by Thomas Enger
We shook hands out on the front step, which felt a bit odd. Ole’s hair was thinning on top and receding at the front, but otherwise he looked good for a man in his mid-forties. As we chatted and he came inside, I had the impression he was sizing me up, but not in the same way PCI Mork had. Ole seemed to be trying to work out how I was feeling, not whether I was a double murderer or not.
‘Even,’ Ole said, in a kind voice, ‘We can do this another time, if you’d prefer.’
I said: ‘No, it’s fine.’
We sat down in the kitchen. Ole put his hands flat on the table and looked around.
‘So, how’s the football?’ he asked.
I looked up. ‘It’s the off-season right now.’
‘But you’re still in training, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Three times a week.’
‘So there’s quite a lot of shuttling back and forth?’
‘Yes,’ I said and paused. Lillestrøm, my football club, was forty-two kilometres away from Fredheim. ‘But I’m used to it. Besides, Imo usually gives me a ride, so it’s fine, really. It’ll be much easier when I get my driver’s licence.’
‘Are you still in the under-seventeens national team?’
‘I don’t know, to be honest. There hasn’t been a call-up for a while.’
‘You’ll become a professional one day.’
I smiled. It felt good to smile.
‘Which team would you like to play for?’ Ole asked.
‘United, of course.’
‘You mean Leeds?’
I pulled a face. ‘There’s only one United, Ole. You know that.’
We grinned at each other. Neither of us said anything for a while.
‘We don’t have to call this an interview,’ Ole said. ‘If you find it uncomfortable.’
His reason for being there brought me back to reality with a bang. I almost began to cry and had to pull myself together.
‘It’s fine,’ I said.
Ole wanted me to begin by talking about Mari. Anything that came to mind. I told him how we’d met at school on a very ordinary Tuesday. She’d come over during morning break and asked if she could interview me for the school paper.
‘Me?’ I said.
‘Yes, you.’
‘Why?’
‘For a few reasons, actually.’
‘A few?’ I always stunned the girls with my cool, witty replies…
‘You play football at a national level…’
I wobbled my head a bit in a yes-no gesture.
‘…you play guitar in a pretty cool band…’
My face said, well, I don’t know about that.
‘…and…’ She looked at me, slightly nervous, as though she wasn’t entirely sure whether to carry on or not; ‘…you’ve lived in Fredheim before. A long time ago.’ She bit her lip. ‘I wondered what it’s like to come back, especially…’ she looked down ‘…coming back to the school where your dad worked.’
The fact that almost everyone at school, teachers included, knew who I was, was as much thanks to Dad as it was me playing football or being in a band. The car accident had left an imprint on the whole town. Everyone knew about it. People still talked about it.
Mari thought it could be a good story, a sort of portrait of the prodigal son. And I – Mr Smooth with the Ladies himself – I just stood there and couldn’t say a word. I’d been interviewed before, so it wasn’t that. It was just something about Mari that … I don’t know … resonated with me somehow from the start.
She had pale skin and a heart-shaped face. Her hair was dark brown and messy, as though she’d just got up and hadn’t bothered to brush it before going out. She wasn’t trying to make me like her, which perhaps was one of the reasons why I did. And she seemed a bit nervous. Like it was the first time she was playing journalist and she didn’t know how to go about it.
We met after school the same day, and that was when she told me her full name for the first time: Mari Elisabeth Lindgren. Like she was half Norwegian, half Swedish and maybe had a sister called Pippi.
I’d thought we would talk for about fifteen minutes or so, half an hour tops, but we ended up walking around the streets for about three hours. The weather was great that day, so warm and sunny, and it didn’t get dark until late. She asked me all kinds of questions about all kinds of things. After a while, I started asking about her life, too.
She wanted to be a writer. Or a journalist. As long as she could write, she told me. It was so easy to talk to Mari. And the more time I spent with her, the more I liked her. She was about a foot shorter than me, and I loved seeing her head tilt up towards me, full of curiosity.
We said hello to each other the next day, before starting to exchange a few words whenever we met. Then we started to message each other. It wasn’t long before I started to feel butterflies in my stomach whenever I thought about her, and I could tell that she felt the same way about me.
I liked her warm, shy smile. And when she laughed, her whole face changed – it opened up, her teeth appeared and her dimples looked so delicate. I wanted to touch them. I liked her hands, how small they were in mine. How warm they were. I liked her voice – hesitant whenever she asked me a question, confident when she answered one of mine. She never seemed to doubt anything she said.
And she was so sweet and nice.
A couple of weeks before the show I was ill. Not at death’s door or anything like that, I just had a high temperature and a thumping headache. My whole body ached. So I stayed off school for a few days. Mari came to see me every afternoon, even if I told her to stay away so she wouldn’t get the same bug. She insisted though, saying she never got sick. ‘It’ll be fine. Plus, your mum’s never here. Someone has to look after you.’
One day she brought me some soup and basically force-fed me. I was two years old again. And when Mari, of course, did get sick a few days later, it was my turn to look after her, even though she didn’t want me to see her pale and with dry lips, cold one minute, hot the next. But there was nothing I wanted more. And when she fell asleep in my lap one afternoon, I felt warm and good, deep down inside. It was a feeling I’d never experienced before.
I’d gone out with other girls. Mainly because I’d thought it would be cool to have a girlfriend. And sometimes I’d thought I was in love with them … Mari was the first girl I was actually in love with though. For real.
When I finished telling Ole about Mari, there was a slight pause before he said: ‘Even, do you know if…?’ He hesitated again, before carrying on. ‘Did Mari ever talk about … me in the days before she died?’
I frowned.
Ole quickly produced a business card from his leather mobile phone cover. ‘The police found one of these in her jacket pocket,’ he said, and held it out to me. I took it and looked at it. ‘Obviously, I’ve spoken to her over the years, but I’ve never given her one of my business cards.’
‘No?’
He shook his head.
‘You’re sure?’
‘One hundred percent. I would have remembered.’
I flipped it over. There was nothing written on the back.
‘You didn’t, by any chance, give it to her?’ Ole asked.
‘Me? Why would I do that?’
‘I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.’
One time when I was visiting Oskar, Ole had given me one of his cards. It was just before I went to play for Norway’s under-seventeens team against Malta and Italy. Ole wanted me to call the news desk, or even better, him, as soon as the matches were over, so he’d given me the card. I had no idea where I’d put it after that, though.
‘So Mari wanted to get hold of you, is that what you’re saying?’ I asked.
‘It would appear so,’ Ole said. ‘I’m trying to find out why.’
I looked at him.
‘Of course, it might mean nothing at all,’ he added.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course.’
Somehow, though, I got th
e feeling that maybe it did.
13
NOW
‘So, Ole Hoff was involved in some way or another from the start?’
Ms Håkonsen coughs into her palm, then apologises. She looks at me, waiting for my reply.
My cheeks are hot. It’s not easy, talking about yourself and what you did and felt, even if it wasn’t that long ago. You feel so many eyes piercing you, making a note of every single remark you make. My chair is hard and uncomfortable. I glance at the clock on the wall, yearning for it to be over. It’s not even half past nine yet.
I say sorry, and ask the prosecutor to repeat the question. While Ms Håkonsen does, everything that happened with Ole comes crashing down on me again. And I’m scared too – about what’s coming up: soon we will be talking about Mum.
I have to pull myself together before I answer. ‘You could say that, yes.’
‘OK. So the interview is over, you get up from the kitchen table, and Ole Hoff is about to go back to his office to write up the story?’
I nod and say yes at the same time. ‘Before he left, he said he would call me to go over my quotes. Just to make sure he didn’t publish anything that wasn’t accurate.’
‘Noble,’ Ms Håkonsen remarks.
‘Apparently it’s common courtesy.’
After a moment’s hesitation, she seems to agree.
‘Then what happened?’ she asks.
‘I walked him to the door. Ole was about to leave when…’ I stop for a moment. ‘When my mother came home.’
14
THEN
Ole was about to step out into the rain when Mum came walking up the short path from the road. I wasn’t expecting her. She’d been staying at Knut’s a lot lately. She was rushing along, huddled under her umbrella while pulling the dog along behind her. Their feet were like drumsticks on the ground. It took a few seconds before she noticed us, but as soon as she did, she stopped.
Once upon a time my Mum had been an attractive woman. I’d seen pictures of her when she first started going out with Dad. She really had been gorgeous. She had long blonde hair, and in every photograph she was smiling. Glowing, almost. She’d been tall and slim, too, and everything she wore seemed to fit her perfectly. Like her clothes were made just for her.
Now her clothes were hanging loosely around her body. She had dyed her hair black and cut it short, and she always wore a bit too much make-up. As she stood there on the path, scowling at Ole and me from under her umbrella, she looked like something from a horror movie.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ she said to me, pointing her umbrella at Ole. GP, the dog, started to bark at this stranger in the doorway.
‘Mum…’
I never enjoyed having visitors when Mum was home. All the questions, the fuss – I usually just wanted her to go away.
‘Hi Susanne,’ Ole said.
GP barked again.
‘We were just having a chat,’ I said.
‘Why?’ Her voice was sharp as she came charging towards us.
‘Because…’
Mum reined GP’s lead in close and quickly climbed the steps. She marched past Ole without looking at him, without saying hello, and she didn’t allow the dog to greet him either. After what had happened, I would have thought that Mum might at least have stopped to give me a hug or ask me how I was doing. Certainly I would have expected her to say a few words to Ole; he was the same age as her, and well known in the town, after all. But she just pushed straight past us and opened the door. I hoped, no, I prayed, that Ole wouldn’t notice the stink of alcohol that trailed in her wake like a bad perfume. Once inside she slammed the door behind her. We could hear GP still barking and growling.
‘Sorry,’ I said to Ole. ‘My Mum, she…’ I didn’t know how to finish my sentence.
‘Mothers, eh?’ Ole said.
‘Yeah.’
He waved a hand at me and said again that he’d call me later.
‘Alright,’ I answered.
‘Be kind to yourself now,’ Ole said. ‘You hear?’
‘I’ll try,’ I said. I just didn’t know how.
15
NOW
Ms Håkonsen is looking at me again with those inquisitive eyes. Like she thinks I’m lying or holding something back. Every stare, every question, somehow feels like an attack, both on me and on my family.
I realise that I don’t like her. I don’t like her at all.
‘So at that point you had already realised that your mother had a strained relationship with Ole Hoff?’
I look at my mother again. Even from a distance it looks as if she hasn’t slept in weeks. Which probably is true. The bags under her eyes have grown. Her face is grey.
‘Yes,’ I say a little more quietly than I intended.
‘But you had no idea why?’
I shake my head. ‘Not at the time, no.’
16
THEN
When I went back inside, my mother was waiting for me in the hall. One of her feet was tapping impatiently against the floor.
‘And what the hell do you think you’re up to?’
For some reason she was still holding onto GP’s lead. The dog came charging into me as usual. I squatted down to play with him a little.
‘I’m not up to anything,’ I said, stroking and scratching the beautiful little monster. He was making happy noises.
‘You were talking to him … that reporter.’ She made it sound like a dirty word. ‘Was he in here as well?’
‘What if he was?’
‘What if?’ Mum rolled her eyes, as though it was the most awful thing imaginable.
‘Do you have a problem with Oskar’s dad or something?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘OK then,’ I said, shaking my head. This was getting stupid, so I stood up and walked past my crazy mother, towards the door to the basement.
‘You, of all people, Even, should keep a low profile now that … that … Think of what…’
She stopped herself, but I knew what she’d been meaning to say. For my mother what everyone else thought or felt was always the most important thing, never mind Tobias or me. I just opened the door and started down the stairs, getting angrier by the second.
‘Even, you’re not going to your room now.’
I didn’t answer, just kept on walking.
‘Even!’
Finally downstairs, I slammed my door shut and sat down on the bed. I tried to breathe deeply, to calm down, but it didn’t help. I whacked my hand against what I thought would be the mattress, but it turned out to be the bedframe. The impact made one of the scabs in my palm split open, and before I knew it, there was blood.
‘Fuck.’
I got up to get some toilet paper. Then pressed it against my hand, thinking, what the hell was wrong with my mother? Why did she freak out like that because of Ole? A part of me wanted to run upstairs again and ask, but another part just wanted to leave her alone.
Half an hour or so later there were footsteps on the stairs. At first I thought it was Mrs Crazy, wanting to carry on arguing, but it was Tobias.
‘Y’right?’ he said, standing in the doorway.
‘Hey,’ I said, without getting up. My brother held back for a few seconds. ‘I spoke to the police,’ he said. ‘They wanted to know where you were last night.’
I sat up, instantly feeling a knot tighten in my belly. ‘And what did you say?’
He hesitated, then said: ‘I said I thought you were here.’
‘You thought I was here?’
‘Well, yes … I couldn’t know for sure, could I? I was playing CoD. Had my headphones on. I was talking to Ruben at the same time.’
God, I said to myself. The police really did suspect me, and my dipshit brother hadn’t exactly helped.
‘Anyway, your friends are here,’ he said, leaning against the doorframe. ‘They want to know if you’re up for a visit. I said I’d ask.’
‘Is Mum still around?’
Tobias shook his head. ’I think she went back over to see The Moron.’
Knut went by many names in our house.
‘So, what should I tell them?’ he asked.
More than anything, I wanted to stay away from people, but then I thought that my friends might know something about what had happened and what people were really saying, so I said yes, send them down.
Oskar came in first. He opened his arms and gave me a hug. He’d grown recently and was now almost as tall as me. ‘What’s up?’ he said, his voice faltering a little.
‘Not much,’ I said.
Fredrik and I bumped fists. He was about a head and a half shorter than me, and I used to muck about and tease him, ruffle his hair like he was a child. It didn’t feel right to do that now.
‘Jeez, this is mental,’ Fredrik said.
‘Tell me about it,’ I replied.
Kaiss came in and gave me a good, hard hug as well and thumped me on the back. Kaiss always wore black and doused himself in aftershave, even though he didn’t have a hint of a stubble. ‘You alright, mate?’ he said.
‘M’alright,’ I answered, though I was anything but.
I made room for them on the bed. Kaiss sat on the chair in the corner and picked up the guitar. He couldn’t play a single chord, but I was happy for the distraction, as none of them seemed to know what to say. I didn’t, either. Oskar got out his mobile phone. Fredrik did too.
I don’t know how long we just sat there, but finally I said: ‘So aren’t any of you going to ask?’
They looked at me. ‘Ask you what?’ Oskar said.
‘If I did it. If I killed them.’
I noticed Fredrik glancing at my scabs. At the bloody piece of toilet paper I’d thrown on the floor. Right then and there it almost felt like I had done it. Like the evidence was right there in front of their eyes. I didn’t know how to explain the scabs and the blood, so I just said: