Exposed at the Back

by Arild Stavrum

  Bjartmann stood there like a rabbit in the headlights, then took off along the edge of the woods.

  Steinar threw the van over the kerb where the downhill track turned to gravel. The woods opened up in front of them. Steinar caught a glimpse of houses in the distance, but he didn’t have time to work out which way he was facing. He lost control of the van on the gravel, skidding and stopping with the van blocking the track. Bjartmann vanished into the trees.

  Steinar got out, opened the back door and took out his mountain bike.

  ‘One of you stay here with Junior, the other one follow me.’

  The opening where the path began was quite narrow. Steinar had cycled along the trail once before, but found it too steep. He lowered his head and gripped the handlebars.

  A curve of a street, Konows Gate, cut across the path. Steinar dashed straight into the road and spotted something approaching fast from the left. He squeezed on the brakes, twisting the handlebars at the same time hard to the right, and avoided the black Golf by a few inches.

  Across the road Bjartmann headed for the second part of the trail, the bit that nobody uses, the steepest part.

  Steinar pedalled as hard as he could to get the bike going again. Branches, nettles and weeds lashed at his face on the bends. The track was steep all the way, a small wooden bridge straight ahead of him.

  When Steinar hit the bridge he saw that it led to a right-hand bend. A large birch tree just after the bridge. He jumped towards the tree, putting his shoulder to the trunk and letting himself ricochet off to the right. Miraculously, he landed back on the path. Then came a left turn. As he came out of it, he saw the path was blocked by a landslide further on.

  Could he make it? Steinar caught a glimpse of Bjartmann the path below him and carried on towards the landslide. There was a narrow gap between the rocks and Steinar managed to manoeuvre the front wheel through it, the back wheel taking a couple of violent blows.

  Steinar’s relief at having got past the landslide was short-lived. Up ahead was another almost impossible right-hand turn. But there was a wire fence too, if he could get hold of it, he could use it to turn. He leant to the side, reached out his right hand and grabbed the wire, flexing his arm all he could. He knew it would hurt, but he wasn’t going to let Bjartmann get away.

  Time stood still for a moment as the bike left the ground, leaving him hanging in the air by his right arm. He came crashing to the ground, but leapt back onto his bike. A sign told him the path was closed.

  He struggled through hazels and rowan, or whatever all those trees were called, until the path opened onto a grassy field with a couple of goalposts and some benches. He spotted Bjartmann at the other end of the field. Moments later Steinar reached the same spot and realised too late that he was heading down some small, slippery steps. He couldn’t stop. He’d just have to try and stay on his bike, which was now going faster and faster, shaking terribly.

  It was just a question of whether he’d survive this downhill stretch. His hands ached from the shaking of the bike, and the brakes smelt of burning rubber. He shot out through some bushes, bumping over stones and puddles and hitting a root that threw him and his bike into the air. He landed in the middle of the Alna River.

  Both of Steinar’s wheels were punctured and the handlebars were twisted out of position. The river was shallow but fast-flowing. Bjartmann was standing on a small wooden bridge over the river, pointing down at him.

  ‘Stay away from me!’

  ‘You stupid, spoilt brat. You’re only 30 and make millions a year, why the hell would you kill somebody?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why. That dirty fucking cock jockey had started ignoring me. All he cared about was selling Per. You know how many games I’ve played in the top division? 250. It was my turn to be sold. I was the one who should be going to England to make some dough of my own. I’ve seen hundreds of players much worse than me turn into multimillionaires. It was my fucking turn! And he told me as much. That fucking poof told me that such and such a team was interested. And, worst of all, I believed him. I was a fool. And you know what? They didn’t have the fucking guts to tell me that they were an item. Somebody else told me. You know what they said when I confronted them? That they “loved each other”. Fucking back-door bandits. So fucking sick. What do you think it would mean for me if it came out? You know how many nights we spend in the same twin room? Everyone would think that I was stabbing shit too with a stupid smile on my face.’

  ‘How did you do it?’ asked Steinar.

  ‘I cleared a ball up into the stands, and I couldn’t stand Hjalmar whinging about us losing balls all the time, so I climbed up to the VIP boxes. Through the window, I could see that Golden was in his office, so I climbed in to talk to him and explain how frustrated I was, but he was angry too. Angry that I didn’t accept the relationship between him and Per. Then it all turned black. I hit him as hard as I could. He was lying there and I trod on him. I felt his neck snap.’

  Bjartmann’s eyes went up and down the river. He was weighing up different escape routes. He’d killed Golden and he’d also assaulted Benedikte right in front of Junior’s eyes.

  Steinar threw away his bike and ran the first few metres to the bridge at lightning speed. Bjartmann set off upriver, past some railings. An acidic remark by a journalist in VG had compared Bjartmann’s turning speed to the Denmark ferry. Steinar had the muscles of a sprinter. He quickly gained ground.

  About a hundred metres upriver he saw a narrow suspension bridge. It was several metres above a waterfall, the water foaming around sharp rocks. A fall there could be fatal. The bridge began to rock violently as they ran onto it. Bjartmann stopped half-way, grabbing onto the steel wires on both sides. Steinar threw himself at him, and they crashed together onto the wood. Bjartmann’s mobile dropped out of his pocket, falling over the side and into the waterfall. Bjartmann instinctively tried to grab it, in vain.

  The collision had also made Steinar lose his grip. Bjartmann jumped up and kicked. Steinar just managed to move his head to the right so that the kick just grazed his cheek. Bjartmann lost his balance, and Steinar was on top of him, holding his left arm against Bjartmann’s collar bone and pushing him against the railing. Steinar raised his arm, made a fist and was ready to knock Bjartmann over the side and into the river. All Steinar’s hatred built up in his fist as he pulled it back. It was like loading a crossbow.

  This time, Bjartmann didn’t miss. He kicked Steinar straight in the balls. Steinar curled up on all fours. Bjartmann set off another volley, this time aimed at Steinar’s kidneys.

  He lifted Steinar up. Now he was the one going to be thrown off the bridge. Steinar had thought he could beat him, but Bjartmann was younger and stronger.

  ‘Why did it matter to you?’ Bjartmann said.

  ‘For my client’s sake.’

  ‘That fucking Nigerian?’

  ‘That big fucking Nigerian,’ said Taribo, who’d come up the last few steps towards Bjartmann from behind. He twisted his arm like a python round Bjartmann’s neck, Taribo tightened his grip, biceps expanding and veins quivering. All colour left Bjartmann’s face, his arms and legs slumped. Bjartmann wilted like a flower.

  ‘Can I borrow this man?’ asked Taribo. ‘I thought he could stay in the forest for a couple of days with me and Yakubu.’

  Steinar kept his eyes on Taribo for a moment.

  Bjartmann had killed Golden and tried to kill Benedikte. Now that he’d been stopped, the worst of Steinar’s rage subsided. Steinar remembered that he was a lawyer and a father. So was Taribo. Steinar knew what it might cost them if they took the law into their own hands. He felt his breathing going back to normal. He glanced at Bjartmann. He really wasn’t worth it.

  ‘Bring him back alive,’ said Steinar.

  Comeback

  It was fascinating for Steinar to watch Junior sit down and do a jigsaw, read a book or, like now, draw. Small pockets of time came along now and then when the boy was able to be calm in his surrou
ndings. And now that the Golden case was over, Steinar’s appointments diary was free enough to enjoy it.

  Junior was wearing a white T-shirt with a green crocodile on the front. For the boy, all crocodiles were known as ‘Mr Croc’ after a children’s book that he liked. Steinar liked these small ‘mistakes’, like the fact that Junior called all tigers ‘Tyger Tyger’ after the poem. Steinar didn’t want to correct him. That way, Junior wouldn’t grow up quite as fast. But what was that? Steinar went over to him.

  Snot was coming out of his nose. It wasn’t yet another symptom, was it? Steinar took hold of Junior carefully by the neck with one hand, clearing up the snot with a cloth. Junior held his breath and didn’t blink. He wasn’t even really looking at Steinar, just on pause. Steinar let go, and Junior turned his full attention back to his drawing pad.

  Steinar looked at the lines he was drawing, which filled the page. There were long lines drawn in black felt-tip, and he’d put some purple spots in between. Stop there, thought Steinar, it’s a nice picture.

  The phone rang.

  It was Bjørnar Ramstad. ‘Jakobsen’s bed was empty,’ he said.

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Steinar, immediately regretting it. It could only mean one thing, that his old coach had died.

  Steinar closed his eyes, put his hand to his forehead and felt a couple of wrinkles on the way towards his hair. His thoughts went back to hill running.

  Jakobsen had forced him up Grefsenkollen. Run 100 metres, walk 50, run 200 metres, walk 50, run 50 metres, walk 50, run 200 metres. ‘Steinar Brunsvik, you little devil, you weren’t giving it your all. We’re going back down 500 metres to do it again!’ They’d carried on like that all the way up to the viewpoint, Steinar on foot, Jakobsen in his old Mazda 323, leaning halfway out the window and shouting orders at his player.

  ‘I was sure that he’d died,’ said Bjørnar.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He had just vanished, and when I asked the nurses, a wild panic broke out. It’s quite unusual to misplace coma patients, after all.’

  ‘Did you find him?’

  ‘Guess where.’

  Steinar didn’t answer.

  ‘In the canteen! Bent over a hamburger, with four empty sachets of Thousand Island dressing next to him. He was holding the burger in both hands, his mouth wide open.’

  ‘Does that mean he’s better?’

  ‘Can’t you hear what I’m saying? He’s eating! I was sure that he wouldn’t wake up again. According to the combined experience of the medical profession, he should’ve died long ago. One of the nurses used the word “miracle”.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ said Steinar, hanging up.

  When they opened the door to Ståle Jakobsen’s room on the second floor of the Cancer Centre, Junior stared wide-eyed at the man in the hospital bed.

  Jakobsen patted his hand on the bed and Steinar lifted up his son so that he could sit on the edge. After a few seconds’ silence, Steinar gave Jakobsen a bear hug.

  ‘What’s Daddy doing?’ said Junior, who then became very interested in a blue machine with lots of buttons on a trolley. Steinar checked that it wasn’t plugged in, then let his son play with it.

  Bjørnar came into the room and took Steinar aside.

  ‘I popped into Benedikte’s room too. She’s stable, but still unconscious.’

  Steinar knew. It was four days since she’d been attacked and Steinar had been to see her every day. The short time that had passed since they first met had been filled with the Golden case, Junior’s illness and the promise she’d given Steinar to sleep with him. In between all of that, he hadn’t had the chance to get to know her properly. He hadn’t found out what Kringlebotn meant when he said she hadn’t had it easy as a child. But now that his days were following more of a routine and he saw her lying there in bed, he realised just how much he wanted to find out all about her.

  ‘Do you know anything about her progress?’ he asked.

  ‘Too early to say, but she definitely would’ve died if it hadn’t been for you. How on earth did you get the idea of performing an improvised tracheostomy?’

  ‘I just did it. Didn’t think about it.’

  ‘Like when you were on the pitch?’

  ‘Something like that. Listen, I’m worried about Junior. He was a witness to the attack, do you know how that might affect him later on?’

  ‘That’s not my specialism, Steinar, but I can get you a child psychiatrist.’

  ‘Just tell me what you think, I’d value your opinion.’

  ‘Well, they say that children’s memories aren’t really reliable until they’re four years old.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. Time and again Junior’s shown that he’s got an almost photographic memory for people and places. I’m sure that he remembers it. Do you think it’ll affect him?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know.’

  They went back to Jakobsen’s bed. Bjørnar started telling Jakobsen about his condition, but he was abruptly cut off.

  ‘I don’t give a shit about that. What I want to hear about is that training session: eleven against eleven, the first team against the second, and you scoring two goals to win 2–1.’ Jakobsen looked at Steinar, who didn’t answer. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’ve been throwing your talent away for long enough now. You were born to play football so tell me now, yes or no, will you consider making a comeback?’

  Steinar had loved every second of that training session, but could he bring himself back to fitness enough to take that every day? Wasn’t it really too late? It was far too long since he’d played for Ajax, after all. Or was it?

  ‘Turn up the volume!’ said Jakobsen. A blonde stand-in for Benedikte appeared on the TV screen. The headline read: ‘Marius Bjartmann confesses.’

  Bjartmann had been found tied to the blue turbine monument in Svartdalsparken, by the river where they’d had their stand-off. A yellow Post-it note with the message ‘I killed Arild Golden’ was stapled to his forehead. His left knee was dislocated, and it was doubtful that he’d ever be able to play football again.

  In the poll for footballer of the year, Bjartmann had received a huge number of votes over the past few hours, he was heading to the top. Meanwhile Vålerenga fans had set up a Facebook group calling for Bjartmann to be let out of prison for league matches. It was unlikely that any of the prosecutors had clicked on the ‘Like’ button.

  When questioned by police, Bjartmann confirmed that he’d killed Golden, but he hadn’t admitted anything in connection with Benedikte. She would have to wake up and identify him if he was to be convicted of assaulting her.

  ‘Can you calm your boy down a little?’ said Bjørnar, pointing at Junior, who was doing his best to push over the blood pressure and pulse monitor. Steinar lifted up his son and put him on his lap. A picture on the TV screen caught the boy’s attention too. It was a closeup of Marius Bjartmann’s face. Shit, thought Steinar, he should shield Junior’s eyes from having to see the man who’d attacked Benedikte.

  But Junior said: ‘Daddy, who’s that?’

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to:

  The father of the step over feint, Thorvald Steen, for his literary advice.

  Football doctor Kjell Erik Strømskag for his advice on everything from tracheostomies to literature.

  Psychologist-back Stål Bjørkly for his advice on psychology.

  Heart surgeon Terje Aass for his advice on medicine.

  Trainee lawyer Bernt Birkeland for his advice on legal matters.

  Gunnar Stavrum, a tank of a striker as well as an editor, for his advice on financial crime.

  Anchor Davy Wathne for his advice on television.

  Skeid and Brumlebassen Nursery for all their comments.

  Thank you to Kari Joynt and everybody else from the Norwegian publishers, Forlaget Oktober.

  And thanks to Ole and Lisbet: we’re alright!