Where Roses Never Die (22 page)

He glared at me sullenly. I had coaxed most of it out of him: what he and Joachim had seen at his friend’s house that night and what he had observed from the stairs at home, a few hours later.

I said: ‘There’s a pathetic question that sports reporters always ask: How did it feel?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Most children can handle it if they catch their parents hugging or making love, so long as parents tackle it in the right way. But to see your mother being embraced by another man, right after you’ve seen Joachim’s mother in action with another neighbour … You don’t have to be a child psychologist to realise it must have been a traumatic experience, Håkon.’

He made a movement with his head, still unwilling to continue the conversation.

‘Perhaps that explains why, as far as I gather, you still haven’t committed to a regular partner…?’

No comment.

‘And perhaps that explains why Joachim ended up on drugs and today is one of the most emaciated veterans sitting in Nygårdsparken.’

Håkon burst out: ‘But it wasn’t Joachim who did it!’

‘Did … what?’

‘That with Mette.’

‘That was a bit too fast for me, but…’ Gradually a new and perhaps even more unpleasant image began to form for me. ‘You don’t mean … that you copied the adults, do you? Children often do.’

He nodded, and he was off again.

It had been the middle of summer. Mette and Janne had been sitting
in the sandpit playing. He and Joachim had been kicking their heels round the yard, bored. Nothing to do! Too cold to go down to Skjoldabukten to swim and all the others in the football club were on holiday. What could they do?

Joachim had nudged him, looked him in the eye and said: ‘Remember New Year’s Eve?’

‘Yes…’

‘What we saw?’

‘Yes…’

‘I’ve been thinking … We should try! It looked such fun, didn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘Yes! It’s fun. Loads of the boys at school have been talking about it. Screwing. All the adults do it. We just have to be big enough.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘We can take Janne and Mette into the woods and try it. Can’t we?’

‘Janne and Mette?’

‘Yes, they’re … women. They’ve got holes.’

He stood gaping at him. Was his friend serious? Horrified, he turned away. What if anyone had heard them talking? Some of the adults?

But it was mid-July and the houses were all quiet. Just the mothers were at home and they were probably sitting and chatting and drinking coffee. The two girls were engrossed in their work digging holes in the sand for their small plastic animals. They didn’t give them a look.

‘Chicken.’

He wasn’t chicken! ‘Nooo!’

‘Come on then!’

‘But how will we … get them to come?’

‘We’ll say … we’ve got something nice for them.’ Joachim grinned like one of the big boys. ‘And we have, haven’t we.’

‘Yes…’

Håkon still wasn’t convinced, but when Joachim grabbed his arm he went over to the sandpit, where he heard Joachim say that if the two girls came with them to the woods they’d get something nice from them.

‘What?’ Mette asked.

‘Chocolate.’

She brightened up. ‘I love chocolate!’

Janne looked more doubtful, but followed anyway when Joachim took Mette’s hand, helped her up and set off for the gate with her. Janne and he wandered after them.

But it didn’t work. Not for Janne and him. When they came to the gate and Mette and Joachim were already outside, Janne planted both feet on the ground and refused to move. ‘Mummy and daddy said we should never go out of the gate.’

‘But…’ He looked over at Joachim and Mette, who were crossing the street now. ‘Mette and Joachim have gone out.’

Janne had looked up at him with a defiant, sulky stare. ‘Mummy and daddy told me. Never go outside.’

‘But … chocolate…’

‘We only have sweets on Saturdays. Otherwise we’ll have holes in our teeth.’

‘Yes…’

He could still remember the feeling he was left with when he saw Mette and Joachim strolling into the woods over the road. Should he run after them? But they couldn’t both … with Mette!’

‘So what did you do?’

‘Nothing. Janne went back to the sandpit and continued doing what she had been doing, as though nothing had happened. As for me … I went up to my room. Found a comic and sat looking at it. Must have been a Donald Duck or a Red Indian comic:
Sølvpilen
– we used to read them all the time in those days. After a while they returned. Mette and Joachim.’

‘A while? How long’s that?’

‘I have no idea. Not the foggiest.’

‘And what happened then?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing? And your mother … Wasn’t she shocked when Mette went out?’

‘No, they didn’t notice. Neither her nor Joachim’s mother. Because
Janne and her were together … or so they thought. And when Joachim came back asking after me, Mette was playing in the sandpit again as though nothing had happened.’

‘But Joachim … must have said something?’

‘No.’

‘Surely you asked him?’

‘No, I didn’t want to say anything, and he just looked … embarrassed. Maybe it hadn’t been so easy after all. Maybe he didn’t know what to do when it came to the crunch.’

‘And Mette didn’t say anything?’

‘No. She seemed happy and content, and there was nothing that struck you about her. She even had chocolate smeared over her mouth, so she got that anyway.’

‘But … when you started telling me about this you said Joachim didn’t do it. You were thinking about what happened in 1977, weren’t you?’

He looked down. ‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Well … it struck me – several times – as everyone was searching for her, for days and weeks … I pictured Janne and me standing inside the gate. Mette and Joachim walking into the woods. But Joachim was eight years old! He could never have done anything … so nasty to Mette. I couldn’t believe that.’

‘So that’s why you chose not to tell any adults?’

‘Well…’

‘Until now?’

‘No.’

‘And what do you think today, with all we know about child brutality? I mean, we hear stories on the news – from America and England … The same could happen here. Children copy adults, something they’ve seen in a film, a computer game, heard big boys talking about … and then they accidentally kill someone of their own age.’

He looked at me, desperate. ‘But then surely they would have found her? Wouldn’t they? He couldn’t have hidden her!’

‘You’ve thought the thought. Admit it!’

At once tears came into his eyes. ‘She was so small. She wouldn’t have understood anything. And she came back of course.’

‘The first time, yes. But can you be sure he didn’t take her many times? Or at least one more time.’

‘No …’ he said at length, so low it was almost inaudible.

‘Well … I’ll ask him, of course. I’ll have to.’

‘Don’t say…’ He didn’t complete the sentence.

‘That it was you who told me? I’m afraid he’ll know. The alternative would have to be Janne. She’s married and lives in England, by the way.’

He wasn’t interested. ‘Right.’ Then he grabbed the snow shovel and lifted it demonstratively into the air. ‘I have no time for this any longer. I have to do my job.’

I nodded. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve told me. It’s been very useful.’

‘Don’t tell Mum what I’ve said.’

‘No, no. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

He threw me a sceptical glance, as though he didn’t believe me, but feared I would go back to Bergen and tell her everything anyway, holding nothing back.

Then he nodded sullenly, took the shovel and went on his way.

For my part, I discovered I had lots of time on my hands before my departure. I followed a sign pointing to Fjellstua and ended up there, at the top of Mount Aksla with a panoramic view over the town, the fjord and the islands. From Mount Sukkertoppen to Okseblåsen, or whatever the narrow rock formation in the north was called. Afterwards I went down the steps to Byparken, crossed Hellebroa Bridge and arrived at the same eatery I had visited ten years ago, to see whether the klippfisk dish they served was as good as back then. It was.

With the taste from Sjøbua restaurant on my palate I caught the airport bus to Vigra, and from there the evening flight back to Bergen. From Flesland Airport I took a taxi directly to Nygårdsparken. The driver watched long after I went through the gates from Parkveien. He probably had his own ideas about what I was doing, and that was fine
by me. I had no more time to lose. Someone had waited long enough as it was and we had never been closer to the answer than now. I could see them, walking together into the woods, Joachim and Mette, Mette and Joachim. Two small children on their way to … what? That was what I had to find out. It was now or never.

Wandering over Flagghaugen in Nygårdsparken after the onset of darkness was not something anyone would do with a light heart. On the other hand, it was much quieter there now than earlier in the day. Most of the druggies who had a fixed abode had already gathered all the ampoules they needed for the day, and they would hardly be expecting someone with a tempting wallet to appear so late at night. Others had rolled out their sleeping bags to spend the March night under the stars or under a rhododendron bush. I didn’t envy them.

I peered between the bushes and trees, where I saw them sitting in huddles, and said gently: ‘Joachim! Joachim Bringeland! Are you there?’

Only mumbled negative responses came back until, at the fourth or fifth attempt, a high-pitched voice squeaked: ‘Try down at Tiny’s. That’s where he’s staying for the moment…’

‘So you haven’t seen him here?’

‘Not for a few hours, no,’ came the answer from the rhododendrons.

‘Thank you.’

I went down to Jonas Reins gate and tried the front door of Tiny’s hostel again. This time the door marked OFFICE. RECEPTION was ajar … I knocked so hard that the door swung open. Through the crack I met the dark eyes of Tiny sitting behind his rickety desk with an open can of beer beside him and a half-eaten kebab installation, like a failed work of art, over today’s edition of
Bergensavisen
.

He belched quietly and beckoned me in. ‘Veum, wasn’t it?’

‘Yep,’ I said.

‘Jokken?’

‘You have a good memory.’

‘Never forget a fizog. Handy facility to have in this line of business, to know who you can trust and who you can’t.’

‘Are you telling me you can trust me?’

‘I only said I remembered you.’ He smirked and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. He hadn’t lost any weight since I was last here, and God knows if he had changed his shirt in the few days that had passed. The one he was wearing was definitely the same filthy yellow colour.

‘Is Joachim in?’

‘He is –
I think
. He made an appearance an hour ago anyway, seemed pretty happy, so just go on up two floors and try the first door to the right. If he doesn’t open up, try the door. If it’s locked you’d better come down and tell me, and I’ll give you a hand.’

I thanked him and followed his instructions. There was no need to do any fetching. Joachim was in. He didn’t open up, in fact, but when I tried the door, it was unlocked and when I went in he was sitting on a chair with an elastic band around his arm and a used syringe on the floor beside him, his head lolling back, his eyes glazed and probably beyond all communication for the next couple of hours.

I checked his pulse, but it felt relatively normal. He was breathing regularly and when I touched him he could focus well enough to recognise me, so perhaps it wasn’t going to take quite so long after all.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he mumbled before closing his eyes fully again, as if to avoid the sight of me.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ I said, looking around.

The room was Spartan: an unmade bed, a low table, two chairs, a sink and a worktop with a hotplate. At the back a door led to what I assumed was a toilet, in the best-case scenario a bathroom, or perhaps just a rear staircase. Scattered across the floor were various used syringes, empty boxes, an overflowing ashtray someone had apparently tried to set fire to and a well-used pipe. On the floor beside the chair he was sitting in was a pile of newspapers and magazines. There were no pictures on the walls, no books, there was no stereo and there was no TV. Joachim Bringeland lived his life in a monotonous rhythm, within the outer
limits of Bergen Shopping Centre and Nygårdsparken, making sporadic forays to Torgallmenningen, where his main aim was to beg enough capital for the day’s dose and otherwise keep his head above water. It was difficult to see him as the eight-year-old, active, somewhat domineering friend who had tried to entice Håkon Misvær into the woods with his little sister, Janne, and who himself had taken Mette at least once in 1977.

On the hotplate was a well-worn coffee jug and on the table next to it a jar of instant coffee. I filled the jug with water from the tap over the sink, put the jug on the hotplate and switched on the electricity. It didn’t take long to boil and I was soon able to serve us a mug each of gourmet coffee, Nescafé Gold-style. Gradually I managed to resuscitate him, pour coffee down him and establish a kind of contact. He swung his head and his eyes roamed, but every so often he focussed on me, as though he no longer remembered who I was or what I was doing there.

‘I spoke to you a few days ago,’ I said loudly, staring hard at him. ‘About the Mette Case.’

That made him focus his eyes once again, and this time he held on, at least for a while. ‘The Mette Case…’

‘Yes, and now I know a great deal more than I did then. So now I want you to tell me word for word what took place between Mette and you that time in September 1977.’

‘September…?’ He thrust his eyes open. ‘When she disappeared, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘N-n-nothing. I know nothing about it. I told you that last time we spoke … didn’t I?’

‘Yes, but you were lying.’

‘Eh? Lying? Me? About what?’

‘I could reel off all the things you didn’t tell me. What you and Håkon saw on New Year’s Eve 1976, for example.’

‘Ha! So Håkon cracked, did he? Where the hell did you find the twat? On FC Brann’s rubbish heap?’

‘Somewhere else. And he also told me how you went into the woods with Mette one summer’s day that year to try it yourself, as you put it.’

‘He’s got a memory like an elephant, hasn’t he? I can barely remember where I was this morning.’

‘A different place from here?’

‘Oh, shut up!’

I followed his advice, for a while. He sat staring angrily into the air with the empty mug between his hands.

‘More coffee?’

He nodded and passed me the mug. I took it to the hotplate, poured instant coffee and more hot water in, repeated the ritual with my cup and returned to the table. I gave him the mug, he nodded thank you, raised it to his mouth and drank a mouthful, which must have made the skin inside flinch with pain. But he didn’t turn a hair.

He had gone into the woods with Mette. She held his hand, as though he were her father. He felt almost proud, but at the same time he had a feeling in his stomach – of tension, excitement, which he couldn’t yet give a name…

She was wearing a blue jumper and light-blue trousers with braces, and her blonde hair shone in the summer sun. They hadn’t got very far before she asked for the chocolate he had promised her. ‘Just a bit farther,’ he said. ‘Over here.’

He had decided on the place earlier. Through the woods, down into a hollow with moss on the ground, and there … there he would do exactly what the architect man had done to his mother that night six months before.

‘Here, Mette…’

She looked up at him in hope.

‘But it’s got to be a secret.’

She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes.’

‘Lie down on your back first. And close your eyes!’

She looked at him slyly, as though she liked such secrets. And she did exactly what he said, lay down on her back and screwed her eyes shut. He crept over to her, loosened the belt on his trousers and opened them
at the front. He pulled her braces down over her shoulders and was placing his hands on her trousers to pull them down when it happened.

A steely hand grabbed him by the neck, squeezed and lifted him until he was hanging and wriggling in the air above the terrified girl, who had now opened her eyes and was watching what was going on, her mouth agape.

‘What on earth are you doing, boy?’ he heard a man’s voice say in his ears, but he didn’t dare turn around to see who it was.

He just whimpered in protest. ‘I wasn’t going to!’

Then he was hurled to the side, so hard that he fell against a tree trunk, hit his shoulder so hard he had bruises for more than a week afterwards, and fell to the ground. When he did finally dare to raise his eyes he saw the adult man bend down, pick Mette up and brush off all the debris from the forest floor. While he patted her softly on the head with one hand he took out something wrapped in pale-yellow paper and held it in front of her.

Mette looked up at him and the corners of her lips curled. Then she stretched out a hand and said: ‘Chocolate!’ She put one piece in her mouth and munched while looking up at the tall man and grinning with brown chocolate on her front teeth.

The man turned to Joachim, who was still sitting against the tree root where he had fallen, stunned and resting. The man glared at him and his eyes flashed as he said: ‘Don’t you ever do this again! If I catch you one more time I’ll take you to the police and you’ll be put in prison for the rest of your life, do you understand me?’

When he didn’t answer, the man repeated himself, in an even firmer tone: ‘Do you understand me?’

Then he nodded. ‘Yes. I’ll never do it again…’

‘Good. So let’s forget all about this, shall we?’ The man turned to Mette again and stretched out a hand. ‘Come on!’

Just as she had innocently followed Joachim here, she walked back hand in hand with the tall man.

Joachim sat where he was, as quiet as a mouse, until long after they had gone. When he returned to the yard a bit later and carefully opened
the gate, Mette was in the sandpit playing with Janne, as though nothing had happened.

Finished with telling his story, Joachim sat with the cup of coffee to his mouth, perhaps wishing he could hide behind it. Nevertheless, a calmer expression had spread across his face now, as if getting the story off his chest after so many years had given him peace of mind.

Then he turned to me. ‘But this was mid-summer. This was long before the day she disappeared. That day I was in my room all the time. I swear to you!’

I nodded thoughtfully. ‘And this adult man, have you seen him since?’

‘Both before and after!’

‘Oh?’

‘It was Langemann!’

‘Langemann?’

‘We called him that because he was so long. He was the pedo who used to visit Eivind and Else.’

‘Jesper Janevik?’

‘Yes…’