Jo Nesbo - The Son

It felt as if a cold hand was squeezing his heart.

He knew what was about to happen.

The guy swiped the sliver of glass. Kalle steeled himself. The tip of the glass hit the plastic bag, sliced it open and in the next second the air filled with white powder. It got it into Kalle’s eyes, mouth and nose. He closed his mouth. But he had to cough. He closed his mouth again. Felt the bitter taste of the powder stick to his mucous membranes which started stinging and burning; the drug was already entering his bloodstream.

The photograph of Pelle and his wife was stuck to the dashboard on the left side, in between the steering wheel and the door. Pelle ran his finger over the smooth, greasy surface. He was back in his usual spot in Gamlebyen, but it was a waste of time, it was summer quiet and the trips which flashed up on the display screen departed from other destinations in town. Still, he could always hope. He saw a man leave through the gate to the old factory. He walked with a purpose and speed that indicated he had places to go to and wanted to flag down the only taxi at the cab rank before the light on the roof went out and it drove off. But then he suddenly stopped and leaned against the wall. Doubled up. He was standing right under a street light so Pelle could clearly see the stomach contents splash down on the tarmac. No way he was having him in his cab. The guy remained crouched and vomiting. Pelle had been there many times himself, he could taste bile in his mouth simply by looking. Then the guy wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie, straightened up, pulled the strap of the bag back up over his shoulder and continued towards Pelle. It wasn’t until he was very close that Pelle realised that it was the same guy he had driven only an hour ago. The guy who hadn’t had enough money to get to the hostel. And now he was indicating to Pelle that he wanted another trip. Pelle pressed the central locking button and opened the window a crack. Waited until the guy had come up to the side of the car and had tried to open the door in vain.

‘Sorry, mate, I’m not going to take this fare.’

‘Please?’

Pelle looked at him. Trails of tears down his cheeks. God only knew what had happened, but it wasn’t his problem. True, the guy might have a hard-luck story to tell, but you didn’t survive as a taxi driver in Oslo for long if you opened your door and let in other people’s messes.

‘Listen, I saw you throw up. If you throw up in the cab, it’ll cost you a thousand kroner and me a lost day’s income. Besides, last time you were in this cab, you were skint. So I’m going to pass, OK?’

Pelle rolled up the window and stared right ahead in the hope that the boy would move on without causing trouble, but got ready to drive away should it become necessary. Christ, how his foot hurt tonight. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the boy open his bag and take out something which he pressed against the window.

Pelle half turned his head. It was a thousand-krone note.

Pelle shook his head, but the guy stayed where he was, motionless. Waiting. Pelle wasn’t really worried, the guy hadn’t been trouble earlier this evening. On the contrary, rather than hassle Pelle to drive a bit further as most people short of cash would have done, he had thanked him when Pelle had stopped to let him out when the meter had reached the amount he had given him. Thanked him so sincerely that Pelle had felt guilty for not driving him all the way to the hostel — it would have only taken him another two minutes. Pelle sighed and pressed the button which unlocked the doors.

The guy slipped into the back seat. ‘Thank you, thank you so much.’

‘Fine. Where to?’

‘First up to Berg, please. I’m just dropping something off, so I’d be grateful if you could wait. Then to the Ila Centre. I’ll pay you up front, obviously.’

‘No need,’ Pelle said, starting the car. His wife was right, he was too good for this world.

It was ten o’clock in the morning and the sun had been shining on Waldemar Thranes gate for a long time when Martha parked her Golf convertible. She got out and walked with light footsteps past the patisserie to the entrance of the Ila Centre’s cafe. She noticed some men — and even some women — glancing at her as she walked by. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but today she seemed to attract extra attention. She attributed it to her extraordinarily high spirits, but couldn’t think of any specific reason for them. She had argued with her future mother-in-law about the wedding date, with Grete — the manager of the hostel — about the allocations to the rota, and with Anders about practically everything. Perhaps she was in a good mood because it was her day off, because Anders had gone with his mother to their cabin for the weekend, and because she had all this sunshine to herself for two whole days.

When she entered the cafe, she saw all the paranoid heads look up. All except one. She smiled, waved as people called out to her and walked up to the two girls behind the counter. Handed one of them a key.

‘You’ll be fine. Just get through it. Remember, there are two of you.’

The girl nodded, but she looked pale.

Martha poured herself a cup of coffee. She stood with her back to the room. She knew that she had spoken a little more loudly than necessary. She turned round and smiled as if surprised when she met his gaze. Went over to the table where he sat alone. She held the cup up to her lips, talked over it.

‘You’re up early?’

He raised an eyebrow and she realised the seeming idiocy of her remark — it was past ten o’clock.

‘Most people here tend to get up very late,’ she added quickly.

‘Yes, they do,’ he smiled.

‘Listen, I just wanted to apologise for what happened yesterday.’

‘Yesterday?’

‘Yes. Anders isn’t usually like that, but sometimes. . Whatever, he had no right to talk to you like that. Call you a junkie and. . well, you know.’

Stig shook his head. ‘You don’t have to apologise, you didn’t do anything wrong. Nor did your boyfriend, I am a junkie.’

‘And I’m a lousy driver. That doesn’t mean I let people say so to my face.’

He laughed. She saw how the laughter softened up his features, made him look even more boyish.

‘And yet you still drive, I see.’ He nodded towards the window. ‘Your car?’

‘Yes, I know it’s a wreck, but I like the independence and freedom it gives me. Don’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never driven a car.’

‘Never? Really?’

He shrugged.

‘That’s so sad,’ she said.

‘Sad?’

‘Nothing beats driving a convertible with the hood down in the sunshine.’

‘Even for a. .’

‘Yes, even for a junkie,’ she laughed. ‘Best trip you’ll ever have, trust me.’

‘Then I hope you’ll take me for a drive some time.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How about now?’

She saw the mild surprise in his gaze. She had blurted out the offer on impulse. She knew the others were looking at them. So what? She could sit for hours with the other residents talking about their personal problems without anyone thinking anything of it; on the contrary, it was a part of her job. And today was her day off and she could spend it any way she liked, couldn’t she?

‘Sure,’ Stig replied.

‘I only have a few hours,’ Martha said, aware of a slightly flustered quality to her voice. What she already having second thoughts?

‘As long as I can have a go,’ he said. ‘At driving. It looks like fun.’

‘I know a place. Come on.’

As they left, Martha could feel everyone’s eyes on her.

Stig was concentrating so hard that she had to laugh. Crouching and gripping the steering wheel he drove painfully slowly in large circles around the car park in Okern which was deserted at the weekends.