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Thomas Enger: Scarred

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Thomas Enger Scarred
  • Название:
    Scarred
  • Автор:
  • Издательство:
    Faber & Faber
  • Жанр:
  • Год:
    2014
  • Город:
    London
  • Язык:
    Английский
  • ISBN:
    978-0-571-27250-1
  • Рейтинг книги:
    3 / 5
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Scarred: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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An elderly woman is found dead in a nursing home. Bjarne Brogeland, who heads up the investigation, soon realises that they are on the trail of a meticulous killer who has developed a keen taste for revenge. A killer who has only just begun… Trine Juul-Osmundsen, Norway’s Secretary of State and Henning Juul’s sister, is accused of sexually harassing a young male politician. As the allegations cause a media frenzy, Trine receives an anonymous threat telling her to resign. If she doesn’t, the truth about what she did that night will be revealed. Scarred reporter Henning Juul, finds himself torn between the two high profile cases. He wants to help his estranged sister, but as he digs into their past, he discovers memories that haunt them both. Memories of a broken home. Memories of a dead father. As the two cases collide, both their worlds threaten to fall apart. Scarred Burned Pierced Thomas Enger is the author of two previous Henning Juul novels, most recently , which was described in Shotsmag as ‘excellent, another superbly compelling read by Thomas Enger’. As well as writing, he also composes music. He lives in Oslo and is currently at work on the fourth novel of the series. Review About the Author “Slick, compelling and taut, Thomas Enger’s combines a sophisticated layering of mysteries with an intensely scarred hero embarked on a tragic quest. A dark and suspenseful blast of Nordic exposure.” (Christopher Ewan, author of ) “An intriguing new voice in crime.” (NJ Cooper) “This promises to be a crime fiction series worth watching.” ( ) “The careful revealing of clues, the clever twists, and the development of Henning Juul and the supporting characters make this a very promising start to a new series.” ( ) “Suspenseful, dark, and gritty, this is a must-read.” ( ) “A gripping narrative that begs comparison to Stieg Larsson.” ( ) “The name is Thomas Enger. Make sure you remember it, because he’s a man about to join the ranks of the best crime novel writers of the Nordic countries… and he has achieved something quite exceptional already with his first novel, … It’s one of the best crime novels this reviewer has read for a long time, in a language that sparkles and gleams in strong images and a tempo that almost makes you forget to draw breath.” (Kristeligt Dagblad) “Thomas Enger has written a solid and effective crime novel.” (Jyllandsposten Posten) “It’s an excellent debut, the main character and his fate is brilliantly drawn.” ( , Denmark) “Impressive new Norwegian thriller.” (Vejle Amts Folkeblad)

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Thomas Enger

SCARRED

Translated from the Norwegian by Charlotte Barslund

Prologue

Werner is dead.

He really is; he knows that now.

He needed to stand beside the small, rectangular grave before he could grasp it. Properly take it in. He had to see the coffin first, see the mourners. Their dark clothes, their dark eyes.

Werner is gone.

For ever.

Fluffy snowflakes fall to the ground around him; some are caught in a never-ending, whirling spiral. The snow makes his eyes water, but he doesn’t mind. It makes it look as if he is crying.

He turns to his mother. There are cold trails down her cheeks. She continues to stare at the glossy, brown coffin. And beside her his father, who could barely tie his own tie this morning because his hands were shaking so badly. Who needed help shaving. Who ran outside last week in only a T-shirt and underpants though it was the middle of the day and big, white snowflakes were falling. Who screamed while he clawed through the snow like a maniac. Who pulled Werner out of the heavy whiteness.

But Werner’s lips had already turned blue.

They’d done it before, Werner and him, built caves inside the snowdrifts and dug tunnels connecting them. They would crawl through them though they knew they could collapse at any moment. And later – the thrill of emerging out into the light, still in one piece. They would dice with death and win.

Until that day.

* * *

Everyone is here. All of Werner’s classmates. Even some of his teachers have come to the funeral. There are people here he has never seen before. Family friends. Friends of friends. Everyone is sad. Or maybe they’re just pretending, like him.

They lower his brother into the black void. They sing with voices that can barely be heard. But he doesn’t want to sing. Or talk to anyone. Later, people gather in his house. He has something to eat and drink. He’s the only member of his family who does.

In the afternoon he sneaks up to his room, plays a cassette tape and flops down on his bed. Music usually makes him feel good, but not today. It takes him a while before he realises why.

Something in the room has changed.

He gets up from the bed and wanders up and down while he tries to work out what it is. And then he sees the photograph on the wall, a picture of Werner staring down at him, a picture that wasn’t there before, but hangs there now. His knees almost buckle.

He hasn’t told anyone how he watched the roof cave in on his brother. How he didn’t lift a finger, not for a long time, but relished the sensation surging through him. He was master of life and death. He was the only one who could save Werner.

The apple of their father’s eye.

He knows who put up the photograph, obviously; he remembers his father’s screams when the doctors said there was nothing more they could do. You can’t give up, he begged them, please, please don’t give up! And the look on his face when they came home from the hospital later that day, when they sat around the dinner table in the time that followed and no one said a word. There was no mistaking it. Was it because he wasn’t crying?

No.

It was because he hadn’t said sorry.

It had been his idea. His game. And he knows taking the picture down won’t help. His father will keep putting it back up, again and again. Making it impossible for him to forget.

Werner always used to smile when he had his picture taken, but he doesn’t on this one. He just looks straight at the camera. His hair is combed to one side and almost covers his eyes, but not enough to extinguish the light in them. The muffled screams he let out under those white, lethal masses come back. Like an echo.

By the time he sits down on his bed again, it has grown dark outside. It stopped snowing a long time ago, but the snow could have swept right through the room without him noticing anything but the light in his brother’s eyes. The light that can’t be snuffed out.

Werner isn’t dead.

He isn’t really; he knows that now.

But next time, he thinks. Next time will be different.

September 2009


Sunday

Chapter 1

Ole Christian Sund puts down the glass on the bedside table with a soft thud.

‘There,’ he says, smiling to the resident whose moist, stiff eyes stare out into the room. Sund wipes away a trickle of water from the corner of the man’s mouth, meeting resistance only from the stubble on his chin. The skin is so pale it’s practically transparent.

‘Do you need anything else?’ Sund says in a loud voice.

The lines in the man’s face remain unchanged. Sund looks tenderly at the resident, a man who has been with them for eighteen months, but who keeps death waiting. There’s not much left of him, only lifeless skin and bones, hair detaching itself from his scalp, a glassy stare that rarely changes focus. Not even the eyelids seem to be working any more.

Sund thinks, he looks like my dad. He spent the last years of his life like this; barely aware of his surroundings. Most of the time his eyes would seek out the ceiling or some object in the room, lost in a world of their own. It’s six years since he died, but it still feels like yesterday.

Sund leaves quietly. In the corridor he meets a resident with a relative, a grandchild possibly, out for some gentle exercise. He smiles to them and takes out his mobile: it’s just after five in the afternoon. A sinking feeling starts in the pit of his stomach.

Soon she’ll be here to pick Ulrik up and yet another week will come and go without him being a part of his son’s life. At most he’ll get to hear about it – if Martine can be bothered to reply to his text messages.

He knows he’s pestering her, but as he can’t be there every day and hear the news from Ulrik’s own mouth, at least he can hear it from hers. How the boy is, what he learned in school that day. Friends he played with at home or visited. All the things he misses out on because Martine and he stopped loving each other. Or rather – because she stopped loving him.

And though he thinks he has found a new love, he hates the thought that another man might have taken his place not just in Martine’s bed, but also in Ulrik’s life. That Ulrik might start to love his new dad while his real dad is just someone who makes him come to work with him when they were supposed to be having fun together.

If he could afford to turn down the extra shift, he would have. Fortunately he managed to find a fully charged electric wheelchair in Ward 4 for Ulrik to play with as long as he promised to look out for the residents. And he did, of course he did, he’s such a good boy. He loves zooming around the care home. The last time Sund saw him he was doing precisely that.

But where has the little tyke got to now?

Sund’s shoes make a steady sound against the floor as he starts checking passages and common rooms. In the television lounge he finds only Guttorm and a couple of the other residents embroiled in a heated argument over which channel to watch. Sund carries on looking, but can’t see a happy, whooping nine-year-old in a wheelchair anywhere. He searches the corridors on both sides of the building’s long H-shape. And finally, outside one of the resident’s rooms, he spots his little boy who no longer seems quite so small in a place where death waits around every corner.

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