Anne Holt - 1222

‘Brann are a crap team,’ someone yelled, and I immediately recognized the tough kid from my carriage.

The man on the table smiled and opened his mouth to say something.

‘ Brann are crap ,’ the boy repeated, and burst into song. ‘Vålerengaaa, you are my religion, you’re one in a million, a proud old tradition!’

‘Great,’ said the man with the Brann scarf, smiling contentedly. ‘It’s good to see that young people today are committed to something. And it really does seem as if things are beginning to sort themselves out, both in here and out there as well.’

He pointed vaguely towards the entrance. I had no idea what was going on over there.

‘I merely wanted to point out…’

I almost felt sorry for the bloke. People were sniggering. A few were booing quietly as if they didn’t want to give themselves away, but did want to vent their contempt. This might have had some effect on the man. At any rate he had abandoned the joyous hallelujah tone when he tried to complete the sentence.

‘… that for anyone who is interested, I will be holding a prayer meeting in the hobby room in quarter of an hour. If anyone needs help with the stairs, please let me know. I am surely not alone in -’

‘Shut your gob!’

The boy wasn’t giving up. He was on his feet now. He was standing only a couple of metres from where I was sitting, and had formed a megaphone with his hands.

‘You!’ I said sharply. ‘Yes, you!’

The boy turned to face me. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

His gaze was searingly familiar.

Perhaps they know it. Perhaps that’s why they always try to hide their eyes, darting to and fro, behind their hair or beneath half-closed eyelids. This boy had pulled his cap down way too low over his forehead.

‘Yes, you,’ I said, waving him over. ‘Come here. Shut up and come over here.’

He didn’t move.

‘Do you want me to tell everybody why you’re here, or would you like to come a little bit closer? So that we can maintain a certain level of… discretion?’

Hesitantly he took a step towards me. Stopped.

‘Come here,’ I said, in a slightly more friendly tone of voice.

Another step. And another.

‘Sit down.’

The boy leaned back against the reception desk and slid slowly down onto his bottom. He wrapped his arms around his knees, not looking at me.

‘You’re on the run,’ I stated quietly, not bothering to ask. ‘You live in a care home for young people. You’ve had several foster homes, but it all goes pear-shaped every single time.’

‘Bullshit,’ he mumbled.

‘I’m not really interested in having a discussion about it. A fourteen-year-old like you, travelling alone… Or perhaps you’re part of a fairytale family who just decided to take a trip, as the weather was so nice? Can you show me who you’re travelling with?’

‘I’m not fourteen.’

‘Thirteen, then.’

‘I’m fifteen, for fuck’s sake.’

‘In a year or two, maybe.’

‘In January! A month ago! Do you want proof, or something?’

Furiously he pulled his wallet out of a pair of jeans that were way too big for him. It was made of nylon in a camouflage pattern, and was fastened to his belt by a chain. As he pulled out a credit card I noticed that his cuticles were so badly bitten they were bloody.

‘Wow,’ I said, without looking at him. ‘Credit cards, no less. All grown up. We’ll say fifteen, then. And now you’re going to listen to me. What’s your name?’

He was just as interested in making winter friends as I was.

‘What’s your name?’ I repeated sharply, catching a glimpse of the name on the card before he pushed it back in his wallet.

He glared silently and absently from beneath the peak of his cap. There was a stale smell all around the boy, as if someone had washed his clothes and not bothered to air them properly before putting them away.

‘Adrian,’ I said wearily. ‘Right, now I’m going to tell you something.’

The boy gave a start, ran his hand over his cap and stared at me for three long seconds.

Adrian was fifteen years old. I knew nothing about him, and yet I knew everything. He was hardly in any condition to fight, he probably didn’t weigh any more than fifty kilos under those oversized clothes. He was foul-mouthed. A thief, without a shadow of doubt, and I was convinced that he was already well on the way into a destructive cycle of substance abuse. A petty criminal, a little shit who hadn’t yet learned to hide his expression.

‘Are you psychic, or something? How do you know -’

‘Yes, I am psychic. Now just shut up. Are you hurt?’

He moved his head a fraction. I interpreted this as a no.

‘Your chair!’

Geir Rugholmen brought with him a cold draught from outside. Only now did I realize that the large lobby was gradually emptying.

‘We need to find a room for you as well,’ he said, putting together my wheelchair with surprising expertise. ‘Most people have already got a bed here at the hotel. We’ve used the private apartments as well.’

He waved vaguely in the direction of the stairs before attaching the last wheel.

‘Fortunately the hotel was more or less empty. It’s not exactly high season. It will soon be the winter break; things would have been much more difficult then. We’ve moved most of the youngest and fittest adults over to the buildings around the station. So now we need to find a room for…’

He broke off and squinted at Adrian.

‘Are you two together?’ he asked sceptically.

‘In a way,’ I said. ‘For the time being.’

‘I think we’ve got space for you in one of the closest rooms. There are already two people in there, but with a mattress on the floor your pal here will also be able to -’

‘Let’s make a start then,’ shouted the man wearing the Brann scarf, beckoning to a group of youngsters who were sitting at the table eating what I thought was stew, but which I later found out was hot soup. ‘We’re gathering down here, everybody! We’ve organized coffee and biscuits too!’

The response obviously hadn’t matched up to his expectations. The priest eagerly grabbed the arm of a woman passing by, but let go immediately when what he presumably thought was a proper mountain ski hood turned out to be a hijab.

The teenagers continued eating in silence. They were in no hurry. Quite the reverse, in fact; without even looking at the man, they casually helped themselves to more soup. Somebody started humming an incredibly irritating nursery rhyme. One of the girls giggled and blushed.

‘Can’t somebody put a bullet in that fucking priest’s head,’ mumbled Adrian, before raising his voice: ‘And I’m not fucking sleeping in the same room as other people. I’m just not.’

He ambled over to the table and threw himself down on a chair as far from the others as possible.

Geir Rugholmen scratched the dense, blue-black stubble on his chin. ‘Quite the little hard man, your pal.’

He moved to help me up.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I can manage. He’s not my pal.’

‘Good job.’

‘Don’t worry about him.’

‘I’ll do my best. Wouldn’t you like me to -’

‘No!’

My tone was sharper than necessary. As it often is. As it almost always is, if I’m perfectly honest.

‘OK, OK! Take it easy! God. I only wanted to -’

‘And I don’t need a bed either,’ I said, adjusting my position. ‘I’d rather just stay here.’

‘Tonight? You’re going to sit in that chair all night? Here?’

‘When are you expecting help to arrive?’

Geir Rugholmen straightened up. He placed his hands on his hips and looked down his nose at me. That look from those who are standing up, the tall ones, the ones whose bodies work perfectly.