Thomas Enger - Scarred

‘Right,’ Henning says.

It sounds mostly like typical schoolboy pranks , he thinks.

‘Then her husband fell off a ladder in the garden in 1991, I think it was, and had a heart attack. Or the other way round, I don’t remember. I can’t imagine that made her less strict and bitter.’

‘No, I don’t suppose it did,’ Henning says while he mulls it over. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. It would be great if you could email or text me her old address.’

‘Will do. But how are you, mate? Do you still play music these days?’

Henning hesitates before he replies.

‘No, not often, I’m afraid.’

‘For God’s sake, man, you mustn’t stop. You had talent!’

‘Mm. Are you still drinking Calvados?’

‘Oh, forget about that. Let’s go for a beer the next time I’m in town.’

‘Okay. Thanks for your help, Atle.’

‘You’re welcome, dude.’

A short morning of freedom.

Ever since Emilie Blomvik had a child there is practically nothing she treasures more than that. Several hours in a row where she can do whatever she likes. She can go to the gym, she can read that magazine that has been gathering dust on top of the fridge, she can watch a movie that has taken up space on the recorder for ever. No one needs watching or looking after or checking in. Nor will anyone disapprove if she drinks a can of Coke on a weekday.

Quality time with a capital Q, that’s what it is. However, it continues to surprise her that she rarely ends up doing any of the things she had planned, just like today. She was going to waste some time on the computer, possibly look for some lovely holidays, start one of the books she was given last Christmas. But if she tries to reconstruct the morning, remember what she actually did after taking Sebastian to nursery, she is stumped for an answer. She doesn’t remember anything other than reading the newspaper and tidying up the kitchen. The rest is one big fog of nothing.

Even so it has been bliss. No one needed her to do anything. The sheer knowledge that such moments exist gives her precisely the breathing space she needs.

She only wishes that Mattis would call soon. It has gone eleven now. Perhaps the meeting with the partners didn’t go as well as he had expected?

She hopes he won’t get disappointed or upset. Children hurting themselves or not getting what they want is one thing. It’s part of growing up, meeting resistance and maturing as a result. Adults sulking is another matter. She just can’t deal with it. And Mattis is one of the worst offenders when things don’t go his way. The whole house becomes enshrouded in a thundercloud she can’t get away from soon enough. On this specific point she has very little patience. One child in the house is enough.

Emilie has barely had this thought when the phone rings. She jumps, gets up from the kitchen chair and fetches her mobile from the worktop next to the bread bin.

It’s Mattis.

‘Hello?’ she says with expectation in her voice.

‘You’re speaking to Mattis Steinfjell, partner in Bergman Hoff, Solicitors. Am I speaking to Emilie Blomvik, the most wonderful girl in the world?’

Emilie clasps her hand over her mouth.

‘Is it true?’ she screams.

Self-satisfied laughter bubbles away quietly before Mattis gives up trying to suppress it. He starts laughing out loud.

‘But that’s wonderful, darling. Congratulations.’

Emilie doesn’t know what else to say. Neither does Mattis, or so it seems.

‘So go on then, tell me all about it.’

‘Well, there’s not much to say except that I’m moving up the food chain, sweetheart. You know what that means.’

Emilie shakes her head to herself, but she says ‘yes’ all the same. And then she lets him brag to his heart’s content and she has to pull herself together in order not to cry. One of several things she dislikes about herself since she became a mother is that she cries at the slightest thing.

‘That’s absolutely fantastic, Mattis,’ she says when he finally stops talking. ‘Once again, congratulations.’

‘We’re going to celebrate, sweetheart. I’ll buy some champagne we can open tonight. We’ll order a takeaway and get drunk.’

Emilie doesn’t reply immediately.

‘I’m on nights this week, Mattis. Don’t you remember?’

‘Can’t you swap with someone?’

‘It’s too short notice,’ she replies, but what she is thinking is that she could have asked someone if she really wanted to. And yet there is a part of her that doesn’t want to be with Mattis in his moment of glory. She realises she is worried what he might ask her while he rides his happiness wave. Like, for example, if she will marry him.

‘You’ll just have to celebrate without me,’ she says trying to sound kind, happy and exuberant. And she is, she really is, for him.

‘So when is it official?’ she asks. ‘Can I tell my friends the good news?’

‘Of course you can,’ he says. ‘But I’ve got to go now, darling. Love you.’

Emilie doesn’t reply straightaway. Then she says, more quietly than she had planned to: ‘I love you too.’

The doorbell rings.

He turns around and frowns. He doesn’t remember the last time he had visitors.

Probably someone trying to get into one of the other flats , he thinks. Or one of his neighbours who has accidentally locked themselves out again. That must be it.

He turns his attention back to the computer monitors. World of Warcraft on one. Facebook on the other where he has clicked on a profile he visits every day even though it always hurts.

The doorbell rings again. He tilts his head slightly and gets up from his chair reluctantly. Shuffles towards the door and looks through the spy hole.

A man he doesn’t remember seeing before is standing outside next to a woman. Plainclothes police officers , he thinks, and is immediately gripped by panic, but he forces himself to think rationally. Even if they are police officers, this can’t possibly be about that old witch.

Or can it?

The man looks like a local politician. Long and lean with thin, grey hair. Can’t be too difficult to knock out. The woman doesn’t look very tough, either. Maximum 1.65 metres. Practically flat-chested. Skinny arms.

He opens the door and is blinded by the light outside. He has to shield his eyes with one hand in order to see them.

‘Hello, we’re from the bailiffs.’

The man introduces himself and the woman beside him, names he instantly forgets.

‘Perhaps you know why we’re here?’

He looks at them and shakes his head. He leans against the door frame and feels the pointy, cold edges of the steel lock.

‘You haven’t paid your rent for a long time and as a result you were issued with an eviction notice in accordance with the Eviction Act paragraph 13 section 2. This notice was sent to you and you were given fourteen days to move out. But I can see that you’re still here. Haven’t you packed your stuff yet?’

He had completely forgotten that notice. He has been lost in a world of his own in the last few weeks. And before that he always thought that he would find a way out, that he would be able to get hold of money from someone other than his mother.

The debt collector tries to look over his shoulder, but he blocks his path.

‘I’m sorry, but there is no way around this.’

The debt collector’s words fall like hammer blows. A taste of metal has settled on his tongue. He hugs himself, looks at the young woman with her blonde, shoulder-length hair. There is a hint of contempt in her eyes. And he feels the urge to—