Thomas Enger: Scarred

Oh yes , he thinks with a smile as he drives into the underground car park.

You still love this job .

Trine Juul-Osmundsen runs to her study, flips open the screen of her laptop and keeps hitting the Internet icon until the computer finally finds the network and downloads the front page of VG Nett . What she sees makes her gasp.

There is a huge close-up of her face under the headline:

What the hell?

Trine clicks on the article while her heart starts to pound. The opening sentence merely repeats the lead-in. What the hell is going on, Trine thinks again as she reads on.

The incident is alleged to have taken place at the Labour Party conference in Kristiansand last autumn where earlier that day Juul-Osmundsen had given a firebrand speech. Several commentators later said that the Justice Secretary was starting to look like prime ministerial material, but the question is now if that is still a realistic prospect. VG has spoken to sources who claim that on the night in question Juul-Osmundsen assaulted a young politician, who later is said to have tried to resolve the incident with her – without success.

‘What’s going on?’

Trine jumps and spins around, slamming shut the laptop a little harder than she intended. She positions herself in front of the desk and looks at her husband who has come into her study dressed in only blue and black striped pyjama bottoms. His short grey hair stands up and he still has sleep in his eyes. A fine layer of stubble covers his cheeks with a mask of something grey and dark, while the skin on his face reveals many active hours spent in the open air. The muscles in his throat and neck are taut like steel wire.

Even after four years of marriage Trine still feels warm all over whenever she sees him like this, rough, unshaven and shirtless. But his inquisitive eyes, still sleepy, bore into her and leave an open, stinging wound.

‘I thought I heard the doorbell?’ he says.

Trine looks at him, but her gaze soon slips away and fails to find anything to settle on. Now she knows why there is a pack of journalists outside. And why more are bound to turn up.

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘This early?’

‘M-hm,’ she replies, absent-minded, but she still can’t bear to look at him; she has no idea what to say. How can she explain to him what has happened and what they are about to be subjected to?

Trine starts to walk past him when he puts out his arm to stop her.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Good morning.’

He smiles and tries to hug her, but Trine can’t cope with it. Not now. So she frees herself from his strong arms and says she is running late. Fortunately he buys her story.

Trine goes into the kitchen where she stops and rests her palms heavily on the worktop while she mutters curses under her breath. She continues swearing until she hears her husband’s voice again.

‘I’m just taking a shower.’

He is on his way to the bathroom when Trine says his name and straightens up. Pål Fredrik stops. She takes a step towards him and sees the look in his eyes, which she knows will change as soon as she starts talking. The doorbell rings again, but Trine doesn’t take her eyes off him.

‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ he asks her, sounding baffled.

‘No,’ she says quietly.

He glances at the front door.

‘Do you want me to get it?’

Trine shakes her head. She can feel her throat tighten.

‘I need to ask you a favour,’ she whispers and faces him.

‘Okay?’ he replies slowly. ‘What is it?’

Words, sentences – even the air – stop their journey across Trine’s lips.

‘What is it?’ he repeats.

She clears her throat: ‘Don’t read anything they write about me in the papers today.’

Trine waits until she can hear the sound of running water before she goes back to her study, closes the door behind her and hits a key on her mobile.

‘Pick up, Harald,’ she says as she paces up and down the floor.

Harald Ullevik has been Trine’s closest and most important sparring partner for the almost three years she has been Secretary of State for Justice. Always wise and knowledgeable. Always warm and friendly. Some of the speeches he has written for her have been brilliantly insightful and rich in persuasive arguments that she was proud to take the credit for. Several times his elephantine memory has rescued her from embarrassing situations. In fact he has been as much of an adviser to her as a Junior Minister. At times he has practically been acting Secretary, willing to stand in for her whenever she needed it. If anyone can help her out of this mess, it’s him.

‘Hi, Trine.’

As always Ullevik’s voice sounds bright.

‘Have you seen today’s VG ?’ Trine says immediately.

‘No,’ he says after a brief hesitation. ‘But they’ve just called me with a summary. I told them to get lost, obviously. We have to draw the line somewhere.’

Trine flings out her other hand.

‘Half of Norway’s media is in my doorstep, Harald. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Trine,’ Ullevik says. ‘Calm down, it’ll be all right.’

Usually his rock solid voice can convince her that everything will indeed be all right. But right now she struggles to believe him.

‘They’re going to bombard you with questions once you leave your house, but for God’s sake don’t start arguing with them. Don’t say anything until we’ve looked at this together and agreed a strategy.’

Trine heaves a sigh and thinks about Pål Fredrik, wondering if the water can wash away some of the shock and the disbelief she saw in his eyes. When she took another step towards him to assure him that the accusations were not true, he simply turned away.

‘It’ll be all right,’ Ullevik reassures her again. ‘You get yourself to work in one piece and we’ll deal with this together.’

Trine continues to listen to the echo of his voice before she utters an ‘okay’ and hangs up. When the silence returns, she realises that her knees are threatening to buckle under her. She orders them to lock. Then she swallows something viscous and thick that is stuck in her throat, disconnects the laptop, puts it in her bag and hurries out into the hallway. She stops in front of the hall mirror, smooths a crease in her jacket and studies her face, her hair and her eyes. She decides she is wearing too much make-up and starts to wipe off the lipstick she applied earlier, but she is desperate to get out of the house, and she doesn’t want to wait for Pål Fredrik to come out of the shower so she can stare into the depths of his shocked and horrified eyes.

She quickly checks her shoes to see if they are clean. Then she braces herself. Put on a brave face. And keep your mouth shut .

The morning is still only a pale outline over the roofs when Henning wakes up from his usual spot on the sofa. His face is squashed into one of the cushions and he can almost feel the imprint on his cheek.

He stayed up later than he had planned, but he didn’t need coffee to keep him awake. The story he had ready for publication at 8 a.m. practically wrote itself. He said only that the victim was killed and mutilated, a headline he knew would attract hits. He had agreed with Bjarne Brogeland to keep back the grotesque details and he isn’t sure that he will ever make them public. The readers don’t need to know what was done to Erna Pedersen’s eyes.

Henning gets up to check that the story has been uploaded and taken its rightful place at the top of the front page.