The Redeemer (10 page)

Then a bus did come. It was white and stopped just short of the shelter. The doors opened, but no one got on. Instead a girl came out, wearing a uniform he recognised at once. The Salvation Army. He slowed down.

The girl went over to one of the women and helped her onto the bus. Two men followed.

He stopped and looked up. A coincidence, he thought. That was all. He turned round. And there, on the wall of a small clock tower, he saw three telephones.

Five minutes later he had called Zagreb and told her everything was looking good.

'The final job,' he had repeated.

And Fred had told him that his blue lions, Dinamo Zagreb, were leading 1–0 against Rijeka at Maksimar stadium at half-time.

The conversation had cost him five kroner. The clocks on the tower showed 19.25. The countdown had started.

The group met in the hall belonging to Vestre Aker church.

The snowdrifts were high on both sides of the gravel path leading to the small brick building on the slope beside the cemetery. Fourteen people were seated in a bare meeting hall with plastic chairs piled up against the walls and a long table in the middle. If you had stumbled into the room, you might have guessed it was a general assembly of some cooperative, but nothing about the faces, age, sex or clothes revealed what kind of community this was. The harsh light was reflected in the windowpanes and the lino floor. There was a low mumbling and fidgeting with paper cups. A bottle of Farris mineral water hissed as it was opened.

At seven o'clock on the dot the chattering stopped as a hand at the end of the table was raised and a little bell rang. Eyes turned to a woman in her mid-thirties. She met them with a direct, fearless gaze. She had narrow, severe lips softened with lipstick, long, thick, blonde hair held in place with a clip and large hands that, at this moment, were resting on the table, exuding calm and confidence. She was elegant, meaning she had attractive features but not the grace that would qualify her for what Norwegians termed sweet. Her body language betokened control and strength, which was underlined by the firm voice that filled the chilly room the next minute.

'Hi, my name is Astrid and I'm an alcoholic.'

'Hi, Astrid!' the gathering answered in unison.

Astrid bent the spine of the book in front of her and began to read.

'The sole requirement for AA membership is the desire to stop drinking alcohol.'

She went on, and round the table the lips of those who knew the Twelve Traditions moved by rote. In the breaks, when she paused for breath, you could hear the church choir practising on the floor above.

'Today the theme is the First Step,' Astrid said, 'which runs thus: We admit we are powerless over alcohol, and that our lives have become unmanageable. I can begin, and I will be brief since I consider myself finished with the First Step.'

She drew breath and gave a laconic smile.

'I've been dry for seven years, and the first thing I do when I wake up is to tell myself I'm an alcoholic. My children don't know this. They think Mummy used to get very drunk and stopped drinking because she got so angry when she drank. My life requires an appropriate measure of truth and an appropriate measure of lies to find its equilibrium. I may be going to pieces, but I take one day at a time, avoid the first drink and at present I'm working on the Eleventh Step. Thank you.'

'Thank you, Astrid,' came the response from the assembled members, followed by clapping as the choir sang its praises from the first floor.

She nodded to her left, to a tall man with cropped blond hair.

'Hi, my name is Harry,' said the man in a gravelly voice. The fine network of red veins on his large nose bore witness to a long life out of the ranks of the sober. 'I am an alcoholic.'

'Hi, Harry.'

'I'm new here. This is my sixth meeting. Or seventh. And I haven't finished the First Step. In other words, I know I'm an alcoholic, but I think I can contain my alcoholism. So there is a kind of contradiction in my sitting here. But I came here because of a promise I made to a psychologist, a friend, who has my best interests at heart. He claimed that if I could stand all the chat about God and the spiritual stuff for the first weeks, I would find out it works. Well, I don't know if anonymous alcoholics can help themselves, but I am willing to try. Why not?'

He turned to the left to signal that he had finished. But before the clapping could get under way, it was interrupted by Astrid.

'I suppose this must be the first time you've said anything at our meetings, Harry. So that's nice. But perhaps you'd like to tell us a bit more while you're at it.'

Harry looked at her. The others did, too, as pressurising anyone in the group was a clear breach of the method. Her eyes held his. He had felt them on him in the earlier meetings, but had returned her gaze only once. However, then he had given her the full treatment, a searching look from top to toe and back again. Actually, he had liked what he saw, but what he liked best was when he returned to the top and her face was a great deal redder. And at the next meeting he had been invisible.

'No, I wouldn't, thank you,' Harry said.

Tentative applause.

Harry observed her out of the corner of his eye while his neighbour was talking. After the meeting she asked him where he lived and offered him a lift. Harry hesitated while the choir on the floor above rose in pitch in their eulogy of the Lord.

An hour and a half later they were each smoking a cigarette in silence and watching the smoke add a blue tinge to the bedroom darkness. The damp sheets on Harry's narrow bed were still warm, but the cold in the room had made Astrid pull the thin white duvet right up to her chin.

'That was wonderful,' she said.

Harry didn't answer. He was thinking it probably wasn't a question.

'I came,' she said. 'The first time together. That's not—'

'So your husband's a doctor?' Harry said.

'That's the second time you've asked, and the answer is still yes.'

Harry nodded. 'Can you hear that sound?'

'Which sound?'

'The ticking. Is it your watch?'

'I haven't got a watch. It must be yours.'

'Digital. Doesn't tick.'

She placed a hand on his hip. Harry slipped out of bed. The freezing cold lino burned the soles of his feet. 'Would you like a glass of water?'

'Mmm.'

Harry went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror as he ran the water. What was it she had said? She could see loneliness in his eyes? He leaned forward, but all he could see was a blue iris around small pupils and deltas of veins in the whites. When Halvorsen found out he had split up with Rakel, he said Harry should find solace in other women. Or, as he so poetically put it, screw the melancholy out of his soul. However, Harry had neither the energy nor the will. Because he knew that any woman he touched would turn into Rakel. And that was what he needed to forget, to get her out of his blood, not some sexual methadone treatment.

But he might have been wrong and Halvorsen might have been right. Because it had felt good. It
had
been wonderful. And instead of the empty feeling you got from trying to quench one desire by satisfying another, he felt his batteries recharged. And relaxed at the same time. She had taken what she needed. And he liked the way she had done it. Perhaps it could be as easy as this for him too?

He moved back a step and studied his body in the mirror. He had become leaner in the last year. There was less fat on him, but fewer muscles. He had begun to resemble his father. As one would expect.

He went back to bed with a large half-litre glass, which they shared. Afterwards she snuggled up to him. Her skin was clammy and cold at first, but she soon began to warm him up.

'Now you can tell me,' she said.

'Tell you what?' Harry watched the smoke coil into a letter.

'What's her name? Because it is a
she
, isn't it?'

The letter dissolved.

'She's the reason you came to us.'

'Might be.'

Harry observed the glow eat away at the cigarette as he talked. A little at first. The woman beside him was a stranger, it was dark and the words rose and melted away, and he thought this is what it must be like to sit in a confessional. To unburden yourself. Or to share problems with others, as AA called it. So he continued. He told her about Rakel, who had thrown him out of the house over a year ago because she thought he was obsessed with the hunt for a mole in the police force, the Prince. And about Oleg, her son, who had been snatched from his bedroom and used as a hostage when Harry finally got within shooting distance of the Prince. Oleg had coped well, considering the circumstances of the kidnapping and the fact that he had witnessed Harry killing the kidnapper in a lift in Kampen. It was worse for Rakel. Two weeks later, when she was au fait with all the details, she had told him she could not have him in her life. Or, to be more precise, Oleg's life.

Astrid nodded. 'She left you because of the harm you had done to them?'

Harry shook his head. 'Because of the harm I had not done to them. Yet.'

'Oh?'

'I said the case was closed, but she maintained I was obsessed, that it would never be closed as long as they were still out there.' Harry stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside table. 'And if it wasn't them, I would find others. Other people who could hurt them. She said she could not take that responsibility.'

'Sounds like she's obsessed.'

'No.' Harry smiled. 'She's right.'

'Really? Would you care to amplify?'

Harry shrugged. 'Submarines . . .' he started, but was stopped by a violent coughing fit.

'What did you say about submarines?'

'She said that. That I was a submarine. Going down into the cold, murky depths where you can't breathe and coming up to the surface once every second month. She didn't want to keep me company down there. Reasonable enough.'

'Do you still love her?'

Harry was not sure he liked the direction this problem-sharing was taking. He took a deep breath. In his head he was playing the rest of the last conversation he'd had with Rakel.

His own voice, low, as it tends to be when he is angry or frightened:
'Submarine?'

Rakel: 'I know it's not a very good image, but you understand . . .'

Harry holds up his hands: 'Of course. Excellent image. And what is
this . . . doctor? An aircraft carrier?'

She groans: 'He has nothing to do with this, Harry. It's about you and
me. And Oleg.'

'Don't hide behind Oleg now.'

'Hide . . .'

'You're using him as a hostage, Rakel.'

'I'M using him as a hostage? Was it me who kidnapped Oleg and put
a gun to his temple so that YOU could slake your thirst for revenge?'

The veins on her neck are standing out and she screams so loud her
voice becomes ugly, someone else's, she hasn't the vocal cords to support
such fury. Harry leaves and closes the door gently, almost without a sound,
behind him.

He turned to the woman in his bed. 'Yes, I love her. Do you love your husband, the doctor?'

'Yes.'

'So why this?'

'He doesn't love me.'

'Mm. So now you're taking your revenge?'

She looked at him in surprise. 'No. I'm lonely. And I fancy you.

The same reasons as yours, I would think. Did you hope it was more complicated?'

Harry chuckled. 'No. That'll do fine.'

'Why did you kill him?'

'Who?'

'Are there more? The kidnapper, of course.'

'That's not important.'

'Maybe not, but I would like to hear you tell me . . .' she put her hand between his legs, cuddled up to him and whispered in his ear: '. . . the details.'

'I don't think so.'

'I think you're mistaken.'

'OK, but I don't like . . .'

'Oh, come on!' she hissed with irritation and gave his member a good, firm squeeze. Harry looked at her. Her eyes sparkled blue and hard in the dark. She put on a hasty smile and added in a sugary-sweet tone: 'Just for me.'

Outside the bedroom, the temperature continued to fall, making the roofs in Bislett creak and groan while Harry told her the details and felt her stiffen, then take her hand away and in the end whisper she had heard enough.

After she had left, Harry stood listening in his bedroom. To the creaking. And the ticking.

Then he bent over the jacket he had thrown to the floor, with all the other clothes, in their stampede through the front door into the bedroom. He found the source in his pocket. Bjarne Møller's leaving present. The watch glass glinted.

He put it in the bedside-table drawer, but the ticking followed him all the way into dreamland.

He wiped the superfluous oil off the gun parts with one of the hotel's white towels.

The traffic outside reached him as a regular rumble drowning the tiny TV in the corner with its mere three channels, a grainy picture and a language he assumed was Norwegian. The girl in reception had taken his jacket and promised that it would be cleaned by early the following morning. He lined up the parts of the gun on a newspaper. When they had all been dried, he assembled the gun, pointed it at the mirror and pulled the trigger. There was a smooth click and he felt the movement of the steel components travel along his hand and arm. The dry click. The mock execution.

That was how they had tried to crack Bobo.

In November 1991, after three months of non-stop siege and bombardment, Vukovar had finally capitulated. The rain had been pouring down as the Serbs marched into town. Along with the remnants of Bobo's unit, numbering around eighty weary and starving Croatian prisoners of war, he had been commanded to stand in line before the ruins of what had been the town's main street. The Serbs had told them not to move and had withdrawn into their heated tent. The rain had whipped down, making the mud froth. After two hours the first men began to fall. When Bobo's lieutenant left the line to help one of those who had collapsed in the mud, a young Serbian private – just a boy – came out of the tent and shot the lieutenant in the stomach. Thereafter no one stirred; they watched the rain obliterate the mountain ridges around them and hoped the lieutenant would soon stop screaming. He began to cry, but then he heard Bobo's voice behind him. 'Don't cry.' And he stopped.