Jo Nesbo - The Son

The door was closed and locked behind Simon.

He left the alley. Darkness was falling. Simon started to run.

Martha sat looking over the roast beef and the tall wine glasses, at the heads on the other side of the table, at the family pictures on the console table in front of the window, at the rain-sodden apple trees in the garden, up at the sky and into the approaching darkness.

Anders’s speech was beautiful. No doubt about it, she could imagine one of the old aunts wiping away a tear.

‘Martha and I have decided on a winter wedding,’ he said. ‘Because we know that our love can melt all ice, that our friends’ hearts can warm any function room and that your — our family’s — care, wisdom and guidance will be all the light we need on our dark winter path. And, of course, there is another reason. .’ Anders grabbed the wine glass and turned to Martha, who only just managed to tear herself away from the evening sky and return his smile. ‘We simply can’t wait until summer!’

Happy laughter and applause filled the room.

Anders seized her hand with his free one. He squeezed it hard, smiled, his fine eyes sparkling like the sea, and she knew he was aware of the impression he’d made. Then he bent down as if overcome by the occasion and kissed her quickly on the lips. The table erupted. He raised his glass.

‘To us!’

Then he sat down. He caught her eye and flashed her an almost private smile. The smile which told the twelve dinner guests that he and Martha shared something special, something that belonged only to them. But just because Anders was playing to the gallery didn’t meant it wasn’t true. They did have something that belonged only to them. Something solid. They had been a couple for so long that it was easy to forget all the good days and the nice things they had done together. And they had worked through the bad times and come out stronger for it. She cared about Anders, she really did. Of course she did, otherwise why would she have agreed to marry him?

His smile stiffened slightly. It was telling her that she could try to show a little more enthusiasm, work with him here now that they had gathered their families to tell them their wedding plans. Her future mother-in-law had asked to make the announcement and Martha hadn’t had the energy to protest. And now she got up and tapped her glass. It was as if someone had flicked a switch marked ‘silence’. Not just because the guests were eagerly awaiting what she had to say, but because no one wanted to be skewered by the mother of the groom’s withering stare.

‘And we’re so very thrilled that Martha has decided that the wedding ceremony will take place in St Paul’s Church.’

Martha barely managed to stop herself from spluttering. She had decided?

‘As you’re aware, we’re a Catholic family. And even though the average level of education and income is higher among Protestants than Catholics in many other countries, that isn’t the case in Norway. In Norway we Catholics make up the elite. So, Martha, welcome to the A-team.’

Martha acknowledged the joke which she knew perfectly well wasn’t a joke at all. She heard her future mother-in-law’s voice continue, but she drifted off again. Because she had to get away. Escape to that other place.

‘What are you thinking about, Martha?’

She felt Anders’s lips against her hair and earlobe. She managed a smile because she was close to laughing. Laughing as she imagined getting up and telling him and the other guests that what she was thinking about was lying in the arms of a killer in the sun on a rock while a thunderstorm headed across the fjord towards them. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t love Anders. She had said yes. She had said yes because she loved him.

‘Do you remember the first time we met?’ Simon asked as he stroked Else’s hand on the duvet. The two other patients in the ward were asleep behind their curtains.

‘No,’ she smiled and he imagined those strangely shiny, pure blue eyes of hers sparkle under the bandage. ‘But you do. Go on then, tell me again.’

Instead of just smiling back, Simon chuckled quietly so that she could hear it.

‘You were working in a florist’s in Gronland. And I came in to buy flowers.’

‘A wreath,’ she said. ‘You came to buy a wreath.’

‘You were so beautiful that I made sure we chatted for much longer than was necessary. Even though you were far too young for me. But as we spoke, I grew young myself. And the next day I stopped by to buy roses.’

‘You bought lilies.’

‘Yes, of course. I wanted you to think they were for a friend. But the third time I bought roses.’

‘And the fourth.’

‘My flat was so full of flowers, I could barely breathe.’

‘They were all for you.’

‘They were all for you . I was merely looking after them for you. Then I asked you out. I’ve never been so scared in all my life.’

‘You looked so nervous that I couldn’t bear to say no.’

‘That trick works every time.’

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘You were nervous. But I was attracted by your sad eyes. A life lived. The melancholy of insight. That’s irresistible to a young woman, you know.’

‘You’ve always said it was my athletic body and that I’m a good listener.’

‘No, I haven’t!’ Else laughed even louder and Simon laughed with her. Relieved that she couldn’t see him now.

‘You bought a wreath the first time,’ she said quietly. ‘You wrote a card and you looked at it for a while, then you threw it in the bin and wrote another one. After you’d gone, I picked the card out of the bin and read it. And it said “To the love of my life”. That was what got my attention.’

‘Oh? Wouldn’t you rather have a man who thought he had yet to meet the love of his life?’

‘I wanted a man who was capable of loving, really loving.’

He nodded. Over the years they had repeated this story to each other so often that the lines were rehearsed, as were their reactions and the apparent spontaneity. They had once sworn to tell each other everything, absolutely everything, and after they had done that, after they had tested how much truth the other could tolerate, their stories had become the walls and the roof that held their home together.

She squeezed his hand. ‘And you were, Simon. You knew how to love.’

‘Because you fixed me.’

‘You fixed yourself. You decided to quit gambling, not me.’

‘You were the medicine, Else. Without you. .’ Simon took a deep breath and hoped she couldn’t hear the trembling in his voice because he didn’t have the energy to go there now, not tonight. Didn’t want to repeat the story about his gambling addiction and debts which he ultimately dragged her into. He had done the unforgivable, mortgaged their house behind her back. And lost. And she had forgiven him. She hadn’t been angry or moved out or let him suffer the consequences or given him any kind of ultimatum. All she had done was to stroke his cheek and say that she forgave him. And he had cried like a child and at that moment his shame had extinguished the craving after the pulsating life in the intersection between hope and fear, where everything is at stake and can be won or lost in an instant, where thoughts of the catastrophic, final defeat are almost — almost — as tantalising as the thought of victory. It was true, he had quit that day. And he had never gambled since, hadn’t bet as much as a beer, and it had been his salvation. It had been their salvation. That and their promise to tell each other absolutely everything. To know that he had the capacity for self-control and the courage to be totally honest with another person had done something to him, had restored him as a man and a human being, yes, even caused him to grow more than if he had never been at the mercy of his vices. Perhaps that explained why in his later years as a police officer he had gone from seeing every criminal as notorious and incorrigible to being willing to give everyone a second chance — in stark contrast to what his wide experience told him.