; he had more money and nicer clothes, but he was bloody gay! The word had unpleasant connotations for Zipp: a torn rectum, Vaseline and shit under his nails. Wasn't that what he had always thought? Life was basically great. He himself was totally normal. He suddenly thought about the desire he had felt at the touch of Andreas' hand. But what the fuck, he had been overpowered, and wasn't he in the prime of his life, surging with vitality? And no-one had seen them. They shared a secret, a strange experience that was both powerful and frightening, but they'd find something else. Something better. He was sure of that. No, not sure, but he hoped so. The way only a young man of 18 can hope.

They turned their backs on the dead and headed into town. They walked along without saying a word, on their way towards something cruel, something truly terrifying, worse than what had just happened. Both of them had stumbled off on to a detour, but now they were back on track. They scowled at everyone they met, turned down side streets, walking with their hands stuffed in their pockets. Andreas' knife swung at his hip. They had to find some way to remember the night that would overshadow everything else. Later, when they recalled that time, they would have to be able to talk about it to others, even though they both knew what it was about, that it actually had to do with that night when they landed in the grass, on top of each other. Zipp could feel the sharp hip bones against his thighs. But he pushed all of that aside. He had to move on.

It was almost midnight. They had to leave the town centre for quieter neighbourhoods. They kept their eyes moving, but took care to avoid looking at each other; it was too soon for that. Tomorrow, perhaps. They had to get through this night. They passed the cinema on the left and crossed the street. Walked past the Gotten kiosk, an optician and a second-hand shop. The streets got more deserted as they went. And there, sent by the Devil himself, was a woman on her own.

They noticed her at the same moment. A stout woman in a brown coat. She was wearing high heels, and it was clear that she wasn't used to them. Without a word, they picked up their pace, moving in unison – like a single, alert predator – with their heads close together, as if discussing something important. Sooner or later she would turn and see them. They didn't really know what they wanted with her. She had appeared at such an opportune moment; it was an exciting game for two capricious young men. There was something about the anxious figure that told them she was altogether alone, that no-one was waiting for her. A woman close to 60; or at least that's what they thought, who was walking along the street in the middle of the night, who hadn't been collected by a husband or by a son. Obviously she lived alone. And since she was walking, she must not live far away. Or maybe she didn't dare stand in the queue for a taxi. People had been killed waiting for a taxi; no doubt she read the papers like everyone else. Then she turned. They looked into her pale face.

She quickened her step, but had trouble because of her shoes. She hadn't gone more than eight or ten paces before she turned again, cut across the street and crept along the windows of an estate agent's office. Light was flooding from the windows, and maybe that made her feel safer. She passed a park, turned left, and headed further from the town centre. They were now on Thornegata, approaching a hill. She turned left again. The street passed through an established residential area with older homes. Andreas had the idea that they should split up.

"I'll follow her," he whispered. "She'll relax if there's only one of us. You run up the hill through the back gardens so she can't see you from the street. We'll escort the old bag home!" Zipp obeyed. He stared at the woman and thought about how scared she was, maybe afraid that she was going to die. Her shoes were tapping hard against the pavement. Andreas walked behind her up the hill while Zipp slipped into a garden and started running through shrubbery and fruit trees, invisible in the dark. Andreas kept going. He could hear her rapid breathing. She kept turning round to see him striding along behind her. He tried to saunter to look less threatening. He felt as cold as ice as he touched his knife. Was she praying as she walked? Halfway up the hill she made another turn. Now she's almost safe, he thought. He passed her, casting a glance in her direction, listening to her footsteps on the gravel. A gate slammed. A key in a lock.

Andreas had reached the far side of the house, he was pushing his way through the hedge, creeping into the garden, cloaked by the dark between the trees. He stood still and listened. Felt someone's breath on his neck.

"The old lady's inside. What do we do now?" Zipp's eyes shone like delicate flames behind a dew-covered pane. My best and only friend. Andreas thought for a moment. Then he took off his scarf and let it slide through his fingers.

"Shit. Are you going to strangle her?" Zipp was pale. At that moment a light went on in the house. A faint glow from the window fell across the lawn.

"Do you think I'm a complete idiot?" Andreas wrapped the scarf around his face so that only his eyes were visible. Then he took the cap from his trouser pocket and pulled it down over his hair. He put a hand on Zipp's shoulder, and was relieved when it was not brushed away. For a moment his knees felt weak with gratitude. They were going to share everything. The awful secret in the grass by the church, and what they were now about to do.

Nothing big. Just rob an old woman of her money. Not a single objection occurred to either of them.

"You wait here. I'll go inside."

"Surely the old lady must have locked her door," Zipp said.

"I can get in anywhere." Andreas's voice was deep and resolute. He was going to make up for everything that had happened. The terrible pain had to be overshadowed by something; sheer terror would do the trick. The risk and the excitement overwhelmed his body, shaking him out of the paralysis he had felt back at the church.

"Shit, Andreas," muttered Zipp. "This is a dirty business."

"I am the business,'" Andreas said in English, chuckling as he disappeared around the corner. Not the biggest or most dangerous animal in the forest, but the slimmest, the boldest and possibly the most cunning. Not an enemy was in sight, only an easy prey. Zipp crept closer to the wall around the garden. He couldn't see over it, but could glimpse the ceiling through the window and a chandelier in what must be the living room. Faint sounds were audible from inside. Zipp stood motionless in the dark He prayed she didn't have a husband with a shotgun, or a fucking dog. He'd heard stories about what could happen, but at the same time he was giddy with excitement. The black night with the strange light. The silent trees, the dew on the grass that turned silver in the moonlight. He leaned against the wall and pressed his ear to the cool panelling.

C H A P T E R 7

How handsome Andreas was. No doubt he could have any girl he wanted. It's easy to love what is beautiful. Those who are believers talk about God's perfect creation with an idiotic gleam in their eyes. But a number of people are uncommonly ugly.

People like me, who have to work so much harder. Emphasise other qualities, so to speak. But even I found someone, or maybe Henry found me. I was so surprised when he proposed, so very moved by the courage it must have cost him, that I said yes at once. I didn't think anyone else would ever ask me. Would I, Irma Funder, get other offers? The woman with the eyebrows that had grown together and the fat thighs? The woman built like a horse? I didn't think much about whether I loved him; I didn't demand that much from life. Isn't marriage a job that has to be done? What is it anyway, this business about love? To need someone more than you need yourself? The lovely feeling that you've finally come out of yourself, taken off and flown inside another being? I don't know what in the world could ever free me from myself, except death. And what is sorrow? That you no longer have companionship? I don't even grieve for Henry. Or for my son, who never comes to see me. Does there exist an unselfish thought in anyone at all? I'm helping Runi with this now, because she helped me yesterday. If I love this child enough, he'll carry me in his arms later. When I'm old. Well, not Ingemar. But I had hopes. Equilibrium. Buy and sell. We will survive here, teeter around on this building site called earth, which is never finished. We build and build, we don't dare stop. As long as we keep building, we have the hope that one day something will tower above us and surpass everything else. Then we meet someone and heave ourselves out. The rest is all hormones that overflow, heat, dampness, a pounding heart. Everything that courses inside us. Biochemistry. Do you understand me?

Henry and I, we even had a child. Lived like everyone else, or at least I think so. When he disappeared it was odd at first, the house was so quiet, but I quickly got used to it. I like being alone. No longer have to keep asking what he thought or believed. I'm lonely, of course, but who isn't? There are plenty of worse things. Illness and pain. Degradation. The way Andreas degraded me. He was thoughtless, but above all he was young. In that sense, he probably had a right to sympathy. Does everyone? I don't know why he chose me. Maybe it was random, the way life is random in a disgusting way.

Runi had called and wanted me to go to the theatre. It's been newly restored after the fire. The King was there for the opening, the chandelier alone was worth the ticket price, she'd seen it on television. The play was called Chance Encounters. I said yes when she called; I should have said no. I've always thought there was danger associated with going into town at night. They sell heroin in the square. But I didn't want her to get suspicious, think I might not be like other people, so I said yes. She is my cover. I have to show a little enthusiasm at regular intervals if I want to be left in peace most of the time. I got dressed up. It was still light and it didn't occur to me to worry about walking the minutes into town. I chose a navy blue dress with a white collar. Underneath I wore nice underwear, silk panties and a tight vest to hold everything in place. My shoes had high heels, but I didn't have far to go. I left in plenty of time. I took note of the door labelled "Ladies", which is what I always do. Runi chattered and laughed the whole time, but every once in a while she would start complaining, as usual: about young people or whatever might occur to her. Life in general. I agreed with her at appropriate moments. There's something rather suspect about a person who never complains. Or at least Runi would be suspicious, so I spent a while griping about the bus, even though I had walked. About how it never came on time. And about television programmes. The steady increase of crime in the city. There's certainly enough to talk about. Inconsiderate youths. Rubbish on the streets. All the synthetic additives in food. You know what I mean. She nodded and drank. It's nice to have someone agree with you.

We had good seats, but now and then I had trouble hearing what was said. We had a glass of port during the interval. I didn't understand the play, but I didn't say so. Just shrugged my shoulders expressively and said that, well, it wasn't that bad, but good Lord, I'd certainly seen better. And Runi agreed. But the theatre itself was magnificent. All in red and gold. And the chandelier was a dream in crystal. Hundreds of tiny little prisms, with light shining through every facet. Runi said it was made in Czechoslovakia, a gift from the Savings Bank. The old one from 1870 was gas lit, but in 1910 it had been converted to electricity, which is what subsequently started the fire. "Georg Resch," said Runi importantly, "he was the one who took the initiative." She loves showing off what little she knows.

It took a long time to get out at the end. People came pouring out from every direction, blocking the way. I was poked and jostled by strangers and I noticed all the different smells: expensive woollen coats, heavy perfumes and smoke from the first cigarettes. The buzz of voices. A surging roar which rose and fell. If I closed my eyes I might be carried along, just surrender. On the other hand, I have no trouble dealing with temptations. I just think about the day that inevitably follows. I fixed my eyes on Runi's coat. It felt as if the crowd was almost crushing me, it was hard to breathe. It's much more pleasant to watch television or read a book. But at last we were outside, and the crowd spilled away in all directions. Runi wanted to walk, it wasn't far. I said that I'd take a taxi. Hoped the driver would be Norwegian. I'm not a racist, but I can't understand what they're saying when they speak broken Norwegian, and then they get annoyed. And things aren't easy for them as it is; no, frankly, I simply didn't want to subject them to Irma Funder. So I hoped for a Norwegian.

It was two blocks from the theatre to the taxi rank on the square. I walked along the river and stopped at the corner. Stared at the endless line of young people who were pushing and shoving, cursing and yelling. I couldn't stand in that queue, not for anything in the world. For a moment I stood there, hesitating and cold, unable to make up my mind, and that's not like me. I would simply have to walk.

It was five to midnight. As I glanced up at the floodlit church, the way a child does, I thought: This is the witching hour. I looked around in confusion, but I saw only the noisy people queuing for a taxi and a few solitary souls, rambling about. An empty taxi glided past, turned off its light and vanished. What if I waited at the corner until the queue got shorter? At that very moment a couple walked up and joined the end of the queue. They each lit up a cigarette. I cut across the square and chose the main street. There was no danger as long as I stayed on the main street, which went all the way to the park. Only there did it get truly dark. The last hill was barely lit at all. I walked on the right side of the street as fast as I could, but my shoes hurt my feet. I tried to make myself uninteresting – because that's what I was, after all – but my shoes gave me away. I could just as well have had a bell around my neck. Come and get me, come and get me! shrieked my shoes. I had money in my handbag, but not a lot. I'm not stupid. Only enough for a taxi home.

I passed the optician's and the bicycle specialist. Thought I heard footsteps behind me, but didn't turn to look. If someone was there, panic would seize hold of me. It wasn't a long walk home. In a few minutes it would all be over. In my mind I pictured the house, my own house with its green paintwork, and the outdoor light that I had remembered to leave on, welcoming me home. I still thought I could hear something. Footsteps. Light, not tapping like my own. I couldn't resist a look. And then I saw them! Two young men. I admonished myself. There were people on the streets, they were going in the same direction, it was as simple as that. Yet it seemed as if they were staring at me, studying me as a possible target, but we women are always hysterical. We always imagine the worst, we know what it's like to grow up in a world of men. I started to walk faster. Turned around again to double-check. They were still there. I went all the way over to the shop windows, feeling safe for a moment in their light. Then I was in the dark again. When I turned around for the third time, one of them was gone. I sighed with relief; that was a good sign. He was already home! But I didn't slow my pace. I thought about everything that could happen. No, I wasn't afraid of dying. And I didn't pray to God. There were worse things that could happen to me than death. I thought it all through and knew that I couldn't allow that to happen to me. But that's how we think sometimes, and then it happens all the same. Like that time when I was ill and had to stay in hospital, with other people taking care of me.

I walked up the steep hill and thought about the hospital and everything that had happened then. A nightmare that almost overshadowed the present. And that helped.

All the time I could hear footsteps. What frightened me was the fact that he didn't overtake me. A young man with long legs, he should have gone past long ago. Now I could see the roof of my house. I heard my own heart pounding, my legs hurt, and I was sweating inside the tight vest. I deliberately slammed the gate, as if someone in the empty house might be listening for it and get up from his chair. There were only a few more paces. The five steps up to the front door. I realised that I didn't have my key ready, I had to rummage in my handbag, in the little compartment. I stood under the light like a human bulls-eye. Then I found the key and stuck it in the lock. The door swung open. I could feel sobs rise in my throat out of sheer relief. That young man was going home to bed. Pull yourself together, Irma! I peered into the dark kitchen. Then I gasped out loud. A red eye shone in the dark. The coffee maker was on. It was half full of coffee. I had left the house with the coffee machine on, I could have burned down this lovely house, which is all I own. I switched it off. The kitchen smelled like a coffee shop. I turned on the light and lifted the pot from the hotplate. Had to lean on the counter for support. It had all been too much for me. The theatre, the crowd, the walk through the dark town at night, the strange man and the coffee maker on, in the old house. I straightened up. It would, I vowed, be a long time before I did that again. Then I went into the bathroom. Stood with my back to the mirror and dropped my dress to the floor. Pulled the tight vest over my head and then stuck my arms into a dressing gown. It's white; yes, out of sheer defiance it is white. I never stay over at anyone's house, so it doesn't matter. I stood in the doorway and peered into the kitchen, at the striped rug. Maybe a little pick-me-up would be in order. I had wine in the cellar, so I rolled back the rug from the trap door. I took the ring and pulled it open.

That's when something happened. I heard a sound; it came from the hallway. I hadn't locked the door! In my horror over the glowing coffee machine, I had forgotten to secure the latch properly. I had run to the kitchen with only one thought, to prevent a catastrophe. I stood there, frozen to the spot, staring, unable to believe my eyes. A man came walking into the kitchen with a knife in his hand. His eyes, which were all I could see under the peak of his cap, shone with determination. He had a scarf wrapped around his face, and he was looking at my handbag, which lay on the counter. There were 200 kroner inside. But I had jewellery and silverware and more cash in the safe in Henry's study. For a few seconds there was utter silence. He seemed to be sniffing at the room, as if the smell of burned coffee surprised him. Then he looked at me. He wavered a bit, the knife shook. I took a step back, but he came after me, pressed me against the counter, stuck the tip of the blade under my chin and snarled.

"Your cash. And fucking be quick about it!" My knees started to shake. And that's when the accident happened, I couldn't help it. I felt a warmth sliding down my thighs, but he didn't notice, he was much too preoccupied with the knife, which was trembling, betraying his own fear. Just as scared as I was. I cast a glance towards Henry's study. I wanted to open the safe, but my legs wouldn't hold me. He got annoyed, waved the knife at me, shoved me aside with his fist. Not hard, but I flinched. His shouts were muffled by the scarf.

"Hurry it up, you old bag! Hurry it up!" I was just an old bag. And he was just a young kid. I could hear it in his voice. I hadn't moved. He pushed me again, and finally I managed to drag my feet across the room and into the study. I stood in front of the safe, staring at the dial, trying to remember the combination. My fingers shook uncontrollably, but my mind was a blank. I wanted to throw up, I wanted to run away. I was willing to give him everything I had, there wasn't really much inside, anyway, maybe 5,000 kroner. But I couldn't remember the combination. Now he really started to get nervous. Instinctively I thought that I had to keep him calm, tried to explain about the combination, that I had written it down. "In the teapot," I gasped, "it's in the teapot in the kitchen!" He screamed that he didn't have time for this. He seized hold of my dressing gown, up near the collar. I immediately pulled it tight because I was afraid, and he could see that this was for me the worst. I didn't want him to see me the way I was. With one hand he tugged at the belt and held it taut, then he raised the knife and cut my belt in two. The heavy white towelling fell away. I covered myself with my hands, but it was too late. He stared in disbelief, lurched back with a strange expression, not exactly disgust, but he couldn't comprehend what he saw. Just shook his head. He had forgotten what he came for. But the seconds kept ticking away, and eventually he understood. It was my intestine he was looking at. It sticks out through the skin of my abdomen and ends in a colostomy bag. It was almost full, and also split open. The knife blade had sliced it in two. The contents were running down my legs. I couldn't look at his face, I turned around and rushed out of the study, but he came after me. Stopped in front of me with his knife raised.

"I don't give a damn about . . . that! I want money!"

I felt it running down, it was thin, not fully digested, and the smell was starting to spread, and I'm so fastidious about things like that. Behind him, the cellar trap-door was open. He didn't notice it, he was jumping around, but I could see that he had reached breaking point. I thought he might end up stabbing me if he didn't get what he wanted. And so I pushed him. I heard a gasp as he fell backwards down the steep staircase. There was a crashing and thumping and thundering on the stairs. I heard a disgusting, dull thud as he hit the cement. A faint rattling sound that lasted a few seconds. Then silence.

*

Zipp was waiting in the dark. He heard sounds from inside: a woman screaming, footsteps crossing a floor. He stared and stared through the window, but he could see only the ceiling and the top of a painting. An eternity passed. Why didn't Andreas come out again? He looked for something to stand on. In the garden there was a small gazebo with several chairs inside. He crept over to it, picked up a chair and carried it to the window, shoving it down hard into a rosebed. He could feel the prick of the thorns through his trousers. He climbed on to the chair and peered over the windowsill. He saw a kitchen table and chairs and a striped rug. Nothing else, and nobody in sight. All was quiet. Confused, he stayed on the chair and waited. He couldn't imagine what had happened to them. Had this whole caper gone to hell? Had the worst possible thing happened? Were the police on the way? Damn it! He jumped down, but at that moment he heard a faint sound. Relieved, he spun round and stared at the corner of the house, but no-one appeared. Was Andreas playing games with him? Had he robbed the old lady and then run off with the cash? Was he standing down on the road counting the money, grinning and laughing at the thought of Zipp, still waiting in the dark? He climbed up on the chair again. Stood there for an eternity until his neck started to ache. Suddenly he caught sight of the woman in the house. She came through a door, wearing only a nightdress, and sank onto a chair at the table. She looked unharmed, which was a relief. He decided to stay where he was until she did something. Was she going to call the police? Had she called them already? Zipp jumped down, ran round the side of the house and stood at the corner, partially hidden. No-one came. He ran back to take one more look. She was still sitting there. He listened for sirens in the distance, but heard nothing. Just a faint hum from the town below. He was tired and bewildered after everything that had happened on this unreal day. He fumbled for a cigarette, inhaled deeply and watched the tip glow bright red in the dark. He badly needed to cough but managed to suppress the urge. He smoked the whole cigarette and then got back on the chair. She was still sitting there, for God's sake, in exactly the same position. The woman was clearly in shock, that much he could see. But he couldn't very well stay there all night. He was going to have to leave. Leave the dark garden all alone. He couldn't do that! But the clock was ticking. He had waited long enough. Without a sound, he slipped out through the gate, but the question kept churning through his mind: Where the hell was Andreas?

*

The pounding as he crashed down the stairs, the horrible sound of his head hitting the concrete floor, I can't describe it! The impact settled in my own body as a needle-like pain. I thought to myself: surely he must have died in a fall like that! That fragile body against the hard-as-rock floor. I closed the trap door. At least he wouldn't be able to come up and threaten me again. Of course, I would have to call somebody, surely someone would help me. Maybe Runi, or Ingemar. No, Lord knows, not Ingemar! And the way I looked! I tottered out to the bathroom. Changed the bag. It was difficult to get the new one closed because my hands were shaking so much. I thought about what he had seen, what no-one was ever supposed to see. Or hear about, know about; well, only if necessary, if it was unavoidable. But see it? NO! The expression on his face, utter disbelief. Maybe he didn't realise what it was, maybe he thought I was some kind of deformed monster, a freak. A gleaming pink intestine on my stomach, that looks rather like . . . well, you have to forgive me, but it's so hard for me to talk about this. But it looks rather like a penis. And I'm a woman, after all.

I put on a clean nightdress. Sat at the kitchen table. I don't know how long I sat there. I felt encapsulated, with no room for any thoughts, not even despair. Then I raised my head, and my eyes automatically looked at the window. For a wild moment I thought I saw a face against the pane. I stared and stared, but it didn't reappear. I don't know how much time must have passed before I finally asked myself the question: What should I do now? When I reached that stage, the feeling of paralysis left me. And with the return of reality came the emotions. They nearly knocked me unconscious. I recalled his eyes. They were shining with fright and determination. To come here and force his way in had been important for him. How can money be that important? I was sitting a pace from the cellar door. If I opened it, the light from the kitchen would make it possible for me to see him. I had to get up and take a look, through the trap door. And then I remembered that I should call someone soon. Explain everything. There was so much that had to be done. Reluctantly, I got to my feet. Opened the trap door. I didn't dare to look. But I couldn't pretend that nothing had happened. If I went into another room and sat there until morning, he would still be lying in the same position. I stood with my back turned and counted to ten, to 20. He wasn't going anywhere. He had fallen to his death. Thirty, forty. Cautiously I turned. Why didn't he scream? I squatted down. The first step came into focus, then the rest. The light was slanting down over the stairs. The first thing I saw was his feet. They were lying on the second step from the bottom. His body was twisted into an impossibly contorted position. One arm was stretched out to the side, I couldn't see the other one, maybe he was lying on it. His forehead was a white patch in the darkness of the cellar, his cap was gone. No-one could lie like that and still be alive. The angle of his head gave me a terrible clue. I stood there as long as I could, staring at him. Listening for any sounds, but it was as quiet as the grave. I straightened up.

Realised that the worst had happened. He was dead.

The thought came to me with absolute calm, as something important but not dramatic. What would I have done if he were still alive? I should call for an ambulance. But the mere idea of having to explain everything was unthinkable. Strangers stomping into Irma's house? I put the trap door back in place. Laid the rug on top. It was simple. No-one knew that he had come into my house. I tried to think. It was a matter of making some important decisions. I took a deep breath, in and out, then another, in and out. I decided to stay at home the next day. I hardly ever missed work, so no-one would think it odd. I could say I was coming down with the flu. And then I felt it, the strange sensation that I had been in this selfsame situation before. I couldn't understand it. Fear must be playing tricks on me. But I had always believed that one day something terrible would happen. Whenever I sat in the red chair near the window I let my thoughts wander. In my mind I'd been through almost all the possibilities. The nightmare that would befall me. And now, here it was. Something that I'd been waiting for. When I realised the connection, I grew calmer. The worst imaginable thing had occurred; in other words, something was finally over. The problem was out in the open and could now be resolved. It was time for action. I told myself that first I needed to get some sleep. I felt worn out. Later, I would get rid of all traces. Had he left any traces? I looked around, went into the study. What about his knife? Was it down in the cellar? I was talking to myself in a low voice.

"There's a dead man in the cellar. He came here to attack me. It was an accident. Nobody knows that he's here, and hardly anyone ever comes here. There must be a way out of this. There must be a way out!" I turned off all the lights except in the bathroom. Then I went to bed. Pulled the duvet over me and stared into the dim light of the room. I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn't. They just kept running and running.

*

Zipp was perched on the top of a woodpile behind the house where Andreas lived. There was a faint light visible behind the curtains. The window was closed. He seemed to remember that Andreas always slept with the window open. He thought to himself: Here I am again, standing like a Peeping Tom. The bed was neatly made. He could see the black-and-white bedspread lying nice and smooth. And the poster of The Doors. On the desk stood an empty Coke bottle. No Andreas. Zipp had been convinced that Andreas would be at home in his own bed. But he wasn't.

Zipp jumped down. He would have to go home.

Where the hell else could he go? Should he wait until morning and call? His concern turned to anger. And then he trudged off, past the church and the graves, walking fast with his hands in his pockets. Up and along the streets, feeling so damned alone. He had only to make it through this night. With daylight the explanation would emerge, something stupid. Andreas always had an explanation. He unlocked the door and went in. Ran downstairs. Pulled off his tight jeans. His skin felt clammy and stripes from the double seams ran down his thighs. He lay on the sofa with a blanket over him and stared into the darkness. Andreas had done everything, and he only stood there and watched. No-one had anything on him. A tiny feeling of relief began trickling through him. Just before the darkness swallowed him, he remembered the chair. He had left it standing under her window. What would she think? What had the two of them been thinking of? They hadn't thought, they had just charged ahead. Suddenly he pictured the pram striking the rocks, and the baby's tiny mouth with the toothless gums; the foaming sea; the angry cries. What we were ends here, he thought.

*

I lay in bed for a long time, shaking as if I had a fever. I felt neither good or bad, I was just a body living its own muddled life, without coherence. I dreamed that my intestine was growing, that it wriggled out, slowly but surely, until it was dragging along the ground. I had to gather it up and carry it in my hands for everyone to see. An enormous tangle of intestines. Look here! Then I woke up. I hadn't forgotten about the horror in the cellar. I had only pushed it aside for a while, like a mean-spirited dog some distance off, which couldn't get at me because it was chained up. But now it was growling. I opened my eyes and stared dead ahead at the flowered wallpaper. It growled again, this time louder. At the same time I was quite sure that I wasn't crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm perfectly sane, I'm describing everything exactly as it was, down to the last detail. Are you still reading this?

Then it was quiet again. Maybe the sound was the relics of a dream. Then it started howling. At first a long, drawn-out, faint howl, then it got louder. I've never heard such a sad howl before, it was coming from a creature in dire need, in the utmost pain. An insane thought occurred to me, but I pushed it away. It wasn't possible. The world couldn't be that evil! Things were bad enough already. But the sound was indeed coming from the cellar. A muffled cry, as if he didn't have much strength, and it had cost him everything to scream. I sat up in bed, shaking with terror now, and stuffed a corner of the pillow in my mouth. The man was alive! He was lying there in the cold cellar and screaming for help!

I threw myself on to my stomach and pressed the pillow over my head. I couldn't bear to hear those screams, as if they came from a wounded animal. He was calling to me. Maybe other people would hear him. The neighbours? People passing on the street?

They would stop and listen, make a note of my address. Maybe they would think I was hurting someone. I was going to be sick. What business had he coming here in the first place? If only he would shut up! Finally I got up and tip-toed across the room. I didn't want him to hear my footsteps overhead. Obviously he was in terrible pain. And he was only a boy. Imagine that he could scream like that. I've never heard anyone scream so horribly, with so much fear. A young boy. All alone in the dark down there, lying on the ice-cold floor. I stopped in the kitchen. Turned on the light over the counter. I couldn't do anything without him hearing me. Turn on the water or open the door to the refrigerator. I pulled out a kitchen chair and sank down. Sat there with one hand on my stomach, feeling the warm contents in the bag through the material of my nightdress. It was quiet again. Maybe he had fainted or something, or maybe he was gathering his strength to scream even louder. I don't know how long I was there. Then he started again, this time louder. I stood up abruptly, went to the radio on the counter, and switched it on. Night-time programming. They were playing music. I turned up the volume. Found a level that blocked out his howls, so that I couldn't hear him. I listened in amazement to all the passion flowing into the room.

"I will always love you." "Hold me baby, hold me now." I sat hunched over the table. I didn't belong in this world, I was an unloved human being. And now here I was, an old woman with a bag of my own waste at my stomach, taking up space. I suddenly started to retch, but nothing came out, just the taste of sour port wine. He had stopped screaming. Did I dare to open the trap door? Just take a quick look and shut it again? I began rolling up the rug, uncovering the door. I listened, holding my breath, didn't hear a thing. He must have lost consciousness. I could go back to bed, postpone the problem for a few hours more. I stared at the wall, at the calendar that showed September. It's autumn, I thought. It's going to get even darker and colder. Then I grabbed the ring and raised the trap door. Peered down at the pale face. The eyes above the scarf stared back at me, and I heard a scream so heart-rending that I almost fell down the stairs. But I regained my balance and dropped the trap door, dropped it with a bang. He was far from dead. He was going to stay alive for a long time; he had strength. He knew that I was up here, that I could save him. I turned the radio up again. Went back to bed. I could hear the music through the open door. A man was screaming in the most terrible despair.

"I lied for you, and that's the truth." I sat up in bed until it got light outside. The grey light came through my window like dirty water. Someone like me, who is so meticulous, yet I couldn't stop it. He wasn't screaming now.

C H A P T E R 8

September 2.

A slim, well-dressed woman came into the reception area. She paused halfway to the glass-enclosed booth and looked around. Then with swift, purposeful steps she moved towards the little window. Seen from the main entrance, there was something ridiculous about that little booth. But Mrs Brenningen felt entirely comfortable sitting inside it. She was protected there, didn't feel so much as a puff of breath from those questions she had to deal with. Didn't have to touch them. She was a sort of traffic light. Red or green. Usually red. Most people were told to sit and wait until someone bothered to come and get them. The woman was out of breath, making Mrs Brenningen think she was here to report a break-in or robbery. Something had been taken from her, and now she was indignant. She had bright red blotches on her cheeks and her lipstick at the corners of her mouth looked like dry crumbs. Mrs Brenningen smiled brightly through the glass.

"I need to talk to a police officer."

"And what is it about?"

The woman was evasive. She apparently had no desire to tell a lowly receptionist what her business was. But everyone had specific areas of expertise at the police station, and it was important that she was sent to the right department. And above all, it was important to ensure that the woman did in fact have a good reason for being there at all. For example, the passport office had moved to further down the street.

The woman seemed to sink into herself. She thought about the oppressive silence in her house. Even though there was never any noise this early in the morning, she could sense at once that something was missing. Something quite essential. She approached the door to his room, moving sideways, like a crab. Opened it and peeked inside. He wasn't there. Confused, she shut the door. Stood there, biting her lip. On the door he had hung a poster. It had been there for years. But this was the first time that she had really taken it in.

"Kneel in front of this brilliant genius," it said. She was pulled out of her reverie because the woman in the booth cleared her throat, but still she didn't answer the question.

Mrs Brenningen represented an organisation serving the public and she didn't want an argument. She called Skarre's office and nodded towards the glass double doors. The woman disappeared down the corridor. Skarre was standing in his doorway, waiting. She looked him up and down, clearly not encouraged by what she saw.

"Excuse me, but are you just a trainee officer, or whatever?"

"I beg your pardon?" he said, blinking.

"This has to do with a very serious matter." I assumed as much, since you decided to come here, Skarre thought. He smiled, after reminding himself of a passage in the Bible about patience.

"It's called an 'officer candidate'," he said gently.

"No, I'm done with my training. Now tell me what this is about."

"I want to report my son missing." He invited her to sit down.

"Your son is missing. How long has he been gone?"

"He didn't come home last night."

"So we're talking about one night?" Skarre settled himself behind his desk.

"I know what you're thinking: that there's no reason to worry. But that's really not something you can pronounce upon. You don't know him." Skarre gave a mild shake of his head. The situation was so familiar. The son had been missing before. Now she wanted to take her revenge once and for all and make things hell for him. But it didn't matter; he still had to do his job. He picked up a Missing Person Report form and started filling it in. Place, date, time, his own name and title.

"The full name of the missing person?"

"Andreas Nicolai Winther."

"Nickname or any other name he uses?"

"No, none."

"Born?"

"June 4, 1980."

"Place of residence?"

"He lives with me. Cappelens gate 4."

"All right. I need a description of him. Height and build. Whether he wears glasses, that sort of thing."

She began describing her son. No beard or glasses, no distinguishing marks, nice teeth, eastern Norway dialect, normal mental state. Height: 185 centimetres; eyes: light blue – well, bordering on green, to be precise – long, curly, reddish-brown hair. Nothing special about the way he walks. Skarre wrote it all down. In his mind he was forming a picture of the youth that probably didn't quite match up.

"Does he use a debit card?" he asked.

"He didn't want one."

"Has he ever been gone overnight before?"

"Surely that doesn't have anything to do with it," the woman replied, sounding sullen.

"Well, yes," said Skarre. "Actually, it does."

"So that you can file the report at the bottom of the pile and treat it as less important?"

"Your son is an adult," said Skarre calmly, trying to balance on the knife edge this woman represented.

"There's adult and adult," she said.

"I mean from a legal standpoint, and that's how we have to regard him too. You'll have to forgive all the questions, but I'm sure you understand that since your son is of age, and no doubt capable of taking care of himself, at this point we can't regard the situation as particularly dramatic. If he were a child, things would be different. I'm sure you agree, don't you?" His voice was exceedingly kind.

"But he always comes home."

"And I'm certain he will this time too. Most people turn up pretty quickly. Some are shattered after a trip on the boat from Denmark, or a party that got a little too wild. Has that ever happened before?" he asked.

"The boat to Denmark?" She gave him a wounded look. "He can't afford things like that. But it has happened before," she admitted. "Once. Maybe twice. But it's not something he usually does."

"I'm sure we'll sort this out. Together," he added, as a way of offering hope and encouragement. She opened her handbag and took out a photograph. Skarre studied it. Andreas was an unusually handsome young man. Of course his mother would be worried.

"Who took the picture?" he asked with curiosity.

"Why do you ask?" she snapped.

"No reason." He shrugged. "I was just trying to be friendly. In my own clumsy way."

"Forgive me," she whispered. "I'm not myself. I got up at 8.00 and went to his room to wake him. He works at the Cash & Carry. I noticed that his bed hadn't been slept in. I waited until 10.00 to call the shop. He works in the hardware department, but he hadn't come in. He has skipped work before, I admit that."

"Are you angry with him?" Skarre asked. "Because he subjects you to these disappearing acts of his?"

"Of course I'm angry!" she said.

"More angry than scared?" He fixed his blue eyes on her.

"He's missing," she said in a low voice. "Now at least I've done something about it."

"I'll write up a report. Let me borrow the photograph. We'll send it out for distribution. At first to the PT."

"And what's that?"

"The police news bulletin. We have contact with the central authorities in all the Nordic countries. We live in a computer age now, you know. How's that for a start?"

"What about the TV and newspapers?" she ventured.

"Maybe not right away. It's someone else's responsibility to make that decision." He smiled.

"I'm just a simple police officer." He rolled up his sleeves. He didn't want her to think they weren't on top of things. If she only knew.

"What was he wearing?"

"Cotton trousers, a very pale colour. A T-shirt, with a light-coloured shirt on top, probably the yellow one. I didn't see him when he left, just heard him call from the hall, but the yellow shirt isn't in his wardrobe. And black shoes. He's goodlooking," she added.

"Yes," said Skarre, smiling. "And what about his father? What does he say?"

"He doesn't know about it."

"Is he out of town?"

"He moved out," she murmured.

"Maybe he ought to know about this?"

"I'm not the one who's going to tell him." She closed down a bit. Skarre gave her a searching look.

"It would be good if we could work on this together. Isn't there a chance that he's with his father?"

"Not a chance in hell!" she said vehemently.

"Have you called his friends?"

"He only has one. They were together last night. I tried to call him, but no-one answered. I'll try again."

"Do you think your son might be there?"

"No. I know his mother, and she would have sent him home."

"So in point of fact both of them might be missing?"

"I have no idea. I have enough to worry about with my own son."

"I'll need his father's name," Skarre said. "And the name of this friend. And their phone numbers. If it's difficult for you to contact the father, I can do it for you."

She thought for a moment, weighing up her options. Maybe it was a confrontation that she had been fearing for a long time. Diving down into the mud that had finally settled.

"What will you do now?" she asked.

"I have made an official note of your report. We'll contact you if anything turns up. I suggest that you stay at home in case he calls."

"I can't just sit at home and wait. I can't bear it."

"Do you have a job?"

"Part-time. Today is my day off."

"Try not to be cross. That may not be what he needs when he does get home."

"What do you mean? You're not worried about him? You think he's gone off on the boat to Denmark?"

"No," Skarre said wearily. "That's not what I'm saying. Let's just wait and see. Perhaps he's at home waiting for you now."

He reminded himself that this was what he had wanted, what he had always dreamed of doing. Helping people.

"Do you have any family you could talk to? Who could offer you some support?"

Mrs Winther rubbed one eye. She heard a little clicking sound as her poor eyeball rolled around in its socket.

"I need a taxi. Could you call one for me?" Skarre put the form inside a plastic folder, called the switchboard and asked for a taxi.

"Please call and let me know when your son does turn up. Don't forget."

He put special emphasis on the word "when". And then Mrs Winther left. She strode solemnly into the corridor with the air of someone who was carrying out an unpleasant obligation for no pay. Skarre sat and stared at the photograph. Andreas Winther, he thought. Go ahead and admit it.

You're lying under a duvet somewhere with a damn great hangover. Next to a girl whose name you can't remember. I'll bet she's sweet, or at least she was yesterday. You summon what strength you have left to think up an excuse for why you've missed work. Terrible headache. Coming down with a fever. With looks like that you could undoubtedly charm your boss into forgiving you. Whether it's a man or a woman.

Konrad Sejer was standing in the doorway.

Skarre never failed to be struck by how tall he was. So eminently present. Sejer sat down with an expression that could have been crafted with his own hands. Then he leaned down and pulled up his socks. The ribbing around the tops was loose.

"Anything going on?"

He caught sight of the photograph. Picked it up and studied it closely.

"Probably not. But he's a handsome young man. Missing since yesterday. Andreas Winther. Lives with his mother."

"Looks quite a charmer. Find out if he's attracted any attention in town."

"It's a good thing that Mrs Winther can't hear you.

"I'm sure he'll turn up soon. There's something about young men and their mother's cooking." Sejer was only moderately interested. There were many other things – some of them serious cases – that preoccupied him. Robert, for one, who was insisting on pleading guilty to the murder of Anita.

To the despair of his defence lawyer. It will sort itself out, Sejer thought. Press on home, Andreas.

*

The new day dawned. I lay in bed, waiting for 9.00. Dragged myself out of bed and out to the kitchen. The shuffling of my feet disturbed me. Did I really sound like that? Was it really true? I stared at the little lump under the rug, the iron ring. There's a dead man screaming in your cellar, Irma. The nightmare is real, and it's not going away! I went over to the telephone. Stood there for a long time with my hand on the receiver. Finally dialled my work number. I was surprised that I even remembered it, that my brain wasn't overwhelmed by the horror in the cellar, that it was still functioning. I could summon what I needed when I needed it. I think human beings are peculiar that way. But I had to make the call. At all costs, I had to prevent anyone from coming to the house. The mere thought of it forced an involuntary snort from me. I could have lain here dead, I could have lain here for days, until the smell reached the neighbour's. Merete answered the phone.

"Oh, Irma, are you really sick? I'm sorry, it's just that you're never sick! Don't worry, I can hold the fort. Take as much time off as you need." She was quite pleased. All the others are younger than I am; I put a damper on things. Now they'd be able to really let loose and gossip about the customers to their hearts' content. And about me, no doubt. She wasn't the least bit sorry. I was right, as usual; I'm always right. In my mind I pictured Merete, in that tiny office behind the counter. A glance towards the shop, at Linda, the one with the fake fingernails. Conspiratorial smiles. No, that kind of thing doesn't bother me; it's always been like that.

"Thank you," I whispered. I could hardly speak.

"Have you been to the doctor?" she added, pleased with her own presence of mind in the midst of her delight.

"I'm just going to call him now. But it could be a few days before I'm back."

"Don't even think about us. We'll keep the shop running."

Oh yes, I thought, I've never considered myself indispensable. I thought: Now I'm hearing Merete's voice for the last time. It sounded shrill, like a bird chirping. Now they can dance on the tables over there. I'm never going back.

"Get well soon," Merete hurried to add. And then she was gone. She was sailing on her own sea, with no idea how far it actually is to the bottom. For a moment I felt sorry for her. For everyone who is young and knows so little.

I stood there for a moment and listened. Not a sound from the cellar. I thought: Now he's dead. He didn't make it through the night. If he had, he would have screamed by now, he would have heard my voice and screamed for help.

And then he did start screaming. Out of sheer terror I dropped the phone. He must have heard it hit the floor. The nightmare wasn't over. He was still lying down there, wailing. I had to call for help!

I stuck my arms into a knitted cardigan and stared at the striped rug. Call for an ambulance. Why hadn't I called before? How long had he been lying there?

Since about midnight? Since midnight? Is that right?

Why? Because I thought he was dead. What kind of an answer was that? I sank on to a chair. I fixed my eyes on the tablecloth with the flowers, the one I always use, I had embroidered it myself, every single stitch. I spent a year working on that tablecloth, it's my pride and joy. Sorry. I'm digressing, but the tablecloth is beautiful, it really is. A little coffee, maybe? I stared at the coffee maker. Things wouldn't be any worse if I had some coffee. I stood up and turned on the tap. He cried out again, a little fainter this time. I switched on the radio. What did he think when he heard the music?

Probably that I was crazy. But I wasn't crazy, that's what terrified me. In fact, I felt completely rational. A space in my brain was still open, and absolutely clear. It was cold down there. What if I crept down the stairs and put a blanket over him? I didn't have to look at him, just put the blanket over him and run back up.

I needed time. He would be found, of course. I would make sure of that, but first I had to arrange a way out for myself. There was too much to explain. The idea was intolerable; what would they think? And Ingemar. Everyone at work. What if it were in the newspaper? I peeked through the window. Into the garden. The gazebo and the top of the hedge. I could see the neighbour's roof. They could see my kitchen window from their first floor. I closed the curtains. Then changed my mind and opened them. They were always open at this time of day, and I wanted above all to avoid anything that might look out of the ordinary. I went to collect the blanket from the red chair. A woollen blanket with a fringe; it was almost too warm. When I took a siesta after lunch, I always kicked it off. I stood holding it in my hands. What would he think?

Would he scream louder still? Would people in the street hear him? I started to roll the rug aside. The iron ring was a big one, I could put my hand through it. I listened again. Everything was quiet, as if he too were listening. Slowly, I pulled the trap door up. I knew that now the light would strike his face. I stood there with my heart pounding. Then I heard low moans. Maybe he thought that help was coming. And he couldn't do anything to me; he must have injured himself badly. I couldn't get my head round how this whole thing had happened, in my own house. I put my foot on the top step. It was a simple thing that I had to do: down the steps – there were nine of them – put the blanket over him, turn round and go back up. A good deed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the white face. Or rather, what little of it was visible above the scarf. Why hadn't he taken the scarf off? Couldn't he move his arms? I kept my eyes on my feet, that's what I always did, I was afraid of falling, of breaking something and ending up in the hospital. When there were two steps to go, I had to take a little leap. His legs were up against the last steps. I unfolded the blanket, fumbling a bit because I was nervous. And then I laid it over him. I refused, at all costs, to look into his eyes, because then I might feel something. But I felt his gaze on me, knew that he was looking at me. I heard a few gurgling sounds. I stared at the floor to the right of his head. A pool of blood, and it had already congealed. I turned round and went up the stairs again. He started yelling. He was shouting for water. He hadn't had anything to drink for a long time. I couldn't let him die of thirst. I had to get him water and then go back down. The worst thing of all, I thought, is to die of thirst. Would he be able to drink from a glass? Or suck the water from a wet towel? I suddenly felt dizzy. Something was forcing its way into my consciousness, with no warning, something terribly moving. I walked up the steps, thinking. I owned nothing in this world. No-one's face lit up at the sight of Irma Funder. But this young man's life lay in my hands.

C H A P T E R 9

Zipp sat bolt upright in bed. He had fallen asleep in the basement. Then he remembered everything. It was 11 a.m., so the newspaper would have arrived by now. Andreas was presumably at work. No matter what had happened the night before, Andreas would be at work now, walking around in the hardware department with that crooked smile of his. And he was gay. That was unbelievable. What's wrong with me? Zipp thought. What kind of signal was I sending out that he decided to make a move on me? Is it my tight jeans that he's always laughing at? Had other poofs also wanted me, without my realising it? He clenched his fists. The palms of his hands were sweaty. What should he say when next they met? Could they talk about sex and brag about things as they did before? Forget about what had happened? Yes, maybe, but could they keep pretending that nothing was going on – could they? When they were in a bar together, would Andreas sit there staring at the guys? Had he always done that? Where on earth was he? Zipp stared at the Blade Runner tape on the table. At the same moment he heard footsteps on the stairs. His mother stuck her head through the door.

"It was a late night, I see."

She said this with a smile. She didn't keep track of what he did as long as he stayed healthy and came home at night. She liked having someone in the house. Most boys moved out at his age, but she did what she could to hold on to him. And as long as he didn't have a job, he wasn't going anywhere.

"Why aren't you in bed sleeping?" he sneered.

"A quiet night shift," she said, sounding cheerful.

"I actually took a siesta for a few hours." She put her hands on her hips. "The phone rang. I didn't get to it in time."

Andreas]

"I've got to go to the employment office," Zipp said, getting up.

She stared at him. Was he finally going to set about getting a job?

"I was about to make some sandwiches. You'll have something to eat first, won't you?"

"Did you bring the paper in?" he said, looking at the floor as he pulled on his jeans.

"Of course. And I've already read it. Do you know what time it is?"

Since he didn't normally pore over the paper looking for a job, he had to restrain himself a bit.

He put the paper next to his plate and checked the front page. Nothing. He bit into a slice of bread and peanut butter, chewed and turned the pages. Just the usual stuff.

"The jobs are in section three," his mother advised him, watching him from where she stood at the work surface. She had another night shift ahead of her, which meant her whole day was free. That didn't really suit him. He liked it when she wasn't home. She was shrewd, the way mothers are; they could see right through anything.

"I know," he mumbled, as he kept turning the pages.

"You're looking for something," she concluded.

"What are you looking for?"

"A disaster," he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"Why are you interested in something like that?"

"A little drama in the daily round, I suppose." He gulped down the first slice of bread as he scanned page after page.

"You're only reading the headlines," she said.

"Yeah," he said. "If I read all the main headlines, I'll be reasonably well-informed."

She shook her head with annoyance and let

water run into the sink. Zipp has never in his life done the dishes, she thought. Would things have been different if she'd had a daughter? Easier, maybe. A little help around the house? She wasn't sure. Some of her friends had daughters, and they complained all the time about everything being so difficult. They had to explain so much to them. Menstruation. Sex. She shivered. No, it was better to have a son, even if he were unemployed. He was handsome and gentle. Things would turn out well for him, she was sure of that. There were plenty of young people who took a while to figure out what they wanted to do. But it was expensive having him live with her. He always needed something.

"I'm going to call Andreas at work." He said it out loud. It sounded ordinary enough, and he was convinced Andreas would answer. He went into the living room, punching in the numbers with a practised hand. His mother gazed after him. He gripped the receiver tightly. No, Andreas hadn't come to work today. Hadn't called in sick either. Didn't Zipp know that? His mother was worried about him. Had even been to see the police.

"The police?"

"To report him missing. He didn't come home last night."

"Is he missing?" Zipp asked. He knew his mother was listening, like a quivering cable reaching him from the kitchen; he had no choice but to play along.

"Didn't you see him yesterday?"

The question caught him off guard. Who in fact knew that they had been together? Someone must have seen them. And just think of everything they'd done! It would be best to stick close to the truth.

"Jesus, yes, we were together yesterday. Went out to the Headline. Watched a video afterwards."

"Well, it's odd, isn't it? I suppose he'll turn up."

"Yes. I know Andreas. He does whatever he likes." He tried to laugh, but it came out as a squeak.

"What's going on?" His mother was standing next to him.

"Andreas," he said, putting down the phone.

"Didn't show up for work today."

"He didn't? Why not?" She gave him a hard look. Suspected that something was up and took in every detail. The way his eyes were flickering, the way he put his hand up to push back his unruly hair. He shook his head.

"How would I know? Everything was perfectly normal."

"What do you mean by normal?" She squinted at him.

"Well, last night, I mean."

"And why wouldn't it be?"

Silence. He searched for words but found none. Wanted to go back to the kitchen but was stopped by the phone ringing. His mother didn't move to pick it up. He shrugged and picked up the receiver.

"Hello? Zipp? This is Andreas' mother."

"Uh, yes?" he croaked, his mind churning like crazy, thinking about everything that had happened and what he could say, or rather, what he couldn't say.

"Andreas didn't come home last night. I went into his room at eight this morning to wake him up, and he wasn't there! You and Andreas went into town yesterday, didn't you?"

"Yes," he said, casting a glance over his shoulder. It dawned on him that whatever answer he gave now was crucial. Crucial to everything that would happen later, because of everything they had done. The baby in the blue pram, the old lady in the white house. Something was badly wrong, but he didn't know what. He didn't understand why the woman was sitting at the table dressed only in her nightgown, why she just kept sitting there. And Andreas, who never came out of that house.

"You were with him. Where did the two of you go?" Her voice was suddenly sharp.

"Here. We came over to my house." The video was on the table downstairs. Did she think he was standing here and not telling the truth? "First we went to a bar. Afterwards we watched a film here. Blade Runner," he told her.

"What do you mean?" Her voice was uncertain.

"He didn't come home last night!" she repeated.

"Do you know where he is?"

"No," he said, in a firm voice, because that was the truth, and again it was a relief not to lie. "No, I have no idea where he is. I called him at work and found out that he never showed up."

"So you heard that? I went to see the police," she said resolutely. "He needs to learn to take responsibility. He's an adult now, after all. He ought to start acting like one. But last night . . . When did you last see him? Where were you?"

He thought fast. "We were hanging out around town. At the square and stuff."

"Okay, and then what?"

"Nothing. We were just goofing around. We said goodbye around midnight," he said.

Around midnight. That sounded plausible.

Around midnight. That's when they caught sight of that woman. Near the optician's.

"Where did you last see him?"

"Where?" Shit, did she have to know every last detail? "Where? On Thornegata, I think." It slipped out. Why had he said that? Because that's where Andreas had told him to leave the street and sneak through the back gardens in the dark, while he continued following the woman.

"Thornegata? What were you doing out there?"

"Nothing," he said, feeling more and more annoyed by mothers who wanted to know everything, who felt they had the right to poke around and ask questions.

"But . . . Thornegata . . . Didn't you come home together? Where was he going?"

"Don't know. We were just roaming around," he repeated.

"Did anything happen?" Her voice was anxious.

"Were you drunk, Zipp?"

"No, no! No, we weren't."

"Did he meet someone?"

"Not that I know of."

He wanted to hang up. To be done with all this pressure. "Tell him to call me when he shows up," he said. "Tell him that I'm going to have his guts for garters."

Speaking of Andreas only reminded Zipp of the night before, of what Andreas had wanted to do to him in the churchyard. He wished he could take the words back, but it was too late. From now on, he thought, everything's going to be difficult.

At last she hung up. His mother was standing with the dishwashing brush in her hand, dripping soap and water on to the floor.

"Well?"

"Mrs Winther," he said. "She's reported Andreas missing."

"And?"

"She just wants to get even. He's an adult, after all."

"Andreas is an odd sort," she said. She gave him an inscrutable look.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Just that he's different. He's probably come up with some wild idea."

"You don't know anything about it!" His outburst surprised him. It surprised his mother too. She turned and went back to the kitchen. He grabbed the newspaper, ran downstairs and began reading through it. One article after another, page by page. It was a thick paper, so he was busy for quite a while. There was nothing about a woman and a pram. And nothing about the old lady, either. But then, that story had happened after the paper went to press.

*

"This had better not become a habit," Sejer said. They were in the King's Arms, drinking beer. In the middle of the week.

"No, that would be dreadful, Konrad," said Skarre, grinning.

They had not talked about the hash. Sejer had been thinking of mentioning it, but he didn't. If Jacob had any questions, he should for God's sake just ask them. Anyway, time was passing. And it was never going to happen again.

"Have you given it any thought?" Sejer said, halfway through his second pint. "If the new police station is built in the Grænland area, and no-one wants to come up with money to extend the road network, we might end up waiting for a train every time we're called out."

"What fun," Skarre said. He pulled at a curl from the back of his neck and twisted it round his finger.

"Your hair is getting awfully long," Sejer said.

"I know. I'm thinking that if I hold out a few more weeks, it'll be long enough for a ponytail."

"A ponytail?" Sejer frowned.

"I'm telling you," said Skarre earnestly. "If I pull my hair back into a ponytail, it'll attract much less attention than it does now."

"But a ponytail . . . What about the dress code?"

"I've checked Regulations: 'Hair and beard must be well-groomed and kept at moderate lengths. The hairstyle must not prevent the proper wearing of headgear or other equipment. Long hair must be either pinned up or gathered in a ponytail or braid. Hair-bands and ribbons are forbidden.'"

"Jesus, you've got it off by heart! We're talking about a neutral appearance, Jacob."

"Everyone and his uncle has a ponytail," he insisted.

"What's it going to be next? Dangling earrings?"

"Studs, Konrad. I take them out before I come to work. But I don't strictly have to. 'Small ear studs that sit close to the ear may be worn.'"

"I see. Well, you're not exactly a plain-clothes detective. But if we don't get the new police station soon, any kind of cooperation with the legal people is going to go up in smoke. It's just not working out right now, with them sitting 200 metres down the street. We need to be in the same building!"

Skarre lifted the bottle of Irish Stout and filled his glass. "If I put on some gel, it will look shorter. I'll tell you one thing, though: Gøran has longer hair than I do, just that his is so thin."

"But would that look good on you, Jacob?

Having your hair plastered to your skull?"

"Don't know. But nobody takes me seriously with these curls. Mrs Winther thought I must be some kind of trainee or something." He took a sip of the dark beer. "How's it going with Robert?" Sejer sighed. "Fine, given the circumstances. A cliché, I know but I have good reason to use it."

"Those kids who were with him. Couldn't they have stopped him?"

Sejer traced a stripe through the moisture on his glass. "Maybe they thought he was just trying to frighten her. Make the others lose face. If only he had settled for that."

"But there must have been something they could have done! A chap who's dead drunk with a loaded shotgun in his hands, and they all stand there paralysed, looking on?"

"There's not always an explanation for everything," Sejer said. Skarre didn't care for the idea that any human being could be prey, to such an extent, to their own primitive urges.

"They must have been totally taken by surprise," Sejer said.

"Too much so to coax him out of the rage that must have overwhelmed him. And they didn't have time enough, or the psychological insight." Sejer felt something tugging at the back of his mind. He felt like rolling a cigarette, but he smoked only one a day, and usually last thing before he went to bed. If he rolled one now, he would use up his quota. To smoke two would be unthinkable.

"He had made up his mind to shoot. He needed some kind of release."

I could smoke half of one, he thought. And then the other half tonight. But that would be fooling myself.

"It's all so damned awful – forgive me," said Skarre, casting a glance at the ceiling, "the fact that they would just stand there and watch."

"There's nothing so difficult as stepping forward to intervene. Hardly anyone ever does."

"Maybe he'll drink a little less from now on," Skarre mused.

"Maybe he'll drink even more," Sejer said. Skarre clasped his hands and piously bowed his head. "What if, as he raised the shotgun and took aim, Anita had burst into song, that beautiful and magnificent hymn, 'Onward Christian Soldiers'?" Sejer burst into uncontrollable laughter. The sound carried through the whole bar. "What a splendid idea," he chuckled. "At least it would have been a surprise. It would have surely thrown him off balance for a moment."

"We're talking about the power of God's word," said Skarre. "Don't you ever think about that?"

"No."

"Everybody's at sea these days, drifting. No-one has an anchor to hold them down," said Skarre theatrically.

"Can I ask you something?" Sejer said. "Are you 100 per cent positive that you're going to go to heaven?"

"I don't know about 100 per cent positive. There are divided opinions up there, about whether I'll have a tussle with the angel." He took a gulp of beer from the bottle. "Mrs Winther called twice this afternoon," he sighed. "I hope he turns up. She's going to wear us out."

"Mrs Winther?"

"The mother of Andreas, who has been missing since yesterday."

"That's yours," said Sejer dryly.

"Okay, okay. Roger that. It's my job, I know." Skarre gave a brisk salute. "Search, secure, collect clues that will make plausible the likely connections in the case, as well as the guilt of the accused."

"Do they still teach that motto at Training College? Well, she has asked for our help, at any rate. People are strange," Sejer went on. "They witness the most unbelievable things. But there's no guarantee that they'll come rushing to file a report with us. Obviously someone knows where he is."

"Why are you so sure about that?" Skarre wanted to know.

"As my mother used to say, when she could still talk: 'I just know'. A person might witness a murder and never say a word about it. They have a reason for keeping quiet, though it may not be a particularly good reason."

"I wonder what he's up to."

"Why are you devoting so much time to this one? We have plenty of other cases."

Skarre bent over his glass. "He's just so goodlooking."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I reckon there are plenty of people who'd like to get their claws into him."

"Is this the sort of thing that occurs to you when you try to picture what might have happened?"

"He looks quite like an angel. If he doesn't turn up soon, people are going to take notice. You look like a lizard, people don't give a damn. I mean, they couldn't care less. It's a law of nature. Beautiful people, on the other hand . . . take that woman over there for instance. Everyone is turning to look at her."

Sara waved from the end of the room, ran her fingers through her hair and made her way to their table. She paid no heed to Sejer's shyness, bent down and kissed him on the forehead. Skarre beamed.

"Kollberg is tied up to the bicycle rack outside, against the wall," she told him.

She drank a glass of white wine with them.

Afterwards, they walked across the bridge together. At the fountain on the square they watched Skarre disappear alone into the twilight of the streets.

"Does Jacob have a girlfriend?" Sara wanted to know.

Sejer shrugged. "Not that I know of."

"Lots of women must be interested in him. Good-looking man. Funny too. Maybe he prefers men?"

Sejer stopped in his tracks. "What are you saying?"

"Why does that make you so upset?" He started walking again. "I'm not. I just don't think that's true."

"You're acting as if I had said something offensive."

"I think that's the way Jacob would have taken it."

"I don't agree. He would simply have answered yes or no."

"Don't ask him, Sara. For heaven's sake!"

"You're not scolding me, are you? Is that what you're doing?"

"No, no. But he might think that we've been wondering about it and gossiping. Don't take it up with him."

"You're so sure that I'm wrong. Why does it upset you so much?"

"It doesn't upset me. I'm just telling you that I know him. And you might put him in an awkward situation."

"So you don't think it's out of the question."

"Sara!"

Then he thought about what Skarre had said.

"He's so good-looking." Why did he say that? And the ponytail and the stud in his ear. No, everyone and his uncle has a ponytail. They walked for a while in silence.

"How difficult it all is," said Sara, sounding surprised. "How fearful we are."

"Yes," he said. "I feel so uneasy myself sometimes. I don't know where I stand with you."

"Right here," she replied, squeezing his arm.

"Let's have some fun. See that doorway?" she said, pointing. "The one over there next to the kiosk?"

"Yes?" he said, wondering what she had in mind.

"Why don't we go over there and make out?"

"Make out?" The words seemed to stick in his throat. "In the doorway? You must be crazy!" Embarrassed he stared down at his shoes. "It's 30 years since I stood in a doorway to make out."

"Well then, it's about time," she said, laughing as she tugged at his arm.

But he pulled her past the doorway, thinking all of a sudden that he felt so old when he was with her. Young too but occasionally old, because she was so playful. Because he couldn't let go of his proper demeanour and loosen up. Take chances. Kollberg's head came up to Sara's hips. She looked like a little girl walking a lion on a lead. They continued on in silence. Passed the Town Hall. THE COUNTRY SHALL BE BUILT ON LAWS. Sara admired the floodlit church.

"Could we at least walk through the cemetery and knock down a few headstones?"

Her voice was shrill and pleading. He coughed in dismay. "Knock down headstones?"

"Just one?" she begged. "A small one, that noone takes care of any more?"

He gasped, astonished at his own raw feelings. No-one had ever managed to touch his ideas about death. Did it affect Elise, the fact that they talked this way? Did it affect how he felt? Should he raise his voice and tell this woman off, make her aware that this part of his life was, in fact, sacred?

"You're out of your mind," he mumbled.

"Don't you ever do anything illegal?" she said.

"No," he chuckled. "Why should I?"

"It's necessary and important. What if you die and you've never broken a single rule?"

"That won't happen. Of course I've done stupid things."

"Tell me!" she pleaded.

"No, no." He laughed in embarrassment. "That's all part of my past."

"I won't believe you unless you tell me some of it."

He thought for a moment and then reluctantly began to speak. "A long time ago . . ." he stopped and looked at her. "A very long time ago, in fact, when I was just a kid, just so you know. Youthful shenanigans, the usual things, that's all part of growing up. I assume that everyone .. ."

"Why don't you get to the point?"

"All right." He licked his lips. "A long time ago I had a friend named Philip. I also had an old Ford, and we were always driving around together. And every time I drove over to pick him up, I passed a tollgate where I had to pay. Five kroner," he said.

"That was a lot of money for a young kid. It made me angry every time I came to that tollgate. There was a woman in the booth who collected the money. She sat there year after year, sticking out her hand through the hatch. I would hand her the five kroner, she would raise the barrier and I would drive through. Every single time I went to get Philip. I would always stare with fascination at her hand. She had what I'll call 'kitty hands'."

"Kitty hands?" Sara giggled.

"Soft white hands. And one day it occurred to me to put something else in her hand. Just for a change. Because she took it so much for granted that she was getting the money. Just to see what she would do if she one day got something else."

"What did you give her?" she asked.

"I had picked up Philip. We arrived at the tollgate and drove up to the booth. She looked at us and stuck out her hand."

"And you handed her a . . ."

"Dead mouse."

"A dead mouse!" she squealed.

"It had been caught in the trap in Philip's room. And its tail was missing. But boy, did she scream!

Piercing is the only word for it. The mouse landed in her lap and she stood up so fast that she hit her head on the ceiling. And then she screamed again, and she didn't stop. Philip screamed too, while I stared at her with growing concern. 'Raise the barrier! Raise the barrier!' I shouted. And the barrier jerked up, and we raced out of there with the tyres of my old Ford screeching."

Sara smiled with satisfaction.

"But do you know what?" he said. "After that she was gone. She wasn't in the booth any more. Maybe she gave up because of the mouse. Maybe she was afraid that next time it might be a spider. Or a worm. Or heaven knows what. So actually," he mumbled, "we ended up chasing someone away from her job."

"Don't you think you're exaggerating?" she said with a laugh.

"Why else would she vanish like that?" he said, sounding worried.

"There could be all kinds of other reasons."

"I'm not so sure."

They walked on, keeping in step. Sejer took shorter strides than was natural for him.

"But honestly," she looked up at him, "is that really the only thing you can think of to put on your list of transgressions?"

"That one not enough for you?"

"Quite a sweet story," she admitted. "But pathetic too."

"Yours are, of course, better?"

"I'll tell you all about them one day. Late at night. Though it might be too much for you."

"You are already," he said. "You're too much for me."

"It's so hard," said Sara all of a sudden, "to live in the present. Right this minute. We spend most of our time in the past. Or in the future, about half in each. But to live in the present! Hardly anybody can do it. Except for children. Or idiots. Or sick people who have some kind of chronic pain that's always with them. And most of the time we're worrying about something."

"But not you, surely not you?" he said. He wrapped his arm tighter around her waist, surprised at how different they were. They didn't really suit each other, or at any rate it wouldn't last for ever. It won't last. She dreamed up things, and he didn't know if he was up to all her whims. There was something unpredictable about Sara. He'd never known anyone like her. Was it even possible for him to get to know her properly? To follow the strange leaps she was always taking, to get used to them? Enjoy them? He liked them, of course. She made him laugh. But she could turn very serious. Her mood changes were abrupt, but at the same time she always had total control. As if she felt that all impulses ought to be followed. Not evaluated and suppressed, which is what he did. Think first and then act. Wasn't that important?

Later, when they finally reached his flat, he went into the kitchen. Sara appeared in the doorway, looking at him. Her expression took him aback.

"I'm just going to make some coffee," he muttered, turning on the tap.

"It's not coffee that I want." She walked across the room, turned off the water and pressed herself against him. He was still hesitating, but was drawn into a fierce embrace. He could feel how determined she was; she was not going to back down.

"Carry me to the bed," she commanded. He shook his head, but didn't let her go.

"Well, all right. The kitchen is good. On the table. I saw it in an American film."

"What do you mean?"

"It looks so exciting," she whispered. He was in a fog. Didn't know if he'd even be able to do it. But he was still holding her and could feel something rising inside him. He could hold everything else down, but not this! At the same time his brain was buzzing, telling him to take it easy and not throw himself into it without inhibitions, like a teenager. But he didn't want to be taken to task. Not on this account. Other things, like the fact that he couldn't cook or that he couldn't control his dog, fine.

"Could you just stop thinking for a second?"

"You're not making it easy for me," he said. "I'm just a man."

"Yes," she said with a smile. "Poor man. How vulnerable he was when he stood up on his legs and walked for the first time."

She gave a husky laugh against his chest. "You men think everything is so hard for you, that your urges are so fierce, so much stronger than ours, but that's not true."

"It's not?" He cleared his throat. He was out of breath. God help him!

"Right now," she said, pressing against him, "right now when I want you so badly, do you know what that feels like? Has any woman ever told you?" He tried, but it was impossible to think of any other woman at a moment like this, because he could feel her desire through his own body, and it amazed him that he could prompt such emotion in another human being.

"It's like having a fish between your legs," she whispered. "A soft fish with a blunt snout that's gently butting and wants to get through, and I'll go crazy if it doesn't get through!"

"A fish!" he said.

The phone rang. He reacted on reflex. He also looked at his watch: it was almost midnight. It would be either Ingrid or someone from work. He had to take the call. He picked up the phone and stood there for a few seconds, listening. Sara came over to him and watched him with her arms folded. He put down the receiver.

"You have to leave, don't you? Somebody's dead."

He nodded.

"That's what happens when you're in love with a police officer," she said nervously.

He tried to stay on his feet. Leaned against the old chest of drawers and felt one of his keys poking him in the back.

"Somebody's dead?" she said again.

"My mother," he said in a low voice. "My mother died. Two hours ago."

Then he gave a deep sigh. "While I was sitting drinking beer."

He walked past her, out to the hall. Turned and came back. "I have to call Ingrid."

"I know."

"What are we going to say to Matteus?" he whispered.

He was in no hurry going down to the garage. All the time he was thinking: This is the last time I'll be doing this, going to see my mother. Being on my way to the nursing home. Through the door, over to her bed, for the last time. He drove slowly through the town. It was actually a beautiful night. The red tower building was charmingly lit up, the reflected lights glittering in the river. Didn't it seem quieter than usual? As he turned into the car park, he realised that something was different. This was night-time, not the normal visiting hours, so the car park was deserted. Everything seemed strange and out of character. Being here, in the middle of the night. And the door being locked. He had to ring the bell and speak into an intercom on the wall. Practically plead to be allowed in. He managed to croak a few hoarse words into the microphone and then put his shoulder to the door. Once inside, he hesitated as he looked at the stairs. There were some things he needed to think about first. The senior sister saw him from the nursing station.

"Would you like to be alone there?" He nodded.

"You take as much time as you need." He walked to the wide blue metal door. For years she had lain in bed without being able to move, never recognising him when he came to see her. Because of a thrombosis in the brain stem. A tiny little clot in the wrong place, and she was gone. Except that her heart continued to beat. Her eyes would wander around the room, flickering, searching for something that they never found.

What was she looking at? Did she see everything for the first time whenever she looked around? Did she realise that the room was always the same? Did she have a need for some particular thing, without ever being able to say what it was? He had heard about things like that. Could he just as well have been a lamp? Or a coat rack? Did she have thoughts to add to the picture? Was anything going on in her ruined brain? Was anything whirring there, anything familiar or beloved, some meagre comfort? Not any more now, he thought.

For a long time he stood and stared at the door, thinking: Now they can see me from the nursing station, see me standing here and brooding. This is all too much for me. Not just this, but everything else that is bubbling up, all that happened long ago. No, not long ago. It might feel as if it had just happened, that Elise was torn from him again. But this was his mother, it was about her. Couldn't he even pull himself together enough to think about her for one last time?

So he went in. For some reason at that moment he checked his watch. It was 12.45. The door gave a plaintive creak as it closed behind him. The lamp next to her bed was on, but the shade had been tilted towards the wall so that his mother's face was in shadow. This thoughtfulness touched him. For a moment he was surprised by how normal she looked. But when he drew closer, he saw how pale she was. Her lips were pressed together a little more tightly than usual. That's not how she was, he thought. She was as gentle as cream, as soft as butter. He pulled a chair over to the bed, but not too close. He needed to keep a certain distance, had to approach with caution. He tried to summon up memories from his childhood, from in the past. Strawberry pudding. The little brown hens in the pen in the back garden. The bread dough rising under a tea-towel on the kitchen counter. Berries cooking in a pan. The smell of fruit and sugar. And her voice; he could hear it clearly. The delicate enunciation after so many years in Denmark.

Konrad. It's late now.

The words rang crystal clear in his head. She used to sit next to a lamp with her sewing. It was impossible to protest by saying "I don't want to go to bed." She would have burst out laughing. She would rise slowly to her feet, take him by the arm, and lead him upstairs to his bedroom. To think that someone so tiny and frail and peaceable could have had such power over him! But always with love, thinking of his best interests. He never had any doubt on that score. He raised his head and looked at her. He thought she looked beautiful, that she always had. Even now. If she seemed stern, maybe it was because she was standing at the gates of heaven, staring at something so grand that she felt quite abashed. Otherwise she had always been so good-humoured. But I don't believe it, he thought. He found himself in a state of emergency, on board a sinking ship. Gently he leaned over the bed. Her hands weren't cold, but not warm either, and very dry.

"Mother," he murmured.

How strange to say that word out loud and never to hear an answer again. He sank back on the chair, thinking that he ought to go home. He stood up, but left the chair where it was, as if it might yet keep her company. He happened to look as his watch again. It was 12.52. He did the arithmetic in his mind. Seven minutes. That's how much time he had granted her, to thank her for everything. Seven minutes to say thank you for a whole lifetime. Take all the time you need. He started shaking. Stood there with his shoulders hunched in shame. Turned round and went back to the bed. Sat on the edge, picked up her gaunt hands and held them tight. For a long time.

C H A P T E R 1 0

September 3.

Mrs Winther seemed to have aged since her last visit. Her anger was gone, replaced by a growing panic, which was visible in the flickering light in her eyes.

"The fact that Andreas still hasn't come home is something that we're taking very seriously," said Skarre sympathetically. "But people have gone missing for longer than this and have still turned up safe and sound. There's always some explanation."

She was listening, but the words made no impression.

"By now it's serious," she stammered. "By now something must have happened!"

"Have you been in touch with his father?" She opened wide her eyes. "Let's leave him out of this."

"We can't force you, of course, but I would strongly urge you to inform his father," Skarre said.

"Maybe he could help us."

"They practically never see each other. That much I know," she said vehemently.

Skarre looked her in the eye. "Forgive me for mentioning this, but if anything has happened to Andreas, how do you think his father will feel if you've kept him out of the whole thing?"

"Dear God! Didn't you just say that he's bound to turn up? What exactly do you mean?"

Skarre wiped his forehead, which already felt sweaty. "For some reason he has disappeared. For two days now. I don't know why. But you shouldn't have to deal with this alone."

She wrung her hands, seemed to try to shape some words with her mouth, but no words came out.

"Excuse me? What did you say?"

"All right," she whispered.

"Does he live here in town?"

"Yes. You'll have to call him. I don't dare. There's certain to be trouble."

"Why will there be trouble?" Skarre asked.

"We're not on speaking terms."

"But this is about Andreas," he said quietly.

"Yes. We're not exactly on speaking terms when it comes to Andreas."

"Can you tell me a little about that?" She didn't answer.

"If you want us to help you, you're going to have to cooperate. Why will there be trouble?" he said again.

"We . . . He . . . Nicolai . . . His father . . . has the idea that Andreas is getting off on the wrong path or something. He says I have no idea what's going on. That Andreas has got involved in some bad things. But he doesn't live with the boy as I do!"

Skarre had been expecting this. He restrained an impulse at the last second.

"Andreas is a good boy," she said. "If there's anything at all, it's just a matter of those things that all boys do. Things that go with growing up."

"Like what, for example?" Skarre said.

"Partying now and then. Throwing apples," she said angrily.

"Throwing apples?" Skarre frowned. "An 18year-old boy?"

"You know what I mean," she muttered.

"Not really."

"He has a friend. Zipp. His real name is Sivert Skorpe, but they call him Zipp. They're inseparable. I can't very well follow them, so I don't know exactly what they do, but I have no reason to believe that it's anything dangerous. Or illegal."

"But his father takes a different view?"

"To be quite honest, I don't really know what his view is."

"Is it possible that Andreas has more contact with his father than you realise?"

"You mean does he visit him on the sly?"

"He's a grown boy," said Skarre with a smile.

"He may not tell you everything."

"Isn't that the gods' truth! But live at home and eat for free – sure, they want to do that!" She regretted her outburst and hid her face. Mrs Winther was attractive, but her hands betrayed the beginnings of ageing.

"Why should I believe there's anything wrong when he never says anything? He gets up and goes to work. Dresses neatly. Goes out in the evening. I know that he's with Zipp. I know Zipp's mother and she's never said anything to me either. They watch a lot of videos. Drive around and look at girls. Zipp has an old car that his father gave him. If they have any money, they go to a bar. You're supposed to be 20, but they both manage to get in. Andreas is tall, 185 centimetres."

"I see," Skarre said. "Tell me about Zipp."

"He doesn't have a job and he doesn't want one. Andreas pays for his beer. I don't understand why he puts up with it; he's much too nice." Skarre smiled. He had a dazzling smile, but he restrained himself, in view of the seriousness of the situation.

"I'll need a list of the people who know him. Girlfriends, buddies. Everyone you can think of."

"He spends all his time with Zipp," she said swiftly.

"But there must be others who know him. He has work colleagues. And a boss."

"You don't understand," she said. "He spends all his time with Zipp. If anyone knows anything, it would be Zipp!"

Skarre fought back his impatience. "I'll need more than that to get things started," he said, trying to sound more stern. "What about a girlfriend?"

"Right now he doesn't have one," she said, sullenly.

"I'll settle for a former girlfriend," he said, smiling again. "Judging by his picture, there must have been quite a few over the years."

She shrugged. "Well, yes. But I don't know any of their names."

"None of them?" Skarre said.

"He never wanted to bring any of them home."

"I see."

"But I'm sure I can think of someone who can vouch for him, if that's what you need."

"That would be fine," said Skarre, and began writing as she gave him two names.

"You called his friend? What did he say?"

"He couldn't help me," she said. "But they had spent the evening together."

"And what did they do exactly?"

"Aren't you going to talk to him yourself?"

"Of course. I was just asking."

"They had a pint at the Headline. After that they watched a video together, at Zipp's house. And I guess that was about it."

"And when did Andreas leave Zipp's house? Did you get a time?"

"They went into town after they watched the film. Wandered around."

"So they parted somewhere in town?"

"Yes," she said, giving him an enquiring look.

"And where exactly did they part company?" Skarre narrowed his eyes and waited.

"Honestly! You can ask Zipp that question," she said, sounding resigned.

"I want to know what he told you," Skarre said.

"Please. Just let me do my job!"

"But I don't understand . . ."

"It doesn't matter!" He took her hand. "Please just answer the question."

She pulled her hand away and started sniffling.

"They said goodbye to each other around midnight. I think he said midnight. I asked him where and he said on Thornegata. Somewhere on Thornegata. I don't understand what they were doing there, in that part of town. Both of them live in the opposite direction."

"Thank you," Skarre said. "Let's move on. Does he like his job?"

"I don't know really," she said. "A hardware store isn't very exciting, after all. But that was all he could get through the employment office. What he wanted was a job in a music shop, but they couldn't find him anything in that line of work. I don't think they tried very hard, either. They write down preferences in their files, but that doesn't mean anything. You have to take what you can get."

"For an 18-year-old out in the job market for the first time, I can think of worse things than working in a hardware store," said Skarre.

"Like what?" she retorted.

"Has he ever been involved with drugs?"

"No. And don't tell me that's what they all say."

"No, I won't say that. But as far as you know, he hasn't?"

"No, he hasn't."

Skarre wrote a few notes. He was thinking about how he would act if he ever had children. Whether he would lose all perspective.

"How long have Zipp and Andreas known each other?"

"Since they were five. Zipp wasn't too bright, and when he was a little boy, he was fat. He looked like a Polish sausage that had been stuffed too full." She smiled. "Andreas took Zipp under his wing. It still surprises me that they've stayed friends, they're so different."

"Do you like Zipp?" wondered Skarre. She thought for a moment, picturing his blond hair with the lock falling into his eyes. "Yes," she said. "Andreas could have found worse."

"Good. Does Andreas seem content with his life?"

"He's not lacking for anything. If he were unhappy, I would have known about it."

"And you and your son . . . You have a good relationship?"

"It's not possible to have a good relationship with a teenage son. No matter what I do, boys at that age don't want to listen to old ladies. Someday you'll understand what I mean."

"So we'll say that he seems content."

"With his life, yes. Not with me," she said bitterly. I'm so naive, thought Skarre. I've always believed that good things await me later in life. But that doesn't seem to be true.

"Was there anything different about his behaviour lately? Anything special that you noticed?"

"I can't think of anything."

"Did he take anything with him when he left?"

"His wallet and some cigarettes. Nothing is missing from his room."

Skarre looked up.

"Not as far as I can tell," she added.

"I'm going to talk to his friend. You should stay home near the telephone."

She stood up and walked out of the room. Skarre had a strange feeling. There was something about this woman and everything that she wasn't saying. Who was Andreas Winther? It occurred to him that she didn't know herself. After a few minutes he left the room and went to Sejer's office. The door was locked. Surprised, he stuck his head in the door of Holthemann's office.

"Konrad?"

Holthemann shoved his glasses down his nose.

"He asked if he could come in late today." Skarre looked at him in astonishment. That was unheard of.

"Anything up?"

"It's his mother. She died last night." The news prompted a solemn nod from Skarre.

"We should send flowers, don't you think?" The department chief frowned. "I'm not sure. Do you think we should?"

Skarre stayed in the doorway. Well, it was to be expected that people would die at the age of . . . he wasn't quite sure how old, but well over 80. It was the kind of thing that grown-ups had to deal with. Nothing to make a fuss about.

"I'll take care of it," he mumbled and left.

*

The gravity of the situation came creeping in like an ominous fog from the sea. A policeman at the door!

Zipp put on a brave smile. My expression suits the occasion, he thought. I'm worried, for God's sake. Worried about Andreas.

"Jacob Skarre."

"Come in. We'll go downstairs."

His mother came out of the kitchen. "No, why don't you sit here and I'll make some coffee."

"We're going downstairs," said Zipp grimly.

"I'm the one he wants to talk to." In spite of her considerable weight, she was wearing a revealing white tracksuit. Her hair was gathered on top of her head and fastened with a red comb. She turned on her heel, offended.

"She always wants to know what's going on," Zipp said.

Skarre smiled. "It'd be good if I could talk to you in private."

They went to the basement room. Skarre looked around. He sensed that Zipp was nervous, but people mostly were, regardless. But he took note of it. Noticed his unruly hair and tight jeans. The basement room with the windows high up on the wall. Like Robert's room, he thought. A television and video. Posters on the walls. Genesis, Jagger. A full ashtray. Blanket on the sofa, which might mean that sometimes he slept down here. Zipp fumbled with the cigarettes on the table. Lit one and exhaled, looking at Skarre, who sat on a chair and gave him a friendly look in return. Minutes passed. The tip of his cigarette smouldered. The silence ran on. Grey dust whirled in the streak of light from the window.

"Are you going to ask me anything?" Skarre smiled politely. "I'm really here just to have a talk. To find out who Andreas is. What he might be up to."

"I'd like to know that myself," said Zipp, nodding.

"Let's start with the facts. When you met, when you said goodbye. Things like that. The things that are concrete."

Zipp had now had time to think. The situation was impossible for him, considering everything they had done that he couldn't talk about. He wanted to help, but he couldn't. No blabbing!

He had to distance both himself and Andreas from the house of that woman. Most of the other things he could talk about. That they went to the Headline. That they had watched Blade Runner together. That afterwards they had walked around town for a while. But not the part about the pram. Or the part about the house and the woman. Or the part about the cemetery, either. Shit, that was a lot.

"First we went to a bar," he said.

"Which bar?"

"The Headline."

"What time was that?"

Zipp thought for a moment.

"Eight."

"Did you meet outside?"

"Er, yes. No." He made a quick decision.

"Andreas showed up here."

"When?"

"About 7.30," he said.

"Okay." Skarre made a few notes. He needed to keep the boy calm. He accepted the times as reported, smiled reassuringly, listened politely, nodded, took notes. Zipp started to relax and became more talkative, smoking and smiling.

"I don't know what the hell happened. I hope he's all right."

"Let's hope so. He's your best friend?" Zipp swallowed. "My one and only."

"I see. So he turned up here at the house around 7.30. Then you walked from here to the Headline. I suppose that takes about 15 minutes?"

"Something like that."

"Do you know where he had come from?"

"From home, I guess." Zipp gave Skarre a nervous look.

"No. He left his house on Cappelens gate at 5.30. Directly after his supper."

"Oh? Well, he didn't say anything." Shit, thought Zipp. I could just as well have told the truth. That he came over before 6.00. That we drove around town. But then there was the whole thing with the pram. Zipp tried to stay clear headed. Repeat the parts that are true, he thought, and just say "I don't know" to everything else.

"So he didn't say anything about where he was between 5.30 and 7.30?"

"I don't know."

"You don't remember?"

"He didn't mention anything," Zipp corrected himself. He licked his lips. The guy looked unusually nice, but Zipp had seen enough videos to be sceptical. A shrewd mind disguised behind a friendly face.

"Okay. The two of you went to a bar together. Had a couple of beers?"

"A couple. Maybe three or four. After that we went to the video shop and took out a film. Which we watched back here. Blade Runner."

"Great film," said Skarre with enthusiasm.

"Yeah. Fantastic flick," murmured Zipp.

"And after the film you went back into town?"

"We went down by the river. And up near the church."

He swallowed hard at the memory of the church.

"The church? Why's that?"

"No idea. I just followed Andreas," said Zipp pensively. "So then we went back into town. Just wandering around. There were a lot of people in the square. We sat on a bench and talked. Andreas had to get up early to go to work, so he wanted to go home. We said goodbye to each other around midnight."

"Where?"

"At the square," Zipp said.

"At the square?" Skarre nodded again, but controlled himself, not wanting to give any indication of what he might be thinking. Zipp had told Andreas' mother that they said goodbye on Thornegata. Why was he lying?

"And Andreas. Was he the same as always?" Zipp shrugged. "The same as usual. And that's all I know. I came home and went to bed."

"How did you find out that he didn't come home?"

"I called him at work. Around 11.00."

"Why did you call him?"

"Just wanted to talk."

"So sometimes you call him just to talk?"

"It was actually about some CDs that I wanted to borrow," he explained.

Skarre glanced over at the posters. "Do you know if anything was bothering Andreas? Did he tell you anything?"

Zipp counted the cigarette butts in the ashtray. No, don't mention that yet! Just let some time pass, and he won't come back to it again.

"Nothing that has anything to do with this," he said at last.

"I see. Well, you know him, after all. I'll just have to trust you on that. I suppose it might have something to do with a girl?" said Skarre.

"A girl? Well, it's possible."

"But you know who his friends are, don't you? I need some names. More people I can talk to."

"He spends all his time with me."

"But doesn't he have colleagues?"

"He never sees them outside of work. The only person is that artist," he said reluctantly.

"Artist?"

Zipp wasn't sure if he should go on. But it was good to have something to talk about. And for all he knew, well, what if Andreas was with her, in the middle of some big orgy! Reinforcing his cover.

"Once a week he goes to see an artist. A woman. She paints him," he said, clearing his throat. Skarre gave him an alert look. "Do you know her name?"

"No. But I think she lives at the top of the ridge. An old green house. According to Andreas."

"You've known him a long time?"

"Since primary school."

"And you feel you really know him?" Dear God. I thought I knew him.

"If he doesn't reappear soon, we'll be back to talk to you again," Skarre said.

"Okay." Zipp jumped up from the sofa. "And if I think of anything, I'll call you."

Skarre gave him a searching look. He stared at him for such a long time that it made Zipp squirm. He tried to stick his hands in his pockets, but his jeans were too tight. Afterwards he lay down on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. There was nothing on which to fix his gaze, so he closed his eyes and tried to think of some explanation. He didn't hear his mother as she crept down the stairs, merely sensed that she was there, like a shadow, through his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes and stared at her. With the white tracksuit and the red haircomb, she looked rather like a fat chicken. Then she pursed her lips.

"I know you. What's really going on?" I know you. He hated that! He got up from the sofa, pushed his way past her, grabbed his jacket and walked out of the house. He reached the main street and, at a brisk pace, he set off past the square. Glancing neither to right nor left, he walked along with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. If he took the same route again, he would understand. He passed the optician's shop and the bicycle shop and the park. He climbed up the hill. The woman didn't get a good look at him so she wouldn't recognise him. He approached the house, staring at it as he slowed his pace. He looked at the windows. Didn't see anything. He continued on, hidden by the thick hedge. A short distance up the street he stopped. He poked his head as far as he could through the hedge, pushing aside a few prickly branches. The house looked quite ordinary.

Pristine in the plant-filled garden. It was a onestorey building with a basement. He could see the cellar windows. Two of them, visible behind the flowers, which were starting to wither. He could hear footsteps further up the street. He pulled himself out of the hedge and walked back down the hill. Something strange was going on. He felt like having a beer, but he didn't have any money. Even so, he headed into town and went straight to the Headline. He stood outside the locked door and looked through the window. He could just make out the table where they had sat the night before. In his mind he could hear Andreas humming "The End" by The Doors. The relevance of the lyrics made him nervous. Could it really be that he may never again look into his friend's eyes? He dismissed it out of hand.

C H A P T E R 1 1

I could see the bare light bulb in the ceiling reflected in his eyes, two tiny points. He didn't move, just stared at me. I thought of a hare caught in a trap. How defenceless he was! I actually felt quite moved, and that doesn't happen very often. I saw a faint movement under the scarf and realised that he had opened his mouth.

"Water," he murmured. He barely managed to get the word out. I wondered why he couldn't move. His body lay so still, as if it didn't belong to him. It never occurred to me to refuse his request, but even so I stood there for a moment and looked at him, at those blue eyes. The rest of his face was hidden beneath the scarf. But his eyes burned into mine. They didn't blink, just silently pleaded. After a while I went back up to the kitchen. Turned on the tap, let the water run. What are you doing, Irma?

Have you completely lost your mind? said the water as it trickled and ran. No, no. But for once I was taking the law into my own hands. He didn't ask me what I wanted or needed or desired. The answer was time. That's why I was taking my time. And then I went back downstairs. He caught sight of the glass. He blinked. At the bottom of the stairs I had again to step over his feet. He hadn't moved them; maybe they were broken. I didn't want to ask, just stood there with the water. His eyes began to run.

"The scarf," I said clumsily. "Take off the scarf." But he didn't move, just stared at the glass, at me, and then again at the glass, blinking all the time. I didn't want to touch him, but I didn't have the heart to go back upstairs with the water. If I bent down, he might leap up from the floor with a horrible shriek and plunge his teeth into me. But he did look awfully weak. I stood there for a long time. He studied me in the same way that I studied him. The bulb in the ceiling held us locked in that peculiar moment. Frozen solid in a circle of light. Irma, I thought, call for help. You have to do it right now!

But I didn't move. I stood there and stared into his pale eyes. On the right side of his head there was a sizeable gash that had bled a lot. The blood had coagulated into a big clot on the floor. I couldn't understand why he didn't scream. I was standing right next to him, after all. He didn't make a move to take off the scarf or to lift his head, and finally I realised that he couldn't. I didn't have any straws, but I didn't dare touch him. I took a sip of the water myself and stared at him over the edge of the glass.

I'll never forget his eyes, when he heard the sound of the water running down my throat. Silently he closed them. I didn't like that. The fact that he could hide by simply closing his eyes.

"I'll find a solution," I said. "Of course you have to have water. I'm not a malicious person." His head began shaking faintly. Then he started coughing helplessly, and a gurgling sound came from his throat. His eyes rolled back into his head. And I thought: Now he's going to die right before my eyes. And that would have been terrible, but at the same time, it would have been beautiful and magnificent and agonising. But he didn't die. I plucked at the scarf with two fingers and pulled it down.

*

The resemblance to Andreas was striking. Nicolai Winther was about 50, tall and slender, with a beak of a nose and eyes that were set deep and close together, beneath delicate thin eyebrows. His hair was long and curly.

"What's he got himself into? Don't you know anything?" He fumbled with the buttons on his jacket, twisting them around and around so that at any moment they might scatter all over the room.

"No. Unfortunately. But there's no reason to believe that anything has happened to him.

Sometimes we all need an escape. A little time for ourselves when we don't feel obligated to explain it to the whole world. It happens all the time, and Andreas is an adult. But his mother is worried and it's our job to serve the people."

That was quite a little speech, Skarre thought, taking a deep breath.

"Two days," said Winther. "What the hell have they got into!"

"They? You mean Zipp?"

"Who else?"

"I should remind you that Zipp is at home. He doesn't know anything."

Winther had a coughing fit, and intermittent snorts of laughter. "Don't come here and tell me stories like that. Those two are inseparable."

"Well, yes," Skarre agreed. "It's true they were together on September 1, too. But they parted company around midnight, and no-one has seen Andreas since then."

Winther tried to relax. "I'm sure he's crossed the line. I've been expecting it."

"What do you mean by that?" Skarre pricked up his ears.

"Something was bound to happen sooner or later. I have always known it."

"How could you know that?"

"Because . . ." He stared at the floor. "Because there's something about Andreas. Just something. I don't know what it is. He has no ambition." He walked a few paces away. "It's hard to explain. You don't have any children?"

He looked at Skarre's youthful face.

"No. As you can see, I'm just a kid," he said with a smile, which made Winther grin, in quite an amiable manner.

"You've talked to his mother. I suppose you've had an earful."

"She's very worried," said Skarre loyally.

"And unprepared. I've been telling her for a long time. He's a strange boy. I hope to God he hasn't got mixed up with drugs or anything like that. If he's just off on a drinking binge, that's fine. He's probably drunk. Have you checked the hospitals and places like that?"

"That's always the first thing we do. There's quite simply no trace of him. Of course, we're expecting him to turn up at any moment. But to be on the safe side, we want to talk to everyone who is connected. When you say that he's different what do you mean by that?"

Winther thought long and hard. "No, what I mean is .. ." he said at last. "It all started out so well. We had a handsome and healthy boy, and we gave him everything a boy should have. With all the opportunities. And he grew up the way most boys do. He was never sick, he never misbehaved or was difficult to deal with. He did well at school, although he wasn't brilliant. But he has no plans or goals in life. He never shows any enthusiasm for anything. Never shows any enthusiasm," he muttered, as if astonished at his own words.

"He's never been interested in cars or bikes or the sort of things most boys care about. He seems quite content to sit around with Zipp. Andreas has no interests at all. Nothing seems to make an impression on him."

He rubbed at his gaunt jaw with a rough hand.

"And you know what?" He stared at Skarre. "That scares me. What's going to become of him?" Skarre had never heard anyone deliver such a frank and non-idealistic description of his own child before. And Winther wasn't doing it out of malice. Just that he felt flummoxed by something beyond his understanding.

"He walks around half asleep, but I have the feeling that something is ticking away inside him, lying dormant. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking." They were both silent for a while. Skarre tried to place Andreas in some sort of category, but he couldn't find one.

"Are you and Andreas close?"

Winther walked to the window.

"He doesn't let anyone get close."

"What about Zipp?"

"I'm surprised that he chose Zipp. Andreas is far and away his superior. Zipp is forever running to keep up. I wonder if he needs him for some reason." Skarre made a few notes.

"I don't really know him," Winther went on.

"He's my son, but I don't really know him. Sometimes I think there's no-one inside him to know." He said this with his eyes lowered, as if he felt ashamed.

Then he sat down, resting his chin on his hands and fixing his gaze on Skarre's knees.

"Surely he must have some interests," Skarre said in a feeble attempt to offer some form of consolation.

"He watches a lot of videos. In fact, I think he watches the same one over and over again. It's some kind of futuristic film. Don't you find that sick?"

"Not at all," Skarre said. "Haven't you heard about the man in London who goes to see Cats every single Saturday and has done so for eight years now?"

Winther answered with a grave crooked smile.

"I'll have to take your word for that. But otherwise, I suppose that Andreas does have some interest in music. Well, not singing or playing himself, just listening to music. And not live music. Recorded music, on his stereo. A little more bass here, a little less treble there. Special speaker cones. Gold cables. Things like that. Maybe it's not really the music."

"Sound," Skarre ventured. "He's intrigued by sound?"

"Is that something which can intrigue a person?"

"Of course. It's a science."

"But he's not passionate about it," Winther said.

"Just interested. He has a job and earns his wages, but he never has any money. He shares what he makes with Zipp. Why in heaven's name would he do that?"

"Because he's a good friend?"

Winther looked at him in surprise.

"So what do you have in mind when you say that Andreas might have got mixed up in something?" Skarre said.

Winther closed his eyes. "What do I mean? Well, that whatever it is ticking inside him has finally exploded."

He smiled at his own melodramatic words.

"As far as you know, has he ever been involved in anything criminal?"

"I have a feeling that he's tried a thing or two, together with Zipp."

"What gives you that feeling?"

"I just have it; it's the kind of thing you can sense with your own child. I've told his mother about it, but she doesn't want to listen. She wants proof."

"So would we, but we're talking about a goodlooking, well-functioning young man," Skarre said.

"Someone who gets up each day and goes to work and spends his free time with a close friend. And someone who has a clean record, because I have to admit that we checked on that straightaway. So it's hard to see what the problem could be." Skarre had been prepared for almost anything. But not for what Winther said next.

"I'm going to tell you something." Winther stood up. "Maybe you don't think it's so strange, but you don't have children. Having children flings you into a whole other world, and I'm not exaggerating. Not having children, you live in a different reality from the one I live in."

"All right, I'll grant you that," murmured Skarre.

"I didn't think much about it when it happened, but I've been thinking about it now. Every time Andreas had to go to the doctor or dentist – to get an injection, or a tooth filled – the kinds of things that children need all the time. We were ready for a fuss, that he would be scared. Scream and shout. Or at least be a little nervous. But he never was. He didn't care. He would say 'All right', and off we'd go. And he would sit there as prim as a preacher while the dentist drilled or the doctor gave him an injection. Never made a sound. And I was proud of him, thought he was so brave. But now, when I think back, it seems rather . . . abnormal." You didn't get the son you wanted, thought

Skarre. No-one ever does. My father didn't either. Skarre remembered the fateful day when he went to see his father. After knocking three times on the heavy door of his office, he clasped his hands behind his back and said in the calmest voice he could muster that he didn't want to study theology; he wanted instead to enrol at the Police Training College. And he was certain to get in, because he had excellent grades and was in first-rate physical condition. He stood there wearing a mental bulletproof vest. He steeled himself for what would follow, the devastating response. First he was speared by his father's furious gaze. Then his voice stabbed at Skarre's chest like a knife, and in two minutes he was completely flayed. Picked clean. His father's despair felt like boiling water against his raw flesh. His father didn't accuse him of anything or try to persuade him to change his mind. But he was perfectly entitled, as he pointed out, to express his boundless disappointment. And then he got up and left. Later, he asked Skarre to forgive him. Since his son had made up his mind, he would of course support him, provided he became the best police officer he could possibly be. The memory prompted a sad smile.

"You need to put pressure on Zipp," said Winther urgently. "He obviously knows something. And since he's not admitting it, it must be something serious. Something they did. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I do understand, and I believe you. We'll keep working on the case. We'll use this as a starting point."

After he left, Skarre thought about the promise he had made to Winther. At the same time he was seized with a strong feeling that something very serious might have happened to Andreas after all.

*

I screamed a loud, piercing scream that echoed through the cellar. He stared at me, tried to say something, but I turned and scrambled up the steps, knocking into the wire of the light bulb, which began swinging back and forth. The circle of light swept over the cellar. I slammed the trap door shut. Ran to the front door and opened it, trying to calm down. I stood on the steps for a moment, gasping. Then, as calmly as I could, I walked down the gravel path to the back garden. I didn't understand. Why was this happening to me? The flowers were starting to wither. I was withering too; I could hardly keep my knees from buckling. I was looking for something to keep my hands busy, some simple task, when I caught sight of the chair. One of the patio chairs – under the kitchen window! I stood there dumbfounded, trying to grasp what it could be doing there. Who had been standing on it, looking in? A horrible possibility occurred to me. There were two of them. Originally there were two! The other one had waited in the garden and carried the chair over to the window. I thought I was going to faint. But then I thought, no, it must have been the one in the cellar who had stood on the chair. And looked inside before he made his attack. I picked it up, and carried it with some difficulty up the two steps into the gazebo. If there had been two of them, and the other one was waiting in the garden, if he knew that his friend was still in the house, he would have come to the door a long time ago. I tried to force my body to stay calm, but my feet began to tremble, and the trembling spread upwards. I was shaking with indignation. I went back inside and stomped hard on the kitchen floor. In a fury, I lifted up the trap door and shrieked at him down the stairs.

"I don't own a thing. Just some old silverware!

Why did you come here!"

"I don't know," he sobbed.

Crying was too much of a strain for his injured body, and his tears dried up. I stood there for a moment, looking down at him. He seemed so pitiful, so small and alone. I was sniffling, unable to control my emotions, and that frightened me. I usually have control of things. I felt as if I were breaking up. Even so, I went down again and sat next to him. Picked up the glass of water and held it out.

"Can't do it," he muttered desperately.

"You must. Otherwise you'll die."

He howled in despair, but I hardened my nerves and pressed the glass to his lips. He opened his mouth and I poured in the water. He coughed

violently again, spraying water into my face.

"Can't do it," he sobbed.

"I'll arrange things so someone finds you," I said dully.

"Do it now!" he coughed. "What are you waiting for?"

I swallowed hard. At that second I felt thoroughly ashamed.

"I thought you were dead."

He didn't reply. Not a muscle moved in his body. To think that anyone could lie so still! I'm not an evil person. But something had entered my house that I couldn't control. I live alone. There was no-one to help me. For an eternity I sat on the cellar steps with my forehead resting on my knees. Not a sound from below. The only thing I noticed was the smell of mould and potatoes and dust. But later I heard a rushing in my ears that was very faint at first but grew louder. As if someone had turned over an hourglass. The sand had started running through.

C H A P T E R 1 2

Skarre's curls always attracted attention. This time it was a teenage girl at the news-stand who was staring at him. To no effect, because he was preoccupied with other matters. Winther was right, of course. Zipp was hiding something. The certainty of this was as strong in him as his faith in God. What was it that Sejer had said? People always have some reason to keep quiet, and it doesn't even have to be a very good reason. At the same time, he understood the seriousness of the situation. This was no jaunt on the ferry to Denmark. He was jolted out of his train of thought because the queue moved forward. He was the fourth in line. In front of him stood an older woman wearing a brown coat. When he looked over her shoulder, he could see into her shopping trolley. It always amused him to look at other people's shopping. He would come to some funny conclusions, based on what they were buying. This woman had a baby bottle made of clear plastic, antiseptic and cotton-wool balls, three bottles of bleach and a lantern for tea-light candles from the hardware section. Didn't she need any food? He craned his neck and looked at other trolleys. Usually there was a sense of order, things that naturally belonged together, such as four litres of milk, a loaf of bread, coffee and frozen cutlets. Or a case of beer, two packets of crisps, a copy of We Men magazine and a pack of cigarettes. Or nappies, jars of baby food, toilet paper and bananas. But the items in the trolley in front of him seemed somewhat chaotic. He was having fun. He stared at the nubbly fabric of her coat. Now she was moving forward again, with a good grip on her trolley. She was average height, stout and heavy. Since he could only see her from the back, it was difficult to say whether she was in her fifties or her sixties. Her hair was grey and permed into tight, neat curls. She wore short boots with thick heels. He wondered about the baby bottle, it must be for a grandchild. He looked into his own trolley, which contained onions, paprika, rice, a litre and a half of Coke, three newspapers and a bag of Seigmenn jelly babies. He patted his pocket to check that he had cigarettes. Maybe he should get a pack of Magic too, which was in lines on a shelf behind the checkout counter. Maybe while staring deep into the eyes of the woman cashier with a brief remark:

"Imagine, I nearly forgot the most important thing of all!" It was a game he played. Skarre moved forward. The woman in the brown coat put her shopping on the conveyer belt, paid and packed everything into a bag. Not a word spoken, not even a "please" or a "thank you". She didn't look the cashier in the eye. She seemed wrapped in her own world. Then she disappeared out of the doors. Skarre caught sight of something at the end of the counter. She had forgotten the baby bottle.

"I'll take care of it," he told the cashier. She shrugged, and as soon as he had paid for his groceries, he ran in pursuit of her. By then she was quite a distance up the street. Perhaps on her way to catch a bus. She was carrying the grocery bag in her right hand, walking close to the buildings. Skarre had put the baby bottle in the inside pocket of his leather jacket and he hurried after her. She didn't notice him. Then she cut across the street and started up the hill towards Prins Oscars gate. He was close enough to shout, but he picked up speed so that he would be able to state his business without shouting. Skarre was very considerate. She was halfway up the hill, and Skarre was only five metres behind. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket and jogged a few paces towards her.

"Hello! Could you wait a minute, please?" She lurched around to stare at him. Her fear was so apparent that Skarre stopped at once. He threw out his arms and waved the bottle.

"You forgot this! That's all."

She stood there for a few seconds, staring at him, then she turned and continued up the hill.

"What about the baby bottle?"

Finally she stopped.

"I was behind you in the shop. You left it on the counter."

He was quite close to her now. He could see her thin lips and her deep-set eyes. She had a heavy jaw and eyebrows that had grown together. Her face was pale, like something that been locked up.

"I thought it might be important," he said as he smiled and held it out to her. She took it reluctantly.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "You gave me such a start."

"I didn't mean to," said Skarre with a bow.

"There are so many strange people," she said.

"You never know who might turn up." She gave him what passed for a smile. "You could have gone on your way and not done anything. This bottle is important."

"I thought so."

He turned to leave. She seemed to have calmed down.

"Have a nice day."

"A nice day?" She seemed to wake up. "You have no idea what you're talking about." Skarre hesitated. An expression of pure confusion appeared on her face. She turned abruptly and walked up the hill. Skarre watched her turn to the left, just short of a thick hedge. Behind the trees he could see glimpses of a white house with green paintwork.

*

I turned on the tap and let the water run. I was composed enough to show a little concern, and besides, I was responsible for him. I was all he had. The thought sang inside me, even though I knew that it wouldn't last; it was only for a moment that I would have a human being at my disposal like this. Someone who had to listen to me. He started groaning when I opened the trap door. It was odd to stand there with a baby bottle in my hand; it had been so long since I'd done that. I had thought everything through. If I placed a pillow on his chest, the bottle could rest there. I couldn't stand the idea of holding it for him. No, I couldn't. I was surprised that he was still alive. There was something wrong with his legs and arms, and maybe with his lungs too. His voice was weak, and he was struggling to breathe. I stood there holding the bottle in my hand. To think that I'd forgotten it! I had trouble remembering what I had said to that young man, and that made me nervous. But I had a lot on my mind. I went down the steps. He saw the bottle at once and opened his eyes wide. I put the pillow on his chest, on top of the blanket. The bottle was nestled on the pillow. He sucked down the water, not stopping. Bubbles rose in the bottle. I sat there, watching him, a few steps up so that his head was visible between my knees, like something I had given birth to on the floor. It was good that he finally had some water. Tears ran down his face the whole time he was drinking. I was absorbed by that beautiful face and those bright eyes and the water that trickled and ran down his throat. I had used scissors to cut a bigger hole so it wouldn't be so hard for him to drink. When the bottle was almost empty, it was so light that it fell off the pillow and on to the cement floor, making a tiny hollow sound as it rolled away.

"Thank you," he whispered. Then he closed his eyes. I was touched. Wasn't he going to scream again? Curse me? Threaten me so I'd call for help?

It looked as if he were sleeping. I waited, in awe. He was having trouble breathing. I would have sat there all night if my back hadn't started to hurt. If I could have done it, I would have carried him up to my own bed. I would have done that for him, done it gladly. Nothing can compare with sitting there like that, looking at a person who is completely dependent on you. I decided there and then to take as good care of him as I possibly could. And the cellar, which was so familiar to me, gradually began to change. It was no longer dark and sinister; I could look at it properly. Cobwebs on the ceiling, the light shining through them so they looked like silver threads. The dim light in the corners, the yellow light bulb and the dull-coloured floor. Dreary old furniture that seemed now to have some dignity, resting contentedly against the cellar wall, having fulfilled its role. The worn steps on which I was sitting. The quiet room. Andreas had filled it with something. He was young and stupid. He had acted without thinking, the way young people do; they just barge forward. But surely he didn't deserve to lie here like this, freezing. I came out of my reverie.

"Are you in pain?" I asked.

A moment passed. He opened his eyes.

"No," he said, his voice feeble.

"Are you cold?" I asked.

"No," he said again.

He licked his lips. They had begun to split. The hair on the right side of his head was matted with blood. It was stiff and sticky.

"You're lying in such an awkward position. I'm going to move you."

"No! No!" He screamed. His eyes were filled with terror.

"But your legs are up on the steps – it looks as though it must hurt."

"No. Don't!"

I stood up and moved behind his head. Hesitated for a moment before I leaned down. He whimpered, begged me not to do it. But I hardened my heart and stuck my hands under his armpits. Counted to three and pulled him the last few paces away from the stairs. His shoes banged faintly against the floor. He didn't scream, which apparently surprised him. He looked better now, with his legs stretched out.

"I can't feel my body. I can't feel anything!" he said.

I was overwhelmed by what he said, by what I had done. What he had done, I corrected myself, he was to blame for all this. I was struck with great force by how serious his injuries were. I had to squash the despair I felt, that I couldn't bear to feel! I got rapidly to my feet.

"You should have thought of that before!" He opened his mouth to cry out in reply, but he couldn't speak. He didn't have the strength. I went back upstairs. Closed the trap door. Could he have broken his neck? Cut off all connections below, so that everything would stop functioning? Could he live like that? Was he getting enough oxygen? It was too late to turn back. I had burned my bridges the first time I closed the trap door. There was no going back. No going forward, either. I sat down at the table and put my head in my hands. His face would appear at regular intervals to disturb me. But then I felt good again, warm and pleased. I thought that next time I would fill the bottle with warm milk, maybe with a little sugar in it. Or a couple of sleeping pills, so he would sleep. These thoughts gave me a kind of peace. There was so much good you could do if you only tried. I leafed through the newspapers again. In fact I couldn't find a single page without mention of violence or war or some other misery. A young man had shot his own girlfriend in the face. There were more kids like Andreas, there were lots of them. Each story was worse than the last. At regular intervals I would turn around to look over my shoulder. I was expecting something. A face at the window, a phone ringing. When the doorbell finally rang, my heart stopped beating. But it calmed down when I reminded myself that I didn't have to open the door. I am in charge of my own life and my own house. I let the doorbell ring, but it didn't stop. So I went over and looked through the peephole in the door. A figure loomed on the top step, and was I staring into a streaked face. It was my friend Runi. Andreas' mother.

C H A P T E R 1 3

Robert came out of the jail escorted by two officers. He was very pale. Several blood vessels in his eyes had burst and he hadn't eaten for days. Not by way of some form of protest, just that he couldn't keep any food down. He was living on Coke and coffee and cigarettes. He didn't want to escape or to make excuses. Simply to understand. He had nothing else to contribute. Now he had all the time in the world, and he soon realised that the best path to the rest of his life lay in his willingness to cooperate. Besides, they were perfectly nice, they treated him with kindness. And that was true of everybody, from top to bottom. Like this police lieutenant, for instance. Robert slowly sat down. What was the rush? Where was he going to hide? It would always be with him, the fact that he had killed Anita. Dragging behind him like a lizard's tail. He hadn't done many bad things in his life. It's true that he wasn't a very good student, but he had no shortage of friends. He was a pleasant boy, it said so in his school report. And he believed the same as most boys, that good things lay ahead for him. That he wouldn't fall into any of the traps. But now here he was, charged with firstdegree murder. Awareness of this fact kept striking him like a sledgehammer, with relentless precision, again and again. He had grown used to the pain.

"Sit down," Sejer said. "You can smoke if you like. And let me know if you need anything else. Anything at all."

"Thanks," Robert said.

He looked at the grey man. Sejer's towering height was impressive, but he didn't seem threatening. First and foremost, he was here to do his job. That felt good. He had done this before. Robert wasn't unique, not in this place, he was one of many. Sejer wished things were different. That Robert was the first, and for that reason would be remembered.

"The psychologist? He'll come if I call him, Robert."

"It's fine like this."

Sejer nodded, pushing back his grey hair. Robert sensed that behind his quiet demeanour slumbered mighty forces that might be aroused to anger if he didn't cooperate. He was wearing a shirt and tie and discreet charcoal trousers with sharp creases. His grey eyes were calmly scrutinising him.

"There's one thing I want to emphasise regarding this conversation. It might not be easy, but I want you to try anyway." He pulled his chair closer to the desk. "Through the whole course of events, as we go over everything that happened, try to avoid referring to the fact that you were drinking heavily all evening, or to how intoxicated you were the whole time. We both know that you were very drunk." He paused and looked at Robert, who was still staring back at him with his eyes wide open, nodding. "And we both know that this wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been drinking." Robert lowered his eyes. He heard his lashes brush his cheek.

"We're simply going to review what happened, as you remember it, without emphasising that you were drunk. Placing the events in the context of your drunken state will come later. Your defence lawyer will take care of that. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

He rubbed his sweaty hands under the desk.

Looked down at his shoes. Prison legs, he thought. Prisoner Robert.

"Let's go over the day that it happened. From when you woke up in the morning until the moment when Anita was lying dead on the floor. As detailed as you can. Take all the time you need," he added.

Robert began. "The alarm clock went off at ten to eight." My voice, he thought. It's the voice of a child. So shrill and strange-sounding. "I'm usually tired in the morning. But it was Friday. It's easier on Friday," he said, smiling, "knowing that it's almost the weekend. We were planning a party. The day before, at work. And Anita said yes. She had got out of a baby-sitting job. And the landlord was gone, so we had the whole house to ourselves. Well," he took a deep breath, "it was an ordinary day. I was feeling good. Better than usual."

"Why was that?"

"Because of . . . Anita."

It took great effort to say Anita's name out loud. Anita. Anita. If only the name could be erased from all the files in the world. There were lots of Anitas. Each time he heard the name, it all came back to him. And knocked him flat.

"All the same," he said, clearing his throat, "I had a suspicion that it wasn't going to last. For ever, I mean. And if I thought about that, I felt resigned. Sometimes I thought about that."

"Why?" Sejer wanted to know. "Why did you feel resigned?"

"Anita was . . . great. I didn't need anyone better than her. But deep inside I knew that soon she was going to run off and find somebody else. Someone better than me. Sooner or later."

"How could you be certain of that?" Sejer looked at the boy's shoulders. They were hunched up, as if against a cold wind.

"She acted the way most girlfriends do, but she wasn't exactly excited about me. It was a matter of time before she chose Andreas. Or Roger, or someone else. I guess that's the way it is when you have lots to choose from. I've never had lots to choose from. That's why this was so important to me. Having a girlfriend. No, not just having a girlfriend, I've had them before. But to have Anita." Sejer leaned his chin on his hand. "Was Anita the prettiest girlfriend you've ever had?"

"I suppose she was. She always attracted attention, when I walked down the street with her. People would look at her hair and everything. And then they'd look at who was with her. Who the guy was with a girl like that."

Sejer studied him intently. The narrow face and the thin hair that hadn't been combed in a long time and was now sticking out in every direction. Dark blue eyes, flitting all over the room. A streak of a mouth, almost colourless. Thin fingers with nails bitten to the quick. Practically a child.

"How did your day at work go?"

"As usual. There's a lot to do on Fridays. I called Anita during my lunch break. Not because I had anything special to say, but I liked being able to call her when I felt like it. She worked at the department store. We talked for two or three minutes, then we hung up. I wanted to ask her to wear a dress, but I didn't dare. Didn't want to seem like the controlling type. Girls don't like that. But she came in a dress anyway."

"What time was it when everybody had arrived at your room?"

"About 7.00. Anders arrived later. He works until 7.00, so he was probably there by 7.30. I don't remember exactly."

"What did you do?"

"Drank beer, of course. I mean, we talked. Played music. Discussed things."

"What sort of things?"

"Football. The Joe Cocker concert, which we went to, at the Oslo Spektrum. He was rubbish. We talked about that for a long time. The girls got mad, they thought he was so . . . what did they say? They thought he was great. You know, the way he stood there, with his body twitching like that, as if he had no control over it. They fall for that sort of stuff." Sejer smiled. Robert relaxed. There was still a long way to go before the fateful shot. He was at a moment when he was not yet a murderer, and it felt good to be there and forget about the rest, but it was coming. Like a raging bull, the terrible deed stood tossing its head behind a fragile fence.

"Then we talked about politics. The election. Two of them were going to vote and they were arguing about it. Roger and Greta started to dance. Anita was sitting next to me on the sofa. She sat there the whole time until late in the evening, except when she had to go to the bathroom. You know how girls are when they're drinking." Then he stopped. "I was so happy," he went on, quietly now. "I had everything. I mean it. My room. A job. A girl. Friends. We had two cases of beer . . . er . . . I didn't just have a weekend ahead of me, I had my whole life. Right at that moment I managed to convince myself that it was all going to last. But then I started getting really . . ."

"What were you thinking about," Sejer interrupted him, "when you sat on the sofa with Anita and looked around at everything that was yours?"

"That I could have sat there for ever. And about how everything would be when she left."

"What kind of life did you envision for yourself then?"

"I don't really know." He made an effort.

"Something about starting again. And how hard it would be. That we don't really ever get anywhere, we just have to keep starting over all the time. New job, new friends. New girls. Around and around."

"Then Anita got up and went across the room. What did you think then?"

"That didn't bother me. She could move around if she wanted to. She didn't do anything, but I kept my eye on her. I kept my eye on everybody. On Anders and Roger. They were looking at her, but everybody did that. I don't usually care. And even though I was . .. even though I wanted her all to myself, I didn't say anything, just watched her, and I watched everyone who was looking at her, just to keep tabs on them."

He bent his head and looked down at his prisoner feet.

"Anders was the worst; I know him. And I should have been prepared, but I guess he was jealous. Wanted to tease me a little, maybe. He's always teasing people, but he's not mean. Not at heart."

"What did he do?"

"He went over to Anita and danced with her. I never thought that she shouldn't dance with anyone else, I really didn't. Anders kept an eye on me, wanted to see what I would do. I didn't do anything. But I watched them. I felt really weird," he added.

"In what way weird?"

Robert's body seemed to have sunk a little, and his eyes had taken on a distant look. But he was thinking hard, digging into himself to find out what it was. Sejer said softly, "Can you describe it?"

"It's hard to remember."

"Think back. Imagine yourself there."

"I can see some pictures. But the sound is gone."

"What do you mean?"

"I couldn't hear the music any more. But the picture of Anders and Anita was crystal clear."

"Crystal clear?"

"I could see Anita," he said. "But everything else disappeared. She was dancing with Anders. They were dancing very slowly, as if everything was coming to a stop. The light, the sound, I couldn't move, I just looked at Anders and Anita. She had forgotten all about me. Mind you, she was really drunk. I mean, we're not supposed to mention that, but she had forgotten all about me!" There was desperation in his voice.

"But Anders hadn't forgotten about you," Sejer said.

"He was staring at me with a horrible smile. I've seen Anders smile before, but never like that. He had yellow teeth. I didn't smile back. I was thinking about the fact that everything was coming to a stop."

"And then?"

"Then he took a small step back. Pushed Anita away. And I thought, now he's going to leave. But that's not what happened. He raised his hands and grabbed Anita's tits. Grabbed them hard so I could see it."

"What did Anita do?"

"Well, she was really . . . She laughed," he said grimly. "She just laughed. It was already happening. I was going to have to start again. It all seemed so impossible. I would rather die."

"Did you feel that you would rather die?"

"Yes," he said simply.

"What made you think of the shotgun?" He took his time. Tried hard to remember. His efforts to concentrate affected his breathing, which became rapid and shallow.

"When I thought that I'd rather die. I remembered that it was in the cupboard in the hall. It doesn't take long to die, only a second."

"So the idea of getting out the shotgun, that occurred to you when you were thinking about dying?"

"Yes. The landlord had a shotgun in the house. I remembered that it was in the hall."

"At that instant, when you thought about the shotgun, is that when you looked at Anita?"

"They looked so unnatural. There was an eerie light."

"What do you mean by eerie?"

"Like they have in clubs sometimes. A blue, metallic light."

"What did you do?"

"I couldn't see anything in the room, just a bright pathway to the door. Suddenly I was standing in the hall. I still couldn't hear anything. The only sound was a faint prickling. Like . . . ants in my eyes," he said. "I know that I shouted something at Anders, but I can't remember what. I opened the door. The shotgun was there, as it always was. Nice and shiny. All assembled. Waiting for me."

"And the ammunition?"

"Several boxes. They were up on the shelf." His voice was hoarse and breathy. Sejer had to strain to hear him.

"Do you remember any feelings or thoughts from that moment?"

"No feelings. I was dead."

"What do you mean?"

"My face started shrinking. I remember my skin getting tight around my mouth. It was awful. I thought I had to stop time so I wouldn't have to start all over again."

"How were you going to stop time?"

"With a huge bang," he whispered. "If I fired a shot, there would be a huge bang. And everybody would wake up." He ran his hand over his forehead. "A bang. That would wake us up."

"Were you all asleep?"

"Everybody was in slow motion. About to vanish."

"You loaded the shotgun and went back into the room. What did you see?"

"Everyone looking at me. I liked it, the fact that they had to pay attention to me. They stopped smiling. Everyone except Anders."

"Did you hear anything?"

"My name. Someone shouted. It was far away." Sejer leaned across the desk. "Why did you raise the shotgun and take aim?"

"I don't know . . ."

"Think hard, Robert. Why did you raise the shotgun?"

"I needed that bang!"

"But you took aim," Sejer said. "You could have aimed at the ceiling. But you aimed at Anders."

"Yes!"

"You aimed at Anders and pulled the trigger. Why?"

"I don't know. I can't say why!"

In a shrill, heart-rending voice he begged Sejer to stop.

"We're just trying to understand," Sejer said. "I won't laugh. I won't get rough with you. I just want to understand."

Robert sobbed and sniffed, concentrating on the blotting pad, which showed a map of the world. His gaze fell on the snow-white, ice-cold Antarctic.

"I was in a rage when I went to get the shotgun. It would have looked so pathetic if I aimed at the ceiling."

His head fell towards his chest. Sejer leaned back. His expression didn't change, but Robert wasn't looking at him anyway. He was still in the icy wasteland.

"I pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. The safety catch was on. It goes on automatically when you put the shotgun together. I remembered about that and took it off. I thought it was so embarrassing," he whispered. "That I made such a mistake. Forgot about the safety catch."

"Didn't you notice that Anders was hiding behind Anita?"

"Yes, I did."

"But you still decided to fire. Did you realise that you would hit her? Anita – the girl you were so fond of?"

Robert met his gaze for a second.

"No. Yes. I couldn't exactly ask her to move.

'Move over, Anita, I want to shoot Anders.' I couldn't do that. I had to shoot."

"Were you angry, Robert?"

"Angry? . . . I don't think so. But Anders was a coward."

"You were focused on shooting?"

"I needed that bang," he repeated.

"Why didn't you stop?"

"It was too hard. I was already in the middle of it."

"You felt you had passed the point of no return. And then it went off. How did that feel?" Robert swallowed hard. Held back his reply.

Couldn't believe his own words. "Good," he said. At the same time he began shaking violently. "It felt good. I got really hot. I could feel myself falling."

"The sounds in the room," Sejer said, "did they come back?"

"After a while. Like when somebody turns up the radio to full blast. I was shaking uncontrollably. They were bending over me, everybody was bending over me, and someone was screaming. The girls were wailing, and someone dropped a glass on the floor."

"What did you think had happened?"

"That a terrible accident had taken place. That I was injured."

"You. Injured?"

"Something had hit me. It was all a blur. The sounds were too loud. There was blood on the floor. I thought, somebody is going to come and help me soon. I fell down while I waited for help. I liked the fact that someone was going to come and carry me away. I liked it," he said.

"What about now, Robert? Do you want to go on?"

"Yes."

He had been making such an effort that his shirt had big wet patches on it.

"Why?"

"This time, starting again is different. It won't be the same things as before." He leaned across the desk, exhausted. "But I don't understand why. The psychologist can probably find an explanation. But how can he be sure that it's the right one?"

"He's not always sure, Robert. He does his job as best he can. He tries to understand."

"But is there anything to understand? It just happened."

"There are a lot of strange things that just happen. But it's important to go over things. And maybe you'll understand more as time passes."

"But I'm not crazy!" That was the one thing he didn't want to be.

"No. I don't think of you as crazy. But sometimes too many things can happen all at once and knock us over. But you can get up again. You're still the one controlling your own life."

"I don't think so. Not in here."

"Oh yes. You decide almost everything. What you say, what you think, how you're going to spend your days." Sejer took his hand. "I wish you would eat something."

"If I don't eat I get so foggy, and then I don't have to think so much."

"It's better to think, if you can. Don't put it off. It'll come back to you sooner or later anyway."

Robert's mouth was dry. He wondered if he could be picked up and carried back to the cot in his cell by this strong man.

"You can get up and leave," Robert said. "Leave this place and forget about us. I've become somebody's job," he said pensively. "You're paid to talk to people like me."

"Does that bother you?"

"A little."

"I don't mind being around people like you." Robert was lost in his own thoughts. Sejer let him sit there. Robert was cautiously forming ideas. He would manage to bear what awaited him.

Survive prison. Everyone in here had made similar mistakes. He was one of many, some might have even done worse things. He would toe the line, follow the rules, be a model prisoner. Day after day, for weeks, months. He would make it through. But afterwards . . . when he got out one day, what then?

What would he say? What would he do when people found out about his past? Would he be able to handle that? Or would he make sure that he found a way back to this building, with its order and rules? Here it was easy. A few simple tasks, meals three times a day, money for cigarettes. Even kindness. Once again, he started to shake.

"But I want to know how I'm supposed to handle this!" he burst out. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he fought to hold them back and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Sat there in silence while the suppressed sobs shook inside him. He no longer knew who this Robert was. He had lost his foothold on reality. Slowly, he rose from his chair. He rose up higher and higher, felt himself hovering high above the desk. He could look down at his own empty chair, he could gently turn and circle the room. The chief inspector didn't notice; he was busy writing notes.

C H A P T E R 1 4

Runi was standing on the steps, shouting. She was clearly upset and kept on tugging at the door handle. I ran back to the kitchen and turned the radio up to full volume.

"Irma, it's Runi. You have to let me in, Irma!" I thought fast. Did I have to open the door? What would happen if I didn't?

"I'm not feeling well!" I shouted. "I stayed home from work today!"

I leaned against the wall for support. I had to keep her out! Why was all of this coming to my house, trying to force its way in!

"I have to talk to you!"

She wouldn't give up. I tried to think of an excuse not to open the door. Andreas would hear us and start screaming. She didn't usually come over like this, without being invited, it was unbelievably bold of her, and of course impossible for me to let her inside. But if I didn't open the door . . .

"Let me in, Irma! I beg you!"

Her voice had reached a falsetto pitch. I thought about the neighbours; they would hear her. I was going to have to open the door. I turned the key and opened the door a crack. She barged into the hall. Her eyes were swollen and her coat was unbuttoned. It was awful to see Runi looking that way. I prefer her usual sweet self.

"Something terrible has happened!" She sank on to a chair at the table and rummaged in her handbag for a cigarette. Gypsy music was coming from the radio, which she glanced at and then started shouting in despair. "I've called you several times. Why didn't you answer?" and then,

"Can't you turn that radio down?"

I went to the radio and turned it down, but just a little.

"What's wrong?"

"Andreas," she gasped. "Andreas is missing."

"What do you mean, missing?"

I gave her a look of incomprehension. But I needn't have worried, because she was so absorbed in her own despair. That was actually quite typical of Runi. She didn't really see me at all, just stared down at her own unhappiness.

"He hasn't been home for two days. I've been to see the police."

"The police?" I was appalled.

"I reported him missing."

I pulled my cardigan tighter as I listened intently for sounds from the cellar, but I didn't hear anything. Maybe he had fainted, or fallen asleep. Dear God, even though I don't believe in you, please make him sleep!

"But isn't Andreas often away from home?" I said. "Have you called his father?"

"He's not there. The police have been out to talk to him."

"What about his friends?"

"He only has one friend, and he doesn't know anything. Something has happened to him, I'm sure of it. Good Lord! I feel so desperate. What if he ran away? We're always fighting. I was never happy with him, and maybe now he's had enough. I'm going crazy with this waiting. It's driving me crazy, Irma!" She leaned forward and began to sob. She sobbed for a long time while I searched for something to say. I'm not very good with words, and I started to feel a little embarrassed. Besides, I thought I could hear a sound from the cellar. Some sort of clicking noise. Faint, but definitely there. But he couldn't move, so it had to be something else. I searched frantically for an explanation. What if Runi heard it? But she would never dream that Andreas was lying in my cellar with his neck broken. She didn't have that much imagination.

"Had he got himself mixed up in something?" I asked. It was like sprinkling water on frying oil: Runi at once started sputtering.

"Don't talk like that! You sound just like his father. Andreas would never do anything illegal, if that's what you're insinuating. But so many strange things go on in this town, especially at night, so I fear the worst. I feel as if I'm going crazy when I think about everything that might have happened." She kept on crying, but more quietly now. I should offer her something, I thought, but then she would stay even longer, so I didn't.

"Do you have any coffee?" she suddenly asked. I was annoyed, but couldn't very well refuse. She might get suspicious. Runi isn't especially bright, but she can be shrewd, in a primitive sort of way. I got up and turned on the coffee maker. That's when I heard the sound again. Runi was lost in her own thoughts. Her cigarette was sending a thin, disgusting stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

"You should try calling everybody," I said with my back turned. It's important to keep the conversation going, I thought. As long as we keep talking she won't hear the noise from the cellar. "What about his work?" I said. "Have you talked to them?"

"Of course I have."

"He might have run off with a girl," I said. "He's so handsome, that Andreas. Having himself a little adventure. Did he have much money?"

"I can't think that he did. He doesn't make much, and he's always sharing what he does earn with Zipp. If he had gone off with Zipp, I could understand it. But Zipp is at home. He's fine."

"Zipp?"

"His friend. They're inseparable."

"Oh? Inseparable?"

I took two cups from the cupboard, listening. A faint sound, from something thin and light.

"I'm going to ask the police if they can report Andreas missing on the evening news on TV. With a photograph and everything. Apparently every time something runs on the evening news they get lots of calls. They say that there's always somebody who knows something."

"That's not really true, is it?"

"That's what they say."

"They? Who are 'they'?"

"People I've talked to."

"But if anyone did know anything they would call, TV news or no TV news, wouldn't they?" I fumbled with the coffee filter and spilled coffee on the counter, but she didn't notice.

"No. Because they often have good reasons for keeping quiet."

"What? What do you mean?"

I took a sugar bowl out of the cupboard and set it on the table. The sound from the cellar had stopped. Was he lying there listening to us? Did he recognise his mother's voice through the floorboards? Runi had such a shrill voice.

"Can't you turn off that music!" she said. "I can't even think!"

"All right, all right."

I turned it down a little more. She gave me a look of surprise that I didn't do as she asked. All my life I've done what people told me to do, but not any more. I left the radio on. She shook her head.

"What should I do?" she said.

"I'm sure he'll come back soon," I said clumsily.