Thomas Enger - Pierced

Thorleif is crying. The man ignores him.

‘Please,’ he begs him as he bangs the steering wheel. They reach the end of the road. Thorleif stops the car, rests his head on the steering wheel and sobs.

‘Turn right,’ the man says softly and looks at Thorleif. ‘There is a car behind us. Turn right,’ he repeats, his voice firmer this time.

Slowly, Thorleif straightens up. A swirling mist is dancing in front of his eyes. He doesn’t see where the car is heading; he merely registers that it is accelerating. I’ve killed her, Thorleif thinks in despair. It’s my fault. Soon she’ll be leaving work for the last time. She’ll never see the children again.

The children, he thinks. My God. ‘Please,’ he repeats, weakly. ‘I’ll do anything. Anything. I promise, I’ll get it right next time.’

But the man doesn’t respond.

Thorleif drives quietly. The road is narrow, with grass on both sides right up to the tarmac. The colours around him merge, churn and spin inside his brain. Again his head slumps forwards against the steering wheel as he weeps. The car almost comes to a halt. The man reaches over and takes the wheel, making sure that they stay on the road. Then he looks at Thorleif.

‘Okay,’ he says, calmly. ‘I’ll give you a second chance.’

Thorleif lifts his head quickly and stares at the man; he never would have thought that he would experience such a genuine and profound sense of gratitude towards someone who only a few minutes ago had tried to make him kill another human being.

‘Thank you,’ he says, relieved. ‘Thank you so much.’

His breathing is rasping as he closes his eyes and mouths a silent thank you.

‘Have you calmed down now? Are you fit to drive?’

Thorleif blinks away his tears and nods.

‘Okay. Then drive.’

Thorleif sniffs and wipes his face on his sleeves. His cheeks are burning hot. Sweat is pouring from his forehead and his scalp. They drive past a large glasshouse just begging for kids to throw stones at it.

‘Do you want me to turn around?’ he stutters.

‘No.’

‘But what… where-’

‘Just drive back to the multi-storey car park. Stay on this road.’

‘But don’t you want me to-’

‘Not now.’

Thorleif tries to compose himself. He wipes sweat and tears off his face and presses the accelerator. An infinite feeling of relief washes over him. The trials have ended. At least for now. At the same time he can’t stop panicking about what will happen next, what he will have to do, and to whom. But why does it have to be him? What has he done?

Twenty minutes later they are back in the multi-storey car park under Fritzoe Brygge Shopping Centre. Thorleif parks next to his own car.

‘What happens now?’ he asks when the BMW has come to a standstill.

‘Now you go home. And when you get there, you act normally. You don’t tell anyone what you did today. We have contacts inside the police. If you try to warn anyone, we won’t just kill your girlfriend.’

Thorleif is speechless with shock.

‘Now go home.’

‘But what do I… when do you want-’

‘We’ll contact you again. Now go home.’

Thorleif stays in the car.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ he asks, quietly.

The man doesn’t reply.

‘Okay,’ Thorleif says with a sigh and opens the car door. He gets out and walks around to his own car. The window on the BMW’s passenger side is rolled down.

‘Drive safely,’ the man says. ‘We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. And if you try to harm yourself, we’ll make it even worse for your family.’

‘I understand,’ Thorleif nods.

‘And Thorleif,’ the man says, looking at him, ‘you should seriously think about fixing the cracks in your kitchen floor.’

As soon as Thorleif has left the multi-storey car park, he calls Elisabeth, but she doesn’t answer her mobile. Thorleif looks at his watch. She is probably still teaching, he thinks and joins the E18 towards Oslo. On his way home he calls her at regular intervals, but she doesn’t pick up until he passes Sandvika.

‘Hi,’ she says, anxiously. ‘What’s happened?’

Thorleif closes his eyes. He is so relieved to hear her voice that he almost bursts into tears. He takes a deep breath and regains some sort of composure. He thinks carefully before he answers. ‘Nothing.’

‘For God’s sake, Thorleif, I have eight missed calls on my mobile. I thought something had happened to the kids!’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘You can’t do this to me.’

‘Where are you?’ he says, trying to distract her.

‘Where am I? I’m at work, of course. Where are you? I can hear you’re in the car.’

‘Eh, yes. I’m working, too.’

‘Why did you ring me eight times?’

‘Because… could you do me a favour?’ he says.

‘Yes, of course, but-’

‘Could you pick up the kids today? I’m going to be a bit late‚ I think.’

‘Hello, I pick them up every day! Why would you ask me to do that? You don’t need to call me eight times to ask me to do something I do every day already. Have you gone completely mad?’

‘No. It’s just that… ’ he shakes his head at himself, ‘just drive carefully. Okay?’

‘Drive carefully? Jesus Christ, Thorleif, you’re sitting in our car! What is wrong with you?’

‘Nothing, I’m just joking,’ he says quickly, hoping that will suffice.

‘When will you be back?’ she sighs.

‘I’m not really sure.’

‘No, I didn’t think so. If you’re later than five, we’ll go ahead and eat without you.’

‘Okay. Take care. I… ’ He can’t complete the sentence so he hangs up. He regrets it instantly. He should have warned her, told her to look over her shoulder, be on her guard. But what if they are bugging his mobile? Or both their mobiles? They must have been in his home since the man in the car knew about the cracks in the kitchen floor. Thorleif feels sick just thinking about what else the man has seen. The children. Their lives.

I can’t talk to anyone about this, Thorleif concludes. I can’t and I daren’t. But how do I get myself out of this nightmare? I can’t just do what they want since they are clearly going to kill me afterwards. First I kill, then I am killed.

No, he says to himself and feels the car accelerate. He has to come up with something.

The queue at the off-licence in Gronland Basar is never very long. Henning buys two bottles of St Hallvard and walks out into the mix of aromatic spices that always fills the air in this part of Oslo. His most recent conversation with Pulli replays in his head while he walks. I just can’t, Henning mimics. At the time Henning meant it when he said that he could not be bothered to waste any more time on a man who is used to getting what he wants and who — according to Irene Otnes — also has a habit of lying. But Henning knows he has nowhere else to go. And he hopes it gave Pulli something to think about until the next time.

As always, he finds his mother in the kitchen with a lit cigarette between her fingers. Another cigarette is burning in the ashtray next to her.

‘Hi Mum,’ he shouts, trying to drown out the sound of the radio. ‘Losing My Religion’ is playing on P4 for the umpteenth time, he registers.

‘How are you?’

She glances up from the newspaper in front of her. Her face is seething with irritation.

‘Look at this,’ she snorts. ‘Look what they have done to my newspaper.’

Henning goes over to the kitchen counter and puts down the bottles. Today’s edition of Aftenposten is scrunched up at the bottom.

‘How annoying,’ he shouts and tries to smooth out the crinkled paper. She sweeps his hand away with a dismissive gesture. REM finish singing, and the voice of an intense female announcer fills the kitchen. Christine Juul looks at him.