The Fifth Element

by Jorgen Brekke

  “I noticed.”

  “Nice for you to have a reunion and everything,” said Sving. “But what’s this deal about?”

  “Her husband beats her.”

  “And what am I supposed to do about that?”

  “He’s threatened to kill her, and he means it. So she’s run away from him. All she needs is a little help to defend herself.”

  “Are you talking about taking him out?” Sving kept his voice low so the little girl wouldn’t hear what he said.

  Karlstad didn’t reply. Just stared at Sving impassively.

  “I don’t pop them. You know that. I beat them up, but that’s all. Why are you talking to me about this?”

  “It’s an open-ended proposition, Sving.”

  “The answer is no.”

  “It’s an honest job.”

  Sving looked at Ane Fagerhus sitting in the chair. She had again tucked up her legs. The little girl was making her dolls do a strange dance on the floor. Then Ane abruptly got up and came over to Sving, fixing her eyes on his. She radiated confidence. There was something almost unnatural about that, considering the situation, her personal story, and what they’d just asked him to do.

  “I’m desperate. If you’re in, then I want you to be in for more reasons than just the money.”

  She placed her hand on his shoulder and came closer. He could smell her breath, sweet and attractive.

  “Think about it. It’s my only hope. I’ll be at Geir’s party tomorrow night. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

  Shit. Sving silently cursed himself. He liked her.

  * * *

  Karlstad’s car repair shop was located near the dock. Sving lived in Strindheim, a part of town not far away. He crossed Lilleby on foot and headed past the chapel and cemetery in Lademoen.

  His thoughts were whirling, which was unusual for him. Sving was a smart guy, but he normally didn’t spend much time brooding over things. Right now he felt like he was standing at a crossroads. The choice he had to make was simple. A no-brainer, actually. Anyone like him who was involved in this sideline business, and at this level, didn’t kill people. That was just asking to get caught. Norway was too small. A murder attracted too much attention. Besides, he didn’t know if he had it in him to kill someone. But he couldn’t get the thought of her out of his head. Ane and her little girl. Was it right for somebody to threaten their lives? There was no indication that the man was bluffing, and misogynistic men killed their women all the time.

  One of the busiest streets in Trondheim was Innherredsveien, and the four-plex where he lived was situated at a spot where a gap in the noise-abatement barrier allowed the traffic sounds from the bypass road to fill his yard and shake the glass of his bedroom window. He had complained to the city, but so far it was in vain. Sometimes he wondered if the traffic noise might be the cause of his son’s problems. But his room was in the basement with the window facing away from the road, and he never came upstairs. There were other reasons. Maybe it was all the gaming he did. Maybe it was because he’d lost his mother so young. Sondre hadn’t come up from the basement in nearly two years now. It all started after his first year in secondary school. Sving could hardly even remember what his son looked like in daylight. He saw him only when the boy was asleep, in the dim glow of that special lamp he’d installed down there. And he no longer went into his room very often.

  Sving made dinner when he got home. Store-bought curried chicken. That would have to do. Two portions, heated up in the microwave. He carried one plate down to the basement and set it on the floor outside his son’s bedroom door. The other he took with him into the living room and sat down on the sofa. He picked up his iPad from the coffee table to check Facebook—what his son called the book of life and death—mostly to see if there was any news from the depths of the basement. But his son hadn’t posted anything today, or messaged him either, which he sometimes did on good days. On occasion he might send his father a personal message to ask a question, the way he used to when he was younger. Often he asked about completely innocent things, such as whether the stars were visible that night, or whether his father could see the full moon, whether he’d noticed the smoke from a fire he’d read about on the Web, whether he’d had a good day at work. His son’s sense of curiosity was still intact, just well hidden in the dark. Sometimes Sving wondered whether he was the only one Sondre kept at arm’s length. Had he treated him so badly?

  He checked the news online. The headlines were mostly about the young woman who’d been found with her throat slashed and a music box on her chest. It was a horrible case that had shaken the whole city. Given the current atmosphere, it might be possible to get away with a murder, thought Sving. But no. That was not going to happen.

  Then he fell asleep.

  * * *

  “Let’s forget about it for tonight,” she said.

  “Forget about what?” He gave her a crooked smile.

  “You know what I mean. What we asked you about at Geir’s shop.”

  “Nobody calls him Geir. Everyone calls him Karlstad.”

  “Not me. I call him Geir. But I haven’t been in touch with him since we left Rosenborg Junior High. That was a long time ago. But back then we were good friends. The sort of friendship that can survive long years of absence. I’ve followed his life from a distance. I don’t know everything he’s mixed up with, but I do know he has contacts. I knew he was the only person who could help me. And I still believe that. But let’s forget about it tonight. I want to think about other things. What kind of work do you do? I mean, when you’re not helping Geir with his problems.”

  “I think you know.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Karlstad wouldn’t have introduced us unless he’d told you a little about me in advance. I know him.”

  “Isn’t silence important for people who do what you two do?”

  “Karlstad knows what to say and what not to say.”

  “I see. And you’re right. He told me you’re a demolition expert. That you work with explosives.”

  “That’s right. For the next three years I’ll be working on a tunnel right under the building where I live in Strindheim. The Strindheim tunnel will be finished soon. A big advantage with this job is that I mostly won’t be home when the worst of the shaking is going on under the foundation. And when the tunnel is done, all the traffic on the road outside my house will be gone. So for me, the job seems meaningful.”

  She put her hand on his arm.

  “I like explosive types,” she said with a laugh.

  He gave her a surprised look.

  “Isn’t that the kind of man you’re running away from?”

  “My husband?” she said, pausing to consider. “He’s not explosive. Everything he’s done to me, he’s done without anger.”

  A cold type, thought Sving. That’s the most dangerous kind.

  For a while neither of them spoke. They were sitting together on the sofa. Karlstad’s living room was packed. It was his wife Karen’s fiftieth birthday, and he had a wide circle of friends. He was not only good at repairing cars, he was also good at socializing, and with all sorts of people. There were lawyers at the party, as well as businessmen, realtors, people who occasionally lived on the streets, half-wits, and students. Inviting students was something new. Sving knew that Karlstad was trying to get into that market and had started cultivating contacts. Two law students were sitting against one wall, bellowing at each other. Sving had seen one of them before. Karlstad had dealt to them once or twice before.

  Sving downed the rest of his beer. Then he glanced at Ane Fagerhus. He didn’t drink very often. He was afraid of what he might do. Most of the things he regretted in life had been done when he was drunk.

  “Want to go out for a walk?” she said.

  “Out? Where?”

  “I don’t know. Just out.”

  That was not a good idea. Karlstad had stepped out. There was a lot of cocaine under the bed in one of the bedrooms
. It wasn’t like Sving to give in to this sort of thing. But there was something about Ane. She’d already gotten him to drink too much. He’d even been out on the balcony to try some of Karlstad’s cigarillos this evening.

  “How do I know I can trust you?” he said, teasing her.

  “I just need some fresh air.”

  “Karlstad asked me to look out for things here.”

  “It seems nice and peaceful, and Geir will be right back. Besides, everybody here knows not to mess with him.”

  Karlstad lived in a huge apartment on Lademoen. If they’d wanted to go into town, it was only a short walk. But they headed in the opposite direction. Toward Strindheim.

  * * *

  He remembered seeing the plate outside the door in the hallway leading to the basement. He’d noticed it when he came home that night. It had almost made him lose focus. But she soon got his mind back on track. Now he just hoped that Sondre hadn’t heard them.

  He got up and then leaned down to give her a kiss between the shoulder blades. It was too intimate a gesture, too romantic, too early, but he did it anyway. She mumbled something, still half-asleep, and turned onto her side, facing away from him and tucking the duvet between her legs. He turned on his heel and headed for the basement door in the hall. There it was, just as he remembered. A plate with the remains of a serving of curried chicken. This was something new. Sondre had walked up the stairs. Had his son come looking for him, or had he merely turned around in the doorway and gone back to his silent, dark world?

  Sving’s iPad was under one of the sofa cushions. Facebook was still open, so he checked his messages. There was a new one from Sondre. He seldom received much else. Just a lot of bullshit from his colleagues at work and a rare message from his son. He had almost no presence on the Web. The things he did with the baseball bat could not be recorded electronically. Not anywhere. He opened the message.

  A smiley face. That was all.

  He sent three smiley faces back.

  * * *

  “Where’s Tina?”

  Sving was frying bacon.

  “You’ve had all night to ask me that, after drinking till we were both shit-faced and then luring me home with you—but only now you wonder where my daughter is?”

  “Oh, come on, who exactly lured who?” He laughed, and for once the laugh sounded genuine. “I realize somebody must be babysitting her. Just wondered who it was.”

  “She’s on Hitra with my sister. Want to go over there with me to pick her up? We’re going to stay with Geir for a few days. It’s safer.”

  “A Sunday drive?”

  “Something like that.” Her dimples showed.

  “Have we already reached that stage?”

  “We’re both adults. We can do whatever we want.”

  “Do I make you feel safer?”

  “A little.”

  He set a plate of bacon and eggs on the table in the hall next to the basement door. Then he opened Facebook and wrote a new message to his son: Breakfast at the top of the mountain you climbed yesterday.

  The plate was still there when they left. He wondered if he ought to take it downstairs, but decided not to.

  In the car she asked him about the food.

  “Who was that for?”

  “Just my son. He sleeps late in the morning.”

  Which was true.

  “I didn’t know you have a son. Don’t tell me you also have a wife you forgot to mention.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Widower.”

  “Oh, sorry. Never get involved with a widower. Isn’t that the conventional wisdom? Too much baggage.”

  “It was a long time ago. Years ago.”

  “How old is your boy?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “A great age. That’s when everything begins. Everything is wide open. When you have no clue what’s going to happen. That’s probably why everyone is so happy at that age. They don’t know how wrong everything can go.”

  “I think my son already has some idea,” said Sving.

  * * *

  “Do you know Pappa?”

  Tina looked up from the mirror-smooth water under the dock. Her mother and aunt had gone back to the house to make salted fish and mashed potatoes. Suddenly Sving found himself alone with the girl. Between them stood a bucket half-filled with crabs.

  “No, I don’t,” he said. Then a thought occurred to him, and he asked:

  “Is your father nice?”

  “Yes,” replied Tina. “He sings to me.”

  “He sings?”

  “Yes. But it doesn’t sound pretty. When Pappa sings, it sounds like when other people talk.”

  Sving had to laugh.

  “So how does it sound when he talks?”

  “It sounds like when he’s sleeping.”

  “Sleeping?”

  “Like he’s talking in his sleep.”

  “Is your father nice to your mother?”

  “I think so. Pappa never gets mad.”

  Sving got to his feet and picked up the bucket. What was he getting himself mixed up in? He was not a killer. He beat up people, that was all. But would he be able to say no?

  “Maybe we should let the crabs go,” he said.

  Tina looked skeptical.

  “They live in the sea, you know.”

  She nodded.

  Sving dumped the crabs back in the water.

  Together they walked toward the house. Halfway there she took his hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He had to pause between steps to hold back his tears.

  * * *

  The plate of bacon and eggs was now empty. It was in exactly the same place he’d put it before they left.

  Sving was alone. After the drive to Hitra, he’d dropped Ane and Tina off outside Karlstad’s shop. He hadn’t gone in with them. He was worn out, and too many thoughts swirled through his mind.

  There was a new message on Facebook. It seemed steeper today.

  He was disappointed. He’d hoped this was a sign of progress. He’d already eaten on Hitra. The boy would have to settle for another TV dinner.

  His phone rang.

  “Sving, we need to talk.” It was Karlstad.

  “Is it urgent?”

  “Be at the shop in fifteen minutes.”

  * * *

  “Where are Ane and her daughter?” Sving asked, attempting small talk.

  “Sit down, Sving.”

  Karlstad was seated behind the beat-up desk in his office. He pointed to one of the IKEA chairs.

  Sving did as he was told.

  “I asked you to look after things at the party for a few minutes.”

  “I did. For more than just a few minutes.”

  “But not until I came back.”

  “You were gone a long time.”

  “I hadn’t come back when you left. What were you thinking?”

  “What’s this all about, Karlstad? What’s with the tone? That’s not how we talk to each other. Never have.”

  “You knew there was product under the bed in the bedroom.”

  “Sure. I thought it was safe there.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “Fuck! Are you messing with me?”

  “Am I known for messing around, Sving? Am I?”

  “Not when it comes to product, no.”

  “Half a kilo is missing.”

  “Somebody made off with half a kilo from your place? Who the hell would have the nerve to steal from Karlstad?”

  “That appears to be the big mystery right now. And nobody should be more interested in finding out than you.”

  Karlstad leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarillo.

  “We’re friends, Sving. I’m no shithead. I’m giving you a chance to clear up this matter. Either I get back the dope or I get the cash for its full value. And that’ll be the end of it. But I expect nothing less.”

  “What do I have to go on?” />
  “There were more than fifty guests at the party yesterday. I don’t want you to touch most of them unless you find out something concrete. It’s highly unlikely any of them would have taken the stuff. If they did, then we might have to drop the matter. And then I’m afraid the payment would have to come from another source.” Karlstad paused and fixed his eyes on the desk.

  Sving knew full well what he meant. If he didn’t get back what Karlstad had lost, he’d have to pay up himself, either with his own money or it would cost him his friendship with Karlstad. The latter would be the costliest form of payment.

  Karlstad went on:

  “But there were others there, people who have less to lose, people who don’t understand what it means to steal from me. And as it happens, I’m not afraid of offending those kinds of people.”

  “So that’s where I should start?”

  “They’re your best hope, Sving. If you can pound something out of them, the matter might be solved.”

  “Do you have any idea who they are?”

  “I have a list of fourteen names. Junkies, students, welfare cheats, Web poker players, tradesmen, small-time dealers, porn-addicted losers—my best friends.”

  Sving couldn’t help smiling. He wondered where he belonged in Karlstad’s catalogue of friends.

  “I’m working a lot of hours at my job right now. I can manage one a day.”

  “I hear you’ve got some leisure-time activities going on too.”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  “She told me you two had a cozy drive, and that you played with her daughter. She and Tina have gone over to my place to have dinner tonight. I don’t mind, Sving. If there’s anyone who could use a little happiness in life, it’s you. And by the way, if you don’t manage to pound anything out of those fools, if you end up in my debt, I understand that she’s prepared to pay you well for the job she proposed.”

  “I think I’ll try the list first.”

  Karlstad opened a desk drawer and gave him a handwritten list of names and addresses.

  “One a day,” said Sving. “That’s all I can manage.”

  “It’s up to you. But the more time you take, the more time they have to squander my product, and the more expense you’ll have to cover.”

  “Then let’s hope I start at the right end of the list.” Sving got up to leave.