Then the world stopped. A great lump of a man wearing a beret passed the window. He stared at Goose fumbling with his zip.
Gunnar gave a deep, despairing groan.
‘Shit, that’s the owner! That’s the shop-owner!’
He tore open the door, we saw Goose turn, then he was lost to view in the arms of the giant and hoisted up to the ceiling. We saw him scream. Goose screamed like in a silent film and then the comic appeared, a Davy Crockett comic costing fifty øre.
We began to retreat slowly towards Holtegata, cool, without panic, sprinted round the corner, held our breath and waited for Goose.
‘Quite an evenin’,’ Seb said.
‘Shut up!’ said Gunnar.
We listened for sirens. The whole town was dead still.
‘What did he want with a D-D-Davy Crockett magazine?’ Ola mumbled.
Then he appeared. He stumbled out and fell on all fours on the pavement. A voice was cursing and swearing inside the shop. Goose struggled to his feet and teetered alongside the wall like a sick dog. We dragged him into safety round the corner.
‘What happened?’ we asked.
He just shook his head. Shit, the state he was in. His cheeks were burning after the slaps. His lip was split, a trail of blood ran down his chin. His velveteen jacket was half off.
‘What happened for Christ’s sake?’
He was crying without tears. Just hiccupping again and again.
‘He said he would tell my parents and the school,’ he managed to say.
‘Did you give him your name?’
He hid his face in his hands.
‘Bastard,’ Seb snarled. ‘Bastard shop-owner!’
‘He just said that to frighten you,’ I said.
‘I might be expelled,’ Goose hiccupped.
‘For nickin’ a Davy Crockett comic! Like hell you will!’
He began to sob again. It sounded bad, as if he were coughing up barbed wire.
‘It’ll be alright,’ I consoled, patting him on the shoulder.
His eyes met mine. He sent me an almost hateful look. Then his eyes drowned in fresh tears, they streamed down his cheeks.
There was a rank smell coming from somewhere. We looked down. The crease was gone from Goose’s trousers for good. A big wet stain ran down his thigh.
He left. Goose waddled down the street bow-legged. The sobs sounded like explosions to us. And at some point he stopped under a street lamp, just stood there shrieking, and the light enveloped him, a dazzling, yellow circle.
The day afterwards we met Goose on the way to school. He was coming up Frognerveien. We waited by the bakery.
He walked right past us.
We pursued and surrounded him.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
He looked at us with vacant eyes. His mouth was narrow and pink. He swallowed. His pointed Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
‘He didn’t ring.’
‘Danger over!’ Gunnar shouted, taking his arm.
‘Perhaps he’ll ring the school,’ Goose mumbled.
‘Not if he hasn’t rung your home,’ I said. ‘That’s for sure!’
‘He said he would be in touch,’ Goose mumbled. ‘That’s what he said. That I would be hearing from him.’
Goose had a physics oral that day. He was hopeless. No one could believe their ears except for Gunnar and me. Goose collapsed on his desk.
‘Are you ill?’ the teacher asked in a friendly tone.
Goose didn’t answer.
Then Big Mouth was tested and as usual that took the rest of the lesson. I kept an eye on Goose. He was completely out of it. Kept casting glances at the door as if waiting for the cops to storm in with handcuffs and leg irons.
In the break we took him to one side.
‘Nothin’ to be nervous about now,’ I said. ‘If he’s said nothin’ so far, he won’t say anythin’ at all.’
‘He said perhaps,’ Goose whispered.
‘Well, so what?’
‘Perhaps he’ll ring tomorrow.’
‘Unlikely to w-w-wait that long!’
‘Must’ve forgotten the whole business already,’ said Seb.
But it was to no avail. Fear was engraved in his eyes. The next lesson was Norwegian. Kerr’s Pink, as usual, used the opportunity to tell us about Petter Dass and read out from Nordlands Trompet. All of a sudden Sandpaper was standing in the doorway. We jumped up, straightened our backs and hung our arms down by our sides, everyone, that is, except Goose. He wouldn’t stand up. He lay across his desk breathing like a baleen whale. The headteacher entered the classroom, pointed to Goose and said, ‘What’s up with you, boy?’
Was he crying? There were strange sounds coming from him, his neck was wet. Kerr’s Pink was down by his desk and lifted him up.
‘Christian, what is it?’
Goose’s cheeks were streaming.
‘I didn’t mean to,’ Goose hiccupped.
‘What was that?’
‘I didn’t mean to!’
Sandpaper laid a hand on his brow.
‘You’re feverish, boy!’ He said, rolling his ‘r’s. ‘We’ll have to send you home.’
Kerr’s Pink packed Goose’s rucksack and helped him out of the classroom. We were still standing to attention, no one understood a thing except Gunnar and me. We were just about to relax when Sandpaper swivelled on the threshold and roared from under the steely moustache, ‘What I was going to say was: You are forbidden to leave the school grounds in any of the breaks except the lunch break. Have you understood? Forbidden!’
The door was slammed shut after them. We heard Goose sobbing outside in the corridor. Kerr’s Pink kept asking him what the matter was, what he didn’t mean, but Goose said nothing.
He didn’t come back to school that week. And by the following Wednesday he hadn’t turned up, either. In the evening we sat in front of the priest collecting mildew. Of course I continued, but Seb dropped out and got his presents regardless. Gunnar also hinted that he might stop, but we convinced him that The Snafus’s future was at stake. So we were listening to the priest, he was explaining the miracles, when in came Goose. He was almost unrecognisable, he had shrunk to half his size, he was an apple core, chewed over and spat out. He took a seat near the door without looking at us. His mouth kept going up and down, but not a sound emerged.
‘Talkin’ to himself,’ I whispered to Gunnar.
He sat like that until the lesson was over, chuntering silently, licking his lips, then chuntering again. He was the first through the door. We grabbed our clothes and ran after him. We caught up with him by Norum Hotel.
‘Heard anythin’?’ I ask
He shook his head.
‘Then you’re definitely safe,’ Gunnar smiled, offering a Teddy. Goose refused.
‘You’ve been pretty lucky!’ I said.
He looked me in the eye. Hardly recognised him.
‘He might ring next week,’ he said.
‘Now just listen here!’ Gunnar was beginning to get annoyed. ‘If he hasn’t rung by now, he won’t ring! Why would he wait such a long time, eh?’
Goose moistened his lips.
‘To… to punish me.’
Things went downhill for Goose. He came back to school and sat silently at his desk, chuntering. His jaw was going like a piston. We speculated until we were pink in the face about what he was actually saying. One Saturday after school we were at Gunnar’s, chatting, it was November and Goose seemed to be lost for ever.
‘Think he’s gone completely loopy,’ Seb said. ‘Couldn’t take the shock.’
A shudder went down my spine.
Gunnar smacked his hands on the floor.
‘He must know that bastard won’t ring now! It’s over a month ago!’
We sat in silence thinking. I thought about Davy Crockett and the hat I had once had with the long furry tail.
‘I’m not goin’ to be confirmed,’ Gunnar said out of the blue.
‘What!’ we all yelled
at once. ‘What d’you mean by that?’
‘Can’t do it,’ he said.
‘Can’t!’ I shouted. ‘How come?
‘Can’t do it if I don’t believe a bloody word of it.’
‘Will you get the p-p-presents anyway?’ Ola enquired.
Gunnar shook his head.
I grabbed his shirt.
‘We agreed on this, didn’t we. We’re not gettin’ confirmed because we believe, but because we need the instruments for The Snafus!’
‘How are you gonna get an electric g-g-guitar then?’
‘Work for my dad.’
‘That’ll take you ten years!’ I yelled.
‘Can’t help that,’ Gunnar mumbled.
‘Yes, you can! Why can’t you get confirmed like everyone else? Do you think anyone else believes?’
‘Can’t do it. Can’t kneel down. Just can’t.’
‘So you’ve decided?’
‘Yes. Dad’s written to the priest.’
That was that. The future of The Snafus was teetering on the brink.
‘Perhaps we’ll have to find another guitarist,’ I said.
Dead silence. Gunnar fidgeted with his nails. Ola scratched his neck. Seb stared out of the window.
‘Perhaps you will,’ Gunnar said. His voice was cold and indifferent.
Then we heard a hell of a rumpus in the sitting room. Doors were slammed, feet were stamped, a lamp was knocked over, it was a veritable earth tremor.
‘You’re havin’ a haircut and that’s it!’ shrieked the greengrocer.
No answer.
‘D’you hear what I say! You’re havin’ a haircut! And today!’
No answer.
The father’s voice rose to a frightening falsetto.
‘Are you tryin’ to kill your mother?’
‘Relax,’ said Stig. ‘Jesus had long hair, too.’
Wow. I would remember that one. Better than Rudolf Nureyev.
The father was trying to say something but only noise came out. A door slammed and the room shook. A little later Stig joined us.
‘Don’t panic, boys. Chief ’s just blown a gasket.’
He had his hair well down over his ears and the fringe combed to the side so that it reached his cheek. And he was wearing a leather jacket, suede boots and striped flares. Stood with a grin on his face and was in control of the situation.
‘Great what you said to the priest,’ he said, pointing to Seb.
Seb blushed with pride.
‘Bastard American priests bless the troops,’ he went on. ‘Jesus wouldn’t have done, that’s for sure.’
We nodded. Of course not.
Stig eyed us, one after the other.
‘Weren’t thinkin’ of wastin’ the whole day here, were you!’
We shrugged.
‘Electricity workers are on an anti-Vietnam War demo!’
We trotted behind Stig down to Solli. Gunnar walked apart from us, looking grumpy, didn’t say a word. I felt such a pull in my stomach, a backwash, I felt a void inside and it hurt. Felt like saying I didn’t mean what I had said about looking for another guitarist, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. Just couldn’t do it.
‘Great turnout!’ Stig shouted, pointing.
Sommerrogata was packed. There must have been several hundred people, maybe a thousand. Hardly room for everyone. Some carried big placards: VIETNAM FOR THE VIETNAMESE. STOP THE TERROR BOMBING. PEACE IN VIETNAM NOW. The torches flickered in the dark, lighting up faces.
‘Have to go,’ Stig said. ‘Got to carry a banner.’
He was about to go, then remembered something.
‘Have you heard The Beatles might be splittin’ up?’
We forgot to breathe.
‘Pal in my class told me. Read it in English newspapers.’
‘Split up? The Beatles?’
‘Arguin’. Have to be off. See you.’
He waved his long arms and made his way through the crowd. We stood on the perimeter by the tram lines, unable to say a word, looked past each other. Numbed by the shouts from the crowd. On the other side of the street stood a group whistling and laughing, recognised them, the silk gang from Vestheim, Ky and Anders Lange. The Beatles? Splitting up? Someone started talking into a microphone. We couldn’t hear what he said. All of a sudden everyone streamed down Drammensveien chanting in rhythm, chanting in rhythm. Four figures were left behind, us, gaping at the procession meandering ahead, flags unfurled in the wind, banners and placards aloft with the big black letters, torches. We heard the tinkle of glass, a bottle was smashed, someone screamed and fighting broke out near the Chamber of Commerce building. Thick smoke rose from the ground, burned in our nostrils.
We stood in the empty square gawking.
The Beatles.
A thing of the past?
December, no snow, just clear, silvery cold. And the backwash was there all the time, just as when the ferry from Denmark passes Nesodden hugging the coastline and leaving in its wake a load of filth, rotting seaweed, bottles, paper, condoms. I was like that. The backwash had me in its grip. The faces stared down at me from the walls, couldn’t get away from them. In the end I could stand it no longer. I tore down all the pictures and put them in a drawer. The bare wallpaper mocked me. Splitting up? Mum appeared in the doorway, broke into wild clapping and called Dad. Eventually he came and was speechless with pleasure, contemplating the walls as though they were the National Gallery.
‘Well done, Kim,’ said my mother. ‘They needed to come down before the confirmation anyway.’
Put them back up that same night, lay awake between the estranged eyes. Sudden flash of Nina. The Danish ferry sailed past and dragged my heart into space. That was certain at any rate. Would never look in her direction again, even if she crawled on all fours, crying and remonstrating, no way, that was over and done with. I heard Jensenius on his nocturnal peregrinations, the shuffle of feet above my head. It could not be true. The Beatles splitting up. Hadn’t spoken to Gunnar since that day. Seb was almost never around, nor Ola, who was swotting for German and maths. And Goose, he just got worse and worse. Chuntering on. To himself. He didn’t follow in lessons. Couldn’t do his homework. Wandered around like a ghost. The girls were almost afraid of him. Like with Dragon. The backwash. If Hubert had been at home I might have asked him. He would know about that sort of thing. But Hubert was in Paris, with Henny.
Sleep.
One day we found out what Goose was saying. In the lunch break Ola came running across the school yard. We were in the shed freezing cold and shivering, not speaking. Gunnar was doing his physics homework, Seb was lost in dreams.
‘B-b-boys!’ Ola yelled. ‘B-b-boys!’
We looked up. Gunnar closed his book.
‘B-b-boys! I’ve been to the bog!’
‘You don’t say,’ Seb said. ‘Everythin’ alright?’ Seb was in sparkling form.
Ola re-discovered his vocal cords.
‘I’ve been to the b-b-bog. And I heard some s-s-sounds from one of the cubicles!’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes. And it was Goose! He was in there r-r-ramblin’ on. And do you know what! He was p-p-prayin’!’
‘Eh?’
‘Goose was p-p-prayin’.’
‘To God?’
‘Yes! The whole of Our Father. And there was loads m-m-more! He was standin’ in the cubicle p-p-prayin’.’
The bell rang.
Backwash.
Goose had gone nuts.
Mum and Dad would not give up. They wanted me to take down the pictures. I refused. They wanted me to have a haircut. I refused. Had had a haircut for the first and last time before we went to the theatre. Mum began to cry. Dad slammed doors like Gunnar’s father. It was war. It was Revolver. Almost refused a meal. But I was just thinking about Goose, that I had to talk to him, and one freezing cold Friday I waylaid him in Gyldenløvesgate on his way home from school.
‘Hiya, Christian,’ I said, slowing down beside him.
He gave a curt nod. His rucksack looked so big on him, like a hump.
‘You’re a jammy bugger!’ I said quickly.
‘Jammy?’
‘Yes! The man didn’t report you!’
Goose stared at me with that sallow look I couldn’t stand.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
I became heated.
‘You were lucky he didn’t ring!’
I sent him a quick glance.
‘He didn’t, did he?’
Goose shivered.
‘Not yet,’ he said.
That evening I couldn’t sit still. Thought about going to Gunnar’s but went round to Seb’s instead. He opened the door with a jerk, looking pretty disappointed to see me there.
‘Waitin’ for Father Christmas or what?’
He took me to his room. From the sitting room we heard low but animated voices. Then a door slammed and someone ran out.
‘Everyone’s slammin’ doors at the moment,’ I said.
Seb nodded. He looked dejected.
‘Gunnar’s father,’ I continued. ‘My father. Everyone’s slammin’ doors. Wonder how Ola’s gettin’ on.’
‘Slam doors there, too,’ said Seb. ‘Ola was given a letter to take home. Have to repeat the year if he doesn’t improve in German and maths.’
‘Shit on all sides,’ I said. ‘Piles and piles of it!’
The record player was silent. The sitting room had gone quiet. Could start to snow at any moment. Just two weeks to go to confirmation.
‘You think The Beatles’ll split up?’ I whispered.
‘Dunno. Maybe. Don’t think so, though.’
Seb seemed a little on edge.
‘What’ll happen to The Snafus, eh? If Gunnar doesn’t get a guitar?’
‘Have to work out what to play first, anyway,’ Seb said. ‘Write our own songs and stuff.’
I swallowed and said, ‘Think Goose has gone mad?’
Seb gave a brief smile.
‘Looks like it.’