Jo Nesbo - The Son

They heard dogs barking in the garden.

‘I think you’re a wise man, Pelle.’

‘Oh, I’m not sure about that. Why were you inside?’

‘To find peace.’

Pelle studied the boy’s face in the mirror. It was as if he had seen it somewhere else, and not just here in his cab.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ the boy said.

When Pelle looked out of the windscreen again, he saw that the man with the white dog was coming towards them. Both of them had their eyes fixed on the car and had so much muscle packed inside their bodies that they waddled.

‘Right,’ Pelle said, flicking on the indicator. ‘Where to?’

‘Did you get to say goodbye to her?’

‘What?’

‘Your wife.’

Pelle blinked. Watched the man and the dog getting closer. The question had hit him like a punch to the stomach. He looked at the boy in the mirror again. Where had he seen him before? He heard growling. The dog must be getting ready to attack. He had driven the boy before, it was that simple, that had to be the reason. The memory of a memory. Like she was now.

‘No,’ Pelle said, shaking his head.

‘An accident?’

Pelle swallowed. ‘Yes. A car crash.’

‘Did she know that you loved her?’

Pelle opened his mouth, but realised he wouldn’t be able to say anything, so all he did was nod.

‘I’m sorry she was taken from you, Pelle.’

He felt the boy’s hand on his shoulder. And it was as if heat exuded from it and spread to his chest, stomach, arms and legs.

‘We should probably get going now, Pelle.’

It wasn’t until then that Pelle realised he had closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the man and the dog had come up alongside the car. Pelle revved the engine and released the clutch. He heard the dog barking furiously after them.

‘Where are we off to?’

‘To visit a man who is guilty of murder,’ the boy said, pulling the red sports bag closer. ‘But first we have to drop something off.’

‘Who to?’

The boy smiled a strange, wistful smile. ‘To someone whose picture I’d like to have on my dashboard.’

Martha was standing at the kitchen counter, pouring the coffee from the pot into a Thermos flask. She tried to shut out her future mother-in-law’s voice. She tried to focus on what the guests were talking about in the dining room. But it was impossible, her voice was so insistent, so demanding .

‘Anders is a sensitive boy, you understand. He’s much more sensitive than you. You’re the strong one. That’s why you have to take charge and. .’

A car pulled up and stopped in front of the gate. A taxi. A man in an elegant suit got out; he was carrying a briefcase.

She thought her heart would stop. It was him.

He opened the gate and started walking up the short gravel path to the front door.

‘Excuse me,’ Martha said, and slammed down the coffee pot in the sink with a bang and tried to look as if she wasn’t rushing out of the kitchen.

It was a distance of only a few metres and yet she was breathless when she flung open the door before he had time to ring the bell.

‘We have company,’ she hissed, pulling the door behind her. ‘And the police are looking for you. What do you want?’

He looked at her with those damned clear green eyes. He had shaved off his eyebrows.

‘I want to ask for forgiveness,’ he said. Quietly, calmly. ‘And then I want to give you this. It’s for the centre.’

‘What is it?’ she asked and looked at the briefcase he was holding out to her.

‘For that building work you can’t afford. Or some of it, at any rate. .’

‘No!’ She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. ‘What’s wrong with you? Do you really think I want your blood money. You kill people. The earrings you tried to give me. .’ Martha swallowed, shook her head fiercely and felt tiny, angry tears flow. ‘They belonged. . to a woman you murdered !’

‘But-’

‘Go away!’

He nodded. Took a step down, backwards. ‘Why didn’t you tell the police about me?’

‘Who says I haven’t?’

‘Why haven’t you, Martha?’

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Heard a chair scrape across the dining-room floor. ‘Because I wanted to hear you tell me why you killed those people, perhaps?’

‘Would it make a difference if I did?’

‘I don’t know. Would it?’

He shrugged. ‘If you want to call the police, I’ll be at my parents’ house tonight. After that I’ll disappear.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because I want you to come with me. Because I love you.’

She blinked. What did he just say?

‘I love you,’ he repeated slowly and looked as if he was tasting his own words in surprise.

‘My God,’ she groaned in despair. ‘You’re mad!’

‘I’m going now.’ He turned towards the taxi which was waiting with its engine idling.

‘Wait! Where will you go?’

He made a half-turn and smiled wryly. ‘Someone told me about a great city in Europe. It’s a long way to drive on your own, but. .’ He looked as if he wanted to say something more and she waited. And waited, and prayed that he would say it. She didn’t know what it was, only that if he said the right thing, said the magic word, then it would set her free. But it was him who had to do it, he had to know what it was.

But he bowed quickly to her, turned round and started walking towards the gate.

Martha was tempted to call out after him, but what would she say? It was madness. A crazy infatuation. Something which didn’t exist, which couldn’t exist in the real world. Reality was in there, in the dining room behind her. She turned and went back inside. And looked straight into Anders’s furious face.

‘Move.’

‘Anders, don’t. .’

He pushed her over, tore open the door and stormed out.

Martha got back on her feet and followed him out to the path in time to see Anders grab hold of Sonny and lash out at the back of his head. But Sonny must have heard Anders coming because he ducked, spun round in a kind of pirouette and wrapped his arms around Anders. Anders howled: ‘I’m going to kill you!’ and tried to free himself, but his arms were locked and he was helpless. Then, just as suddenly, Sonny let Anders go. At first Anders stared with astonishment at the man standing in front of him with his arms hanging passively by his sides. Then Anders raised his hand to strike. And punched him. He raised his fist ready for another blow. Landed it. It didn’t make much noise. A dead, thudding smack of knuckles against flesh and bone.

‘Anders,’ Martha screamed. ‘Anders, stop it!’

On the fourth punch the skin on the boy’s cheekbone burst. On the fifth he sank to his knees.

The door on the driver’s side of the taxi opened and the taxi driver made to get out, but the boy held up a hand to signal for him to keep out of it.

‘You cowardly bastard!’ Anders screamed. ‘Stay the hell away from my fiancee!’

The boy raised his head as if to offer Anders a better angle, turning his undamaged cheek. Anders kicked him. The boy’s head was thrown backwards and he collapsed onto his knees and flung out his arms like a football player skidding across the pitch in triumph.

The sharp sole of Anders’s shoe must have caught Sonny’s forehead because blood started pouring from a long cut right below the hairline. As Sonny’s shoulders brushed the gravel and his jacket fell open, Martha saw Anders freeze in the run-up to another kick. Saw him stare at Sonny’s belt and see what she saw. A pistol. A shiny pistol, whose barrel was buried in the trouser lining; it had been there all along, but Sonny hadn’t touched it.