Medusa

by Torkil Damhaug

  – I was almost starting to get worried about you, Axel. You went for a lie-down at about six o’clock last night and you’ve been out ever since.

  He sat up.

  – Has anyone rung?

  – For you? No, for once the big wide world out there has left you in peace.

  Bie put an arm around his waist and pulled him close to her.

  – You work too hard, Axel. Weren’t you going to start saying no to these night shifts?

  He grunted a reply.

  – I’d like to hang on to you for a while yet, you know. The way you looked when you came home yesterday … You’re not twenty any more.

  She leant against him, pressing him backwards, laid a thigh across his bare stomach.

  – You’re the most precious thing I have, you know that, don’t you? she murmured, and he couldn’t remember the last time she had said something like that.

  – What do you know about Brede? he asked suddenly.

  She raised herself up on one elbow.

  – Brede, your brother? Why are you asking me that?

  – What do you know about him, Bie?

  She looked searchingly into his face.

  – No more than what you’ve told me. That he destroyed everything he touched. That it was impossible for your parents to have him living at home.

  – There’s more. Something I didn’t tell you. We made this pact never to tell on one another.

  She got up and opened the curtain, came back to bed again.

  – What’s made you think of him now?

  He looked up at the ceiling, the throbbing white light mingling with a hint of forget-me-not blue, Bie’s favourite colour.

  – I saw him in town one day. He was gone before I could get to him.

  – Are you certain? You’ve always been so sure he must be dead.

  – He isn’t dead. There’s a lot you don’t know.

  – I realise that. She scraped down his chest with her long fingernails. – Don’t you think I’ve noticed how no one in the family has ever talked about him in all the years I’ve known you.

  She bent down and kissed his navel.

  – Some things you just have to let lie, Axel. If we spent our lives digging up corpses, we wouldn’t have the energy to do anything else.

  He twisted round, got to his feet. Found his boxer shorts by the bedside, pulled them on.

  – Are you leaving?

  From her tone of voice he knew what she had in mind.

  – I’ve got a bladder the size of a nine-month womb, he said with a vague smile. – Just before the waters break.

  – You’ve not forgotten we’re invited out tonight?

  He let out a groan.

  – I thought as much, she said tartly.

  Mail from Daniel. He used to write every week, but it was a long time now since they’d heard from him. Normally it would have worried Axel, a twenty-two year old on his own in New York, but these day he had no time to think about it. As he opened the letter, a feeling of missing his elder son came sneaking over him. If he wasn’t careful, it might turn into an avalanche.

  Daniel had taken his economics exam just the day before and for the past few weeks had been studying round the clock. Again he reassured his parents that New York was one of the safest cities in the world. Not like Oslo. For once there’s something about Norway in the New York Times. A big article about the two murders. Apparently people are afraid a killer bear is on the loose in the centre of the capital. Can’t find anything in the online editions of the Norwegian papers that denies it. What’s going on? According to the NYT article there’s an almost medieval atmosphere. Fears of being attacked by monsters in the dark streets at night. People afraid to go outside (can this be true?), and the journalist writes that it feels like being in a city where the walls were never pulled down. Couldn’t have a better advert. Soon you’ll be drowning in tourists on the lookout for something exotic and primitive in the heart of what is, after all, a modern capital. I keep having to remind my fellow students that yes, we do have electricity in Norway now, we’ve even got TV, and – of particular importance to Americans – we have flushing toilets.

  Bie had called the family to lunch. Warm baguettes and boiled eggs.

  – What are you doing tonight? Axel asked Tom when his son finally appeared.

  – Dunno. Going over to Findus’s.

  – Are you going to rehearse?

  Tom shrugged.

  – Aren’t you going to ask me? Marlen snuffled as she put Cassiopeia down beside her plate. The tortoise’s head and feet disappeared soundlessly inside its shell.

  – But of course. What are you doing tonight, Marlen?

  She stretched her neck.

  – Not telling.

  Axel didn’t give up.

  – Aw, don’t be like that. At least give me a clue.

  – Nothing you need to know about, she pouted as she sneezed across the plate.

  The way she said it was so cheeky, Axel thought he might pull her up about it. But then she immediately sneezed again, this time into a serviette Bie managed to stick in front of her nose. Once she’d recovered, she announced:

  – Sneezing is the best thing there is. It’s like travelling in a space rocket. It tickles and then it’s like everything disappears. Is it dangerous?

  – You should ask the doctor, was Bie’s advice.

  – No, not dangerous, Axel reassured her. – Not as long as you come back down to earth again.

  37

  BIE STAYED DOWN in the hall talking to the birthday boy as the hostess led Axel up the plushly carpeted staircase. As soon as he entered the large room, he caught sight of Ingrid Brodahl and her husband. They were standing alone over by the fireplace, while the other guests were gathered in groups. Ingrid Brodahl, who had clung to his arm, screaming. Images from the night of the accident rose up again. And the feeling of helplessness he didn’t know how to deal with. His first thought when he saw them standing there was to turn and go out again, out to the car, drive off somewhere. After the funeral, he had held his hand out to her in the middle of a stream of people offering their condolences. Her features were drawn and strained, but when she realised it was his hand she was shaking she had broken down and her husband had to lead her away. If he spoke to her at this gathering, it might prove too much for her again. Maybe she would always think of him as someone who arrived in the middle of the night bringing news of death.

  He stood beside her. Only now did she recognise him. She didn’t release his hand as they greeted each other. She looked at him with a glazed stare, saying nothing, but she didn’t start to cry. She’s boxed it in, he thought.

  Axel stood in the darkness at the end of the terrace. The living-room door behind him was ajar, and from within he heard the sounds of Caribbean rhythms. Usually he didn’t see much of Bie at parties; neither of them minded letting go of the other for a while. But this evening she had stayed close the whole time. Insisted on dancing with him, held him tight, kissed him with such intensity that they must have looked like a couple who had just fallen in love. He’d danced a few dances with her, cheek to cheek, before withdrawing. Is something going on, Axel? she had asked. He had been about to say, Something is going on, Bie, and I don’t know if I can stop it. But he had shaken his head, and she stroked his neck and told him she understood that he was tired. Stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear that as far as she was concerned they could go home early.

  He took a deep drink from his cognac glass, let it wash around in his mouth. The terrace wasn’t west-facing like their own, but faced north, and he could see over to the city on the far side of the fjord. The castle, the town hall, a little to the right Carl Berners Place and then Rodeløkka. He didn’t think Miriam was home. She’d said something about going away for the weekend. The relief of knowing she wasn’t there, that she’d gone somewhere he couldn’t get in touch with her. If he never met her again, how long would it take before he stopped seeing her face in his mind�
�s eye? This was how he must be now: completely passive, not doing anything until she had faded away and it was over.

  The sky above him was as clear as dark glass. He found the Twins, then moved slowly on towards the Charioteer and Perseus, holding the head of the Medusa with her evil eye. In the days after her birthday party he’d had to explain repeatedly to Marlen that the star named Algol seemed to pulsate because there were actually two stars that shadowed each other in turn. That had helped. At least she dared to look up into the night sky again. A week ago she’d written a story that she read out to him. About an astronaut who was shot up into space and came close to the terrible double star Algol, the Medusa’s eye. He never returned. He had been turned into stone that swirled and circled around up there, away in the outer darkness. Stories too could circle and shadow each other, Axel thought when she had finished reading.

  He emptied what was left of the cognac. Thought of something he had seen in a newspaper. An investigation carried out among Italian men. The unfaithful ones were also those who scored highest on the scale of how good they were as family men. The interpretation of this was that feelings of guilt brought out the best in them as fathers. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his mobile phone. Are you sleeping? he texted.

  As he was sending the message, he heard footsteps on the terrace. When he turned, he saw Ingrid Brodahl standing there. At table they had been seated apart from each other, but he had seen her looking at him several times, and he guessed that she would approach at some point in the evening. Now she was standing there, glass in hand and with a small bag dangling from her arm.

  – I saw you come out here, she said.

  Her dress glinted in the light from the room when she moved.

  – I needed some fresh air, he answered. – Are you back at work?

  She had a senior post in a government ministry, he recalled. Possibly the Ministry of Culture.

  – I start back on Monday. I don’t even have the energy to dread it. Everything seems so remote and distant. Even being here.

  She kept her eyes fixed on him.

  – I didn’t get the chance to say this earlier, I suppose I was a little taken aback, but … Thank you for coming.

  He presumed she meant the funeral, muttered something about well of course, he had to.

  – That night, she continued in a dull monotone. – I realise you could have left it to someone else to come to our house. I can’t be grateful for anything. But I do want you to know. It was good that it was you who came.

  He looked at her. There had always been something unapproachable about Ingrid Brodahl, he thought. An ironic tone that kept her surroundings at a distance. Now it was as if the world had collapsed on her and torn everything loose with it.

  She laid a hand on his arm.

  – When you found her. How was she lying?

  He took a deep breath, felt the same helplessness as he had done that night.

  – Lise … she added, almost inaudibly.

  Suddenly he started to talk, describing how he hadn’t found her in the car and had walked back along the roadside ditch to search. At first it looked as if she was asleep. Ingrid Brodahl tightened her grip on his wrist, and for a moment he was afraid she might lose control. She opened her bag, took out a handkerchief, stood there with it pressed against her nose.

  His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket.

  – I’ll come over one day soon, he said. – We’ll talk more about it. If you’d like that.

  Without looking up she said: – I’m glad there are people like you. That’s probably the reason everything will carry on again. One day.

  In the back of the taxi, Bie snuggled up with her head resting on his chest. He put his arm around her, kissed her on the forehead. Her hair smelt of roses and smoke. He stroked her cheek, traced the outline of her lips with a finger. She took it in her mouth and bit it.

  – How tired are you actually, Dr Glenne? she asked, undoing a couple of his shirt buttons, slipping a hand in to his bare chest.

  – I’m already asleep.

  The hand glided down over his stomach and inside the waistband of his trousers.

  – Oops. That doesn’t appear to be the case with every part of you.

  – No, he had to admit. – Some parts just get up and lie down whenever it suits them, no matter how firm I try to be with them.

  – Disobedience like that must be punished, she purred.

  They had the house to themselves. He got undressed and sat by the little table in the corner of the bedroom, a cognac glass in his hand. Picked up the remote control and turned on some piano music she had left in the player. She came in from the bathroom and stood in front of him. Had left the transparent G-string on.

  – When did you start shaving yourself? he wanted to know, still controlling himself.

  She raised her chin dismissively, and the movement seemed to release something in him. Suddenly he was on his feet, grabbing hold of her and pulling her over to the bed. They had a pair of handcuffs somewhere; it was a while since they’d used them and he wasn’t sure where they were. Instead he snatched up his silk tie and tightened it around her wrists, fastening the other end to the bedpost. As he fiercely pulled her legs apart, she turned and bit him on the shoulder.

  – You big rough bastard, she growled.

  He fumbles his way along a corridor. It is lit by a strip of small blue lights along the floor. On one of the plates he reads: Viktor. The door opens. An interview room within. The detective chief inspector is sitting there, but his name is not Viktor.

  We’ve been waiting for you, Brede.

  He opens his mouth to protest. They’ve got to stop calling him Brede. He refuses to put up with it any more. The chief inspector takes him by the arm, drags him into another room, a large room with a screen pulled down in front of the stage.

  We managed to film him. Thanks to you we managed to film him, Brede.

  Four or five people sitting in the first row; otherwise it’s empty in there. One of them turns, bathed in a greenish light. It’s his mother.

  I’m proud of you, Axel. Proud of you.

  He feels relieved that she recognises him and is about to ask her to explain this business about Brede. Tell them who I am, he is on the point of saying, but before he can do so, he is pushed down into one of the seats.

  Eighth row. This’ll just have to do, it was the best we could get.

  Detective Chief Inspector Viktor squeezes in beside him, places a hand on his thigh.

  Glenne, you just wait till you see this.

  He’s got it now, he’s not calling him Brede any more.

  Viktor turns and snaps his fingers three times. There’s an old projector at the back of the room. Rita is there cranking it up. Images appear on the screen. Daybreak. The camera glides between the trees, all the branches bare of needles.

  I don’t want to see this.

  Viktor puts his arm around him, holds him firmly. He tries to pull away, but there’s someone sitting on the other side of him too now. Smells of rotting meat. He can’t manage to turn his head enough to see who it is.

  We’re not going to stop until you’ve seen everything.

  The camera approaches a tarn. Someone standing on the bank, a man in a white suit and boots, a bowler hat on his head. He’s holding a stone in his hand. In front of him, black hair dipping in the water’s edge, lies a naked woman. She is bleeding from the head. A tree trunk gets in the way of the camera.

  Watch closely, Glenne, Viktor whispers in his ear. Watch closely now, and you’ll see the Medusa’s face.

  The camera moves forward again, zooming in. The man by the tarn turns. His face fills the screen. That evil grin, the laughter that can’t be heard.

  He mustn’t look at the eyes. Tears himself away, heading out, shrieking like an animal as he tries to drown out Viktor’s voice: Do you recognise yourself, Dr Glenne? Now, at last, do you recognise yourself?

  38

  Monday 22 October


  AGNES FINCKENHAGEN SAT with a steaming mug of coffee in her hand and VG spread out on the table in front of her. The front page was covered with a single headline: POLICE SUSPECT GREEN TERROR. Inside, three pages were devoted to the raid on the barn in Åsnes county in Hedmark, which was presented as the police’s most important lead so far in the so-called bear murders. Finckenhagen had just come from a meeting with the Chief Constable and the Chief Superintendent. They wanted to know why they had to learn of important developments from the press. She couldn’t give a good answer and had to put up with a roasting that lasted for almost an hour. At the end of it she was given the remainder of the morning to deliver a report on the case.

  She rang Viken and asked him to call in and see her. Get here at once, she ought to have said. But Viken was the type you made suggestions to, not gave orders. A man everyone had an opinion on, as she had soon discovered when she joined the section. She got on with him extremely well. To begin with she had had her doubts, not least because he had, after all, applied for the job she had been brought in to do. But he had never shown any opposition or rivalry. On the contrary, from the very first day she had found him loyal, supportive even. You had to respect that, she’d thought. A man whose concern for the job overrode any personal ambition he might have.

  She had never heard anyone question Viken’s abilities as one of the best detectives in Oslo, and when he spoke, even the most experienced listened. He had led investigations into a number of cases of serial rape, almost all of which had been solved. Influenced by American profilers, he had developed a special understanding of the psychology of people involved in serial criminal activities. He gave lectures on the way technical finds at crime scenes could reveal something about the perpetrator’s inner world. Finckenhagen found it very interesting, but discovered that within the section generally, there was little enthusiasm for what he was doing. But she felt sure that developments in the techniques of investigation would presently show him to be right, and she was more than willing to stand up for him if need be. She had seen for herself the almost cruel efficiency with which Viken used his psychological insight to elicit a confession during questioning. As a leader, however, he would have been a disaster for the section, something the people up on the eighth floor had understood only too well. He was the lone-wolf type, someone who found it difficult to delegate responsibilities. What was worse was that he polarised opinion among those around him. People were either strongly for or strongly against him. His supporters appeared willing to do anything for him, it seemed. But even amongst those he was more feared than loved.