Ю Несбё - The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

But they did as I told them, painted WELCOME BACK, BRAD on a banner that was hanging above the gate as he and I rode into the abandoned little funfair the gang had taken over the day before. We had two generators with us, eight kilos of meat and ten litres of spirits.

To be honest the place was a bit creepy in the dark, but after dinner we lit the whole thing up in all its glorious bright colours and even got some tinny music going on the roundabout and the dodgems, shooting and loud cheers from the booth where the boys popped off airguns at little balloons, and even a scratchy voice on tape muttering scary stuff from what was left of a burned-out House of Horrors. Brad and I climbed up on horses next to each other on the roundabout. Creaking and out of sync they rose and fell as we shuffled round at an easy pace. Above the sounds of the barrel organs I asked him again: what plans did he have for us?

Eyes rolling, his voice slurred by alcohol, he said: ‘We’re going to kill that fucking Will Adams and the rest of his shitty crowd.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because he locked me up, that’s why!’

‘Not because he killed Herbert?’

Brad grunted and lifted the whisky bottle to his lips. ‘That too. But nobody locks Brad Lowe up. Nobody talks to him like he was a snot-nosed kid. You don’t act like you think you’re a better person, that you’re...’ He made a face and gesticulated, but it wasn’t easy to work out what he was trying to say.

‘Holy?’ I suggested.

‘Yes. Will Adams talks like a priest, but he’s just a fucking...’ He waved the bottle about as though he was trying to catch the word in it.

‘Hypocrite?’

‘Yes!’ He had to grab hold of the horse to save himself from falling off it. ‘Him and those buddies of his, they didn’t just kill, they slaughtered those men Dad sent to rescue me.’

‘They defended themselves, you mean?’

Brad scowled at me and I bit my tongue.

‘How are you going to kill him?’ I asked. ‘I hear he’s turned that place into a fortress.’

‘Yeah, but Brad Lowe has the answer—’ he tapped the mouth of the bottle against his temple — ‘in here.’

‘And that is?’

‘How many bazookas did Ragnar get from my father?’

‘Fifty.’

‘One.’ Brad gave a loud laugh and tossed the empty bottle away; I heard it smash somewhere out there in the dark. ‘One single one is all we need. We fire up through a sewage pipe that goes round into his ammunition dump in the basement. And — kaboom! — the whole house...’ He balanced on the horse as he demonstrated with his hands, arms and puffed-out cheeks.

I nodded. ‘How straight is that sewage pipe? If it’s not straight the grenade will just blow up on the way in.’

‘We’ll find that out,’ said Brad. Already he sounded a little less certain.

I sighed. ‘I suppose you mean I’ll find that out?’

‘Can you?’

‘Who’s the one who always does stuff, Brad?’

‘You, Yvonne,’ he said, and even on a merry-go-round in motion I could feel his stinking alcohol breath on my face. ‘You fix the stuff these other pea-brains here can’t handle.’

‘Give me four days,’ I said.

‘Four? Why...?’

Because the guy I know in the Map and Planning Department is away and he won’t be back until then. I’ll check to see if the pipe goes in a straight line and exactly where it empties out so we don’t blow up the wrong house. OK?’

‘What the fuck would I do without you, Yvonne?’

‘You said it. But are you sure you want to go through with this?’

The lights around us went out, the barrel organ music began to drag, and then went hideously out of tune as the merry-go-round slowed down in the pale moonlight.

‘What the hell?’

‘We’re out of juice,’ I said. ‘But I was asking... d’you really want to kill them? Adams did let you go, after all.’

‘For chrissakes, Yvonne, don’t you get it? That is exactly what pisses me off. I want—’ he swallowed, a drunkard’s tears in his eyes now — ‘I want my father to know that I got the man who humiliated him. Because even if my dad is a bastard I love him. I love my mum and my sister too. But Dad... I’ve been a disappointment to him.’ The horses had stopped completely now, with his in its lowest position, so that I was looking down at him. He straightened up. ‘But once I’ve blown up that fortress and done what he wasn’t able to do himself — then, at last, he’ll see what I’m really capable of. Understand?’

There was a loud bang, a cheer, and the lights and music came back and the merry-go-round began slowly spinning again; Brad was up above me once more on his horse.

That night the whole gang slept inside the House of Horrors. Next morning, as I stood outside in the sharp daylight, Brad came over to me. He was pale and looked badly hung-over.

‘I think I got a bit carried away last night,’ he said as he stood tossing stones at the horses on the merry-go-round. ‘Can we just forget about it?’

‘You mean about Adams? Sure.’ I was relieved.

‘Not that. All that stuff about my dad. Forget it. That’s an order. Just you find out about that sewage pipe.’

My bike and I are finally out of the city and riding along the deserted motorway. The asphalt swallows up all the light coming from the bike and from the moon. I pass the burned-out car wreck that’s been there for the last couple of weeks. Several days pass before someone removed the charred remains from behind the steering wheel. I’m not sure what kind of story that was the end of, but of course the petrol tank was emptied a long time ago. It’s been four days since Brad asked me to find out about the sewage pipe leading into the villa. That’s all been sorted now. The fuel indicator is way over on the left now. It’s finished its story too and is only waiting for the engine to realise it. There are the oil pumps. I slow down. High above me I hear the sound of a helicopter. I glance up and see a light in the sky moving in the direction of the bay. Long before I reach the slaughterhouse I can hear music. There’s a party going on. Another party.

I pull up in front of the hall and see the twins holding up Eric, the guy who had my rifle. Eric’s drunk, swaying about but keeping a tight hold on the bazooka pressed to his shoulder. It looks like the target is a rusting caravan about two hundred metres away.

I drive slowly into the hall. The sound blaring out from the single vast speaker is once again ‘We are the Champions’. God, how I hate it. There are people sitting round the table and singing along. Others are dancing around beneath the meat hooks.

Brad sits alone at the end of the table with his feet up on a chair and a fat doobie in his hand. He looks up at me expectantly.

I take my time. Park my bike. Brush the thighs of my trousers.

‘You’re late,’ says Brad when I sit down next to him.

‘Met a few bumps along the way,’ I reply, recalling the feeling of driving over a guy lying spreadeagled on a spike strip. I nod towards the exit. ‘You’ve seen that the twins and Eric—’

‘They’ve got permission. So?’

‘I got the drawings from my pal in the maps department.’ I open the zip on my leather jacket and hold up the papers I got from Will Adams when I was at the villa, where I got the machine gun, and where I said yes to what he asked of me in return.