by K. O. Dahl
The Last Fix
K.O. Dahl
* * *
* * *
First published in 2009
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74-77 Great Russell Street
London WCIB 3DA
Typeset by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk
Printed in the UK by CPI BookMarque, Croydon
All rights reserved
© K. O. Dahl, 2009
Translation © Don Bartlett, 2009
This translation has been published with the financial support of
NORLA
The right of K.O. Dahl to be identified as author of this work has
been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988
The right of Don Bartlett to be identified as translator of this work
has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated
without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN 978-0-571-23294-9
* * *
Table of Contents
PART 1
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
PART 2
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
PART 3
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
* * *
PART 1
THE GIRL ON THE BRIDGE
* * *
Chapter One
The Customer
There was something special about this customer, she was aware of that at once, even though he wasn't doing very much - that is to say she noticed the door open, but as the person in question went to the holiday brochure shelf instead of walking straight to the counter, Elise continued to do what she was doing without an upward glance. She sat absorbed in the image on the screen, trying to organize a trip to Copenhagen for a family of three while the mother on the telephone dithered between flying there and back or squeezing their car on to Stena Saga and taking the ferry crossing so that they were mobile when they arrived.
Elise looked at Katrine and established that she, too, was busy. The headphones with the mike held Katrine's unruly hair in place, although a blonde lock had fallen over the slender bridge of her nose, and she was concentrating on the computer screen. Katrine had that characteristic furrow in her forehead, which she always had when she concentrated. Her eyes shifted from keyboard to screen, her long dark eyelashes moving slowly up and down. Like an elegant fan, Elise thought, studying Katrine's face as she bent over her work, her profile with the somewhat pronounced nose above reddened lips, and that top lip of hers which had such an effect on men because, on one side, it was a little swollen.
Now and then Elise felt she could have been Katrine's mother. Katrine reminded her of her eldest girl, except that Katrine was much more spontaneous. She was quicker to laugh than her daughter. Nevertheless every so often Elise felt it was her daughter sitting there, and Katrine was probably aware of this, she thought. The unnecessary attention might even have annoyed her.
As the customer approached the counter a few moments later Elise put down the telephone, looked up and prepared to greet him. But when the man ignored her, preferring to stand in front of Katrine, Elise returned to what she had been doing, noticing that Katrine had sent the customer a friendly peek and uttered an automatic 'Hello' long before finishing her on-screen work. Elise also had time to think that she would have a word with her about that bad habit. She formulated the admonition in her head: Don't say 'Hello' until you have eye contact with the customer. The customer always feels important. The customer perceives himself as the centre of the universe. If one divides one's attentions, the customer will become annoyed. This is quite a normal reaction.
From the corner of her eye Elise could see Katrine taking off her headphones and saying something she didn't quite catch. What happened afterwards is what stayed in her mind. The customer was a relatively tall man, equipped with what Elise liked to call vulgar 'totem signals'. He was wearing a black leather waistcoat over a sunburned bare upper torso. His jeans were worn and had holes in the knees. Even though he must have been over forty his long, grizzled hair was tied up in a tasteless ponytail; he wore a large gold earring in one ear and when he went to grab Katrine Elise saw an enormous scar on the man's lower arm. In short, this man was a thug.
The thug launched himself over the counter and made a grab at Katrine, who, panic-stricken, kicked her chair away from the counter, rolled backwards and slammed into the wall. 'Call the police,' Katrine screamed as the chair tipped up and she crashed down on to the floor with her legs in the air. Elise also had time to think how ridiculous she seemed - lying on her back in the chair with all her hair in front of her face and her legs thrashing wildly, like a dumb blonde in a 1960s romantic comedy. While she was thinking the words ridiculous and comedy, Elise jumped off her chair and stared at the thug, an authoritative expression on her face which, afterwards, she could hardly credit herself with having had the wherewithal to muster in such a situation. She had never been robbed before, and that was the thought that went through her mind now: My God, we're being robbed. How will we survive the psychological repercussions?
At that moment the brutal man seemed to sense Elise's presence in the room. He flashed her a quick glance and then re-focused his attention on the blonde on the floor. He seemed to take a decision, seized the counter as if intending to jump over it. Then Elise broke the silence. In a loud, piercing voice she said: 'I beg your pardon, young man!' She was to smile at that line many times later. But however incongruous it sounded at that moment, it worked. The thug stared at her again and hesitated. In the end - it must have been after a few seconds, though it seemed like several minutes - he changed his mind and headed for the door with a wild look in his eyes as he shouted to the blonde girl struggling to her knees and holding her head. 'You do as I say, right? Have you got that?'
The door slammed behind him.
Elise stood ga
ping at the door. It looked no different from how it had been a few seconds ago, it was the same door in the same room, yet it was being seen through different eyes, judged by a different consciousness. 'What was that?' she managed to exclaim, bewildered, numb and not entirely sure what had in fact happened.
Katrine had risen from the bizarre position she had been in, swept back her hair, put her hands on her hips, brushed down her skirt and limped around the counter. She had lost a sandal, and staggered over to the door with one sandal and one bare foot. She locked the door and turned to Elise. For a few seconds she leaned against the door, breathing heavily. She was wide-eyed and her hair dishevelled. A button on her blouse had come loose and she held the two sides together with one hand. Standing like that, leaning against the door with a short skirt and untidy hair, Katrine looked more like a bimbo from a TV soap opera than the daughter about whom Elise liked to daydream. Elise was standing stock still, motionless, petrified. Not a sound could be heard in the room, apart from Katrine's heavy breathing and the telephone that had started to ring behind the counter.
'Aren't you going to answer the phone?' Katrine asked at last.
'Of course not. Are you crazy?'
At once Elise saw the comical side of the remark. They exchanged looks and Katrine began to laugh. Elise smiled at herself and asked again: 'Who on earth was that man?'
Katrine, too, lowered her shoulders in the changed atmosphere. 'Oh, crap, I've gone and hurt myself.' She grinned. 'My bum hurts.' She turned and looked out on to the busy street, pressed down the door handle, opened the door and peered out. 'He's gone anyway,' she said, closing the door and limping back behind the counter. She slipped on the other sandal and picked up the chair. 'It's stopped ringing,' she confirmed and pulled a face.
Elise, curious: 'Is he someone you knew from before?'
Katrine avoided her gaze. She breathed in, arranged her blouse, sat down and adjusted the back of the chair. It was obvious she was thinking feverishly, and it was also obvious she was struggling to decide what to say.
Elise waited patiently with a stern look on her face.
In the end, Katrine said: 'I think it frightened him when I shouted to you to call the police - and I don't think he'll be back.' Her face became more impassioned and desperate the clearer it became that the other woman did not buy her story. 'Elise,' she drawled. 'It's true. I thought he was just a normal customer.'
Elise did not answer; she observed Katrine with suspicion, feeling like a sceptical school teacher.
'I don't know what else to say.'
'What do you mean by that?'
Katrine turned to her, and it seemed to Elise she could read a kind of genuine despair in her expression. But it was never easy to say with Katrine. At this moment she reminded her of one of her own children on Sunday mornings when lies were told about how long they had been out. Slowly Elise rose to her feet and took plodding steps to the front door. It was her turn to lock up now. Broad and plump, she stood with her back to the door and leaned back hard, her arms crossed in an authoritarian manner.
'Katrine.'
'Hm?' Her blue eyes were innocent-blue and glazed, a child's eyes, ready for a fight.
'Is it safe to work here?'
Katrine gave a slow nod.
'Because I'm over fifty and would like to imagine I will be here until I'm sixty-seven. I like travel agency work. I like the fringe benefits. I like flying to Sydney for next to nothing. And I'm not interested in taking early retirement because you're incapable of distinguishing between old friends and old lovers.'
'Elise
'I hate to have to say what I'm going to say now,' Elise continued. 'I don't know if I can express myself in a befitting manner, either. I thought we were going to be robbed. I'm all shaky and my stomach hurts.'
Katrine tilted her head. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'But I had no idea…'
'The man who was here,' Elise interrupted with force. 'He's the nearest I have come to what I would describe as a thug.' She didn't give Katrine, who had raised both palms in defence, a chance. 'You and I have never talked about the past,' Elise persisted, but she was full of regret when she saw the effect her words were having. 'We don't need to talk about the past, not even now, but I would like to know whether I can feel safe working here. If not, I'll have to take further steps. Has this roughneck got anything to do with your past?'
Katrine smiled with the same glazed, light blue, childlike eyes. And Elise could have bitten off her tongue. She should never have asked in that way. Katrine laughed a nervous, artificial laugh and reassured her: 'No, Elise, he has nothing to do with my so-called past.' And Elise knew Katrine had lied. That was why she blamed herself. Katrine had lied and now they were moving into terrain where she had no wish to be with this young woman. She felt she lacked words and could see Katrine was aware of this shortcoming; from Katrine's face it was clear she realized Elise had seen through the lie. Silence hung in the room. Katrine made no attempt to retract the lie, and Elise did not want to wait for the sound of cars and trams to penetrate the window, making the situation workaday and wearisome - for that reason she interposed: 'So next time he could just as easily come in and attack me?'
'Of course not.'
Elise breathed in. 'So he's only interested in you?'
Katrine looked away. Elise waited.
'Yes. He is someone from my past,' she conceded at last.
Elise breathed out and closed her eyes. In a way this admission was the most important thing that had happened so far today; the admission was more important than the incident with the man. The admission made it possible for the balance between them to be re-established. More than that, the relationship between them was no longer threatened by lies. 'Thank God,' she mumbled, unlocking the door and strolling back to her chair. 'Thank God.'
The door jangled. The two women were startled. They looked at each other and Elise felt her mouth go dry.
But it was not the man returning. The customer who opened the door turned out to be a young woman wanting Mediterranean travel brochures.
The next few hours were hectic, and even though it was a quite normal Saturday with quite normal Saturday tasks, sluggish computers and indecisive customers, Elise felt a little shudder go down her back every time the door opened. Every time the familiar jangle sounded, she peered up at the customer and glanced over at Katrine who, irrespective of whether she was busy or not, was sitting ready to meet her gaze with neutral, light blue eyes.
It was almost two o' clock before the room was quiet again. Elise swung her chair round to face Katrine, took a deep breath, but then paused.
'I know what you're going to say,' Katrine said, massaging her temples. 'You want me to ring the police.'
'Don't you think you should?' Elise said in a low voice. 'He threatened you.'
Katrine nodded. 'I need to think a bit,' she said.
'Katrine…' Elise started.
'Please,' Katrine retorted. 'Let me have a think!'
'What did he want?'
Katrine went quiet.
'Is he an ex-boyfriend?'
'He might have considered himself one once, a long time ago.'
'So he's jealous?'
'Believe me, this has nothing to do with love.' Katrine sighed. 'He and a load of other people are just shadows for me now. It's funny, but until he walked through that door I had forgotten what he looked like.'
'What's his name?'
Katrine had to puzzle for a few seconds. 'Raymond,' she said at length. 'Just imagine, I had even forgotten that.'
'But what did he want?'
Katrine stood up. 'I promise I'll tell you,' she said. 'But not this minute. I need to think; I'll have to ask for some help to know how to tackle this. Then I promise I'll tell you.'
Elise nodded slowly. 'Fine,' she said. 'What are you going to do this evening?'
'I'm going to do something I have next to no interest in doing.'
Elise smiled and at once pictured Katrine's skinhead b
oyfriend. 'Are you going to finish with him?'
Katrine smiled and shook her head. 'With Ole? It'll be him who does that with me, I suppose. But he's accompanying me at any rate.'
'Where to?'
'To a party.'
'It must be quite a party if you're that keen to go.'
'That's the point,' Katrine said with a heavy sigh. 'I have absolutely no interest in going, but I have to.'
* * *
Chapter Two
The Afternoon Atmosphere
Ole had eased his body from a recumbent into a sedentary position on the sofa. It was a terrible sofa to sit on, one Katrine had bought at a flea market, a 70s sofa bed, with a solid, uncomfortable pine frame and a seat that was so deep it was impossible to sit with your back supported; you either had to lie you had to sit with your legs beneath you. It irritated him that she had this sofa. It irritated him to think that all her visitors had to confront the same problem: Shall I lie down or what? When Katrine sat on the sofa she always drew her legs up beneath her - she invited a physical intimacy in everything she did. He could feel his irritation growing as he thought about this too, that Katrine was a woman who invited a physicality in all situations. A pling sounded on the TV. Someone had put Stavanger Viking ahead. But he was watching Molde playing against Stabæk. Crap match. Frode Olsen, the goalkeeper, might just as well have started doing gymnastics on the crossbar, and the cameramen seemed to be more interested in the trainers on the Molde bench than the ball. Katrine sauntered by, not wearing clothes of course, her hair wet from the shower. She turned down the volume without a word to him.
'What is it now?' he asked.
'Nothing.'
'But why can't I watch TV?'
'My God, you can watch TV. But you can manage with the volume down can't you? I have to make a call.'
With that she was gone, slamming the hall door behind her. The contours of her body became a blurred, pale shadow behind the door's frosted glass. He could see her sitting beside the telephone. This was Katrine in a nutshell: sitting naked, phoning and making sure he couldn't hear. A form of behaviour and secrecy he could not stand. But now he didn't know what provoked him more, her nonchalant nakedness or her slamming the door, as though he had no right to know what she was doing. He felt a sudden fury surge up inside him; he got up and tore open the door. 'You're the one who's loud!'