‘I’m here about Gustavo King . . .’
Fuck.
‘Can I come in?’
As I considered his request I looked at the bulge in the left-hand side of his tweed jacket. A large pistol. Maybe that was why he was wearing such a big jacket.
‘Just to clear things up,’ he said. ‘The Fisherman insists.’
Refusing to let him in would have looked suspicious. And pointless.
‘Of course,’ I said, opening the door. ‘Coffee?’
‘I only drink tea.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t got any tea.’
He pushed his fringe to one side. The nail on his forefinger was long. ‘I didn’t say I wanted any, Mr Hansen, just that that is what I drink. Is this the living room? Please, after you.’
I went in, shoved some copies of Mad and a few Mingus and Monica Zetterlund albums off one of the chairs and sat down. He sank down on the wrecked springs of the sofa next to the guitar. Sank so low that he had to move the empty vodka bottle on the table to see me properly. And get a clear line of fire.
‘Mr Gustavo King’s body was found yesterday,’ he said. ‘But not in Bunnefjorden, where you told the Fisherman you’d dumped it. The only thing that matched was that he had a bullet in his head.’
‘Shit, has the body been moved? Where . . .?’
‘Salvador, in Brazil.’
I nodded slowly.
‘Who . . .?’
‘Me,’ he said, sticking his right hand inside his jacket. ‘With this.’ It wasn’t a pistol, it was a revolver. Big, black, and nasty. And the Valium had worn off. ‘The day before yesterday. He was definitely alive up to then.’
I carried on nodding slowly. ‘How did you find him?’
‘When you sit in a bar in Salvador every night boasting about how you managed to make a fool out of the drugs king of Norway, the drugs king of Norway is going to find out about it sooner or later.’
‘Silly of him.’
‘But having said that, we’d have found him anyway.’
‘Even if you believed he was dead?’
‘The Fisherman never stops looking for his debtors until he sees the corpse. Never.’ Johnny’s thin lips curled into a hint of a smile. ‘And the Fisherman always finds what he’s looking for. You and I may not know how, but he knows. Always. That’s why he’s called the Fisherman.’
‘Did Gustavo say anything before you—?’
‘Mr King confessed everything. That’s why I shot him in the head.’
‘What?’
Johnny Moe made a gesture as if to shrug his shoulders, but it was barely visible in his outsized suit. ‘I gave him the option of quick or drawn out. If he didn’t lay his cards on the table, it would be drawn out. I’m assuming that you, as a fixer, are aware of the effects of a well-placed shot to the gut. Stomach acid in the spleen and liver . . .’
I nodded. Even if I had no idea what he was talking about, I did have a certain amount of imagination.
‘The Fisherman wanted me to give you the same choice.’
‘If I c-c-confess?’ My teeth were chattering.
‘If you give us back the money and drugs that Mr King stole from the Fisherman, which you received half of.’
I nodded. The disadvantage of the Valium wearing off was that I was terrified, and it’s seriously fucking painful being terrified. The advantage was that I was actually capable of a degree of thought. And it occurred to me that this was a direct copy of the attack-at-dawn scenario with me and Gustavo. So how about me copying Gustavo?
‘We can split it,’ I said.
‘Like you and Gustavo did?’ Johnny said. ‘So you end up like him, and me like you? No, thanks.’ He brushed his fringe aside. His fingernail scratched the skin on his forehead. Put me in mind of an eagle’s claw. ‘Quick or drawn out, Mr Hansen?’
I swallowed. Think, think. But instead of a solution, all I saw was my life – my choices, my bad choices – passing by. As I sat there quietly I heard a diesel engine, voices, untroubled laughter outside the window. The dustbin men. Why hadn’t I become a dustbin man? Honest toil, clearing up, serving society, and going home happy. Alone, but at least I could have gone to bed with a degree of satisfaction. Hang on. Bed. Maybe . . .
‘I’ve got the money and gear in the bedroom,’ I said.
‘Let’s go.’
We stood up.
‘Please,’ he said, waving the revolver. ‘Age before beauty.’
As we walked the few steps through the corridor to the bedroom I visualised how it would happen. I would go over to the bed with him behind me, grab the pistol. I’d turn round, not look at his face, and fire. Simple. It was him or me. I just mustn’t look at his face.
We were there. I headed towards the bed. Grabbed the pillow. Grabbed the pistol. Spun round. His mouth had fallen open. Eyes wide. He knew he was going to die. I fired.
That’s to say, I meant to fire. Every fibre of my being wanted to fire. Had fired. With the exception of my right forefinger. It had happened again.
He raised his revolver and aimed it at me. ‘That was silly of you, Mr Hansen.’
Not silly, I thought. Getting the money for treatment just a week or two after the illness had progressed so far that it was too late, that was silly. Mixing Valium and vodka was silly. But not managing to shoot when your own life is in the balance, that’s a genetic disability. I was an evolutionary aberration, and the future of humanity would only be served by my immediate extinction.
‘Head shot or stomach?’
‘Head,’ I said, and went over to the wardrobe. I got out the brown case containing the money belt and the bags of amphetamine. I turned to face him. Saw his eye above the sights of the revolver, the other one screwed shut, the eagle’s claw curled round the trigger. For a moment I wondered what he was waiting for before I realised. The dustbin men. He didn’t want them to hear the shot when they were standing right under the window.
Right under the window.
First floor.
Thin glass.
Perhaps my Darwinian creator hadn’t deserted me after all, because as I twisted round and ran the three steps towards the window there was just one thought in my head: survival.
I can’t swear that the details of what followed are entirely correct, but I think I was holding the case – or the pistol – in front of me as I penetrated and shattered the glass as if it were a soap bubble, and the next moment I was falling through the air. I hit the roof of the bin lorry with my left shoulder, rolled over, felt the sun-warmed metal against my stomach, then I slid down the side of the vehicle until my naked feet hit the ground and I was down on the tarmac.
The voices had fallen silent, and two men in brown overalls stood there frozen to the spot, just staring. I pulled up my pyjama trousers, which had slid down, and grabbed the case and pistol. I glanced up at my window. Behind a frame of broken glass, Johnny was standing looking down at me.
I nodded at him.
He gave me a crooked smile and raised the forefinger with the long nail to his forehead. A gesture which in hindsight has come to seem like a sort of salute: I had won that round. But we would meet again.
Then I turned and began to run down the street in the low morning sun.
Mattis was right.
This landscape, this tranquillity, was doing something to me.
I had spent years living on my own in Oslo, but after just three days here the isolation felt like a sort of pressure, a quiet sobbing, a thirst that neither water nor moonshine could sate. So as I stared out across the empty plateau with the grey, overcast sky above it, and no sign of the reindeer, I looked at the time.
The wedding. I had never been to a wedding before. What does that say about a thirty-five-year-old bloke? Friendless? Or simply the wrong friends, the sort of friends no one wanted, let alone wanted to marry?
So yes, I checked my reflection in the bucket of water, brushed my jacket down, tucked the pistol in my waistband at the small of my back, and set of
f towards Kåsund.
CHAPTER 7
I’D GOT FAR enough to be able to see the village below me when the church bells started to ring again. I speeded up. It had got colder. Maybe because it was cloudy. Maybe because the summer can come to an end up here quite suddenly.
There wasn’t a soul in sight, but there were several cars parked on the gravel road in front of the church, and I could hear organ music inside. Did that mean that the bride was on her way to the altar, or was it just part of the warm-up? Like I said, I’d never seen a wedding before. I looked at the parked cars, to see if she was sitting in one of them waiting to make her entrance. I noticed that the number plates all had a Y at the front, to indicate that they were from Finnmark. All apart from one, a big, black station wagon that had no letter before the number. From Oslo.
I went up the steps to the church and cautiously opened the door. The few pews were full, but I crept in and found a place on the one at the back. The organ music paused, and I looked ahead. I couldn’t see any bridal couple, so at least I was going to catch the whole thing. I could see a number of Sámi jackets in front of me, but not as many as I’d expected to see at a Sámi wedding. On the front pew I could see the backs of two heads I recognised. Knut’s unruly red hair, and Lea’s shimmering black cascade of locks. Hers was partially covered by a veil. From where I was sitting I couldn’t see much, but presumably the bridegroom was sitting up at the front near the altar with his best man, waiting for the bride. There was a bit of murmuring and coughing and crying. There was something rather appealing about such a reserved, sombre congregation that was still so easily moved on behalf of the bridal couple.
Knut turned round and looked at the gathering. I tried to catch his eye, but he didn’t see me, or at least didn’t return my smile.
The organ started up again, and the congregation joined in with astonishing gusto. ‘Nearer, my God, to Thee . . .’
Not that I knew much about hymns, but that one struck me as an odd choice for a wedding. And I had never heard it sung so slowly. The congregation stretched out all the vowels to breaking point: ‘Nearer to Thee, e’en though it be a cross that raiseth me.’
After something like five verses I closed my eyes. Possibly out of sheer boredom, but possibly because of the feeling of security from being among a crowd after so many days of watchfulness. Either way: I fell asleep.
And woke up to the strains of a southern accent.
I wiped the drool from the corners of my mouth. Perhaps someone had nudged me on my bad shoulder – it was aching, anyway. I rubbed my eyes. Saw little yellow crusts of sleep on my fingertips. I squinted. The man speaking in a southern accent up at the front had glasses and thin, colourless hair, and he was wearing the cassock I had slept under.
‘. . . but he was also someone who had weaknesses,’ he said. Weaknesses. ‘The sort we all have. He was a man who was capable of fleeing from confrontation when he had sinned, who lost his bearings and hoped problems would simply vanish if he stayed out of the way long enough. But we all know that we can’t hide from the punishment of the Lord, that He will always find us. But he is also one of Jesus’s lost sheep, one who has strayed from the flock, one whom Jesus Christ wants to rescue and save with his mercy if the sinner prays for the forgiveness of the Lord when death comes.’
This wasn’t a wedding sermon. Nor was there any bridal couple at the altar. I sat up in the pew and craned my neck. And then I saw it, right in front of the altar. A large coffin.
‘Even so, perhaps he was hoping to forget his past when he set out on his last journey. That his debts would expire, that a line would be drawn under his sins without him having to pay. But he was gathered in, the way we shall all be.’
I glanced at the exit. Two men were standing on either side of the door with their hands folded in front of them. They were both staring at me. Black suits. Fixers’ outfits. The station wagon from Oslo outside. I had been tricked. Mattis had been sent up to the cabin to lure me from my stronghold and down into the village. To a funeral.
‘And that is why we stand here today with this empty coffin . . .’
My funeral. An empty coffin waiting for me.
Sweat broke out on my forehead. What was their plan, how was it going to happen? Were they going to wait until the ceremony was over, or was I going to be despatched in here, in front of everyone?
I slipped one hand behind me and made sure that the pistol was there. Should I try to shoot my way out? Or cause a scene, stand up and point at the pair by the door, shouting that they were killers from Oslo, sent by a drug dealer? But what good would that do if the villagers had come here voluntarily to attend the funeral of a stranger from the south? The Fisherman must have paid the villagers; he had even managed to get Lea to go along with the conspiracy. Or, if what she said was true, and they didn’t pay too much heed to earthly possessions here in the village, maybe the Fisherman’s people had started a rumour about me, saying I was the devil incarnate. God knows how they’d managed it, but I knew I had to get away.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the two fixers turn to the other and mutter something. This was my chance. I grabbed the handle of the pistol and pulled the gun out from my trousers. Stood up. I had to shoot now, before they had time to turn towards me, so I wouldn’t have to see their faces.
‘. . . for Hugo Eliassen, who set out to sea alone even though the weather was bad. To fish for pollock, he said. Or to flee from his unresolved deeds.’
I sat down heavily on the pew again, and tucked the pistol back inside my waistband.
‘We must hope that as a Christian he fell to his knees on his boat and prayed, pleaded for forgiveness, begged to be let into the Kingdom of Heaven. Many of you here knew Hugo better than I did, but the people I have spoken to say that they believe he would have done just that, because he was a God-fearing man, and I trust that Jesus, our shepherd, heard him and brought him back into the flock.’
Only now did I realise how hard my heart was pounding, as if it was going to burst out of my chest.
The congregation began to sing again.
‘The pure and mighty flock.’
Someone handed me an open copy of Landstad’s hymnbook and pointed at the yellowed page with a friendly nod. I joined in with the second verse. Out of sheer relief and gratitude, I thanked providence for letting me live at least a little longer.
I stood outside the church watching the black station wagon drive off with the coffin.
‘Well,’ said an elderly man who had stopped beside me. ‘A watery grave is better than no grave.’
‘Hmm.’
‘You’ll be the one staying in the hunting cabin,’ he said, and looked across at me. ‘So, are you getting any grouse?’
‘Not many.’
‘No, we’d have heard the gun going off,’ he said. ‘Sound carries a long way in weather like this.’
I nodded. ‘Why did the hearse have Oslo number plates?’
‘Oh, that’s just Aronsen, he’s a proper show-off. He bought it down there, I daresay he thinks that makes it look smarter.’
Lea was standing on the church steps with a tall, fair-haired man. The queue of people wishing to convey their condolences had been quickly dealt with. Just before the car was out of sight she called: ‘Well, you’re all welcome to come to ours for coffee. Thank you all for coming, and safe journey home to those not joining us.’
It struck me that there was something strangely familiar about the image of her standing next to that man, as if I had seen it before. There was a gust of wind and the tall man swayed slightly.
‘Who’s that standing next to the widow?’ I asked.
‘Ove? He’s the deceased’s brother.’
Of course. The wedding photograph. That must have been taken in exactly the same place, on the steps of the church.
‘Twin brother?’
‘Twins in every way,’ the old man said. ‘So, shall we go and have coffee and cake, then?’
‘Hav
e you seen Mattis?’
‘Which Mattis?’
So there was more than one.
‘Do you mean Drink-Mattis?’
Only one of them, then.
‘He’s probably at Migal’s wedding down in Ceavccageadge today.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Transteinsletta – down by the cod-liver-oil stone.’ He pointed towards the sea, where I remembered seeing the jetty. ‘The heathens worship their false idols down there.’ He shuddered. ‘Shall we go, then?’
In the silence that followed I thought I could hear the distant sound of drums, music. Hubbub. Drinking. Women.
I turned round and saw Lea from behind as she was heading up towards the house. She was clasping Knut’s hand in hers. The dead man’s brother and the others followed at a distance, in a silent procession. I ran my tongue round my mouth, which still felt dry from my nap. From having been so frightened. From all the drinking, perhaps.
‘Some coffee would be good,’ I said.
The house seemed so different when it was full of people.
I nodded my way past people I didn’t know, who followed me with their eyes and unspoken questions. Everyone else seemed to know each other. I found her in the kitchen, where she was slicing cake.
‘Condolences,’ I said.
She looked at my outstretched hand and switched the knife to her left hand. Sun-warmed stones. Firm gaze. ‘Thanks. How are you getting on in the cabin?’
‘Fine, thanks, I’m on my way there now. I just wanted to pass on my sympathies seeing as I didn’t manage to at the church.’
‘You don’t have to leave straight away, Ulf. Have a bit of cake.’
I looked at the cake. I didn’t like cake. Never had. My mother used to say I was an unusual child.
‘Yes, well,’ I said, ‘thanks very much.’
People had started to pour in behind us, so I took the plate and cake into the living room. I ended up over by the window, where, overwhelmed by the intense, silent scrutiny, I peered up at the sky, as if I were worried it was going to start raining.
‘The peace of God.’
I turned round. Apart from a splash of grey at the temples, the man in front of me had her black hair. And her direct, courageous gaze. I didn’t know what to reply. Simply repeating ‘The peace of God’ would have been fake, but ‘Hello’ felt far too informal, almost a bit cheeky. So I ended up with a stiff ‘Good day’, even if it was an unsuitable greeting for such an occasion.