by Thomas Enger
He laughed at his own joke. I smiled and took a sip. He did the same.
‘Has there never been … someone special?’ I asked, pulling a face at the mouthful I’d just swallowed.
Imo angled his left ear to his shoulder, then did the same with his right. The bones in his neck cracked. ‘Well, yes,’ he said, and lowered his eyes. ‘Of course there has.’
‘So what happened?’
He let out a heavy sigh. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I guess that was the problem.’
Imo leaned forwards and emptied his glass. Poured himself another. There was still a fair bit left in my glass.
‘She didn’t want me, so…’ He left the rest of the sentence hanging.
My phone rang. I glanced at the screen. Oskar. I stood up and went into the kitchen.
‘What’s up?’ I said, and closed the door behind me. ‘Did you find Børre?’
‘We did,’ Oskar said.
‘And?’
He waited a moment. ‘He said that he did see you yesterday evening.’
I snorted. ‘And where would that have been, exactly?’
‘At school. In one of the windows on the first floor.’
‘That’s bullshit,’ I said angrily. ‘I was at home the whole time. Sitting in my room. Jesus.’
Oskar didn’t say anything. It felt like I wasn’t talking to my friend. He was having doubts about me too. I could hear it in his voice.
‘So…’ I began. I didn’t know quite what to say. Or believe. ‘I didn’t kill them, Oskar,’ I said.
He still didn’t answer. ‘If you think I did, Oskar, just say it. Tell me straight.’
He hesitated.
‘Come on,’ I urged him. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’
‘You have to admit, Even, it does all seem a bit weird.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It feels bloody fucking weird that you don’t believe me when I say that I was in my room all last night.’
My forehead was burning. No just because of the tequila. I wanted to punch something again.
But I didn’t. Instead, I just said: ‘If you don’t believe me, Oskar, why don’t you just go ahead and fuck yourself.’
24
When I got back to the living room, Imo had topped up my glass. I grabbed it and downed it in one.
‘Whoa,’ Imo said. ‘Easy now.’
I banged the glass back down on the table and tried to get the flames in my chest to die down. It took a while.
‘More bad news?’ Imo asked.
‘You could say that,’ I said, and swallowed. I explained about Børre and Oskar. Imo listened attentively.
‘And you’re absolutely sure you didn’t go out last night?’
I sent him a hard look and said: ‘Jesus, Imo, how could I not be sure about that? Don’t you believe me either?’
‘Yes, yes, relax. Of course I believe you. I’m just thinking about what everyone else might believe. If you say no, you didn’t go out, and then later remember that you did, even if it was only to take out the trash or take that little dog of yours for a walk, then everyone will think you were lying about everything else as well.’
I took a deep breath.
GP.
My God.
I had been out last night. My heart started thumping in my chest. How the hell could I have forgotten about that?
I reached for the bottle and poured another shot, but I waited before downing it.
‘Did Børre Halvorsen say when he saw you in the window on the first floor?’ Imo asked. I shook my head and said no, before adding: ‘And it wasn’t me he saw.’
‘No, no,’ Imo said. ‘Of course not.’
We sat there for a time, taking the odd sip. Imo got his phone out again and remained quiet for a while. I got out my own and found a news article about the police press conference. They were looking for a person who ‘in all likelihood escaped through a window on the first floor sometime after 11 p.m. yesterday evening’.
My stomach started to swirl.
The police were also appealing for anyone who might know the whereabouts of Johannes’ microphone case to come forward. I remembered that he was always very fussy about his microphones. ‘They cost megabucks,’ he used to say. ‘That’s why they sound so fucking good. My grandfather gave them to me.’
I checked my social media feeds again. I wanted to know if anyone else had seen me. I didn’t see any new comments. But each time I saw a picture of Mari or Johannes, it was as if a rope tightened around my neck, squeezing life and energy out of me. Just stick to the truth, I reminded myself. You didn’t do anything.
Imo and I took turns choosing what music to listen to – albums first, then single tracks. And I don’t know at what point it happened, but suddenly the whole room was out of focus. My movements got slower. Any words I tried to speak came out as a mixture of spit and breath.
A sound far away ricocheted around in my head, and it took a few moments before I realised my phone was ringing again. For a moment I hoped it was Oskar calling back to apologise, but it wasn’t. It was his father. Ole.
I stood up again and struggled for a few seconds while the room spun around me. I managed to find the green button then pressed the phone to my right ear. Or was it the left? I couldn’t say for sure.
‘Hi Even, it’s Ole Hoff. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘No, no,’ I said – shouted. Luckily they were easy words to pronounce. I closed a door. Didn’t know exactly which one, but there was definitely less noise, and that was the most important thing.
‘How are you?’ Ole asked.
‘Marvellous,’ I said. And it sounded like I meant it too. ‘Bloody marvellous,’ I said, for some reason.
‘So you haven’t seen what they’re writing about you on Facebook?’
I sighed. My mood nosedived. ‘Well, yes,’ I said, more subdued.
‘What do you think about it?’ he asked. Was there a hint of suspicion in his voice too? I wasn’t sure.
‘Well…’ I said, ‘I think that everyone probably thinks I did it. That I killed them.’ It felt as though the words were all coming out of my mouth at the same time.
‘So you’re saying you weren’t at school yesterday? That Børre Halvorsen couldn’t possibly have seen you?’
I tried to arrange all the words he said so they made sense. ‘Hm?’
Ole repeated what he had just said.
I thought for a bit. ‘No,’ I replied.
There was a short pause. Or was it long? I couldn’t tell. Then he said: ‘I’ve written a piece for the newspaper. Thought I’d go over your quotes before I send it to the printers. Is that alright with you?’
‘Yes!’ I shouted.
‘OK, I’ll start reading then.’
I realised that I had somehow managed to find my way into the kitchen. I held on to a chair while listening to Ole’s voice, but I couldn’t make out a single word he was saying. I have no idea how long it took before he stopped speaking, and I think maybe my eyes slowly closed towards the end. I came to again when I heard my name.
‘Hm?’
‘Does that sound OK with you?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘No problem.’
Pause.
‘Is everything OK, Even?’
‘Everythingsfine.’
Another pause. There was some movement in my stomach. It felt as if something was making its way up towards my throat.
‘Are you drunk, Even?’
‘ME? NO!’
I let go of the chair, put down my phone, knocked over an empty bottle that was standing on the floor, and almost tripped on the rug in the hall. But then I caught sight of the door to the toilet. I managed to grab the door handle, which stopped me from falling flat on my face. I pushed it down and saw the porcelain in front of me and – lucky me – the toilet seat was already up, so I dropped down on all fours.
Somewhere on the way, my mind cleared momentarily and I wondered what Oskar’s dad had really written. But
then I thought of Mari’s warm hands again.
A few moments later I heard someone laugh behind me.
‘Amateur,’ Imo was saying.
He helped me to my feet and flushed the toilet for me, making a face.
‘Your mother’s going to kill me,’ he said, as the water sloshed around the toilet bowl.
‘Hah,’ I said, now able to focus for a second or two. ‘Right now I wouldn’t mind doing that myself.’
25
Well, this is eight minutes of your life you’re never going to get back, Susanne Tollefsen thought. Eight minutes walking, incline level two, with nothing else to stare at but the wall and the basement window in front of her. She had almost given up, several times. All she could think of while she was moving forward, or not moving at all, depending on how you looked at it, was when it would all be over, when she could once more go up to Knut’s apartment and mix herself a drink. Her tongue tingled just at the thought of it.
Thankfully she was alone. Not many people used this basement gym, the fifty-square-metre room in which she’d never thought she would ever actually find herself. Knut had insisted she got a key to the gym when they started dating a little over a year ago. ‘Exercise helps,’ the dimwit had said. ‘Exercise is good for a lot of things.’
Easy for him to say; he ran 10k every other day. Exercise didn’t do a damned thing for her. After a long day in the shop, her legs and head were heavy. She’d been walking back and forth between the shelves for hours, even though customers had been few and far between. She had seen some people inside the mall, though, people who had turned and pointed a finger in her direction when they thought she wasn’t looking.
Some people who didn’t know who she was had entered the shop, filled with anticipation and visions of what their soon-to-be-borns would look like in a light-blue babygro, a pink hat or a couple of delicate, fluffy socks. Susanne was happy for them. She remembered those days with affection. The certainty that they were creating a family. They were laying the foundations for the rest of their lives.
But instead of helping the parents-to-be, instead of supporting and sharing all her experience and wisdom as a mother, instead of telling them all about the wonderful times ahead, she’d found herself overwhelmed by the need to warn them. Stop, she had wanted to say. Go back, before it’s too late. You have no idea what you’re getting yourselves into.
But it was already too late. Everyone who entered the store was past the stage when they had shared the news of the pregnancy with their family and friends. And what the hell was she going to tell them anyway: that the likelihood of them going their separate ways in a year or ten was huge? That they wouldn’t love each other anymore when the hardships of their everyday lives became too demanding, or when other temptations crossed their paths sometime in the future? That it was – that it is – incredibly difficult to raise one child, let alone two? That it was insanely, fucking hard?
She couldn’t do that.
What good would that do?
Susanne had been glad that social services had managed to get her a job. She’d just wished it could be something different, somewhere else. She didn’t need daily reminders of how good life could be. How good life once had been.
Nine minutes.
She was sweaty. Or maybe just warm, she wasn’t sure. The sound of the treadmill almost hypnotised her. She found herself humming to the sound of it, trying to hold the notes as long as possible, just as she had when she had been singing in the choir with Cecilie and the others. Susanne hadn’t sung in years, though, and she didn’t have the breath for it anymore, either, nor the stomach muscles. So she stopped and watched the digital display instead, the white dot that was halfway through a 400-metre lap. She urged it to move forwards, one blip at a time.
She felt guilty about Tobias, who would be home alone once again. What difference did it make, though? Tobias was happy as long as he was left to himself in his room. He never came down to the living room to watch TV with her these days. It was the same with Even; when he wasn’t at football practice he was hanging out with his friends. But at least he had them. Tobias didn’t, except maybe that Ruben idiot from Solstad.
Susanne had realised a long time ago that it had been a mistake to move back to Fredheim. The house was too big, and everywhere she looked, she noticed things that needed fixing. Her mother had left tons of junk in the attic and the outhouse. It would take Susanne years just to go through it all.
But Fredheim was her home.
It was where she’d grown up, and for a long time she had loved it: singing in the choir, working at Myhrvold’s garden centre, meeting people every day. Just hanging out with Jimmy and the kids. She had thought that coming back to her roots would do her a world of good, that it would be easier for her to find her true self again. She’d thought it would be easier for Tobias, too. She had hoped that he, that they, could start over.
Instead, everything in Fredheim reminded her of Jimmy, just as it had before they left. The car crash that ended his life had ruined hers too. But now that she had given Fredheim a second chance, she couldn’t just leave again. She simply couldn’t do that to her boys.
Sometimes the sound of the crash filled her mind – the smell of the trees they had hit, the burning stench from the engine reaching her nose as she came to. Sometimes as she woke up she could taste the blood on her lips. She would search for the tiny bits of broken glass that she first thought were diamonds.
Ten minutes.
Finally.
Susanne turned off the machine and got off the treadmill. Silence, at last. She exhaled and took a look at the mats, the weights, the ropes, the rubber bands. She didn’t feel like using any of it; she just wanted a drink. Another one, to be fair – she’d had one before she came down into the gym. Alright, she’d had two.
There was Knut, obviously. Knut was company. He never demanded anything of her. And even if she knew she was never going to love him, Susanne was sure of his love, no matter what, even if she really couldn’t understand why. There wasn’t a thing in the world he wouldn’t do for her. Maybe he just loved the memory of her, she thought. The girl he’d been head-over-heels with ever since junior high. Maybe she was just a nostalgia crush. Or maybe he thought he’d finally won his trophy.
She stopped in front of the punch bag and hit it, once. Not hard, but hard enough for her knuckles to hurt. She hit it again. She thought of Ole Hoff, and hit the bag again. And again. Now she could see parts of her skin starting to turn red.
You shouldn’t have been so angry, she said to herself. Not with Even. It wasn’t his fault that people were talking about him in Fredheim. That reporters wanted to speak to him. The police. She should probably talk to them herself soon. Everyone who’d been in the school theatre last night had been encouraged to talk to them voluntarily. But just the thought of Ole Hoff made her hit the bag again. Soon she was bleeding.
The door to the gym opened. Knut was standing there, as always dressed in his dark-blue cab driver’s uniform. ‘So this is where you’re hiding,’ he said.
‘Hiding?’ she spat back at him. ‘I’m not hiding. I’m … exercising.’
Knut had been asleep on the sofa when she got home from work. She didn’t want to wake him – he’d been working late the previous night. And when he had come to bed it had taken him ages to fall asleep. He’d been tossing and turning for hours.
‘Off to work?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘What are your plans for the evening?’
Susanne could feel the flames in her chest come to life again. She took a quick look at her red knuckles and thought: That, Knut, you really don’t want to know.
26
Yngve locked his front door behind him, hung his jacket up to dry – again – and took off his shoes. Then he listened for sounds he knew he wouldn’t hear. Her shoes weren’t in the hall, either, of course. None of her coats were on their hooks. No smell of the perfume she used to wear.
He went into t
he kitchen and looked at the mess he’d left behind that morning: the newspaper, the plate with a half-eaten piece of bread spread with dark-grey liver paste. The glass of juice with sludgy chunks in it. He cleared it all away and then took a beer from the fridge. Decided to drink it in the living room. He didn’t want the TV on. He just sat there in silence, and drank.
He was in the middle of a sip, when he noticed her standing in the doorway leading to the basement. She was wondering why he was so upset.
‘Is it that obvious?’ he asked.
She didn’t answer, but took a step closer. Put her hands behind her back and leaned against the wall. She waited for him to explain, so he did. He told her what he’d seen and learned during the day, even though he knew she’d been with him the whole time. Sometimes it helped to say things out loud. Things became clearer. Easier to grasp or understand.
Åse looked at him with those big, beautiful eyes that never seemed to blink. Eyes full of blue life … until they weren’t anymore. She said that he was making sense of this, that the case would be solved, and if he wasn’t the one to piece the puzzle together, he had people around him who could. Who were good people; who helped. That was the most important thing – that they got their answers.
Yngve finished his beer and went to work. In front of him, on the living room table, was the ten-year-old report he had filed after Jimmy Tollefsen’s car accident on a road a few kilometres outside Fredheim. It wasn’t a particularly thick file. Jimmy had fallen ill somehow and passed out, and although Susanne had tried to take the wheel, she hadn’t been able to steer them clear of the trees along the side of the road. At least, Yngve said to himself, that’s what she’d told him afterwards.
So what was it about the accident that had caught Mari Lindgren’s eye?
The interviews that had been conducted at the handball court earlier today were also piled on the table. There were 112 so far. There was something in Even’s eyes, one of the girls had said. A blackness. She had observed Even on the school premises earlier that day, when he was looking for Mari. It wasn’t much to bring to the district attorney’s office, but Yngve had seen the grazes on Even’s hands, and he had wondered if the boy was a brilliant actor – his grief and his anguish had seemed so real. The part about Børre Halvorsen having seen Even at school – at a window on the first floor – Yngve had to admit he really didn’t know what to make of that.