Certain Signs that You are Dead

by Torkil Damhaug

  He walked a little faster, risked getting closer to her. A stream of people out in the warm evening sunlight, but if she turned round she could easily pick him out. She didn’t turn round. Crossed Kirkegata. He crossed after her on red. Caught sight of the man she had nodded to, still a few metres ahead of her. Black jeans and a leather jacket. He was tall, neck like a bull. Didn’t look Norwegian. Eastern European, he guessed, as if guessing something like that was any help at all. He still didn’t know if this man had anything to do with her. He held up his mobile, took a few pictures of him, and another one of her. Loser, he muttered to himself. Pervert loser.

  The man turned down Dronningens gate. Four seconds later she reached the turn. Walk on, he whispered, Katja, please walk on, doesn’t matter where you’re going, but please don’t follow him.

  She disappeared round the corner. He stopped at the pedestrian crossing, caught sight of her as she climbed into a car, the black Audi. For a moment he felt relief. Could go home now and wait, get ready for when she returned.

  As they drove up towards the crossing and stopped to wait for green, he squeezed into the back of a shop doorway. The number, he thought, and ducked forward enough to see the licence plate, repeated the number over and over to himself.

  As though through a grey mist he could see the two silhouettes in the front seats. The man on the driver’s side. Her next to him. Katja, he muttered to himself, repeated it louder. Because now it was over.

  She returned home at two o’clock. He propped himself up one elbow, was going to get up, go out and stop her in the hallway, ask her to pack her things and leave. Had made up his mind to give her money for a taxi and a hotel room for a few nights. Unless of course there was someone else she could move in with.

  Lay there listening to her in the bathroom, the tinkling in the toilet bowl, the flushing, the hissing of the cistern, the tap turned on, the electric toothbrush.

  She entered the bedroom quietly, slipped under the blanket. He lay turned towards the wall but could feel the prodding of those alien smells as they spread around the bed, his bed. Strongest the smell of cigarette smoke; she didn’t smoke. Perfume, the same one she had used the first time they met, that evening at Togo. And something indistinct behind it, not sweat or any other body smell, something less sharp, perhaps just the faintest scent of engine oil.

  He couldn’t contain himself any more, turned towards her.

  – Can’t sleep? she whispered.

  In the light of the night sky filtering down through the sheer curtains he looked directly into her eyes, two dark holes in a greyish ellipse. Like a death mask, he thought.

  – Had a good time?

  She grunted, as though to convey that she didn’t want to talk about the evening and half the night she’d spent somewhere or other, at the end of her car drive.

  – Yeah, was okay, she yawned.

  – Vanessa’s all right?

  She nodded, he could see that; it angered him, but within his anger there was a relief that she didn’t speak, that she contented herself with this nod when she lied to him. He half sat up, ready to tell her that he knew all about the man in the leather jacket, about the Audi, ready to show her the pictures he had taken. And then his anger might turn into something quite different, something he hardly recognised. To hold it back he laid a hand on her shoulder, let it slip down to cover one of her breasts. She squeezed it, holding it there. He moved towards her, inhaling her smells, that indefinable one closer now, the one like oil that yet still might be sweat, but not her sweat; hers was light and acidic, with a sharp edge inside it. He pressed down on her; she parted her lips slightly, reluctantly, he noticed; he moved his tongue inside her mouth, as though searching for a taste, a sign, proof, and then suddenly he was on top of her.

  – Sigurd, I’m just totally worn out now.

  She said it in Swedish, and he thought maybe that was to show him that she really meant it.

  – Me too.

  She usually slept naked, but now she was wearing panties. He began to peel them down.

  She took hold of his hair, drew his head away. – I must sleep.

  There was no invitation to talk her round. He pushed even closer, was very close to passing the limit. She jerked under him, twisted away. He lay there breathing into her ear.

  – Tomorrow, she murmured. Reached her hand down under his waistband and pinched him hard, twice, and then snuggled up in the duvet.

  He lay there staring up at the ceiling. The light created different patterns as the curtains moved. Waves of brown that turned white. Was still lying there when he heard the city sounds pick up again outside, as though someone were slowly turning up the volume control.

  Abruptly he got out and went into the living room. The punchbag lounging in one corner. He picked it up and hung it from the hook in the ceiling, and then began punching, harder and harder, his fists leaving deep pits in the dense fabric.

  4

  She had to be out of the house by eight. – The job interview, she said, as though it was something he should have known about. She was in a rush, into the kitchen and kissed him, first on both cheeks and then, after a look at him, on the mouth, a quick nip at his lower lip.

  – Tonight, she said, pressing a finger to the tip of his nose. – You and me.

  He looked at her without speaking.

  – You’re not cross, are you?

  He poured more coffee.

  Once she was out of the door, he called the DVLA.

  – A rental car, said a female voice once he had given her the registration number.

  I thought so, he murmured to himself. – Do you have the name of the firm it is registered to?

  – It’s registered with Europcar.

  He found the number, didn’t even take the time to work out a credible story.

  – I work in a shop in Dronningens gate, he said, improvising. – One of my customers left … some papers behind when he was in here. I ran out after him, managed to note down the registration number of his car. Can you help me to trace him?

  Without waiting for her answer, he gave the number.

  – Sorry, but we’re not allowed to give the names of customers.

  – These look like important documents, some kind of application form.

  – Then perhaps you have the name there yourself?

  He sat at the kitchen table.

  – It’s a little hard to read—

  – I’m sorry, but I can’t help you, the woman interrupted. – But if you’d like to bring the documents in here, we’ll make sure they get to our customer.

  He went to the bathroom, bent over the tub and splashed cold water on his head and chest. Stood dripping wet in front of the mirror, imagined himself following that black Audi. Got closer, until he could see the two shapes, Katja’s head with the ponytail, and the man with his bull’s neck. They were driving along a forest road.

  He swore out loud and returned to his desk. It was past twelve, the day was already half gone and he’d done nothing but let his thoughts idle.

  He woke his computer, wrote: Don’t let your thoughts turn you into a loser. It all starts with your thoughts.

  His phone rang; it was Jenny. He sat looking at it, didn’t feel like talking to her right now. She always asked questions, wanted to know how things were. And he might give himself away. She would comfort him then, relieved that the thing with Katja hadn’t worked out. Tell him that from the moment she laid eyes on her she knew it would end like this. And she’d suggest he got in touch with Siri again. In this imaginary conversation he tried to explain to her why there was no future in the relationship with Siri. There was nothing wrong with her. She was pretty, good body, clever, in every way a good person. And when he was with her it was as though he always knew what she would say, how she would react, how her body would respond to his approach. Everything turned into a confirmation of what he had already discovered about her a long time ago.

  He made himself an espresso. As he watched
the thin brown stream being pressured down into the cup, he had an idea, and before he had finished his coffee it had become a plan.

  He opened his list of contacts, called a number.

  – Hey, boss.

  – Been a while.

  – Follow you on Facebook. You’re doing fucking brilliant.

  Sigurd put another espresso pod in the machine, switched it on.

  – Kent, buddy, listen, I need to find something out. It’s actually very important for my work. You know someone who knows all about filters and firewalls and stuff like that, right?

  Silence at the other end. He looked out of the window. The branch of the oak tree on the pavement, the sharp sunlight flickering through the leaves.

  – And which side of the wall are you going to be on?

  Sigurd let his silence speak for itself.

  – He’ll be well paid, he said finally.

  The guy who opened the door wasn’t much older than he was. He was about five or six kilos overweight, with droopy eyelids and a chin covered in a well-trimmed beard that thinned out and followed the lines of his jawbone.

  – You the guy Kent called about?

  Sigurd confirmed it and was invited in.

  They passed through an open-plan office. Three or four of the desks were occupied. Consultants, the sign on the door said, without specifying a field.

  – You work here? asked Sigurd.

  The guy shrugged, clearly a sign that he wasn’t interested in answering questions like that. He looked at the note.

  – Europcar? Should be doable. It’s a question of money. How soon do you need this?

  – How soon can you let me have it?

  The guy thought about it. – That’s a question of money too.

  – Everything is a question of money, Sigurd said.

  – Give me a couple of days and we’ll say five sheets.

  Sigurd ran a finger along his lower lip. – Five is okay, he decided. – But I’ll expect it today.

  He was eating at Eger’s when the guy rang.

  – Come on over. Bring your bedclothes.

  Sigurd shook his head. As if he was being invited to a gay pyjama party.

  Twenty minutes later he was there, walking through the same open-plan offices, only two other people there now. Neither of them looked up from their screens.

  Sigurd dropped the envelope on to the table. The guy with the manicured beard glanced inside, put it away in a drawer.

  – Take a look now, he said. – This information will be available on screen for fifteen seconds and then it’s gone for ever.

  Sigurd took out pen and paper and made a note of the name, mobile phone number, driving licence number and address in Malmö.

  Out in the street he took out the sheet of paper.

  Ibro Hakanovic.

  He said the name over and over again, like a formula. Felt suddenly that familiar sense of relief. This is what it’s about, he thought. Always be looking for the openings.

  He got into his car, picked up his phone, called Kent.

  After he’d told Kent what it was about, he could hear the smile at the other end. That smile was the real price, not the lousy few thousand kroner.

  The Moroccan was just opening his locker as Sigurd entered the changing room. He was wearing a light summer suit, looked like linen, well pressed, white shirt, shoes that might well have been Italian. He continued to undress without even glancing at Sigurd.

  They lined up down in the hall, the group of five whom MacCay was calling his A students. And the Moroccan. Sigurd knew who he would be sparring with. He’d looked for something new in the changing room, something he might have missed last time. The Moroccan was almost as powerfully built as he was, but he moved like a man who weighed half as much. He was slightly smaller, with a slightly shorter reach.

  Some likened this kind of fighting to chess. MacCay would have none of it. It was more like putting together a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle, the movement of a body in space, reading it but not with your thoughts; you had to learn to read quicker than thought.

  Sigurd was determined to get the Moroccan on the mat this time. He backed off, allowed himself to be hit on the head. Breathed more heavily than he needed, quickly put a hand to his forehead as though he’d been shaken. He repeated the sequence, took an even harder hit, retreated, as if he’d tripped. The Moroccan closer now, something new in his eyes, something that said he was sure of the outcome. Sigurd encouraged his advance, parried the first strike, took the second, let the pain surge through his body. When the third blow came, he ducked, hit back, but a little too hard; for an instant he was too far forward, the distance between his elbows too great. The Moroccan, driving his fist in from below, an express train with three coaches on, caught him under the chin, across the bridge of the nose; his head jerked backwards.

  MacCay stood leaning against the wall. Said nothing, seemed uninterested, but Sigurd knew that afterwards he would be able to describe every single movement. Situations in which his hip had been placed too far forward, or his punch hadn’t come from the shoulder.

  His gumshield was dislodged; he forced it back into place with his tongue. In that instant the Moroccan mounted a second lightning-fast attack and Sigurd could hear the thought as though a voice were speaking to him: Gonna get a thrashing now, Sigurd Woods, this is gonna hurt. He raised his guard, drove the thought away, looked for something to replace it, found nothing but that image of the black Audi, the two figures outlined in the front seats.

  He took a hit to the temple, the sweat spraying off him, some landing in his eyes, but when the next strike came, he saw it, like a door opening up in front of him. He dodged to one side, and then he was there. Four blows in succession, the Moroccan staggering backwards, raising his hand in a futile attempt to protect himself. Sigurd kicked him in the side, and as the Moroccan bent double, grabbed him in a headlock, brought his knee up under his chin and twisted him on to the floor, locking him with his thighs and unleashing another salvo of punches. The feeling was different now. The tension in the body he was hitting was gone; it was as though he was punching a sack.

  He didn’t keep count of the number of times he hit him. The Moroccan raised his hand, and Sigurd knew he was about to tap the floor to concede defeat. He grabbed hold of the hand and twisted it aside and kept on hitting until it was no longer himself doing it but something inside him. He felt an iron grip around his shoulder.

  – That’s enough now.

  MacCay dragged him up, kept his hold on him.

  – Go take a shower.

  Sigurd pulled off his helmet and slunk towards the door. Realised it was the last time he would be going there, because what he had been doing was something very different from sparring.

  – Wait for me down in the cafeteria.

  He had not lost control. He had given it away. It had only happened once before. He could remember the occasion clearly. Didn’t fight much at school, didn’t need to; he wasn’t among the ones who got picked on. But that day he’d known in advance. Known it from the morning onwards. Who the other person was didn’t matter. As long as he was big enough and strong enough. There mustn’t be any taint of cowardice in what was going to happen. He picked the boy out at the morning break, started a quarrel. That same feeling then, hitting and hitting until someone pulled him off. It was thirteen years ago. The day after he saw the blue Renault parked in front of the house. Never experienced it since. Not even had a real fight since then, not until now. As though there was a connection. He tried to laugh it off. But still a splinter was left, nagging away at him.

  Almost a half-hour passed before MacCay appeared in the doorway. He took a coffee from the machine before sitting down.

  – What’s the matter?

  Sigurd shrugged.

  – Were you trying to kill the guy?

  – Wasn’t trying to do anything special. It was a fight.

  MacCay leaned across the table. – A broken nose and two broken teeth.
/>
  – Sorry.

  – You know what something like that costs?

  – I’ll pay you.

  MacCay hit the table with his fist.

  – Fuck you, boy. You think you can pay your way out of everything in this life?

  Sigurd didn’t think that.

  – And just how many enemies do you think you can manage to live with?

  – I’m not looking to make enemies.

  – Then don’t do things that mean you have to keep looking over your shoulder every time you have a night out in town.

  Silence for a while. They drank, he his water, MacCay the coffee.

  – We have to look at the other side, Sigurd. MacCay was calmer now. – Always look at what’s on the other side.

  He pointed at Sigurd’s forehead. – You think too much. You’ve been missing the most important thing. Been too scared. Of yourself.

  – I guess you’re right.

  – Of course I’m right. But today you showed something else. Dug deep. Too deep. But I saw what’s inside you.

  – It was a surprise to me too.

  MacCay smiled quickly, and just as quickly turned serious again.

  – I’m going to have to throw you out. Suspend you for a while at least.

  Sigurd drank the last of his water.

  – Take a week to think things through, Sigurd. How to find that balance. Get access to what you had today, but without killing your opponent.

  He stood up.

  – I think you might amount to something. Maybe you weren’t lying about being half Australian after all.

  He shook his head and left.

  5

  She had come home late and was still sleeping when he got up. He sat in front of the computer. Worked on the lecture. Things went better this time. He wrote about dreams, allowing yourself to have them, not letting people who are envious of you, or unable to dream themselves, stand in your way. Dream thieves, that was what they called them in Newlife. People who live off the dreams of others by destroying them.

  Not for an instant did he forget that Katja was lying there behind the closed bedroom door, but it no longer prevented him from working. A sense of being invincible. This was what life could be like after her. He threw open the window on the warm summer morning, listened to the city, the cars and the people, the sparrows that had settled on the lawn. Windless, and yet the oak leaves fluttered ever so slightly, as though it were the light that made them tremble.