Thomas Enger - Burned

The Vespa starts without problems and Henning feels like a sixteen-year-old on his way to a secret date, as he zooms up Steenstrupsgata and passes the School of Art and Foss College, still making good progress. The great thing about the small scooter is that he can go everywhere and, if a car were to chase him, he can always drive on the pavement, down a path or an alleyway.

It doesn’t take him long to reach Alexander Kiellands Square, where people are eating outside and he can see the gushing fountains on Telthusbakken. He crosses Uelandsgate and watches the homeless and druggies huddle up outside Cafe Trappa. It feels good to be back in on the road. It has been a long time.

The Vespa is one of the few of his father’s possessions he has kept. It would be wrong to say that he has taken particularly good care of it. He tends to leave it exposed to the elements in the backyard all year round, and it surprises him by starting contentedly every time.

He parks outside the Rema 1000 supermarket at the bottom of Bjerregaardsgate, hangs his helmet on the handlebars and looks to both sides, before walking up the right-hand side of the street. He passes number 20. Yngve Foldvik lives at 24B.

He stops outside the red-painted door to Foldvik’s building and looks at the doorbells. The middle one says FOLDVIK. He presses it and waits for a reply. While he is waiting, he thinks about the questions he will ask and how to phrase them. He is starting to believe that Yngve Foldvik might be Harald Gaarder in the script, after all. In which case, he plays an important part, but not one that makes a lot of sense. And that’s why Henning needs to talk to him.

He rings the bell again. Perhaps it doesn’t work, he thinks? Or they are simply not in? He presses it again, but soon realises it is a waste of time. He swears, tries another bell that says STEEN, just to make sure that it isn’t the bell or the cables that are faulty. Soon he hears a crackling voice say: ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, I’m from Mester Gronn. I’ve got a delivery for Foldvik. They’re not answering. Please would you let me in?’

He closes his eyes, knowing he is about to do something stupid. A few seconds pass. Then there is a buzz. He opens the door and enters. He doesn’t know why, Yngve Foldvik is obviously not at home. I’ll just take a quick look, he thinks, sniff around a bit, like Jarle Hogseth always told me to. Use your senses, Henning. Use them to form an impression of the people you’re interviewing.

He finds himself in a smallish backyard. Leaves he presumes to be from last autumn still cling to the ground like obstinate stickers. There is a strange absence of greenery. A pot plant, whose name he doesn’t know, is standing in the centre. An unlocked bicycle is tilted against the wall.

There are two doors, one directly in front of him and one to the right. He checks the one to the right first, because it is nearer. There are no doorbells with Foldvik or Steen. He tries the other door, quickly finds both names and presses the bell saying STEEN. Without him needing to identify himself again, the door buzzes and he opens it.

Stairwells. The first impression you get of how people live. A pram blocks a door which must lead to the basement. There is a broken umbrella behind the pram. A stepladder, stained with white and navy blue paint, is leaning against the wall. The letterboxes are green. It smells damp. The residents are undoubtedly plagued by dry rot.

Upstairs, a door is opened. Perhaps Mrs Steen wants to double-check that there really is a delivery man downstairs? Damn, he says to himself. What do I do now? The door slams shut. He stays where he is. Footsteps approach. A woman’s shoes. He can tell from the sound. Should he turn around and leave?

That same moment, another door is opened. Henning suppresses the urge to look up.

‘Oh, hi,’ he hears from upstairs. ‘I’m just popping down to the shops, Mrs Steen.’ He detects a certain fatigue in the voice. Friendly, but long-suffering.

‘Hi.’

How on earth do I explain my presence, he wonders, if the woman coming down the stairs wants to know who I am?

‘Do you need anything?’ she asks Mrs Steen.

‘Please would you get me a copy of Her og Na? I’ve heard there’s a story about Hallvard Flatland today. I do like him.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Wait a moment, let me get you some money.’

‘It’s all right, Mrs Steen. You can pay me later.’

The voices echo strangely off the walls.

‘Thank you ever so much. That’s very kind of you.’

Click, clack. Her footsteps sound like a drum roll to Henning’s ears. He grabs the stepladder and starts walking up. The woman is on her way down. Henning holds the stepladder in front of him and keeps his head down. They are on the same floor now. She comes towards him, he can only see her feet, high heels, ‘hello’ he mutters and carries on walking. She says hello, too, and he is overwhelmed by her perfume, which is so heady that he nearly gasps. She doesn’t stop and they both walk on. He hears her open the entrance door and leave. The door closes with a bang.

Henning stops and takes some deep breaths, letting the silence fill the space. Then he turns and walks softly down the stairs, praying that Mrs Steen won’t hear him. Back on the ground floor, he spots a wooden sign saying FOLDVIK in a child’s asymmetrical writing on a dark blue door. The letters are burned into the wood. He puts down the stepladder and knocks, twice. After all, the doorbell could have been faulty.

He waits, listens out for footsteps, which never come. He knocks twice more. No, they are not in.

He is about to leave when he notices that the door hasn’t been shut properly. Hm, he thinks, that’s strange. He looks over his shoulder, even though he knows there is no one around. Carefully, he prods the door. It swings open. Am I really about to do this, he thinks, should I go inside and have a look?

No. Why would he? He can think of no earthly reason why. And, as far as the law is concerned, it’s the equivalent of breaking in. And how would he explain his presence in the flat, if anyone were to turn up? Like, for example, the people who live there?

Turn around, Henning. Turn around and go home, before it’s too late. But he can’t. He creeps in. It’s dark inside. The only light is coming from the stairwell. He doesn’t want to leave fingerprints, so he ignores the switch on his left, behind the front door. This is a really bad idea, he tells himself.

But he doesn’t leave. He isn’t sure what he is looking for. Is he hoping to find something that might implicate Foldvik? His computer? But he has no intention of touching it, unless he finds it already switched on and displaying incriminating documents.

He is in the hallway. Shoes, a shoe rack, coats on pegs, a wardrobe and a fuse box. Smoke alarms in the ceiling. They have smoke alarms in their ceiling, thank God. He pauses. The green lights reassure him. His own private all-clear signal.

He can smell cooking. Lasagne, would be his guess. Right in front of him, further down the hallway, is a door with a red felt heart. A door to the left leads to the kitchen. He sees a filthy white cooker. A saucepan with leftover spaghetti is resting on one of the hobs.

There are no boxes on the walls indicating that a burglar alarm has been installed, so he carries on. An arch leads him into a spacious living room. A television in the corner, a dining area. High-backed chairs and soft, embroidered cushions. He can see a large, square coffee table in front of a brown, distressed leather sofa further into the living room. There are three candleholders on the coffee table with creamy white candle stubs. The white linen curtains behind the sofa are closed.

Closed? Why closed so early in the evening?