The Son (24 page)

Kalle was ordered into one of the empty rehearsal rooms where he was told to sit down on the floor with his back to the radiator. He sat without moving and stared at a bass drum with the name ‘The Young Hopeless’ scrawled across it while the guy tied him to the radiator with a long, black cable. There was no point in fighting back, his attacker didn’t intend to kill him or he would be dead already. And the money and the drugs could be replaced. He would have to pay for them out of his own pocket, of course, but what was foremost in his mind was how to explain to Vera that there was unlikely to be another shopping trip to some cool city in the foreseeable future. The guy took two guitar strings from the floor, tied the thicker one around his head over the bridge of his nose and the thinner one around his chin. He must have tied them to the radiator behind him; Kalle could feel the metal of the thinner string dig into his skin and press against his lower gum.

‘Move your head,’ the guy said. He had to shout over the music coming from further down the corridor. Kalle tried to turn his head, but the guitar strings were too tight.

‘Good.’

The guy put an electric fan on a chair, switched it on and aimed it at Kalle’s face. Kalle closed his eyes against the current of air and felt his sweat dry on his skin. When he opened his eyes again, he could see that the guy had placed one of the unmixed kilo bags of Superboy on the chair in front of the fan and had pulled his hoodie up to cover his nose and mouth. What the hell was he doing? Then Kalle spotted the shard of glass.

It felt as if a cold hand was squeezing his heart.

He knew what was about to happen.

The guy swiped the sliver of glass. Kalle steeled himself. The tip of the glass hit the plastic bag, sliced it open and in the next second the air filled with white powder. It got it into Kalle’s eyes, mouth and nose. He closed his mouth. But he had to cough. He closed his mouth again. Felt the bitter taste of the powder stick to his mucous membranes which started stinging and burning; the drug was already entering his bloodstream.

The photograph of Pelle and his wife was stuck to the dashboard on the left side, in between the steering wheel and the door. Pelle ran his finger over the smooth, greasy surface. He was back in his usual spot in Gamlebyen, but it was a waste of time, it was summer quiet and the trips which flashed up on the display screen departed from other destinations in town. Still, he could always hope. He saw a man leave through the gate to the old factory. He walked with a purpose and speed that indicated he had places to go to and wanted to flag down the only taxi at the cab rank before the light on the roof went out and it drove off. But then he suddenly stopped and leaned against the wall. Doubled up. He was standing right under a street light so Pelle could clearly see the stomach contents splash down on the tarmac. No way he was having him in his cab. The guy remained crouched and vomiting. Pelle had been there many times himself, he could taste bile in his mouth simply by looking. Then the guy wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie, straightened up, pulled the strap of the bag back up over his shoulder and continued towards Pelle. It wasn’t until he was very close that Pelle realised that it was the same guy he had driven only an hour ago. The guy who hadn’t had enough money to get to the hostel. And now he was indicating to Pelle that he wanted another trip. Pelle pressed the central locking button and opened the window a crack. Waited until the guy had come up to the side of the car and had tried to open the door in vain.

‘Sorry, mate, I’m not going to take this fare.’

‘Please?’

Pelle looked at him. Trails of tears down his cheeks. God only knew what had happened, but it wasn’t his problem. True, the guy might have a hard-luck story to tell, but you didn’t survive as a taxi driver in Oslo for long if you opened your door and let in other people’s messes.

‘Listen, I saw you throw up. If you throw up in the cab, it’ll cost you a thousand kroner and me a lost day’s income. Besides, last time you were in this cab, you were skint. So I’m going to pass, OK?’

Pelle rolled up the window and stared right ahead in the hope that the boy would move on without causing trouble, but got ready to drive away should it become necessary. Christ, how his foot hurt tonight. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the boy open his bag and take out something which he pressed against the window.

Pelle half turned his head. It was a thousand-krone note.

Pelle shook his head, but the guy stayed where he was, motionless. Waiting. Pelle wasn’t really worried, the guy hadn’t been trouble earlier this evening. On the contrary, rather than hassle Pelle to drive a bit further as most people short of cash would have done, he had thanked him when Pelle had stopped to let him out when the meter had reached the amount he had given him. Thanked him so sincerely that Pelle had felt guilty for not driving him all the way to the hostel – it would have only taken him another two minutes. Pelle sighed and pressed the button which unlocked the doors.

The guy slipped into the back seat. ‘Thank you, thank you so much.’

‘Fine. Where to?’

‘First up to Berg, please. I’m just dropping something off, so I’d be grateful if you could wait. Then to the Ila Centre. I’ll pay you up front, obviously.’

‘No need,’ Pelle said, starting the car. His wife was right, he was too good for this world.

PART THREE

21

IT WAS TEN
o’clock in the morning and the sun had been shining on Waldemar Thranes gate for a long time when Martha parked her Golf convertible. She got out and walked with light footsteps past the patisserie to the entrance of the Ila Centre’s cafe. She noticed some men – and even some women – glancing at her as she walked by. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but today she seemed to attract extra attention. She attributed it to her extraordinarily high spirits, but couldn’t think of any specific reason for them. She had argued with her future mother-in-law about the wedding date, with Grete – the manager of the hostel – about the allocations to the rota, and with Anders about practically everything. Perhaps she was in a good mood because it was her day off, because Anders had gone with his mother to their cabin for the weekend, and because she had all this sunshine to herself for two whole days.

When she entered the cafe, she saw all the paranoid heads look up. All except one. She smiled, waved as people called out to her and walked up to the two girls behind the counter. Handed one of them a key.

‘You’ll be fine. Just get through it. Remember, there are two of you.’

The girl nodded, but she looked pale.

Martha poured herself a cup of coffee. She stood with her back to the room. She knew that she had spoken a little more loudly than necessary. She turned round and smiled as if surprised when she met his gaze. Went over to the table where he sat alone. She held the cup up to her lips, talked over it.

‘You’re up early?’

He raised an eyebrow and she realised the seeming idiocy of her remark – it was past ten o’clock.

‘Most people here tend to get up very late,’ she added quickly.

‘Yes, they do,’ he smiled.

‘Listen, I just wanted to apologise for what happened yesterday.’

‘Yesterday?’

‘Yes. Anders isn’t usually like that, but sometimes . . . Whatever, he had no right to talk to you like that. Call you a junkie and . . . well, you know.’

Stig shook his head. ‘You don’t have to apologise, you didn’t do anything wrong. Nor did your boyfriend, I
am
a junkie.’

‘And I’m a lousy driver. That doesn’t mean I let people say so to my face.’

He laughed. She saw how the laughter softened up his features, made him look even more boyish.

‘And yet you still drive, I see.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘Your car?’

‘Yes, I know it’s a wreck, but I like the independence and freedom it gives me. Don’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never driven a car.’

‘Never? Really?’

He shrugged.

‘That’s so sad,’ she said.

‘Sad?’

‘Nothing beats driving a convertible with the hood down in the sunshine.’

‘Even for a . . .’

‘Yes, even for a junkie,’ she laughed. ‘Best trip you’ll ever have, trust me.’

‘Then I hope you’ll take me for a drive some time.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How about now?’

She saw the mild surprise in his gaze. She had blurted out the offer on impulse. She knew the others were looking at them. So what? She could sit for hours with the other residents talking about their personal problems without anyone thinking anything of it; on the contrary, it was a part of her job. And today was her day off and she could spend it any way she liked, couldn’t she?

‘Sure,’ Stig replied.

‘I only have a few hours,’ Martha said, aware of a slightly flustered quality to her voice. What she already having second thoughts?

‘As long as I can have a go,’ he said. ‘At driving. It looks like fun.’

‘I know a place. Come on.’

As they left, Martha could feel everyone’s eyes on her.

Stig was concentrating so hard that she had to laugh. Crouching and gripping the steering wheel he drove painfully slowly in large circles around the car park in Økern which was deserted at the weekends.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now try driving in figures of eight.’

He did as she said and revved the engine a little, but when the revs increased, he instinctively took his foot off.

‘The police came by the other day,’ Martha said. ‘They wanted to know if we’d handed out any new trainers. It was because of the Iversen murder, if you’ve heard about that.’

‘Yes, I’ve read about it,’ he said.

She looked at him. She liked that he had been reading. Most of the residents never read a single word, didn’t absorb any news, didn’t know who the Prime Minister was or what 9/11 meant. But they could tell you to the nearest krone what speed cost anywhere, the purity of heroin and the percentages of active ingredients in any new pharmaceutical product.

‘And talking of Iversen, wasn’t that the name of the man who might be able to get you a job?’

‘Yes. I went there, but he doesn’t have anything now.’

‘Oh, what a shame.’

‘Yes, but I’m not going to give up, I have more names on my list.’

‘Great! So you have a list?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Why don’t we try changing gears?’

Two hours later they were racing down Mosseveien. She was driving. To one side the Oslo Fjord glittered in the sunshine. He had proved to be a quick learner. There had been some trying and failing with gear-changing and the clutch, but once they had resolved that, it was as if he simply programmed his brain to remember any action that had worked and repeated it, automated it. After three attempts at hill starts, he could do it without using the handbrake. And when he had understood the geometry of parallel parking, he mastered it with an almost irritating deftness.

‘What’s that?’

‘Depeche Mode,’ he said. ‘Do you like it?’

She listened to the chanting, two-part vocals and the mechanical rhythm.

‘Yes,’ she said, turning up the volume of the CD player. ‘It sounds very . . . English.’

‘True. What else can you hear?’

‘Hm. Cheerful dystopia. As if they don’t take their own depression all that seriously, if you know what I mean.’

He laughed. ‘I know what you mean.’

After some minutes on the motorway, she turned off towards Nesoddtangen peninsula. The roads grew narrower, the traffic lighter. She pulled over and stopped.

‘Are you ready for the real thing?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I’m ready for the real thing.’

He had replied with a passion that made her suspect he was talking about more than just driving a car. They got out of the car and switched places. She watched him sit close to the steering wheel and look straight ahead, concentrating. He pushed the clutch down and put the car in gear. He pressed the accelerator carefully and tentatively.

‘Mirror,’ she said, while checking the rear view herself.

‘All clear,’ he said.

‘Indicator.’

He flicked the indicator, muttered an ‘on’ and gently released the clutch.

Slowly they moved out onto the road. With the revs slightly too high.

‘Handbrake,’ she said and grabbed the stick between them to release it. She felt his hand come across to do the same, touch hers and flinch as if he had burned himself.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

They drove for ten minutes in total silence. They let a driver who was in a hurry overtake them. A trailer truck came towards them. She held her breath. She knew that on the narrow road, she would – even though she knew there was room for both of them – automatically brake and pull to the side. But Stig wasn’t daunted by it. And the strange thing was that she trusted him to make the right call. The male brain’s innate understanding of three dimensions. She saw his hands resting calmly on the steering wheel. And she concluded that he lacked the very trait which she had in abundance; the tendency to doubt her own judgement. She could see from the fine, thick veins on the top of his hand how calmly his heart was pumping out blood. Blood to his fingertips. She saw his hands turn the steering wheel quickly, but not too far to the right, when the rush from the truck took hold of the car.

‘Wow!’ he laughed with excitement and looked at her. ‘Did you feel that?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I felt that.’

She directed him to the tip of Nesodden and up a gravel track where they parked behind a row of low houses with small windows at the back and large windows overlooking the sea.

‘Renovated holiday cottages from the 1950s,’ Martha explained as she walked in front of him down the path through the tall grass. ‘I grew up in one of them. And this was our secret sunspot . . .’

They had reached a rocky point. Below them lay the sea and they could hear the gleeful squealing of children splashing. A short distance away lay the quay with the shuttle ferry that sailed north to Oslo, which on a clear day looked as if it was only a few hundred metres away. The actual distance was five kilometres, but most people who worked in the capital preferred commuting by ferry rather than make the forty-five-kilometre trip around the fjord by car.