by Anne Holt
Her voice was fragile and high. She couldn’t remember if Puss-cat had been fed. Not today, anyway. Maybe not yesterday. No, not yesterday, because she’d been so furious that the fucking animal had pissed on the pizza.
‘Shoo! Shoo!’
Trude waved her arms at the cat, which shot across to the sofa like a furry rocket, where it started kneading the cushions with its sharp claws.
It must be New Year’s Eve, Trude thought.
She tried to open the window. It was stuck, and she broke a nail in the attempt. In the end it flew open, suddenly and with a crash. Ice-cold air poured into the musty room, and Trude leaned right out.
She could see rockets above the area to the east, the old buildings that blocked her view of Sofienberg Park. Red and green spheres of light fell slowly to the ground, and sparkling fountains rose towards the sky. The smell of gunpowder had already begun to spread through the streets. She loved the smell of fireworks. Fortunately there was always someone who couldn’t wait until midnight.
She had only one fix left. She had saved it for the evening; the day had been bearable, thanks to a bottle of vodka someone had forgotten about under the bed.
It was difficult to tell how late it was.
As she was closing the window, Puss-cat slipped out. The cat moved quickly along the narrow window ledge before sitting down a metre away, miaowing.
‘Come back, Puss-cat. Come to Mummy.’
Puss-cat was having a wash. Slowly and thoroughly she dragged her tongue over her fur. Rhythmically, after every fourth lick, she rubbed her paw over her ear.
‘Puss-cat,’ Trude snivelled as firmly as she could, stretching out to reach her. ‘Come back here at once!’
She could feel that she was no longer in contact with the floor. If she held on to the windowsill between the two bottom panes in the old-fashioned window, divided into four, she might be able to stretch her other arm out far enough to grab the cat by the scruff of the neck. Her fingers clutched the wood. The bitter wind blew over her bare forearms, and her teeth were chattering.
‘Puss-cat,’ she said one last time before she overbalanced and fell.
As she lived three floors up and hit the asphalt with her head and her left shoulder first, she died instantly. A man was standing at his window having a cigarette on the opposite side of the street, so the police were called immediately. And because the man was able to tell them what had happened, and the door to Trude’s empty flat was locked with a security chain from the inside, there was no reason to investigate the matter further. An accident, nothing more. A tragic accident.
On 31 December 2008, one and a half hours before a new year was due to be celebrated, there was no one in the whole world to give Runar Hansen a thought. He had been murdered in a park on 19 November that same year, aged forty-one. After his sister’s death he wasn’t even a vague, drug-addled memory.
Nor did anyone care about Puss-cat on the window ledge.
*
Synnøve Hessel was stroking the immensely fat cat. It settled down on her knee, its purr a low-frequency hum as it breathed in and out. There was something calming about the sound and the cat’s affection as it butted her hands with its head as soon as she stopped stroking it.
‘I’m so pleased to be here,’ she said.
‘No problem,’ said the woman sitting at the other end of the sofa with a bottle of beer in her hand. ‘I wasn’t exactly in the mood for a celebration either.’
The apartment was even more elegant than Marianne’s description the very last time she spoke to Synnøve on the telephone. Marianne had spent the afternoon of Saturday 19 December with Tuva on Grefsenkollveien. It had been eight o’clock in the evening, and Marianne had seemed so excited about the long journey. Synnøve had tried to hide her disappointment over the fact that they wouldn’t be celebrating Christmas together, but with limited success. A sharp, chilly tone had come between them before the conversation ended.
It struck her that the end of their conversation was the reason why Marianne’s text messages had been so short and impersonal. The first one, anyway.
‘So you’ve checked whether she arrived at the hotel?’ Tuva asked for the third time in less than an hour.
‘Yes. She arrived, checked in, and the bill has been paid. That’s where the trail ends.’ Synnøve shuddered and pushed the cat on to the floor. ‘That’s where the trail ends,’ she repeated with a grimace. ‘Sounds like something out of a crime novel.’
The room was not large, but the view from the big windows gave the apartment a feeling of exclusiveness. All the furniture faced the spacious balcony, and from where she was sitting Synnøve could look out over the whole of Oslo. She stood up.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ asked Tuva.
‘What, now? An hour before midnight?’
Synnøve was standing by the window. The old apartment blocks had looked terrible from the outside. A gigantic piece of Lego standing on end, slotted into the side of a hill the same height as the building. Only when she walked into the room on the eleventh floor did she understand her friend’s childish delight over the new apartment.
Synnøve had never seen Oslo looking so beautiful.
Lights were twinkling everywhere. The city lay before her like a Christmas decoration, a gift from the gods, surrounded by dark ridges and black water. Fireworks exploded against the sky with increasing frequency. Synnøve and Tuva had front-row seats for the show that would start in an hour.
‘All right then,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders.
Five minutes later they were on their way up Grefsenåsen, the cold biting into their faces. They had dressed warmly, unlike all the people tripping to and from festivities in party clothes and indoor shoes. A gang of boys aged about twelve or thirteen were amusing themselves by throwing firecrackers into a group of young women, who were screaming and jumping around on their stilettos. An elderly man came walking along the pavement with an old, overweight Labrador. He gave the boys a good telling-off; they swore and whooped and ran off down the hill laughing, before disappearing into a closed-up building site by clambering over a three-metre fence.
‘It’s very strange that she hasn’t withdrawn any money,’ puffed Tuva. ‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’
Synnøve slowed down. She often forgot that she was fitter than most people.
‘The only thing I’ve been able to check is our joint account. Marianne also has a card for a deposit account that only she has access to. I’ll have to get the bloody police to ask the bank.’
She stopped.
There’s no point, she thought.
They were standing at a fork in the road. Tuva pointed upwards, where a deserted track wound its way up towards the top of Grefsenkollen. Synnøve didn’t move.
‘It’s just that I’m so sure she’s dead,’ she whispered.
Ice-cold tears poured down her face.
‘You can’t know that,’ Tuva protested. ‘I mean, she’s only been gone a week! I remember the state you were in when she just took off for France and didn’t get in touch for ages. Marianne is so—’
‘Dead!’ Synnøve screamed. ‘Don’t you start as well! Everything was different then. She didn’t want anything to do with me! That’s not how it is now. Can’t you just … ?’
Tuva put her arm around her.
‘Sorry. I’m just trying to cheer you up. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it.’
‘Of course we should talk about it!’
Synnøve started to walk. Fast. She increased her speed with every step. Tuva scurried along after her.
‘What else would we talk about?’ Synnøve yelled. ‘The weather? I want to talk about that idiotic fucking great-aunt who didn’t even tell anyone that Marianne hadn’t turned up. I want to talk about—’
‘Have you called her?’
Tuva started jogging to keep up.
‘Yes. She just wants to talk to Marianne’s mother, which I can understand perfectly. But the old woman must be
…’
She stopped dead. There was an elk standing in the middle of the track.
‘… bloody stupid,’ she snapped. ‘I asked her—’
‘Sssh!’
The elk was no more than twenty or twenty-five metres away from them. The air around its muzzle turned grey as it breathed. Synnøve could see that it was a cow, and she glanced cautiously into the forest on either side of the track in case there was a calf nearby. She couldn’t see one, but that didn’t necessarily mean the female was alone.
‘She’s just on her guard,’ Synnøve whispered. ‘Don’t move.’
The elk stared at them for almost thirty seconds. She held her head high, ears pricked forward. Tuva hardly dared breathe.
‘I’ve never seen a live elk before,’ she whispered, almost inaudibly.
That shows how little time you spend outdoors, Synnøve thought, then she suddenly bellowed and waved her arms. The elk gave a start, turned away and disappeared among the trees with long, graceful strides.
‘Wow,’ said Tuva.
‘That aunt of Marianne’s must be an idiot,’ Synnøve said, setting off along the track once more. ‘I asked her why she hadn’t let me know, and she said she didn’t know what my surname was.’
‘Well, that’s actually a good reason,’ called Tuva, who was on the point of abandoning her attempts to keep up. ‘Wait for me! Don’t go so fast!’
Synnøve stopped. ‘Number one,’ she said, taking off her glove and holding up a finger, ‘Marianne had written and told her that I make documentaries. And number two, she had told her my name was Synnøve. Number three …’
Three fingers were spread in the air.
‘The woman must have access to the fucking Internet somewhere. All she has to do is Google Synnøve plus “documentary”, and she’s bound to find out who I am.’
Tuva nodded, although the idea had never occurred to her.
They carried on walking in silence. Behind them the fireworks were increasing in intensity. As they passed the entrance to Trollvann, Tuva started to wonder how much further she could go. She was gasping for breath, and all she really wanted to do was turn back rather than stagger on.
They had arrived. Soft light shone out from every window of the restaurant at the top of Grefsenkollen. The car park was full of vehicles which would presumably remain there well into the following day. As Tuva and Synnøve moved closer, a large group of people in party clothes spilled out of the main entrance. Most stopped on the wide steps as they raised their glasses of champagne and exclaimed at the view. Three men had their arms full of rockets, and stumbled off around the corner to let them off in the car park.
‘Here,’ Tuva panted, moving over to the fence surrounding the terrace at the bottom of the steps. ‘It’s actually nicer here than back at my place.’
Out in the fjord the boats began to sound their sirens. Behind Tuva and Synnøve the guests were shrieking with delight at the fireworks, at the party, at the new, empty year ahead of them. The entire sky was lit up, fireworks crackling and sparkling, whistling and squealing, howling and banging in front of them and overhead.
‘Happy New Year,’ Tuva said tentatively, slipping an arm around her.
Synnøve didn’t reply. She leaned against the fence and looked out over Oslo. 2009 was only a few seconds old, and if the emotions she was feeling were representative of the new year, the next twelve months were going to be appalling.
What she didn’t know, of course, was that Marianne Kleive was exactly 8,100 metres from the spot where she was standing. If she had known, it is unlikely that it would have made her any happier.
For the first time in her life, Synnøve Hessel cried her way into a new year.
*
Erik Lysgaard had promised Lukas that he wouldn’t cry.
‘Dad! Dad!’
Erik gave a start. At first he had refused to go home with his son. It was only when Lukas threatened to bring the whole family to Nubbebakken and organize some kind of party for the children that he had agreed to come. He had promised not to cry. He hadn’t promised to talk.
The children had finally fallen asleep. Astrid, Lukas’s wife, was standing in the doorway in her dressing gown. She gave her father-in-law a wan smile and raised a hand in a limp goodnight. The evening had been something of a trial.
Lukas, in blue and white striped pyjamas and with shabby slippers on his bare feet, crouched down next to his father’s chair, but didn’t touch him.
‘Were you asleep?’
‘I think I was. I must have nodded off while you were getting ready for bed.’
‘It’s time you went to bed as well, Dad. I’ve sorted out the guest room for you.’
‘I’d rather sit here, Lukas.’
‘That’s not on, Dad. You need to go to bed.’
‘Actually, I can make my own decisions. I’m perfectly fine sitting here.’
Lukas got up.
‘You’re behaving as if you’re the only one who’s grieving,’ he said wearily. ‘I don’t recognize you, Dad. You’re … you’re just completely self-centred. You don’t even notice that I’m struggling, you don’t notice that the kids are missing their grandma, you don’t notice that—’
‘Of course I do. I notice all of it. I just can’t do anything about it.’
Lukas trudged around the room in the semi-darkness. Blew out a candle in the window. Picked up a teddy bear from the floor and placed it on the bookcase. Bit his nails. Outside everything was silent. From the bathroom he could hear Astrid flushing the toilet, then the faint creak as she closed the bedroom door behind her.
‘Why didn’t you lie?’ he asked all of a sudden.
His father looked up.
‘Lie?’
‘Why didn’t you just make up a story about why Mum was out walking? Why didn’t you say she wanted some fresh air or something? That you’d had a row. Anything. Why did you tell the police it was nothing to do with them?’
‘Because it’s true. If I’d made something up it would have been a lie. I don’t lie. It’s important to me that I don’t lie. You of all people should know that.’
‘But clamming up completely is OK?’
Lukas threw his arms wide in a gesture of resignation.
‘Daddy, why … ?’
He stopped himself when his father looked him straight in the eye with something that resembled a smile in his expression.
‘You haven’t called me daddy since you were ten,’ he said.
‘I have to ask you about something.’
‘You won’t get an answer. You must have realized that by now. I’m not going to tell why your mother was out—’
‘Not that,’ Lukas said quickly. ‘It’s something else.’
His father said nothing, but at least he was maintaining eye contact.
‘I’ve always had a kind of feeling,’ Lukas began tentatively, ‘that I was sharing Mum with someone else.’
‘We shared your mother with Jesus.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
He stood there at a loss for a moment, then sat down on the sofa. It was so deep that leaning forward was uncomfortable. At the same time, he was too tense to lean back against the cushions. In the end he got up again.
‘Have I got a sister or brother somewhere?’
The expression which suddenly came over his father’s face frightened him. Erik’s eyes darkened. His mouth grew strained, surrounded by coarse, deep lines. His eyebrows contracted. His hands, which had been resting on his knee, clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
‘I hadn’t expected that from you,’ he said, his voice unrecognizable.
‘But I … Did you and Mum, or just Mum … ? I mean … you’ve always been together, and this business with Jesus in the forest—’
‘Hold your tongue!’
His father stood up. This time he didn’t raise his hand; he simply stood there, his eyes flashing and his lower lip trembling almost imperceptibly.
‘Ask yourself,’ he said, his tone icy. ‘Ask yourself if Eva Karin – your mother, my wife – has a child she refuses to acknowledge.’
‘I’m asking you, Dad! And I’m not necessarily saying that she didn’t want to acknowledge …’
His father started to walk away. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said, but turned abruptly when he reached the door. ‘And I am never, ever going to answer that kind of question. Ask yourself, Lukas. Ask yourself!’
Lukas was left alone in the room.
‘I’m asking you,’ he whispered. ‘I’m asking you, Dad.’
If his father had just said yes. Couldn’t you just have said yes and made my life infinitely easier?
It was impossible to go to bed. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He had asked a question and expected an answer. Hoped for an answer. Everything would fall into place if his father had just confirmed that there was a child out there. An older child, older than Lukas, an explanation for everything.
But his father had refused.
Is it because you don’t want to lie, Dad?
Lukas lay down on the sofa without taking off his slippers. He pulled a woollen blanket over him, right up to his chin, the way his mother used to tuck him in when he was little. He lay there without sleeping until the morning came, a pitch-black start to the new year.
PART II
January 2009
Persecuted
‘I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing in telling you this. We haven’t actually found any signs of a break-in, and the Head doesn’t want to involve the police. It’s just that I—’
‘Could you just … ?’ Johanne began, and cleared her throat. ‘Could you just go through all that again?’
She tried to find a position where she could sit still.
‘Well …’
Live Smith, Director of Studies, ran her fingers through her thick grey hair. She had seemed pensive when she met Johanne in the corridor and asked her to come into the office. Now it was as if she regretted her action, and would prefer to forget the whole thing.
‘Because we’re a special school,’ she said hesitantly, ‘we hold a considerable amount of detailed information about every child. As you know, our pupils have widely differing forms of functional disability, and in order to maximize the education we are able to offer each individual child, we—’