Thomas Enger - Burned

‘Yes. Wedding bells, rings on their fingers?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘Had any of them been to church and — ’

‘Hello — I know what marriage is. I just don’t understand why you ask.’

Tariq carries on fidgeting with the lighter, while he looks at Henning. He doesn’t quite know how to phrase his next question without revealing too much or saying something which might be offensive.

‘Were either of them unfaithful?’

Tariq hesitates for a second. He holds Henning’s gaze before he averts his eyes and looks at the floor.

‘I don’t know.’

His voice is quieter now. Henning thinks there is something Tariq isn’t telling him. He makes a note ‘both unfaithful?’ on his pad.

‘What does your brother do for a living?’

Tariq looks up again.

‘Why’s that so important to you?’

Henning shrugs.

‘It mightn’t be important at all. Or perhaps it’s the most important thing of all. I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking, to get closer to understanding who your brother is. For most of us, we are what we do. We live through our work.’

‘Do you?’

Henning wants to carry on while the going is good, but the question stops him in his tracks. He tries to come up with a sensible answer, but he can’t.

‘No.’

Tariq nods. Henning thinks he can read empathy in Tariq’s eyes, but he can’t be sure.

‘My brother drives a minicab.’

‘Does he work for himself?’

‘No.’

‘Who does he work for?’

‘Omar.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘A friend.’

‘What’s he called apart from Omar?’

Tariq sighs.

‘Omar Rabia Rashid.’

‘And what do you do for a living?’

Tariq gives Henning a weary look.

‘I’m a photographer.’

‘Freelance or employed?’

‘Freelance.’

Henning tries to sit upright in the soft chair, but he sinks back into it.

‘You brother refused to let the police in yesterday and he set fire to his computer. Do you know why he would do that?’

Henning notices that Tariq’s eyes look worried now. Tariq takes out a new cigarette and lights it. Then he shakes his head.

‘You’ve got no idea?’

He shakes his head again.

‘My brother was the only one who used it. I’ve my own computer.’

‘You never saw what he used it for?’

‘No, but it was probably the usual stuff. Surfing. E-mail. Are we done? I’m meeting a friend.’

Henning nods.

‘Just a few more questions, then I’ll go.’

At that moment, someone knocks on the door. Three short knocks. Tariq appears surprised.

‘Your friend?’

Tariq doesn’t reply, but he gets up.

‘If it’s another reporter, then I suggest you slam the door in his face,’ Henning jokes. Tariq goes to the door. Henning can see him from where he is sitting. Tariq opens the door with a swift movement.

Henning leans forward, turns off the Dictaphone and gets ready to leave. He has just slipped it into his pocket, when he hears Tariq say:

‘What the — ’

Then Tariq is hit by two bullets to his chest.

The shots are silent, but powerful enough to throw Tariq Marhoni against the wall. Henning registers two red spurts from Tariq’s chest and has no time to react before the mouth of the pistol appears inside the door. A man enters. He sees Tariq slumped against the wall and fires another bullet straight into his head.

Jesus Christ.

Henning tries to get up as quietly as he can, but he is so deep into the soft chair that it is impossible without the killer noticing him. Henning watches the gun turn 90 degrees towards him and just manages to roll out of the way before the back of the chair receives a hole the size of an eye, right where his head was a second ago. The stuffing bursts out, foam and fabric whirl in the air. Henning hears footsteps and thinks that this is the end, bloody hell, this is it, it’s over before it has even begun; panicking, he looks around, he sees a door in the living room, a door leading to another room, he has no choice, he has to go that way, he stands up and runs as fast as someone with his legs can. He can feel pain in his hip, his legs don’t want to obey him, but he aims for the door and throws it open.

He hears another swift plop, a hole is ripped in the door behind him, but the bullet doesn’t touch him; he is in another room, a small living room with a large window, he reaches for the catch, pushes it down, but it’s the wrong way, he pushes it outwards instead, but it only opens a few centimetres, before it refuses to budge. He pushes it again, harder this time, but it stops in the same place. He turns around; the killer hasn’t caught up with him yet. Henning looks at the window, discovers a child lock which he can override and opens the window in one movement. He climbs out on the windowsill, looks down, sees that the drop is only two metres and has a flashback to the balcony where he stood with Jonas, ready to jump. At that moment, he hears the killer enter the room. He expects to feel the sharp, paralysing pain from a bullet in his back, but before he has time to think, he is in the air, he feels nothing underneath him, he waves his arms, scared to look around, all he knows is that the ground is underneath him. Suddenly it’s there, his knees buckle, he tumbles forwards, breaks the fall with his hands, pushes himself up on his palms, rolls around and nearly ends up in the street, on the tram lines, but the danger from the window is far greater, he tells himself, all the killer needs to do is pull the trigger and it will all be over.

Henning stands up, he hears a car coming towards him and gets out of the way. Forget the pain in your legs and hips, he commands himself, just keep running. He doesn’t know which direction he is going, there is tarmac and litter all around, he sees a house, a yellow one. He has no idea where he is, he just carries on running. He corners the building as two bullets hit the wall in quick succession, but he is unhurt.

He finds himself in a small street, a one-way street, it must be St Hallvardsgate, he thinks, what a stroke of dramatic irony that would be, if he were to die here. He doesn’t want to think about his mother now, all that matters is that he is out of the killer’s range, and he keeps on running. He feels his heart pumping, adrenaline is released straight into his bloodstream. He runs past parked cars, sees people in the street, flashes of colour, the street bends, he follows it, running as fast as he can, he can’t feel his legs; it is as if his legs and his hips are oddly out of sync and can’t decide which of them should do what, but he doesn’t give a damn about it, he knows he must put as much distance between him and the killer as possible, because the killer is fleeing, too.

Henning knows he ought to call the police, but his own safety takes priority. He must get himself to a place where he can catch his breath and talk without wheezing. He spots an open space: GAMLEBYEN SPORT AND LEISURE PARK it says in curved black letters on a sign above the entrance and Henning runs inside, past a red Mitsubishi Estate. There is no one around; rubbish bags slump against a derelict hut, the walls are covered with graffiti. His shoes pound the smooth concrete. He can see a ramp, a skateboard and an old plastic chair; it is not a large area. It says WELCOME EVERYONE, in clumsy italics on a sign on a blue wall. The graffiti letters and flames are intertwined in a way Henning doesn’t understand. He reads: We look out for each other because nobody else is bloody going to below on the same sign. He looks around, the area is fenced in, Jesus Christ, he is trapped. There are trees all around, but he sees a gap in the fence, a hole, he aims for that hole and creeps through it. His jacket catches on something, but he yanks it free and hears it rip. He crawls between trees and shrubs, dense like a jungle, and skids past a rusty old fridge. He sees a house on the slope opposite and knows where he is.