Wolves in the Dark

by Gunnar Staalesen

  Out of the chaos, ultimately, there grew a kind of system to the insanity, with some recurring names, so regular that there was a sort of pattern. I stretched out, swung my legs down to the floor, stood up and walked over to the table. I took my notepad and, after turning to a blank white page, placed it in front of me.

  Was it possible to reconstruct a black hole? On a piece of white paper? With no more than scraps of memory left?

  I remembered fragments of conversations. ‘Dolly! My name’s Dolly! How do you want me? Like this – or like this – or like this?’ Big, strong, in a variety of poses and with a calculating expression on her face, then she laid me on the floor and sat astride me with her thighs apart. ‘Like this!’ And then a triumphant shout. ‘I’ve got him, Bønni! Now you can empty his pockets.’

  Dolly, Bønni.

  ‘You like them a bit younger, do you? Don’t be afraid. Karsten can fix everything: colour, size, age, whatever you want. Schoolgirls? Strict madams? Three in a bed? Four? Bønni will vouch for you. Let’s just take a little walk to the bank first. OK?’

  Karsten. Bønni.

  ‘Come on, Varg! Karsten’ll sort us out something nice. They’re lying in their beds like little sylphs just waiting to be taken.’

  Karsten?

  Some memories were meaningless, with no names and an ending I couldn’t make head or tail of. A very young woman with oriental features and a blonde wig served me a green drink, and the next thing I remembered was waking up in a hotel room, stark naked with the taste of rotten grass in my mouth. When I put on the clothes lying on the floor like debris and staggered down to reception, the young ladies behind the counter could barely look at me, and when I insisted on knowing who had paid for the room, they looked at me blankly, flicked fruitlessly through the signing-in book and just shrugged their shoulders. Other people were on the night shift, they said. When I insisted on knowing who, I had a telephone receiver thrust into my hand, and a man in my ear introduced himself as the reception manager. When I repeated my question he said that my friend, the man who had brought me in late the previous night, had paid way over the odds for the inconvenience. ‘My friend? And what was his name?’ He couldn’t say. ‘Did he pay with a card?’ ‘Cash.’ ‘And what did he look like?’ ‘Pretty ordinary.’ Afterwards I stood on the pavement looking up at the façade of the house. I had been there before, on a job, and it was at the bottom of the list of acceptable accommodation in the town. But what worried me most was that I couldn’t remember anything about how I had ended up there or with whom. Another black hole, another dark star that had passed by me, near enough to scorch my skin.

  A guy came into my office. I was so drunk that I could barely sit on the chair behind the desk. Yet I could see him clearly. He sat on the client chair staring at me. ‘They’ve got pictures, Veum. They’re threatening to publish them. Not just to give them to my wife, but put them on the Net. All my connections! Unless I pay them what they demand.’

  ‘But who are they?’

  ‘There’s one called Karsten. One they call Bønni. But there are probably more. And they’re threatening me. I’ll be ruined if this comes out.’

  Karsten. Bønni. A case?

  A woman’s face, near, close, broad lips, stripes of mascara down her cheeks, a voice with a foreign accent: ‘Skarnes. His name’s Skarnes. He’s the devil incarnate. Him and Bønni and Karsten. But there are more. Many more.’

  Skarnes. Bønni. Karsten.

  ‘And you? Your name?’

  ‘Magdalena. The chosen one.’

  ‘Chosen by whom exactly?’

  A grimace, as though I have stabbed her with a knife and wriggled it around. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  I was somewhere else. A woman passed. She had oriental features and was wearing a blonde wig. As she caught sight of me she seemed to be about to smile, but then her face distorted into a mask of terror and dread. She turned away and walked off quickly as Bønni shoved me through the room and over to the bar.

  Bønni. I was sure of that.

  I lay on the floor face down. The voices were distant, muted, as if packed in cotton or because they were talking with their backs to me. ‘Talk to Hjalmar. He’ll fix it. He’s the computer man.’

  Hjalmar.

  Was it the same Hjalmar? The Hjalmar Hope I had met in Fusa and seen in the car park in Sandsli? But never since. However much I racked my memory no Hjalmar Hope reappeared, except for the first two times. And why should it be him? There were so many Hjalmars, weren’t there?

  I wrote down the names, one after the other: Karsten, Bønni, Dolly, Skarnes, Magdalena, Hjalmar. And then there was the client who had come to my office. The man who had given me the job, or had he? The man who still had no name.

  21

  There was a nameless man in my office staring at me. I could see him clearly. He was wearing a coat. A grey coat. White shirt. Tie. A tie with diagonal stripes, grey and white. He had gloves on when he came in, but had put them in his pocket before opening his coat and sitting down.

  He was in his fifties, had an oval face, a trimmed blond beard, thinning hair, same colour as his beard. His voice trembled as he said: ‘I need your help, Veum.’

  I was leaning across the desk and holding on as firmly as I could, as if to a life raft in high seas. It was October, and in recent years it had been a difficult month for me. I had lost Karin in October, and I was reminded I was a year closer to my own death in October. Late in the day though this was, I was as drunk as a penguin, but I grabbed a ballpoint pen and made some notes that the following day would look like incomprehensible hieroglyphics, impossible to decipher even if I were a psychic. But at least I looked reliable, I hoped.

  The nameless man had, unless my memory was at fault, something to do with accounts. His wife suffered from arthritis, he told me, so badly that their conjugal life had gradually ceased to exist. A colleague, in whom he had confided, had mediated contact with – he searched for the right word – ‘a circle’. Via various forms of communication – email, texts, phone – he had been – again he searched – ‘accepted as a member’.

  ‘Member?’

  ‘Yes, it was a club.’

  ‘A club?’

  ‘Yes. Something like that. You paid a sub, but then…’ He twitched.

  ‘They wanted more. Much more. Unless…’

  Membership clearly brought with it obligations. Demands for supplementary payments were high, and if he didn’t pay they threatened to send photos of him to his wife and closest family, and to all his business contacts, about whom they knew everything, photos taken through mirrors in the rooms where the ‘erm … club activities’ took place. They also threatened to put the photos on the Net, accessible to all and sundry; in brief: demolish everything he had built up and make his life hell.

  I had difficulty internalising all the details of what he said. ‘Once more … They’ve got photos of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you seen them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have any of them on you, do you?’

  ‘On me? The first thing I did was to burn them. If Sigrid had seen … if my wife had found them, I don’t know what would’ve happened.’

  ‘Photos with … a woman?’

  ‘With several!’

  ‘I see. And how have you got to pay?’

  ‘Cash. I had to withdraw a shockingly large sum from the bank and wait for further instructions.’

  ‘And you haven’t received them yet?’

  ‘No. That’s why I’m hoping … to steal a march on them.’

  ‘But who are they?’

  ‘That’s what I want you to find out, Veum! I have only some of the names. There’s one called Karsten. One they call Bønni. But there are probably more. And they’re threatening me. I’ll be ruined if this comes out!’

  I jotted down the names in capitals, hoping I would be able to decipher them the next day: KARSTEN. BØNNI. MORE.

  ‘But you�
�ll have to be discreet, Veum! This must never get out, and my name mustn’t be mentioned. Do you understand?’

  I nodded, without being absolutely sure if I was actually nodding.

  ‘What I want you to do is gather together as much evidence as you can against these people, evidence which is solid enough to go to the police with, in the worst-case scenario.’

  ‘To the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why don’t you go to the police yourself?’

  He looked at me in despair. ‘I’ve been trying to explain that to you. I can’t. I don’t want my name or my family’s name to be mixed up in all of this.’

  I must have looked sceptical, because he pulled out his wallet, opened it and laid a big wad of notes on the table, big enough to make a man like me go dizzy. ‘I’ll pay you handsomely. This is just an advance.’

  I eyed the notes. The advance could keep me alive for months. ‘OK!’

  ‘But I demand results, Veum. And discretion. Can I rely on that?’

  ‘You can rely on me,’ I mumbled, and now it was his turn to look sceptical.

  But he overcame his scepticism. From his inside pocket he took a business card, which he placed on the table between us. ‘This is where you can find me. Take good care of it. Don’t show it to anyone.’

  I nodded again, picked up the card and stuffed it deep into the inside pocket of my jacket without casting a glance at what was on it. After a slight pause I picked up the banknotes and they went the same way.

  Then he got to his feet. He leaned over my desk. ‘There’s more where that came from. I’ll pay you, Veum. Whatever you ask. If you can find out who these people are and gather the evidence!’

  ‘And if I do,’ I said as clearly as I could manage. ‘I mean … when I do. Is that when we go to the police?’

  He stood studying me for a few seconds. Behind the good-looking exterior I had a sense of another person, someone who knew how to back up his words with actions. ‘They’ll pay dearly for this, Veum! They’ll realise who they’ve tangled with.’

  Afterwards he was gone. I wasn’t at all sure when or how, and I couldn’t remember us taking leave of each other. I must have fallen asleep over the desk because when I woke up it was past midnight and all I could think of was where the nearest watering hole was and if I could get there before closing time.

  22

  I didn’t remember how I got on their trail. For several weeks I spread the word in every place I went, whether public or private.

  There were still some scraps of conversation in my head. ‘Just tell them that Veum wants to talk to them.’ ‘Tell who?’ ‘Bønni.’ ‘Bønni who?’ ‘How the hell do I know! Or Karsten.’ ‘Karsten Bloody Who?’ ‘Is his name Karsten Bludihoo?’ ‘No, I was asking you – who?’ ‘Oh, “who”.’ ‘What was his surname?’ ‘I don’t know. Just Karsten.’

  In a dark corner of a back-street bar, not long before closing time, I sat with a fireworks display in my brain drawing to an end; the intervals between the bigger rockets were longer now.

  A woman with broad lips and stripes of mascara down her cheeks leaned over to me, so close that I could feel the soft contours of her breasts on my upper arm, not that any rockets went off as a consequence. ‘They’ve got a hold on me,’ she croaked softly, with the hint of a foreign accent.

  ‘A hold on you? Who?’

  ‘Skarnes. His name’s Skarnes. He’s the devil incarnate. Him and Bønni and Karsten. But there are more. Many more.’

  ‘Say that again. Skarnes…’

  ‘…Bønni and Karsten.’

  ‘And you? What’s your name?’

  ‘You can call me Magdalena. The chosen one.’

  ‘Chosen by whom exactly?’

  She crossed herself over the plunging neckline and said in English: ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘And where can I find them?’

  ‘In The Tower.’

  ‘Tower?’

  She nodded, drained my glass and asked if I would treat her to another before they closed.

  After closing time she showed me some compassion, took me home to a narrow street in Nordnes, where we spent the night in a small bed with flowery linen, as naked as new-born babes, though frisky in a different way.

  The next morning, but well into the day, she made some atomic coffee for breakfast. When I asked her what more she could tell me about Skarnes, Bønni and Karsten, she blanched over the wax cloth, looked out to Knøsesmuget and said: ‘Who?’

  ‘The people you told me about yesterday. Skarnes, Bønni and Karsten.’

  She just shook her head. ‘You must have been dreaming. I don’t know anyone by those names.’

  ‘Eh?’

  She got up from the table, went over to the coffee pot and filled her cup. With her back to me she said: ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘You said I’d find them in “The Tower”. Which tower?’

  She turned suddenly. There were bright red flushes down her neck. ‘Don’t ask, I said! You can just go! Off with you! I wish I hadn’t … I’d been drinking, I didn’t know what I was saying, I was fantasising.’

  I still wasn’t sober, barely into a hangover, but I understood this much: She was frightened. Fear shone from her eyes and her breathing came in strained gasps.

  ‘OK, Magdalena. I’ll go. And I’ll take all my questions with me.’

  Leaving, I crossed Klosteret and cut down the Cort Piil alleyway. The first thing I did on arrival at my office was to write down on my notepad: ‘Skarnes. Bønni. Karsten. The Tower.’

  A few days later I was frolicking with another woman, first in a beer dive, with British football on the screen above the bartender’s head, and then in her flat in Professor Hansteens gate, a well-placed free kick from the football pitch in Møhlenpris. When she said her name was Dolly, I assumed it was a stage name and that she could hardly have got it in Bergen. We had obviously arranged to do a bit of sparring in her ring, because it took her no time at all to fling off most of her clothes and pull my trousers down to my knees, making me lose balance, then she pushed me to the floor and straddled me, as heavy as a walrus. She adopted various seductive poses, holding out her breasts in front of her. ‘How do you want me? Like this – or like this – or like this?’

  My head whirled, and I barely knew where I was, when I heard the jeering tone in her voice: ‘I’ve got him, Bønni! Now you can help yourself.’

  The door to the room had been ajar. Someone came in, went through my clothes and took any cash there might have been – pitifully little, which he made abundantly clear.

  Bønni?

  ‘But he’s got a bank card here. We’ll take him to a cashpoint. Can he stand upright?’

  ‘He could ten minutes ago.’

  ‘But now you’ve crushed him?’

  I felt the pressure on my stomach lighten as she stood up. Behind her I glimpsed a guy of the same proportions, but with him it was more muscle than fat. His head was clean-shaven, and he was dressed for what he was doing: jeans and a dark-brown leather jacket.

  ‘Seems to have survived,’ Dolly said, sending me a last glance and waddling out of the room with her clothes hanging from one hand like some extravagant designer creation. With the fingers of her other hand she waved goodbye.

  ‘Goodbye, Dolly,’ I mumbled as the man she called Bønni lifted me from the floor and confirmed that I was capable of standing upright.

  ‘Get your trousers on,’ he said. ‘You look like you need a bit of fresh air.’

  ‘Bønni?’ I said. ‘You know Karsten, don’t you?’

  He stared at me. ‘Yes? What about it?’

  ‘Actually it was him I wanted to talk to. I asked…’ I waved an arm ‘… Dolly. I asked her if she could … she said she could take me to his place. Up here. But it’s only you.’

  ‘What do you want with Karsten?’

  ‘To talk to him.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘What he’s got to offer in terms of…’ Again I waved a
n arm in the direction Dolly had gone. ‘That.’

  He smirked. ‘You didn’t get enough?’

  ‘It was too rough.’

  ‘You like them a bit younger, do you? Don’t be afraid. Karsten can fix everything: colour, size, age, whatever you want. Schoolgirls? Strict madams? Three in a bed? Four? Bønni will vouch for you. Let’s just take a little walk to the bank first. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I repeated, putting on my jacket and holding out my hand for the bank card.

  He looked down at my palm. ‘I’ll look after this for the time being.’ He turned round. ‘Dolly! We’re off.’

  She answered something I couldn’t hear from somewhere in the flat. He shrugged, grabbed my upper arm and led me out and down to the street. A big, black Audi was waiting for us. He switched off the alarm with the remote, opened the passenger door and shoved me in. I flopped down in the seat. He got in on the driver’s side, sat behind the wheel and leaned across me to fasten the safety belt. When he was happy he buckled his own.

  ‘Next stop Danmarksplass,’ he mumbled and nodded in its direction. From Professor Hansteens gate he turned into Wolffs gate, where the shale football pitch in Møhlenpris lay deserted and abandoned at this time of day. There weren’t many people out walking in Danmarksplass either, where he pulled in opposite the cashpoint in Solheimsgaten. He unbuckled both our belts, got out, came round and collected me, then led me to the cashpoint and inserted the card.

  ‘And now the code,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t remember,’ I said.

  He cuffed me round the neck. ‘You do. If you don’t I’ll hit you harder.’

  I was still much too drunk to resist. ‘Let’s try.’ I tapped in a four-figure code.

  On the screen a message came up: WRONG CODE. TRY AGAIN.

  This time he hit me harder. ‘Don’t be stupid!’

  I tried again. WRONG CODE: TRY AGAIN.

  This time he grabbed the back of my collar and spun me round. ‘Tell me the numbers! If they’re wrong I’ll beat you to a pulp. Have you got that?’

  I nodded frenetically. Then I said the numbers, slowly and with some difficulty, as though I were reading them from a book with tiny writing. He tapped them into the keypad, one by one, and this time the menu came up.