– We hung out in the city centre, she finally said. – Stayed out the whole night and said we were sleeping over with friends. Starting hanging out in the black clubs.
– Which are?
– Private clubs where you can buy anything and do anything. They never close, and when you go there, it’s at your own risk.
– Great place to grow up.
– We thought it was cool. They were dangerous places for fifteen-year-old girls, and that’s why we were there. Playing with fire. One night, things got out of control. We were supposed to look out for each other. But the rest disappeared. My head wasn’t right, I’d had too much of something I couldn’t take. Woke up in a strange room. Some kind of office; at any rate there was a desk. I was lying on it. Two men bending over me. I wanted to get out. Suddenly one of them had a knife. I screamed. He held his hand over my jaw and squeezed my mouth shut. Like that.
She demonstrated the grip.
– Then the door burst open. It was Ibro. I’d met him once before. He got hold of one of the men, the one with the knife, said something to him in a low voice. Then he lifted me off the table and carried me out to a car. Drove around until my head was clear. Then he drove me home.
She was staring straight ahead. – After that he was my protector.
He dropped her off outside a four-star hotel in the centre. Found somewhere to park a few blocks away. When he entered reception, he found her checking in under another name. She had seemed less afraid after the meeting with the two Bosnians in the car, but now she apparently felt it was necessary to use an alias.
Sigurd couldn’t persuade himself it was all that dangerous to wander about in a Swedish town, but didn’t say anything about her new identity, not wanting to start quarrelling again. He’d been a complete idiot to head up to Nittedal and break into the house, she told him. But he was no killer; she had clearly made up her mind about that. He avoided any comment about what sort of idiot she was for trusting a man like Ibro Hakanovic. About how insanely idiotic it was of her to get involved with someone who was trying to put pressure on a bunch of violent gangsters. Nor did he say anything about the fact that she had kept all this from him.
He stood by the open window in the hotel room, the sounds of traffic far below, a few drops of evening rain touching his neck. Watched her as she lay there scrolling through her phone, hair gathered on one side, the red dress creased so that it just about reached her thighs. And half hidden by the shoulder strap, that little tattoo, exactly like the one her protector had had. He took four steps across the room and stood beside her, and she dragged him down, suddenly wide awake, pulled off his trousers and couldn’t get him inside her fast enough. She is an emptiness, he thought. The more that goes into her, the emptier she gets. He had never heard her scream so loudly before, and as she collapsed beneath him, he could no longer hold the thought at bay. It had come bubbling up, maybe had been there all the time; now it forced everything else to one side.
It’s over, Katja.
31
With one hand, Jennifer shielded her eyes from the morning light as she peered at the DNA diagram on the table in front of her.
Lydia had just opened the curtain again after giving a PowerPoint presentation of the diagram. Jennifer had never seen her so excited before. There was an aberrant pattern there, in the same gene in all three individuals. And those egg cells in which the membrane had not sealed itself as it should do after fertilisation all came from these same three women. If they could confirm the findings, it would strengthen Lydia’s hypothesis about the location of the damage in these rare cases of genetically determined infertility. She seemed convinced that the changes first noticed by the student and for which Jennifer was now being given credit represented a decisive turning point in their research project.
– If we had a bottle of champagne, this would be a suitable occasion for popping it, she said with a quick smile.
Jennifer wasn’t feeling in a champagne mood, but she did her best not to put a damper on the enthusiasm in the room. It seemed as though the four other researchers were all more deeply involved in the project than she was. She felt there were too many unanswered questions. Couldn’t shake the feeling of working on something that wasn’t important enough. Not for her. Not for the world. The predominant cause of female infertility was a fault in the reproductive organs. Blocked fallopian tubes, scarred as a result of chlamydia or other infections. Those who were unable to bear children because of a defect in the membrane of the egg cell couldn’t account for more than a tiny fraction – if they even existed at all. It was still illegal to carry out therapy on reproductive cells. But changes in the law were on the way, and Lydia was undoubtedly right in that these would be adjusted continually in accordance with discoveries made through research. For the time being, she seemed most interested in the fact that the results could shed light on other aspects of reproduction, and how cells communicated with each other in general.
Jennifer recalled Knut Reinertsen’s comments on the project, and for a desperate moment she had to prevent herself from standing up and announcing that the problem wasn’t too few children being born in the world, but too many. That being unable to give birth wasn’t an illness but a natural part of life, that each of us had differing fates, and that one of life’s obligations was to learn to accept this. Easy for you to think like that, she rebuked herself. You’ve given birth to two children. And even if you never got the daughter you always wanted, you’ve been incredibly lucky. You no longer hear the ticking of a clock inside you, but once you would have been prepared to do almost anything to be able to have children. If that need hadn’t been as strong as it was, humans as a species would not exist.
– It’s so good to have you with us on this, Jenny, said Lydia after the meeting was over.
Jennifer smiled through that cursed blushing. She was approaching fifty; sooner or later it must end. – I’m not exactly indispensable to the project.
– To me you are. And now you’ve found something that might turn out to be a breakthrough.
– The student did, Jennifer corrected her.
Lydia laughed, quick and dry, and Jennifer felt her antipathy slip away. It was probably not Lydia’s intention to remind her of how inadequate she was as a researcher in the service of humanity.
– Have you thought any more about my offer?
She hadn’t.
– I think there are others better suited to take on leading roles than me, Lydia. Quite a few who have a lot more to offer.
– But none with your spirit and drive. And ability to see things through to the end
– I’ll give it a little more thought, Jennifer said, interrupting, knowing that her decision had been taken a long time ago.
They walked down the corridor together.
– Knut suggested that we come out to the cabin too this weekend.
It took a couple of seconds for Jennifer to realise what this meant, that she wouldn’t be there alone with Zoran. That it meant two whole days with Lydia and Knut Reinertsen.
– Oh that would be nice, she said, not looking at Lydia, with an excuse not to go already worked out in her head. Suggest to Zoran that they go somewhere else.
She got hold of him after lunch. He was dictating journal entries.
– But you’re actually quite a sociable person, he remarked. – You like being around other people.
He knew what she thought of Knut Reinertsen. He had a different opinion, had seen Knut helping out in humanitarian catastrophes, but didn’t try to change her mind.
– Let’s drop the whole trip, she said, hearing the question mark in it.
– Fine by me, Jenny.
– We can do something else together.
– Indeed we can.
Her phone rang. The lab at the pathological institute.
– We’ve got a lot out of the material you sent us. Ibro Hakanovic.
Jennifer recognised the voice of the technician she had spoken to the pr
evious day.
– The hair?
– That’s more doubtful. But the skin cells you found beneath the fingernails were perfect. Full of information. Though we’re not sure where to send our findings.
She gave him Roar Horvath’s name, felt the return of that consuming curiosity that had been sadly absent throughout the research team meeting.
– One person, or more than one?
– Just one. Badly scratched on the underside of the arm, I’d guess. We found plenty of blood cells.
Zoran had been looking through his papers while she spoke on the phone. He didn’t seem stressed, but as usual had more to do than was possible to fit into a normal working day, even with several hours’ overtime.
– I’ll call you later, she said to him. Rather that than hang around waiting for him to ring.
– Anything new about Arash? he asked as she stood with her hand on the doorknob.
– They’re analysing the shell casing. There’s a lot to suggest he was telling the truth.
– I’ve never doubted it.
– If the DNA results strengthen his case, then I’m guessing they’ll have to release him pretty soon.
Zoran nodded slowly.
– Hope it isn’t too late, he said, a worried look on his face. – Hope he hasn’t been driven beyond what he can endure.
32
Sigurd fetched the car, drove up to the hotel entrance. Katja came out on to the steps. She was wearing a hoody and looked left and right along the road before putting her bag in the back of the car and getting in beside him.
– Yes, we’re going to Oslo, she said before he could ask. – There’s just one thing I have to deal with first, then we can go home.
He had built up a reservoir of patience, but it was rapidly running out now.
– Let me guess, he said. – You’re going to see Uncle Mujo.
She yawned. Without make-up, her eyes looked small and swollen. She’d dressed in haste and was wearing a pair of baggy tracksuit bottoms and trainers. She turned and stared out through the rear window.
– Have we got the X-Falange after us? he grunted with a weary glance in the rear-view mirror. A red Saab directly behind them, then a grey van. – Or is it the Y-Falange? What is it that makes you trust guys like that?
She texted someone. He didn’t give up, repeated his question.
– I’ve known Ibro since I was fifteen, Sigurd. Uncle Mujo almost as long.
He didn’t think the answer was good enough.
– I know who I can trust, she said, brushing him aside.
Her phone rang. She listened for a few seconds, ended the call.
– Drive back to where we were yesterday.
He did as she said, found a space in the street outside the People’s Park, reversed in with a single spin of the steering wheel.
– You can go over there and get something to eat, she said, and pointed across the street to a snack bar.
He scratched his head with both hands.
– I’ve just eaten, you know that.
– Just think of something. She opened the door. – I’ll call you.
– I’ll wait five minutes, he said as calmly as he could. – Not a second longer.
She blew out heavily. – What’s so fucking weird is that you still don’t get it. I’ve tried to explain it to you, but you don’t listen.
– Shut up, he roared suddenly, so close to her face that she jerked backwards. – You go around playing these gangster games and I don’t get a fucking word of explanation.
– Okay, she said, and blinked a few times. – It won’t take more than five minutes. Guaranteed. I’ll explain afterwards.
She leaned towards him, kissed him on the cheek. Her hair smelled of straw. He pulled away. He didn’t have any clean T-shirts to change into, but at least he’d washed his hair. He sat there watching her until she turned the corner and disappeared. They were going to be spending the whole day in the car. He knew roughly what he had to say, but not yet how. On the far side of this drive, get back to where he was before he met her. Not the same place any more. Start something new.
He glanced at his watch. Due at a Newlife meeting in Oslo in eight hours. Had to correct the bad impression he made last time. He’d learned something from all this, he tried to tell himself, something he could use. Didn’t know if that was true.
He tugged on the washer handle, watched the wipers cross the already clean windscreen. The five minutes was up long ago. He opened the door. The sun had broken through, the asphalt was steaming. He threw his jacket inside and locked the door, strolled up past the park. She’d been gone a quarter of an hour. He had no business in this town and never did have. Find her and tell her that, then it would be up to her if she wanted to drive back to Oslo with him or make the trip some other way. If that was where she wanted to go.
As he was approaching Aladdin’s Grill, he received a text message. Finished in a few minutes. He tapped out an answer. Not waiting more than two. A grey van rolled by, stopped a little further ahead. Sigurd stood there watching it, working out another line of text in his head, one that would make it easier for him to say what he had made up his mind to say. At that same moment the door of the café opened and two people came out, both wearing dark coveralls and balaclavas. One of them with a rucksack on his back jumped into the van, the other walked rapidly away along the pavement on the other side and disappeared round the corner.
Sigurd muttered something or other to himself. Time to get out of here. It took a few seconds before the van was out of sight too. He carried on talking to himself, repeating the same thing over and over. Time to get out of here.
Suddenly he crossed the street. The door of Aladdin’s Grill was ajar, the blinds drawn; there was a sign with the word Closed on it.
He shoved the door.
– Katja?
As soon as he put his head round the door, he smelled faeces. Mingled with it was the smell of cooked meat and barbecue spices, along with a trace of cigarette smoke.
Someone was lying on the floor at the back of the café. Sigurd took a couple of steps inside. The boy, he thought. His body lay in a contorted pose in the half-open doorway that led out into the back yard. Half of the face was gone, fragments of something white grinning up at him; what was left of the teeth.
He backed away. Heard a sound from the room next to the bar. Running water.
Katja, he murmured, and prodded the door open with his foot.
It took him a few second to recognise who it was. Recognised the Chicago Bulls baseball cap that was still on the head.
Mujo’s head was bent backwards over the bowl of the toilet, the throat cut open like a fish’s belly, a thick, dark fluid pumping down across the white porcelain. The eyes stared up at Sigurd, a trace of movement in them, a gurgling sound that caused bubbles around the mouth of the wound, and then the eyes whitened and something departed from them.
The next thing he knew, Sigurd was outside on the pavement again. He walked stiffly along the pavement through the piercing light. Music from a window, a kid screeching, a motorcycle starting up and driving off. He didn’t start running until he was round the corner, stumbled against a car door, broke a wing mirror. Got to his feet and ran on. Raced across the square, brakes squealing, he twisted out the way. Someone wound down a window and yelled at him.
When he looked up, he saw he was on his way back to the People’s Park. He staggered over to the car, fumbled for the keys, thumbed the opener; the lights flashed. Was about to cross the street when he saw him. Standing by the fence a few yards away from the car, in the shadow of a tree. He was wearing dark coveralls in the heat, a cap pulled down low on his forehead. As though he was waiting for him. Sigurd carried on past the car, on to the pavement beyond it, didn’t look back. Heard footsteps. Maybe his own. Didn’t look back. Heard breathing, maybe his own. Didn’t look back.
Then he ran.
Came to the park gates, into the park, stopped at one of the stalls
among people waiting their turn to fish for a fluffy toy. Glanced over his shoulder. The man in the coveralls was coming straight towards him. Sigurd backed away, kicked out at something or other. Behind him, a child fell to the ground, a woman swearing. He knocked into a fence, grabbed at the top and jumped over. In below the rails of the big dipper. Someone screamed; he screamed too. Ducked down as one of the carriages swung directly above his head. Crawled across several rails, beneath a power cable, another carriage approaching. He dived out of the way, tumbled on to the open grass, up and into the trees, started climbing the fence facing the road. A hand grabbed his T-shirt and dragged him down. The man who’d been waiting by his car. In his other hand he was holding something that glinted in the sunlight. The eyes beneath the peaked cap, pupils so big Sigurd could see himself in them. He managed to twist free, felt something rip at his hip and move up and knew that it would hurt, that it would bleed. He smelled something and knew that it was coming from him, from his pants, like a signal that the fight was already over.
– Who are you? he howled.
No answer, no movement in the man’s face; only the hand moved, and the glinting thing it held. And then everything cleared. Like coming into a room without furniture. A room in which he could move about freely. Sigurd had never been in that room, never experienced time within it, how slowly it passed, and yet he knew how to move in there, first to one side, follow the knife, carry on in an extension of the arc it would carve. Take a step backwards at its final position, then quickly in the opposite direction, then get away before the knife was there. MacCay’s voice: Put your shoulder into it, channel all the force into your knuckles.
He caught his attacker in the throat, didn’t get away before the knife was there, but it didn’t cut deep because the hand holding it was no longer in charge, and something new appeared in the wide-open eyes. Sigurd forced himself to look into them, and he no longer saw himself there, but the pain of the other, and when he kicked out at the groin, he knew his aim was good. The man doubled up, didn’t drop the knife, but Sigurd kicked it out of his hand and hit him hard twice on the neck, then in the face. He felt himself strike bone, as though his knuckles splintered. He grabbed for the man’s head, got hold of the ears, drove his head against the railings, counted how many times, three, four, reached five. This is what it’s like to kill, he heard himself think, and only then did he loosen his grip, as though the word kill flared down into his fingers, burning them so that they had to let go.
Certain Signs that You are Dead Page 23