Blood on Snow (9 page)

I
t was light. Light and cosy. Mum explained that I had a high temperature, and that the doctor who had been there said I had to stay in bed for a few days and drink a lot of water, but that there was nothing to worry about. That's when I could tell she was concerned. But I wasn't scared. I was fine. Even when I closed my eyes it was light, it was shining through my eyelids, a warm red glow. I had been put in Mum's big bed, and it felt as if all the seasons were passing through the room. Mild spring turning into scalding hot summer, with sweat running like summer rain from my forehead onto sheets that stuck to my thighs, then at last the relief of autumn, with clear air,
clear senses. Until it was suddenly winter again, with chattering teeth and a long drift through sleep, dream and reality.

She had been to the library and taken out a book for me.
Les Misérables.
Victor Hugo. “Concise edition,” it said on the cover, under a drawing of Cosette as a young girl, the original illustration by Émile Bayard.

I read, and dreamed. Dreamed and read. Added and cut scenes. In the end I wasn't sure how much the author had come up with, and how much was my own invention.

I believed the story. I just didn't think Victor Hugo was telling it truthfully.

I didn't believe Jean Valjean had stolen bread, that that was why he had to make amends. I suspected that Victor Hugo didn't want to risk readers not cheering the hero on if he told the truth. Which was that Jean Valjean had killed someone. That he was a murderer. Jean Valjean was a good man, so the person he had killed must have deserved it. Yes, that was it. Jean Valjean had killed someone who had done something bad,
and had to pay for it. The business about stealing bread just annoyed me. So I rewrote the story. I made it better.

So: Jean Valjean was a deadly killer who was wanted throughout France. And he was in love with Fantine, the poor prostitute. So in love that he was willing to do anything for her. Everything he did for her, he did out of love, madness, devotion, not to save his own immortal soul or out of love for his fellow man. He submitted to beauty. Yes, that's what he did. Submitted to and obeyed the beauty of this ruined, sick, dying prostitute with no teeth or hair. He saw beauty where no one could imagine it. And for that reason it was his alone. And he was its.

It took ten days for the fever to start to ease. For me it had felt like one day, and when I came back Mum sat on the edge of the bed, stroked my forehead, sobbed gently and told me how close it had been.

I told her I had been to a place that I wanted to go back to.

“No, you mustn't say that, Olav, darling!”

I could see what she was thinking. Because she had a place that she always wanted to go back to, where she would travel in a bottle.

“But I don't want to die, Mummy. I just want to make up stories.”

I
was up on my knees, both hands on the pistol.

I saw Pine and Hoffmann spin round, almost in slow motion.

I shot Pine in the back, speeding up his pirouette. Two shots. White feathers leaped from his brown jacket, dancing in the air like snow. He had pulled his pistol free of his jacket and fired, but didn't manage to raise his arm. The bullets hit the floor and walls and ricocheted noisily around the stone room. From the corner of my eye I saw that Klein had got the lid off the coffin next to me, but hadn't yet climbed out. Perhaps he wasn't keen on the hail of bullets. The Dane had emerged from his coffin and had taken aim
at Hoffmann, but because they'd put his coffin at the end of the crypt I was in his line of fire right behind Hoffmann. I jerked back at the same time as I swung my pistol towards Hoffmann. But he was surprisingly quick. He threw himself over the coffin, right at the young girl, and took her down with him as he landed by the long wall of the crypt, behind the rest of his family who were standing there like pillars of salt, mouths agape.

Pine was lying on the floor under the table Benjamin Hoffmann's coffin was on, his pistol hand sticking stiffly away from his body, like a dipstick he'd lost control of. It swung round, firing out bullets at random. Blood and spinal fluid on the concrete floor. A Glock pistol. Plenty of bullets. Just a matter of time before one of them hit someone. I put another bullet in Pine. And kicked at Klein's coffin as I raised the pistol towards Hoffmann again. I got him in the sights. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and the young girl in his lap, holding her tight with one arm around her skinny ribcage. With the other hand he was aiming a pistol directly at her temple. She was sitting completely
still, just looking at me with big brown eyes, not blinking.

“Erik…” It was the sister. She was looking at her brother, but talking to her husband.

And the man with the half bald head finally reacted. He took an unsteady step towards his brother-in-law.

“Don't come any closer, Erik,” Hoffmann said. “These men aren't after you.”

But Erik didn't stop, he carried on stumbling forward, like a zombie.

“Fuck!” the Dane yelled, shaking and hitting his pistol. Obviously not working. A bullet had probably jammed. Bloody amateur.

“Erik!” Hoffmann repeated, aiming the pistol at his brother-in-law.

The father held out his arms towards his daughter. Moistened his lips. “Bettine…”

Hoffmann fired. The brother-in-law staggered back. Hit in the stomach.

“Come out, or I'll shoot the girl!” Hoffmann shouted.

I heard a deep sigh beside me. It was Klein, who had got to his feet and was aiming his sawn-
off shotgun in front of him, towards Hoffmann. But the table and Hoffmann junior's coffin were in the way, so he had to take a step closer to the coffin to get a clear line of fire.

“Get back, or I'll shoot her!” Hoffmann was screaming in falsetto now.

The shotgun was pointing down, at an angle of about forty-five degrees, while Klein leaned back, away from the shotgun, as if he were afraid it was going to go off in his face.

“Klein,” I said. “Don't do it!”

I saw him begin to close his eyes, the way you do when you know something's going to go off, but you don't know exactly when.

“Sir!” I shouted, trying to get eye contact with Hoffmann. “Sir! Let the girl go, please!”

Hoffmann stared at me as though to ask if I took him for a fool.

Damn. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. I reached out and took a step towards Klein.

The blast from the shotgun rang in my ears. A cloud of smoke rose towards the ceiling. Short barrel, large spread.

The girl's
white blouse was now covered in polka dots, one side of her neck was torn open, and Hoffmann's face looked like it was burning. But they were both alive. As Hoffmann's pistol skidded away across the floor, Klein leaned over the coffin on the table and stretched his arm out so that the barrel was against the girl's shoulder and the end reached Hoffmann's nose, as he tried desperately to hide behind her.

He fired again. The shot blew Hoffmann's face back into his head.

Klein turned to me with the excited face of a madman. “A unit! Was that enough of a unit for you, you bastard?”

I was ready to shoot Klein in the head if he raised the shotgun towards me, even if I knew it contained nothing but two empty cartridges now. I glanced at Hoffmann. His head was sunken in the middle, like a windfall apple that had rotted from within. He was fixed. So what? He would have died in the end. We all die in the end. But at least I had outlived him.

I got hold of the girl, grabbed the cashmere scarf from Hoffmann's neck and wound it round
her neck, which was pumping out blood. She just stared at me with pupils that seemed to fill her whole eyes. She hadn't said a word. I sent the Dane over to the stairs to check that no one was coming while I got the grandmother to press her hand against the wound in her granddaughter's neck to stop the worst of the bleeding. From the corner of my eye I saw Klein reload that ugly gun of his with two new cartridges. I kept a firm grip on my pistol.

The sister was on her knees beside her husband, who was moaning in a low, monotonous voice, his hands folded over his stomach. I'd heard that getting gastric acid in a wound is agony, but I guessed he'd live. But the girl…Shit. What harm had she done anyone?

“What do we do now?” the Dane asked.

“We sit quietly and wait,” I said.

Klein snorted. “What for? The pigs?”

“We wait until we hear a car start up and drive away,” I said. I remembered the calm look of concentration beneath the bearskin cap. I could always hope he wasn't really that devoted to duty.

“The gravedigger has—”

“Shut up!”

Klein stared at me. The tip of the shotgun tilted upwards slightly. Until he noticed where my pistol was pointing, and lowered it again. And he shut up.

But someone else didn't. The voice came from under the table.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking bastard fucking hell…”

For a moment I thought that the guy was dead but his mouth was refusing to stop, like the body of a snake chopped in half. I'd read that they could carry on wriggling for up to a day afterwards.

“Shit crap fucking bollocking bastard fucking cunt crap.”

I squatted down beside him.

Where Pine had got his nickname was a subject of debate. Some people said it came from the Norwegian word for “pain,” because he knew exactly where to cut his women if they didn't do their job, places that would cause more pain than disfigurement, and where the scars wouldn't damage the goods too much. Others said it was from the English word “pine,” because he had
such long legs. But right now it looked as if he would be taking his secret with him to the grave.

“Argh, shitting bastard cocksucker! Christ, it fucking hurts, Olav!”

“Doesn't look like it's likely to hurt much longer, Pine.”

“No? Shit. Can you pass me my cig?”

I pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and stuck it between his trembling lips. It bobbed up and down, but he managed to keep hold of it.

“L-l-light?” he stammered.

“Sorry, I've given up.”

“Sensible man. You'll live longer.”

“No guarantee.”

“No, course not. You m-might get hit by a b-b-bus tomorrow.”

I nodded. “Who's waiting outside?”

“Looks like you're sweating, Olav. Warm clothes or stress?”

“Answer.”

“And what do I get for t-t-telling you, then?”

“Ten million kroner, tax-free. Or a light for your cigarette. Your choice.”

Pine laughed. Coughed. “Only the Russian.
But he's good, I think. Career soldier, something like that. Don't know, poor sod doesn't talk much.”

“Armed?”

“Christ, yes.”

“What with? An automatic?”

“How are you getting on with that match?”

“Afterwards, Pine.”

“Show a dying man some mercy, Olav.” He coughed up some blood onto my white shirt. “You'll sleep better, you know.”

“Like you slept better after you forced that deaf-mute girl to go on the streets to pay back her guy's debts?”

Pine blinked at me. The look in his eyes was weirdly clear, as if something had eased.

“Ah, her,” he said quietly.

“Yes, her,” I said.

“You must have m-m-misunderstood that one, Olav.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She was the one who came to me. She
wanted
to repay his debts.”

“She did?”

Pine nodded. It almost looked like he was feeling better. “I actually said no. I mean, she wasn't that pretty, and who wants to pay for a girl who can't hear what you want her to do? I only said yes because she insisted. Then, once she'd taken on the debt, it was hers, wasn't it?”

I didn't answer. I didn't have an answer. Someone had rewritten the story. My version was better.

“Oy, Dane!” I shouted over to the entrance. “Have you got a light?”

He moved his pistol to his left hand without taking his eyes off the steps as he fished out a lighter with his right hand. We're such weird creatures of habit. He tossed it to me. I caught it in the air. The rough scraping sound. I held the yellow flame to the cigarette. I waited for it to be sucked into the tobacco, but it carried on burning straight up. I held it there for a moment, then lifted my thumb. The lighter went out, the flame was gone.

I looked around. Blood and groaning. Everyone concentrating on their own business. All
except Klein, who was concentrating on mine. I met his gaze.

“You go first,” I said.

“Huh?”

“You go first up the steps.”

“Why?”

“What do you want me to say? Because you've got a shotgun?”

“You can have the shotgun.”

“That isn't why. Because I say you should go first. I don't want you behind me.”

“What the fuck? Don't you trust me, then, or what?”

“I trust you enough to let you go first.” I couldn't even be bothered to pretend that I wasn't pointing at him with the pistol. “Dane! Shift yourself. Klein's leaving.”

Klein stared at me steadily. “I'll get you back for this, Johansen.”

He kicked off his shoes, walked quickly over to the bottom of the stone steps and crept up them into the gloom, crouching as he went.

We peered after him. We saw him stop, then
straighten up to take a quick look above the top step, then crouch down again at once. Evidently he hadn't seen anyone, because he stood up and carried on going, holding the shotgun in both hands at chest height, like it was a fucking Salvation Army guitar. He stopped at the top of the steps and turned back towards us, waving us up.

I held the Dane back as he made to follow him.

“Wait a moment,” I whispered. Then started to count to ten.

The salvo of shots came before I got to two.

It hit Klein and threw him back over the edge of the stairs.

He landed halfway down and slid towards us, already so dead that his muscles weren't even spasming, as gravity pulled him from step to step like a freshly slaughtered carcass.

“Fucking hell,” the Dane whispered, staring at the corpse as it stopped at our feet.

“Hello!” I called in English. The greeting bounced between the walls as if it were being answered. “Your boss is dead! Job is over! Go back to Russia! No one is going to pay for any more work here today!”

I waited. Whispered to the Dane to look for Pine's car keys. He brought them over and I threw them up the stairs.

“We are not coming out until we hear the car leaving!” I called.

Waited.

Then finally an answer in broken English: “I don't know boss is dead. Maybe prisoner. Give me boss, I will leave and you will live.”

“He is very dead! Come down and see!”

He laughed, then said: “I want my boss come with me.”

I looked at the Dane. “What do we do now?” he whispered, as if he were some sort of fucking chorus.

“We cut his head off,” I said.

“What?”

“Go back in and cut Hoffmann's head off. Pine's got a serrated knife.”

“Er…which Hoffmann?”

Was he a bit thick? “Daniel. His head is our ticket out of here, get it?”

I could tell he didn't get it. But at least he did as I asked.

I stood in the doorway keeping an eye on the stairs. I could hear quiet voices behind me. It seemed like everyone had calmed down so I took the opportunity to assess what I was thinking. As usual in stressful situations, it was a random mixture of odd things. Like the fact that the jacket of Klein's suit had twisted on the way down, so I could see from the label inside that it was hired, but it was now so full of bullet holes that they were unlikely to want it back. That it was very practical that Hoffmann's, Pine's, and Klein's corpses were already in a church and that there were spare coffins for each of them. That I'd booked seats on the plane just in front of the wings, with a window seat for Corina, so she'd be able to see Paris when we were coming in to land. Then a couple more useful thoughts. What was our van driver doing now? Was he still waiting for us on the road below the church? If he'd heard the shots, he would have heard that the last ones were from an automatic, which wasn't part of our arsenal. It's always bad news when the last shot you hear is the enemy's. His orders were clear, but could he keep a cool head? Had anyone else
in the neighbourhood heard the shots? How did the gravedigger fit into all this? The job had taken much longer than planned. How much time did we have before we
had
to be out of there?

The Dane came back to the doorway. His face was pale. But not as pale as the face of the head dangling from his hand. I checked that it was the right Hoffmann, then indicated that he should throw it up the stairs.