Scarred

by Thomas Enger

  “You didn’t fix the radio,” she sulks. “You said you were going to fix the radio.”

  “I know, Mum. I just haven’t got round to it yet.”

  “I want to listen to the radio.”

  “I’ll fix it.”

  His mother takes a drag of her cigarette and stubs it out so hard the ash spills over the edge of the ashtray.

  “And here was I hoping it was Trine coming,” she says, knocking back the last few drops in the glass and slamming it down.

  Henning looks at his mother for a long time before he closes his eyes and tells himself to just let it go as usual, that there is no point in arguing with her, there never was. But he is hurt, deeply hurt by the venom she constantly spits at him as if the very sight of him gives her a bad taste in her mouth.

  “Why do you always say that?” he asks.

  Christine Juul raises her head toward him.

  “Why do you always have to tell me that you wish it had been Trine instead of me?”

  His mother’s eyes don’t move.

  “Tell me,” he insists. “How often does she visit you? Do you even remember when she was here last?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I do remember. I wrote it down.”

  Henning splutters.

  “And why on earth did you do that?”

  His mother looks up at him.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “So you can flick through your diary and daydream about it? Is that what this is about?”

  “Hah,” she snorts and looks away.

  “You’re a coward,” Henning continues. “You sit here day in day out, mad at the whole world and me in particular—or so it seems. You smoke and drink and wallow in your own grief. Yes, I’m sure it was tough for you when Dad died, but it wasn’t my fault.”

  Christine Juul stands up on trembling legs and grips the back of her chair. She tosses her head and pulls herself up to her full height. Her eyes, normally glazed and heavy with alcohol, brim with a sharpness and a rage Henning doesn’t remember seeing before.

  “Yes, it was,” she says through clenched teeth.

  Henning stares at her. His tongue swells up in his mouth and the words that finally seep out of him sound like a strangled whisper.

  “What did you say?” he stutters.

  “You heard me,” she barks without moving a muscle in her face. Henning can feel a red flush spread across his neck and upward. He is only one meter away from his mother. The bitter words hang between them and her breath pricks him like needles. In the ensuing silence his legs begin to feel unsteady and it takes him a long time to compose himself.

  “And just what the hell do you mean by that?” he asks her at last.

  She is still clinging on to the chair while her gaze bores into his. She says nothing. She sits down and lights another cigarette, drinks some more liqueur. Henning demands that she explain herself, but Christine Juul has nothing more to say to him. Finally she points to the door and tells him to leave.

  Henning steps out into a night that is still damp and cold. People and cars rush past him. Of course it’s not my fault that Mum’s life turned out the way it did, he thinks, and shakes his head. I was only sixteen years old when Dad died.

  So why would she say that?

  Chapter 87

  Trine enjoys the silence and the soporific motion of the car. Her driver always handles the vehicle so smoothly and skilfully. It is especially welcome now. The excitement at Jessheim, the intensity, the resolution, the relief—all induce in her a state of deep relaxation. At last she feels calm on the inside as well. And she knows that the media will write nice things about her this time even though she doesn’t deserve them. All she did was turn up and talk. She didn’t make Remi come out voluntarily. It could so easily have gone horribly wrong. But for once the odds were in her favor. And it felt good to announce her resignation in the TV2 interview. There is no way back now. It’s over. It’s finished.

  Well, not entirely.

  Just as she thinks this, her mobile rings. Trine checks it and slumps slightly. She lets it ring for a long time. Finally she capitulates.

  “Hi,” Katarina Hatlem begins. “I heard what happened. It was great that—”

  “What do you want?” Trine interrupts.

  Katarina sighs heavily.

  “I want to try to make it up to you.”

  “It’s a little too late, Katarina.”

  “I understand why you would say that. But even if you never want to speak to me again, I think you might be interested in hearing what I’ve been doing since you left the office.”

  Trine straightens up.

  “Go on.”

  Katarina starts talking. Trine doesn’t move. But her newly acquired peace of mind has evaporated.

  When Katarina finishes some minutes later, Trine thanks her.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “How did you discover all this?”

  Katarina doesn’t reply right away.

  “I had a tip-off,” she then says.

  “Who from?”

  “From . . . someone who wants to remain anonymous.”

  “Is that right,” Trine says pensively. Katarina doesn’t elaborate.

  “And then there’s one final thing,” she says. “I’m prepared to go public to support you—in case he thinks you’re bluffing.”

  “I really appreciate that, Katarina.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thank you.”

  They finish their conversation. As the gas stations on either side of the motorway at Kløfta pass by, Trine leans forward and says to her driver, “I’m afraid I have two more stops I need to make before the day is over. Is that all right?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “Great. First, we’re off to see the prime minister.”

  Chapter 88

  The rain continues to fall though it is now reduced to a drizzle. But even if it had still been pouring down, there is no way Trine would have accepted Harald Ullevik’s invitation to come inside his warm, terraced house opposite Eiksmarka Tennis Club. She chooses to remain outside, looking hard at the champagne flute in his hand and the rising color in his cheeks that indicates it is very far from the first glass of bubbly he has enjoyed that evening.

  And she knows exactly why.

  “I’ve just been to see the prime minister,” Trine says and looks at her friend and closest colleague in the three years she has been justice secretary. As always he is elegantly dressed in suit trousers and a white shirt that is without a single crease even after a long working day. He is leaning against the door frame and has loosened his tie.

  “And I suppose I ought to congratulate you now that I know the prime minister asked you if you would like to take over from me less than an hour ago.”

  Ullevik sends her an unconvincing smile. Trine sees what lies behind it. Anxiety and apprehension because he has never seen her like this before. Out in the rain and with a look that would make a tiger flinch. Trine has to control herself very hard not to scream at him. Attack him physically.

  The new justice secretary.

  “Yes,” Ullevik replies reluctantly. “He did.”

  “You declined, I trust?”

  Ullevik wrinkles up his nose and tightens his grip around the stem of the flute.

  “Eh, no. I accepted.”

  Trine nods slowly.

  Ullevik shifts away from the door frame, straightens up slightly, and examines her with guarded eyes. Trine is tempted to give him slow applause, but stops herself.

  “There’s no doubt that you should have got the job three years ago, Harald. You were better qualified; I’ll be the first to admit that. And I’m quite sure you felt that you had been overlooked, who wouldn’t have? A man with your background, and then I come alon
g—little me, a nobody—I waltz in and go straight to the top. That must have hurt.”

  Trine winks. Ullevik is about to say something, but no words come out.

  “Was that when you decided to stab me in the back?”

  Again he pulls a face.

  “Did you start planning your revenge right away? And were you just biding your time?”

  Ullevik’s face assumes a look of blank incomprehension.

  “Are you suggesting that—that I should have—”

  “I’m way past suggestions, Harald, and I know that not even your good friends at VG will want to protect you if the truth about your duplicity comes out. And if you do become the next justice secretary, I’ll make sure that everyone knows what you did.”

  “Trine, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh yes, you do. And if you don’t call the prime minister the moment I leave, then he’ll be calling you. The prime minister knows that I went to Copenhagen during our annual conference in Kristiansand because I had an appointment the following day at a clinic that would remove the child I was carrying. Information that you found out from Katarina Hatlem one evening after the two of you had torn each other’s clothes off in room 421 at Hotel Bristol.”

  Ullevik spins around and looks into the house. Then he steps outside and quickly closes the front door behind him.

  “She also told you that I hadn’t told my husband. Katarina was a good friend, one of the few people I tell most of my secrets to. Armed with this information, you convinced me to tell the press that Pål Fredrik and I had been trying for a baby for a long time. That was a smart move. It increased my popularity in the opinion polls. But it was also cynical and calculated. After that statement, I couldn’t possibly admit to having had an abortion. It would have been career suicide for me, after I’d opened God knows how many children’s homes around Norway and signed a convention to support children’s rights across the world. Besides, there was a real risk that I would lose the man I love. And that was what you were counting on, Harald; you calculated that I wouldn’t want to risk my marriage or my career. So you fabricated an allegation of sexual assault and gave it to Norway’s biggest newspaper, a newspaper you’ve been leaking stories to for years. And I know the kind of feeding frenzy journalists engage in when they spot the chance of bringing down a member of the government. They don’t give up until they get what they want.”

  “This is completely absurd, Trine, I would never do anything like that to you.”

  “You would and you did, Harald. And cut the crap, please, I know it was you. Let me give you a piece of advice. The next time you decide to send an anonymous fax, go farther away. Go to a part of Oslo or to somewhere in Norway where people don’t know you, so you can lie about who you are when you register your name and mobile number at an Internet café.”

  Trine stops talking. Ullevik opens his mouth, but closes it a few seconds later. Only water dripping from a nearby gutter punctuates the silence.

  Trine thinks back to the day her nightmare started, when Ullevik came to her office after the morning briefing and asked if there was anything he could do for her. “ ‘You’ve done a brilliant job as justice secretary. You’re the best one we’ve had for years.’ ”

  Lies.

  All lies, the whole time.

  “Katarina has said she’s willing to do whatever she can to make amends. Do you know what she suggested to me, Harald?”

  Trine continues to speak before he has time to shake his head.

  “She volunteered to take a peek at the department’s log files to find out who sent me that nice little email I got on Monday morning, just before you came strolling into my office, incidentally. What are the odds, do you think, that she’ll be able to trace that email back to your computer?”

  Ullevik clears his throat.

  “She’s not allowed to do that,” he begins.

  Trine scoffs.

  “I really don’t think you’re in a position to lecture anyone on morality, Harald. And in case you’ve forgotten which department I’ve been heading the past three years—how hard do you think it would be for me to find out if you really did get a telephone call from VG that Monday morning, like you claimed, just before all hell broke loose?”

  Ullevik continues to look blank.

  “That was a lie too. Just like everything else.”

  He makes no reply. He just lowers his gaze.

  “Look at me, Harald.”

  He does, but reluctantly.

  “Look me in the eye. Do I look like I want to lose this fight?”

  “No,” he says and tries to straighten up. “But you’d never take it public.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Harald. As soon as I get home I’m going to tell Pål Fredrik everything. Do you know why? Because I can’t bear to go on living under the same roof as a man I’ve hurt without knowing what he feels about it. It might well be the end of our marriage, but in the long run we might have broken up all the same. My secret would have driven a wedge between us, I’m sure of it, I know all about how secrets can destroy a family. And just so you know it: I can document all my movements in Denmark. I still have the plane ticket, the hotel booking, I can even produce an invoice and a receipt for the abortion. Katarina has also stated that she’s willing to confirm that she helped me with the arrangements. And who knows—perhaps she’ll also tell the public how you came to be in possession of the information you so deviously used against me. And what about your wife?” Trine says, pointing to the door behind Ullevik. “What do you think she’s going to say? What do you think your children will say?”

  Trine has participated in many debates, in private as well as in public. Usually the duelers have been evenly matched. It’s rare to be able to serve your opponent a deathblow of this magnitude.

  “I’ve no desire to go public with this, Harald, it wouldn’t help either of us. It would hurt our families, it would hurt the prime minister, and not least, it would hurt the party. But I’ll come clean without a moment’s hesitation if you become the next justice secretary. Nothing will be off-limits. And that’s a promise.”

  The rain has slowly gathered strength. Ullevik’s cheeks are even redder now. He looks at her for a long time before he drains his glass and gazes across to the tennis courts behind her.

  Trine can’t resist the temptation to smile.

  “You’re caught between a rock and a hard place, aren’t you? You know that whatever you do, your life will be hell.”

  A part of Trine can’t help wishing that Ullevik will call her bluff, so she can redeem herself in public. But something tells her he won’t take that step. His body language betrays him. His shoulders are slouching. The muscles in his cheeks have slackened. He even seems shorter than usual.

  Trine is tempted to deliver a final blow to intensify the obvious pain in his eyes. But enough is enough.

  So she turns her back on him and leaves.

  Chapter 89

  Henning crosses the street at Café 33 and walks down Seilduksgaten, which is quiet as always, even though the street is in the middle of a bustling part of Oslo. Still, the area could be filled with noise without Henning’s noticing; he is completely lost in a world of his own.

  That is why the man who comes up behind him has to speak to him twice before Henning reacts.

  “Don’t turn around.”

  Henning turns his head instinctively, but doesn’t recognize the man’s face in the brief glimpse he catches of him before he does as he is told. But he noticed that the man had his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets and that the hood over his head cast dark shadows across his face.

  “Just keep walking,” the man says. “Walk straight ahead and don’t turn around.”

  Henning does as the man says while his heart jumps in his chest. As he walks, he tries to remember if he has seen the m
an before, but the face rings no bells.

  Markveien appears in front of them, dark like a river at night. There is no traffic so he crosses the street and slows down outside the entrance to his own apartment block, but the man tells him to keep moving. Henning crosses Steenstrupsgate and continues toward Fossveien. He can barely resist the temptation to turn around.

  Suddenly the footsteps gain on him and before Henning has time to react, he feels two strong hands pushing him into a dark archway and slamming him hard against a wall. A face is shoved right up in his; he smells garlic breath and a furious rage.

  And that’s when he realizes who the man is.

  Henning tries to lean back his head so he can look into the eyes of Andreas Kjær, but the concrete wall prevents him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Kjær hisses. “Talking to my kids in my garden when my wife and I are out.”

  Henning tries to stay calm, but struggles to reply because Kjær’s hand is pressing his cheek into his teeth. Kjær glances furtively out at the street to see if anyone is watching them, before his eyes return with rekindled anger. He relaxes his hold on Henning’s face and Henning tries to say something, but only gurgling sounds come out.

  “Don’t you dare come near my home again, you bastard,” Kjær snarls.

  Henning is paralyzed with terror and all he can manage is a nod. This makes Kjær let go of him. Henning touches his face and neck and realizes that he hurt his back when Kjær flung him against the wall, but when he looks at Kjær’s eyes, he sees not only rage.

  He also sees fear.

  The white cross in the garden, the dead dog on the veranda steps. Someone has tried to scare him. And they have managed to scare him so much that he doesn’t want anyone to see or hear him when he confronts Henning.

  “We’re alone,” Henning says, surprised at how quickly he rediscovers the composure in his voice. “I think you know something about Tore Pulli. Is that why you decided to come looking for me?”