by Thomas Enger
Henning nodded. ‘The police have arrested someone, but I’m not interested in him. I want whoever it was who ordered the killing. And I think Jocke Brolenius knew who it was.’
One of the others behind Pontus coughed; it sounded more like a bark. Pontus took another step closer and he stopped right in front of Henning. A dark veil had fallen over his eyes.
‘You think it was one of us?’ he demanded.
‘No,’ Henning said swiftly. ‘I’m looking for someone with connections. Someone with money. Some of you might well have both, but as far as I know, none of you have been in the business of buying and selling flats in the past ten years or so.’
Henning’s cheeks were burning. He had taken a step back without realising it, and he was leaning his upper body back in a slight arch to keep as much distance from Pontus as possible. One of the others whispered something that Henning didn’t catch. Further back in the cellar somewhere, a drip fell from the ceiling.
‘So you want to question us,’ Pontus said, taking a step to the side. He twisted round to look at Henning, his boots scraping on the concrete floor. ‘And why would we want to help you?’
‘Because I found out who killed your mate. You owe me a favour.’
Pontus smiled briefly as he studied Henning with gimlet eyes.
‘You hear that, boys?’ he asked, without turning away. ‘The journo wants to interview us.’
The Swedes roared with laughter. Pontus started to pace again, smiling and laughing. Then he was back in front of Henning.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘You can ask your questions. But on one condition.’ He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. ‘You have to do it in there.’
Henning followed the direction of his thumb. Pontus was pointing at the temporary ring in which the fighters had wrestled only a few minutes ago. It took a moment for Henning to realise exactly what Pontus meant.
‘Pontus, he’s never…’ began Grønningen
‘Shhh,’ Pontus said, pointing his finger at Grønningen without looking at him. ‘This is between me and my new friend here. That’s the deal. We’ll stand in the ring and you’ll ask your questions.’
Henning looked at Pontus and then at the others. Some of them smiled in anticipation. Henning swallowed, hard.
‘But I’ve never fought anyone before,’ he said.
‘And I’ve never been interviewed before,’ Pontus replied. ‘So we’re even stevens.’
The Swedes guffawed.
I’m going to die, Henning thought. That’s for sure. One punch from those hands and he would go flying, bang his head on the concrete floor and never wake up again.
‘He’s had two hip operations,’ Grønningen tried. ‘Three screws in…’
‘Are you his babysitter, or what?’ Pontus asked. ‘He can talk for himself.’
Pontus turned back to Henning again. ‘Well,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘How about it?’
Henning looked at Pontus, saw a gold tooth gleam when he smiled, his rippling chest muscles, the size of his hands. This could be the only chance you get, Henning told himself. He might know something.
Henning took off his jacket and dropped it on the floor. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
10
BigB put down ‘WEBER’ and got fifty-eight points, managing, of course, to put the W on a triple word score and to use it twice. Weber? Wasn’t that a barbecue manufacturer? So proper names were suddenly allowed, were they?
Nora was still leading by eleven points, but she had lost three games over the course of the evening, and it annoyed her more than she liked to admit. That, and the fact that her phone hadn’t rung or vibrated, meant she was irritated.
She had sent a text message to Iver to ask where he was and what he was up to, but hadn’t received an answer. He was probably still thinking, Nora reasoned; or he was out with some contact or source. She had sent a couple of messages to Henning as well, saying that she wanted to talk to him, but he hadn’t responded either.
Nora played ‘BEAVER’. Ten lousy points. She got up from the sofa with a grunt and went into the bathroom. She couldn’t avoid looking at the reflection in the mirror – a person she didn’t recognise; pasty and puffy in the face, drawn and drained of colour. Red eyes and dead hair.
‘Are you really thirty-seven?’ she asked her reflection.
She wondered whether she should call her mother; she spoke to her once a week, but really only ever on Sundays. If she rang her now, she would just be interrogated about what was wrong. Maybe she could ring her sister, but she would probably do the same, as they only every talked once every six months or so. All Nora wanted to do was talk to someone she knew cared about her. Talk about safe things.
Fortunately, only her face was visible in the mirror, so she didn’t have to see her whole figure. She could feel it already, though: her trousers had got tighter recently. The only positive thing about being pregnant was that her breasts were looking more like themselves again.
For some reason, she felt the need to shower all the time. She had showered in the morning before she went to work, then again when she came home after meeting Henning, and again, now, just as she was about to go to bed; all the smells and heat and food – everything seemed to lie like a film over her skin. She stank. So she told her reflection to bugger off and took off her clothes, opened the shower door with such force that it banged, and turned on the water.
When it was eventually warm enough, she stood underneath and massaged herself in the flowing heat for a long time. Then she soaped herself, several times, but didn’t bother to wash her hair this time, just wet it. She closed her eyes and wondered how on earth she had managed to end up in this situation. The best thing would be if she could just run away from both of them; start again somewhere new when the child was born. Concentrate 100 percent on being a mother. She could manage perfectly well without men.
Quarter of an hour later, she got out of the shower, thankful that hot water was included in the rent, and checked her mobile before drying herself. She sighed. Still no messages. But BigB had been at work again with a new made-up word and was now leading by thirty-three points.
Nora snorted with indignation, dried herself, brushed her teeth, pulled on her dressing gown, then went back into the living room and turned on the TV. She found the matches and lit the candle on the windowsill. A thin, little candle in a thin, little candlestick. The one they used to put by Jonas’s place at the table on his birthday. It only took ten minutes to burn down, but Jonas loved those candles; his face took on a special glow when he sat there staring at the thin, little flame.
Nora turned off all the lights, got her bag from the hall and took out the ball. She sat down on the rocking chair and gazed at the candle on the windowsill as she rocked back and forth, back and forth, squeezing and turning the ball so the glitter and flame created a shimmering curtain of gold and silver before her eyes. And soon she felt at peace.
She could go to bed.
11
There was a great roar of expectation. Pontus entered the ring first, with his back to Henning. The man looked like a wall. Then he turned with a smile and spat on his hands.
‘Give him one, Pontus,’ one of the others shouted.
Henning moved closer; saw the others watching him. Pure glee. This is going to be fun. Grønningen said nothing.
Henning could smell the sweat. They were all bare-chested. An intoxicating blend of flesh and tattoos, hair and concrete dust.
‘You’ll have to take your T-shirt off too,’ Pontus said, pointing.
He did as he was told, and dropped it onto his jacket. He heard laughing behind him.
‘How much do you actually weigh?’ Pontus asked.
‘Seventy-one kilos, the last time I checked,’ Henning replied.
Pontus laughed loudly.
‘And where are the screws in your hips?’
Henning pointed to his left side, pulling down the edge of his trousers to reveal a long scar. Then e
verything went black – white spots danced and looped in front of his eyes, his groans lost in the noise of the Swedes laughing. He realised that Pontus had kicked him right on the scar. It took all Henning’s strength not to collapse. The Swede had his fists up, ready to defend himself, as though he was prepared for Henning to retaliate at any moment. Then the reality of the situation seemed to dawn on him. Pontus lowered his shoulders and arms, relaxed completely.
‘First question,’ he said, and stopped dancing in front of Henning. He started to walk up and down instead, thumping his chest and patting his cheeks.
Henning caught Grønningen’s eye; he was standing with his left hand tucked under his right armpit, his other hand round his neck.
‘Well, come on then,’ Pontus said. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Henning tried to block out the pain.
‘When Jocke was alive,’ he croaked, ‘who gave him the jobs?’
Pontus started to laugh, and laughed for a long time.
‘You think I’m going to tell you that?’ he said at last.
Then he made a move as though he was about to punch Henning, which was enough to make him take a step back. The spots danced in front of his eyes again. The gang behind him roared in delight.
‘Shit, you’re even more stupid than I thought,’ the Swede smirked.
Then another explosion out of nowhere. Henning felt the side of his face sting and realised that Pontus had slapped him, as though he was a little girl.
The gang laughed again. Pontus smiled.
Henning clasped his cheek, expecting to feel blood. He didn’t, but the stinging was intense and lasted for a long time.
They circled one another.
‘How well did Tore and Jocke know each other?’ Henning asked.
Pontus put his left ear to his left shoulder and then did the same to the right; his spine cracked.
‘How did they know each other?’ Henning added.
‘One question at a time,’ said one of the others watching. Henning got the feeling it wasn’t the first time they’d seen something like this.
‘I don’t know,’ Pontus answered. ‘But you can ask him about that,’ he added, nodding at Grønningen, a movement that caused Henning to make a mistake.
He looked over at Grønningen for a second at the most, but it was enough. Pontus stepped closer and threw a punch that landed just above Henning’s right cheekbone. It made a sound, but strangely enough didn’t hurt; his face just went numb and the room started to spin. He staggered to get his balance then sank down onto his knees, wondering if this was just a taster.
Some of the others clapped and whooped. Henning touched his cheek, his fingers smeared red. It felt like his face had doubled in size.
He managed to get to his feet and tried to focus on Pontus in the whirl of dust and concrete, but he could only see the outline of something moving. Henning tried to stand up straight, but wasn’t sure if he could.
‘Who might gain from Tore being put out of action?’ he asked, spitting. Red dribble hung from his mouth; he wiped it away with his hand. His sight returned to something like normal. Pontus was still walking back and forth in front of him, his head lowered.
‘Us,’ he said. ‘We all would. Tore was a fucking idiot.’
Pontus came at him again. But this time Henning was prepared; he saw the punch building in his opponent’s right shoulder and managed to duck in time.
‘Ooooh,’ the others roared.
Henning stepped back. The next move was even more obvious, but Henning made another mistake, focusing only the arms. He realised too late that it was only a feint, and when Pontus threw out his leg at a ninety-degree angle, he didn’t have time to do anything before the inside of Pontus’s foot hit exactly the same spot as his last kick.
Henning sank to his knees and didn’t manage to put his hands to his face before the next kick. A high-pitched ringing vibrated in his ears before he hit the concrete floor, face down. His teeth crunched together and everything went black and white, then suddenly: absolute silence. He looked up, his cheek still on the concrete, saw the Swedes laughing and clapping, punching the air triumphantly, but he couldn’t hear them. Then he spotted Grønningen standing behind them all.
Henning put his hands to the floor, felt how cold and dusty it was. He got back up onto his knees, spat again. The dust turned red; a cut above his eye was bleeding. Pontus strutted in front of him, bathing in the glory.
Henning had been waiting for a moment like this.
When Pontus turned his back and faced his audience, Henning jumped up, focusing on the great hulk of a man in front of him, feeling his rage, how strong it made him. He didn’t care about the pain, he just launched himself at Pontus, got hold of his head with one hand and pushed the big Swede forward. Pontus didn’t have time to react and Henning managed to slam him into one of the square pillars holding up the ceiling. The impact of head on concrete caused a flurry of white dust to fall from the ceiling.
Almost without realising what he’d done, Henning watched Pontus stand there for a few moments seemingly stunned, before he turned back towards Henning and sank, bewildered, to his knees.
There was absolute silence.
Everyone was looking at Pontus.
The Swede stared into thin air until his eyes once again focused on Henning, still looking astonished. Henning stood over him, bent double and gasping for breath. But Pontus didn’t fall to the floor, he just stayed there on his knees with a confused expression on his face.
The room was silent for a long time.
‘I don’t know what he’s called,’ Pontus said slowly, in a deliberate voice. ‘But the guy who gave Jocke most of his jobs was some super-lawyer. That’s all I know.’
Suddenly a spark flared in his eyes; he grabbed Henning by the neck, pulling him down.
And then there was darkness.
12
When Henning’s eyes fluttered open, it was dark all around him. He realised he was somewhere outside the brick building, and that it was evening, night, or early morning – winter or cold spring. He was sitting with his back against a freight container.
He made an attempt to move.
Difficult.
His face felt like a ball, full of air. He ached everywhere, especially in his thigh. It felt like he’d been run over by a house.
Geir Grønningen was standing over him. He had a black eye. Henning closed his eyes again, tried to wet his lips, but couldn’t feel them, he just felt the rips, as though he had licked something splintered.
‘Are you awake now?’ Grønningen asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Henning mumbled, and put a hand up to his face. Couldn’t feel a thing.
Grønningen hunkered down beside Henning. The container vibrated as his back hit the metal. The big man put his elbows on his knees, leaned forwards. Shook his head.
And then started to laugh.
‘That’s the maddest thing I’ve ever seen,’ he said.
‘Huh?’ Henning grunted, without moving his eyes; he was staring at things on the ground – a stone, a puddle, a branch torn from a tree.
‘I’ve never seen Pontus on his knees. Never even heard of it happening before.’ Grønningen ran his fingers through his hair. Then he laughed again, shaking his head ‘Fuck me.’
Henning concentrated on trying to recognise some of their surroundings. Could see some spots of light up there somewhere, heard the leaves rustling, a tram accelerating. There was something hammering and thumping, but he wasn’t sure if it came from the city around him or from inside his own head.
‘You’re quite something, Henning.’
A gust of wind gave him a cold kiss on the cheek. Gradually, his eyes managed to focus. It wasn’t often that he saw stars in Oslo, certainly not as clearly as now. He tried to find the Plough, but didn’t manage it; instead he noticed that there was a half-moon, that the trees on the hill at Ekeberg were dark.
‘Think we should get you to A&E,’ Grønningen said
, and glanced over at him again. ‘Reckon you’ve got concussion.’
‘And sit in a queue for hours?’ Henning tried to shake his head, but stopped straightaway: everything was turning already.
They sat and listened to the evening, the sound of a train approaching. Neither of them could see the tracks that whined and creaked.
After a while, Grønningen stood up.
‘Let me help you up, at least,’ he said, and held out a hand.
Henning took it. It was liked being pulled by a ski lift; it hurt in his hips – it hurt everywhere.
‘D’you need help to get home?’
‘No,’ Henning said, holding up a hand. ‘I’ve caused you enough trouble this evening.’
‘Wasn’t doing much anyway,’ Grønningen said.
The seconds ticked by. Then Grønningen nodded and said: ‘C’mon then. The buses don’t come as often at this time of night.’
Henning followed him obediently, step by step, and discovered how unsteady he was, how hard it was to lift his feet. His head was thumping, he felt sick, but swallowed it down, concentrating on his feet and the ground. Soon there was more traffic around them, and Henning guessed they were at the bus stop. He looked up at the skyscrapers through the dark. The shiny, cold windows reflected like mirrors. And above them, high up on the hillside, the ski jump at Holmenkollen was illuminated, even though it was weeks before the first snow would come.
Even a ski jump brought back the memories …
‘You alright?’ Grønningen asked.
‘I’ll manage,’ Henning said.
‘You sure?’
‘Mmm.’ Henning swayed.
Grønningen stood looking at him for a few seconds, assessing the damage.
‘OK,’ he said, eventually. ‘I’m off.’
Henning managed to get on a bus that went in completely the wrong direction, so he had to get off and go back into the centre of town, where he found a tram with a number he recognised – 13. Very appropriate for the day so far, Henning thought as he made his way to an empty seat, not caring about the stares from the other passengers. His head was still spinning, whistling and thumping. He had to hold the back of the seat in front so he didn’t fall over.