Jo Nesbo - The Son

‘So why haven’t you called for him?’ The boy sat on Markus’s bicycle to try it out; it wobbled and he seemed cross that there wasn’t enough air in the tyres.

‘Dad!’ Markus called out, but could instantly hear how half-hearted and false it sounded.

The older boys howled with laughter. The other one had sat down on the parcel rack and Markus saw how the rubber tyres began twisting off the rim.

‘I don’t think you have a dad,’ said the boy and spat on the ground. ‘Come on, Herman, ride!’

‘I’m trying, but you’re stopping me.’

‘No, I’m not.’

The three boys turned round.

A man was standing behind the bicycle holding onto the rack. He lifted the back of the bicycle so it started freewheeling and both boys fell forward. They stumbled off and glared at the man.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ the older boy snarled.

The man made no reply, he just looked at him. Markus noticed his strange haircut, the Salvation Army logo on his T-shirt and the scars on his forearms. It was so quiet that Markus thought he could hear every bird in Berg singing. And now it looked like the two older boys had also noticed the man’s scars.

‘We were only going to borrow it.’ The bigger boy’s voice had taken on a different tone; it was croaky and small.

‘But you can have it if you want,’ the other one added quickly.

The man just carried on staring at them. He gestured to Markus to take the bicycle. The two boys started to back away.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Tasen. Are. . are you his dad?’

‘Might be. Next stop Tasen, OK?’

The boys nodded in unison. They turned round as if on command and marched off.

Markus looked up at the man who was smiling down at him. Behind them he heard one of the boys say to the other: ‘His dad’s a druggy — did you see his arms?’

‘What’s your name?’ the man said.

‘Markus,’ he replied.

‘Have a nice summer, Markus,’ the man said, gave him back his bicycle and walked across to the gate to the yellow house. Markus held his breath. It was a house like every other house in the street; square like a box, not particularly large and surrounded by a small garden. But this house and its garden were in need of a lick of paint and a session with the lawnmower. Still, it was The House . The man headed straight for the basement stairs. Not the front door like Markus had seen salesmen or Jehovah’s Witnesses do. Did he know about the key which was hidden on the beam above the basement door and which Markus was careful always to put back?

He got his answer when he heard the basement door open and close again.

Markus’s jaw dropped. No one had been inside that house for as long as he could remember. Admittedly, he could only remember back as far as when he was five, which was seven years ago, but somehow it seemed right that the house was empty. Who would want to live in a house where someone had killed themselves?

Well, there was one person who turned up at least twice a year. Markus had only seen him once and guessed that he must be the one who turned the heating on low before the winter and turned it off again in the spring. He must be paying the bills. His mum had said that without power the house would have been so damaged by now that it would have been uninhabitable, but she didn’t know who the man was, either. But he had looked nothing like the man who was inside the house now, Markus was convinced of it.

Markus could see the face of the new arrival in the kitchen window. There were no curtains in the house so whenever Markus went inside, he would stay well clear of the windows to avoid being seen. The man didn’t look like he was there to turn on the heating, so what was he doing in there? How could Markus. . then he remembered the telescope.

Markus pushed his bicycle through the gate to the red house and ran upstairs to his bedroom. His telescope — which was really just an ordinary pair of binoculars on a stand — was the only thing his dad hadn’t taken with him when he left. Or so his mum said. Markus pointed the binoculars towards the yellow house and zoomed in. The man had gone. He moved the circular field of view across the wall of the house, from window to window. And there he was. In the boy’s bedroom. Where the druggy had lived. Markus had explored the house and knew every nook and cranny. Including the secret hiding place under the loose floorboard in the master bedroom. But even if no one had killed themselves there, he would never want to live in the yellow house. Before it was abandoned for good, the son of the dead man had lived there. The son was a drug addict and had made a terrible mess and never cleaned up. He hadn’t carried out any repairs, either, so the water leaked through the roof whenever it rained. The son had disappeared shortly after Markus was born. He went to prison, Markus’s mum had said. For killing someone. And Markus had wondered if the house put an evil spell on those who lived in it so that they killed themselves or others. Markus shuddered. Even though it was his favourite thing about the house — that it was a bit sinister, that he could make up stories about what went on inside it. Only today he didn’t have to make anything up, today something was going on inside it all by itself.

The man had opened the bedroom window — no wonder, the place needed airing. Even so, Markus liked this room best, though the bed linen was filthy and there were needles on the floor. The man was standing with his back to the window, looking at the pictures that Markus liked so much. The family photo where all three of them were smiling and looking happy. The one with the boy in the wrestling suit next to his father in a tracksuit holding up a sports trophy together. The picture of the father in his police uniform.

The man opened the wardrobe, took out the grey hoodie and the red sports bag with Oslo Wrestling Club in white letters. He put a couple of things into the bag, but Markus couldn’t see what. Then he left the bedroom and disappeared. And reappeared again in the study, a small room with a desk pushed up against the window. His mum said that was where they had found the dead body. The man was looking for something near the window. Markus knew what he was looking for, but unless he knew his way around, he would never find it. Then the man appeared to be opening the desk drawer, but he had set down the sports bag on top of the desk so Markus could no longer see properly.

The man must have either found what he was looking for or given up because he took the sports bag and left. Then he went to the master bedroom before going downstairs and Markus lost sight of him.

Ten minutes later the basement door opened and the man came up the steps. He had put on the hoodie, pulled the hood up over his head and thrown the bag over his shoulder. He walked out of the gate and down the road the way he had come.

Markus jumped down and ran outside. He saw the back of the hoodie, jumped over the fence to the yellow house, raced across the lawn and down the basement steps. Trembling and out of breath he felt with his fingers along the beam. The key had been put back! He breathed a sigh of relief and let himself in. He wasn’t scared, not really, in a way this was his house. It was the stranger who was the intruder. Unless. .

He ran up to the study. Headed straight for the well-stacked bookshelves. Second shelf between Lord of the Flies and They Burn the Thistles . Stuck his fingers in. The key to the desk drawer was there. But had it been found and used? He looked at the desk while he inserted the key into the keyhole and turned it. There was a dark stain on the wood. It might be a greasy spot caused by years of use, but in Markus’s mind there was no doubt that it was the imprint of the head which had lain in that very spot, in a pool of blood and with a blood spatter across the wall, just like he had seen in the movies.