Thomas Enger: Scarred

She puts her hand on Sebastian’s head and hugs him tightly. And she thinks that nothing in the whole world will ever make her let go.

Trine doesn’t notice that the drizzling rain has turned into heavy drops. It is as if she has a puncture. The air is escaping from her, making her heavy and empty. She feels a hand on her shoulder as someone speaks to her, but she doesn’t hear what they say and she doesn’t know who they are. It’s not until now that she realises she is shaking all over.

Slowly she becomes aware of the uproar around her; someone starts to clap, a round of applause, born out of relief, which gradually gains momentum. But Trine doesn’t join in. She just stands there panting.

It ended well. No one was hurt.

And she doesn’t know where they come from, the tears that now engulf her. She hasn’t cried for as long as she can remember. She didn’t cry when she was accused of sexual assault and life became intolerable. She didn’t cry when she lost a friend to cancer some years ago. She didn’t cry when they watched Atonement on DVD, she and Pål Fredrik, even though he did. Nor did she shed tears of joy when Petter Northug beat Axel Teichmann in the last lap of the World Championship Relay Race in Liberec, though she was a little moved.

But she is crying now.

The heavy rain disguises her tears and Trine cries as if her body needs to make up for all the tears she never shed. She doesn’t know for how long she stands there sobbing in the rain, but when she turns around and walks back to the police cordons, to the TV cameras and all the onlookers, knowing full well that she has another battle to fight before this day is over, she straightens up a little and juts out her chin.

And it strikes her that she hasn’t felt this strong for a long time.

Henning cranes his neck to see what is going on. Exactly what has happened doesn’t require major analytical skills. Applause and cheers spread across the neighbourhood. The hostage situation has been resolved, clearly without the loss of life, otherwise people would not be cheering.

Henning sends a quick message to the news desk. To the extent it was possible outside the police cordons, he has kept the news desk updated and he knows that they have been feeding the readers of 123news with an account of events as they happened.

But that the story would conclude with Trine coming to Jessheim to try talking Remi Gulliksen out of Emilie Blomvik’s house, Henning would never have imagined. He should really have stayed away since conflict of interest means he can’t write anything about his sister, but she wasn’t the central character in the hostage drama.

Now she comes towards the police cordons. Her head is held high. Her stride is purposeful and her gaze is steady. She looks confident again , Henning thinks. Trine straightens her shoulders as she walks directly towards TV2’s reporter Guri Palme, adjusts her clothing and pushes out her chest slightly.

Henning makes his way to the front and earns himself a look of disapproval from the other journalists, which he decides to ignore. Trine stops in front of the TV2 camera where Palme waits until she gets a message in her ear that everything is ready. Then she asks what happened and what part Trine played in it. And Trine gives plain and simple answers without dramatising or overplaying her own role; she stresses how delighted she is that there was no loss of life.

‘But Trine Juul-Osmundsen, earlier today you were about to hold a press conference to tell your side of the sexual assault allegations. What can you tell us about that right now?’

‘What I can tell you is that I’ve offered my resignation to the Prime Minister and that he has accepted it. We’ll have to see what the King says when the Cabinet meets tomorrow.’

‘So you’re confirming that you’ll be resigning as Justice Secretary?’

‘I am,’ Trine nods.

‘Why are you resigning?’

‘I don’t think the Norwegian people need further information. Everything the media have written and said about me in the last few days should provide ample explanation.’

‘So you’re admitting that you’re guilty of the allegations?’

‘No, that’s not what I said. But recent media coverage makes it difficult for me to carry on.’

‘You need to elaborate,’ Palme demands.

‘No, I don’t.’

Palme is briefly thrown, but quickly recovers.

‘Can you tell me what the last few days have been like for you?’

Trine inhales deeply.

‘They’ve been tough; to say anything else would be wrong.’

‘Many people will view your resignation as an admission of guilt.’

‘I realise that. People will have to interpret my resignation as they see fit.’

Palme hesitates. A few seconds pass before she continues: ‘The identity of the young politician has yet to become known or confirmed. Have you spoken to him since this?’

‘No,’ Trine says.

‘Is there anything you want to say to him right now?’

‘No.’

‘Are you going to apologise to him?’

Trine looks straight into the camera.

‘I’ve got nothing to apologise for. I need to go now,’ she says and starts walking. New questions are hurled at her by Palme and the other reporters, but Trine just carries on walking and shows no sign of wanting to answer them. She aims for her ministerial car, which starts with a vroom before she reaches it. A blitz of flashlights follows them around the first bend.

After Trine’s departure, Henning remains in Jessheim with the other reporters where one press interview follows another. Officials sing from the same hymn sheet. They can’t praise Trine Juul-Osmundsen enough for the part she played in saving the lives of Emilie Blomvik and her family.

Henning leaves just before seven o’clock and catches the 7.30 p.m. train back to Oslo. A good hour later he is home in Grünerløkka.

Trine’s problems in the past week remind him that he ought to look in on his mother. The last time he left her she was in bed, deep in a heavy, alcohol-induced sleep. He decides to check if her condition has changed.

The sky over Sofienberg is almost black when he lets himself into her flat. Again he is met with a disturbing silence, but the cigarette smell is back at its usual, intense level. He sees the disappointment in his mother’s eyes when he enters the kitchen.

‘Hi, Mum,’ Henning says and attempts a smile.

She never replies, she never says hi, hello or good evening. Such pleasantries simply have no place in Christine Juul’s vocabulary. As always she is sitting at the kitchen table. The ashtray in front of her is overflowing and a cigarette in it sends a steady column of thin, blue smoke up towards the ceiling. The small glass beside her is almost empty.

‘You didn’t fix the radio,’ she sulks. ‘You said you were going to fix the radio.’

‘I know, Mum. I just haven’t got round to it yet.’

‘I want to listen to the radio.’

‘I’ll fix it.’

His mother takes a drag of her cigarette and stubs it out so hard the ash spills over the edge of the ashtray.

‘And here was I hoping it was Trine coming,’ she says, knocking back the last few drops in the glass and slamming it down.

Henning looks at his mother for a long time before he closes his eyes and tells himself to just let it go as usual, that there is no point in arguing with her, there never was. But he is hurt, deeply hurt by the venom she constantly spits at him as if the very sight of him gives her a bad taste in her mouth.

‘Why do you always say that?’ he asks.

Christine Juul raises her head towards him.