by Jo Nesbo
The way they had filled with tears when Brad left the villa four days earlier.
Why all these tears? Is it because what is inexorable, the certainty that there is no way back from here, always touches something deep in us? Whether it be farewells, or deaths, or just those ocean currents of time, happenings and life itself which separate us and pull us all apart from each other?
I hold out a hand to Colin.
‘Farewell,’ I say.
‘Thank you.’ Colin takes my hand and draws me close to him. ‘Thank you for letting my son go.’
‘Will!’ shouts Heidi. She’s standing by the helicopter door holding Sam by the hand. ‘Darling, come on.’
‘And thank you for letting me take over the villa,’ says Colin.
‘I’m the one who should be thanking you – for the tickets,’ I say. ‘It’s just a pity there aren’t enough for us all.’
‘It’s right that we should stay behind,’ says Colin. ‘I’m sure Brad will come back to us when he’s had time to sort himself out. I think the way you treated him has given him a lot to think about, Will. You’ve given all of us a lot to think about.’
‘Will, darling, they say they can’t wait any longer!’
‘I’m coming!’ I shout back as I look into the eyes of my childhood friend. When choice is free, and yet inexorable. That false sense of freedom, contra to what has already been decided. The choice the brain would always make, based on the sum of all the information and every inclination available at the moment when the time for action comes. The absolute inevitability of the fact that I will never see Colin again, hear his laughter, smell his smell, feel the warmth of his handshake or his embrace. Of course I might be wrong, I can hope I’m wrong. But in the depths of my soul I’m afraid I neither hope nor believe I will see him again. But my eyes are as full of tears as his.
As the helicopter rises from the roof and wheels round I look down at the three people standing there waving, then I turn to Sam who tugs at my arm from his seat between Heidi and me.
‘Where are we going, Dad?’
I point. ‘There.’
‘What’s there?’
‘West.’
‘What’s west?’
‘The future.’
‘What’s future?’
‘It’s what’s coming soon. Look…’ I hold my hand in the air above him, flutter it down like a butterfly and tickle the pit of his throat. ‘It’s here now!’ I shouted as he wriggles about, laughing away. ‘And now it’s over!’ I say and stop tickling him. Hold my hand over him again. ‘But there’s more to come,’ I say, and already he’s giggling in terrified anticipation. As I’m tickling him my eyes meet Heidi’s. They look dulled, but she’s smiling. Again I raise my hand.
‘And that was the end of that,’ I say without taking my gaze from hers. ‘But there’s more to come…’
XVII
I’d found a shady place out of the baking hot sun while I waited for Will Adams to release Brad Lowe. Finally I heard their voices on the other side of the wall. Relaxed, good-humoured. Christ, they sounded like two old chums.
‘So you’re the one who’s come to fetch me,’ said Brad as the gates to the villa closed behind him. ‘I thought he meant my father.’
For a few moments he just stood there looking at me and my bike.
‘You ran out on us that night,’ he said.
‘It was all over by then,’ I said. ‘Getting out of there was the only option.’
Brad thought it over. Nodded. ‘Sure. I would probably have done the same. So what happens now?’
‘That’s what we’re wondering.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re the leader of Chaos. We’re wondering what plans you’ve got for us.’
Brad stared at me in surprise.
I nodded at the bike. ‘I’ll ride pillion because I’m thinking you’ll want to drive?’
Brad gave a big grin. He put his arm around my shoulder. ‘I knew I could trust you, Yvonne. You know, if you hadn’t been a carpet muncher I swear I would have had you for my girl. Where are we going?’
‘To the funfair,’ I said.
The reception had been a bit mixed when I told the gang I was off to fetch Brad and that from now on he was going to be leader. They were happy enough with me, they said, and couldn’t quite understand why I would voluntarily give up tall privileges such as the best bike and first choice of weapons, food, room and girls.
But they did as I told them, painted WELCOME BACK, BRAD on a banner that was hanging above the gate as he and I rode into the abandoned little funfair the gang had taken over the day before. We had two generators with us, eight kilos of meat and ten litres of spirits.
To be honest the place was a bit creepy in the dark, but after dinner we lit the whole thing up in all its glorious bright colours and even got some tinny music going on the roundabout and the dodgems, shooting and loud cheers from the booth where the boys popped off airguns at little balloons, and even a scratchy voice on tape muttering scary stuff from what was left of a burned-out House of Horrors. Brad and I climbed up on horses next to each other on the roundabout. Creaking and out of sync they rose and fell as we shuffled round at an easy pace. Above the sounds of the barrel organs I asked him again: what plans did he have for us?
Eyes rolling, his voice slurred by alcohol, he said: ‘We’re going to kill that fucking Will Adams and the rest of his shitty crowd.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because he locked me up, that’s why!’
‘Not because he killed Herbert?’
Brad grunted and lifted the whisky bottle to his lips. ‘That too. But nobody locks Brad Lowe up. Nobody talks to him like he was a snot-nosed kid. You don’t act like you think you’re a better person, that you’re…’ He made a face and gesticulated, but it wasn’t easy to work out what he was trying to say.
‘Holy?’ I suggested.
‘Yes. Will Adams talks like a priest, but he’s just a fucking…’ He waved the bottle about as though he was trying to catch the word in it.
‘Hypocrite?’
‘Yes!’ He had to grab hold of the horse to save himself from falling off it. ‘Him and those buddies of his, they didn’t just kill, they slaughtered those men Dad sent to rescue me.’
‘They defended themselves, you mean?’
Brad scowled at me and I bit my tongue.
‘How are you going to kill him?’ I asked. ‘I hear he’s turned that place into a fortress.’
‘Yeah, but Brad Lowe has the answer –’ he tapped the mouth of the bottle against his temple – ‘in here.’
‘And that is?’
‘How many bazookas did Ragnar get from my father?’
‘Fifty.’
‘One.’ Brad gave a loud laugh and tossed the empty bottle away; I heard it smash somewhere out there in the dark. ‘One single one is all we need. We fire up through a sewage pipe that goes round into his ammunition dump in the basement. And – kaboom! – the whole house…’ He balanced on the horse as he demonstrated with his hands, arms and puffed-out cheeks.
I nodded. ‘How straight is that sewage pipe? If it’s not straight the grenade will just blow up on the way in.’
‘We’ll find that out,’ said Brad. Already he sounded a little less certain.
I sighed. ‘I suppose you mean I’ll find that out?’
‘Can you?’
‘Who’s the one who always does stuff, Brad?’
‘You, Yvonne,’ he said, and even on a merry-go-round in motion I could feel his stinking alcohol breath on my face. ‘You fix the stuff these other pea-brains here can’t handle.’
‘Give me four days,’ I said.
‘Four? Why…?’
Because the guy I know in the Map and Planning Department is away and he won’t be back
until then. I’ll check to see if the pipe goes in a straight line and exactly where it empties out so we don’t blow up the wrong house. OK?’
‘What the fuck would I do without you, Yvonne?’
‘You said it. But are you sure you want to go through with this?’
The lights around us went out, the barrel organ music began to drag, and then went hideously out of tune as the merry-go-round slowed down in the pale moonlight.
‘What the hell?’
‘We’re out of juice,’ I said. ‘But I was asking…d’you really want to kill them? Adams did let you go, after all.’
‘For chrissakes, Yvonne, don’t you get it? That is exactly what pisses me off. I want –’ he swallowed, a drunkard’s tears in his eyes now – ‘I want my father to know that I got the man who humiliated him. Because even if my dad is a bastard I love him. I love my mum and my sister too. But Dad…I’ve been a disappointment to him.’ The horses had stopped completely now, with his in its lowest position, so that I was looking down at him. He straightened up. ‘But once I’ve blown up that fortress and done what he wasn’t able to do himself – then, at last, he’ll see what I’m really capable of. Understand?’
There was a loud bang, a cheer, and the lights and music came back and the merry-go-round began slowly spinning again; Brad was up above me once more on his horse.
That night the whole gang slept inside the House of Horrors. Next morning, as I stood outside in the sharp daylight, Brad came over to me. He was pale and looked badly hung-over.
‘I think I got a bit carried away last night,’ he said as he stood tossing stones at the horses on the merry-go-round. ‘Can we just forget about it?’
‘You mean about Adams? Sure.’ I was relieved.
‘Not that. All that stuff about my dad. Forget it. That’s an order. Just you find out about that sewage pipe.’
* * *
—
My bike and I are finally out of the city and riding along the deserted motorway. The asphalt swallows up all the light coming from the bike and from the moon. I pass the burned-out car wreck that’s been there for the last couple of weeks. Several days pass before someone removed the charred remains from behind the steering wheel. I’m not sure what kind of story that was the end of, but of course the petrol tank was emptied a long time ago. It’s been four days since Brad asked me to find out about the sewage pipe leading into the villa. That’s all been sorted now. The fuel indicator is way over on the left now. It’s finished its story too and is only waiting for the engine to realise it. There are the oil pumps. I slow down. High above me I hear the sound of a helicopter. I glance up and see a light in the sky moving in the direction of the bay. Long before I reach the slaughterhouse I can hear music. There’s a party going on. Another party.
I pull up in front of the hall and see the twins holding up Eric, the guy who had my rifle. Eric’s drunk, swaying about but keeping a tight hold on the bazooka pressed to his shoulder. It looks like the target is a rusting caravan about two hundred metres away.
I drive slowly into the hall. The sound blaring out from the single vast speaker is once again ‘We are the Champions’. God, how I hate it. There are people sitting round the table and singing along. Others are dancing around beneath the meat hooks.
Brad sits alone at the end of the table with his feet up on a chair and a fat doobie in his hand. He looks up at me expectantly.
I take my time. Park my bike. Brush the thighs of my trousers.
‘You’re late,’ says Brad when I sit down next to him.
‘Met a few bumps along the way,’ I reply, recalling the feeling of driving over a guy lying spreadeagled on a spike strip. I nod towards the exit. ‘You’ve seen that the twins and Eric –’
‘They’ve got permission. So?’
‘I got the drawings from my pal in the maps department.’ I open the zip on my leather jacket and hold up the papers I got from Will Adams when I was at the villa, where I got the machine gun, and where I said yes to what he asked of me in return.
‘The sewage pipe goes up to the house in a straight line – all you have to do is stick the bazooka inside it and pull the trigger. I went and had a look around and I found the outlet for the pipe on the slope. The terrain is uneven and there’s a bit of climbing, but we can get there and away again without being seen.’
‘Perfect!’ says Brad with a laugh. ‘So what do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘About doing it.’
I shrug. Adams was insistent that I shouldn’t lead Brad on or try to manipulate him. I was to make sure both options were open, so that his choice really was free. Or as Adams put it: as free as we are to choose, being the people we are at any particular given moment in our lives. The point is – said Adams – the choice is Brad’s: he can be his own punishment, or his own redemption.
‘You’re the one who decides,’ I say.
‘We know that, but maybe you’ve heard it said that the sign of a good leader is that they ask for advice. Of course, it’s then up to them whether or not to take the advice.’
‘I can’t offer you any advice when Chaos doesn’t stand to lose or gain anything by this. You’ve got to follow your own heart and your own head, Brad.’
He seems irritated. ‘OK then. I’ve already decided to do it, I just wanted to hear your opinion.’
There’s a loud noise from outside and for a moment there’s silence in the room; even the guy with his ‘Champions’ song keeps his mouth shut for a few seconds. Firelight flares outside the windows and I hear the cheers of Eric and the twins.
‘I thought at dawn,’ says Brad. ‘What do you say?’
‘Dawn sounds good.’
‘But everyone knows that attacks always come around daybreak. Won’t they be especially on the alert, don’t you think?’
‘Could be.’
‘But you still think dawn is best?’
‘Dawn is always best.’
Brad nods. Gives me a long scrutiny before he gets up and shouts: ‘Party’s over, Chaos! Drink up! We ride an hour before dawn!’
Cheers from the stoned gang members. The cheers turn into a foot-stomping chant of: ‘Brad! Brad!’
He smiles broadly and holds his arms out wide in a gesture that both asks them to stop and at the same time accepts their tribute. He looks happy. Really happy. It was the last time I would ever see him look that way.
* * *
—
I wake up. Hear the steady, even breathing from Heidi and Sam. It’s still dark in the cabin, but I can see a strip of grey along the edge of the curtain. It’s no surprise to me that with Colin Lowe’s tickets we’ve got a large cabin with three rooms on the upper deck. Heidi wept with joy. I look at the clock. Soon the sun will start its journey over the horizon.
Heidi snuggles up to me.
‘What’s the matter?’ she whispers sleepily.
‘Just something I dreamed.’
‘What was that?’
‘I don’t really remember,’ I lie.
I dreamed I was standing next to Brad and Yvonne. Brad was laughing and Yvonne looked serious as we stood and watched the burning villa. Brad laughed even louder when he heard the screaming and three people in flames came running through the garden and out towards us, down the slope.
‘Burn in hell, Adams!’ Brad cheered.
I turned and asked him if he couldn’t see who it was who was burning, but Brad could neither see nor hear me. The flaming figures came closer, the tallest one holding two smaller ones close, and they fell to their knees in front of us.
‘Brad,’ said the tallest one. ‘Burn with us. Burn with us.’
And I saw Brad’s eyes open wide. His laughter stopped, his mouth fell open.
He turned. Now he could see me.
‘You,’ he said. ‘You did this.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘All I did was give you a choice. And you chose to start a fire.’
Brad ran forward. He fell to his knees and put his arms around the three of them as though trying to join them in the flames. But it was too late. Blackened and charred they crumbled in his arms. Brad stared at the ash on the ground. Buried his hands in it and screamed as though his very soul was in pain as the wind blew the ash away.
‘But can you tell whether it was a good dream?’ asks Heidi.
I think about it.
‘No,’ I say, and now I’m telling the truth. ‘I can’t. Come here…’
We’re out walking on the deck. I’m carrying Sam, who’s still sleeping. Everything is grey, it’s all either sea or sky, there is no land, no horizon. Single-celled life, apparently that’s how it all began. Then the sun rises up over the rim. As though by magic things acquire form and colour, and a new universe takes shape in front of our eyes.
‘Our first sunrise,’ I whisper.
Heidi repeats it: ‘Our first sunrise.’
THE SHREDDER
a fly lands on the back of my hand. I stare at it. The average lifespan of a fly is twenty-eight days. Does it know that? Does it perhaps wish that life could be longer? If it were offered a longer life in return for wiping out all memory of its loved ones, of all it has achieved, of its best days and moments, what would it choose?
I don’t have time to worry about that right now. I move my hand and the fly takes off.
I need to forget, and I need to do it quickly.
I sit at the desk in front of the shredder. I close my eyes a moment and listen to the humming sound. It could be the fan in the ceiling. It might be coming from the suitcase. Or it could be the people outside on the streets. Then again it could be spy-drones. People say the military still have them.
Anyway, they’ve been on my trail for a long time, and I know that this time I’m not going to manage to get away. It stops here, in a stinking, baking hot apartment in El Aaiún. In the ceiling, between the bullet-holes and the shrapnel damage, a fan slowly rotates. It moves that scorching hot desert air around a bit after the sirocco has brushed aside the heavy Moroccan Berber rugs hanging in front of the windows and the balcony.