Thomas Enger - Pierced

‘Did you get the liqueur?’

‘I did.’

‘Would you…?’ She waves her hands in the direction of the cupboard. Henning opens it and takes out a glass. He removes the top of one of the bottles and is about pour the first soothing drops into the glass when he stops.

‘This glass is filthy, Mum.’

Her eyes shoot sideways, towards him, but she says nothing. Henning turns on the tap, waits for the water to warm up before he washes and dries the glass, but then he discovers that the tea towel is damp. He sniffs it, pulls away from it quickly and looks at her.

His mum needs a carer, he thinks. Someone who could help her with the basics. She can’t manage on her own. It’s either that or she has given up. He doesn’t have the energy to decide which is worse at this particular moment in time. His sister Trine can obviously never spare a single minute of her precious Minister for Justice time.

Henning puts the glass in front of his mother where a fawning Se og Hor feature about Trine and her husband just happens to lie open. ‘We Want Kids!’ screams the headline.

‘Did you buy cigarettes?’ she asks as she knocks back the liqueur.

‘No, you didn’t say anything about-’

‘You didn’t buy cigarettes?’

Henning is shocked by the anger in her voice which is soon replaced by a coughing fit that tears holes in her lungs. He puts his hand on her back and is about to slap it, but she wriggles away from him, pointing to the home respirator on the kitchen table near the wall while she hacks almost to the point of throwing up. Henning pushes the machine closer to her and attaches the mask over her nose and mouth with a blue strap around her head before he switches on the device. Soon her breathing calms down. Minutes later only spasms of her cough remain. She sits like this for some time, slowly breathing in and out.

Henning waits until her shoulders are no longer heaving before he slips out and locks the door behind him. Outside he can still hear the sound of the machine that is keeping her alive — for the time being, at least. And he catches himself wondering if he will feel sad the day she dies.

Suddenly his duvet feels suffocating and hot — even though he was shivering with goose pimples a minute ago. In the living room Pal is racing across the floor with Endre, one of his new classmates, close behind.

Thorleif went straight to bed when he came home‚ blaming a stomach upset. He knows he would not have been able to look at their faces without collapsing with terror. His family would think that he had gone mad, something which — now that he thinks about it — is close to the truth. What the hell is he going to do? They are watching his every move. The man with the ponytail told him they even have contacts within the police. Is there anyone at all who can help him? Is there some way he could raise the alarm?

This leads him to another thought. When did the burglar alarm stop working? Sunday? The days of the week are a blur to him, but he thinks it was Sunday. Could someone have been in their flat while they visited Bogstad Farm?

He is startled by a thud on the wall. He hears squeals of laughter coming from the living room. Pal’s laughter always makes him smile. Footsteps disappear and new footsteps approach. The bedroom door opens. Thorleif jumps again, then he sees Julie stop on the threshold. Even the sight of her pout is enough to take his breath away.

‘What is it, sweetheart?’

‘Pal says I’m rubbish at drawing.’

‘Does he now?’ Thorleif says in a gentle voice. ‘Don’t listen to him, my love. Pal is just showing off to Endre. You’re great at drawing. Did I hear Mummy say that you’ve learned to draw hearts?’

Julie’s face explodes in a smile. ‘Can I show you?’

‘Yes, please!’

Little feet patter across the floorboards. Thirty seconds later she returns to the bedroom holding a sheet of paper in her hand.

‘Look, Daddy.’ Beaming with pride she shows him the heart drawn in fat red pen.

‘Well, I never,’ he enthuses. ‘What a fantastic heart.’

‘Would you like me to draw you one?’

‘Would you?’

Another broad smile followed by running feet. Thorleif straightens up and looks at the heart. It resembles a pair of buttocks. But it is a heart. The finest heart he has ever seen.

It gives him an idea.

‘Julie?’ he calls out.

‘Yesss?’

‘Why don’t you bring your colouring pencils in here? Then I can watch you while you draw?’

‘Would you like that, Daddy?’

‘Yes, absolutely. Perhaps I could do a bit of drawing myself.’

‘Yesss!’

Shortly afterwards she comes running across the floor. Thorleif hears her drop the box, and all the colouring pencils fall out and roll across the floor.

‘Oh,’ Julie cries out.

‘Never mind, my love,’ he says. ‘Just pick them up again.’

‘You need to help me.’

Thorleif sighs in the knowledge that the job will never be done unless he gets out of bed and picks up every single pencil with the possible exception of one or two. So that’s what he does: he gets up. His whole body aches, but it is re-energised by his idea. He goes out into the living room and can see no sign of Pal, Endre or Elisabeth.

‘Come on,’ he says, picking up the last pencil. ‘We need to find something we can rest the paper on so we don’t accidentally draw on the bed linen. Or Mummy will be cross.’

‘We’re going to draw in bed?’

‘Yes. And we’ll build ourselves a tent so we can sit inside it and draw. Won’t that be fun?’

‘Lots of fun!’

‘Come on.’

He nudges her, picks up two newspapers from the coffee table and crawls back into bed. They wrap the duvets around themselves. Thorleif sits upright so the duvets form a wall around them. Julie puts newspaper under the paper she is going to draw on.

‘Listen,’ he says to get her attention. She doesn’t respond, she’s busy deciding which colours to use. ‘Do we have any crisps?’

Now Julie looks at him. ‘But, Daddy, it’s not Saturday.’

‘No, I know. But we could pretend,’ he whispers. Julie’s face lights up.

‘Run off and get some. Make sure nobody sees you. Or at least not Mummy.’

‘Okay, Daddy.’

Her feet dart across the floor. She soon returns with a crumpled bag in her hands. Her face is glowing. Julie climbs back into bed and gives the bag to Thorleif. He opens it and offers it to her first. Julie takes out a single crisp that soon crunches between her teeth. She smiles again.

‘Take care not to leave crumbs,’ Thorleif whispers. ‘Mummy mustn’t find out what we’ve been up to, do you understand?’

Julie sends him a conspiratorial smile and nods her head as she munches happily. Thorleif takes the bag and helps himself to some crisps. The salt stings his taste buds and almost makes them shrivel. He holds out the bag to Julie while he looks at her. She takes some more crisps and carries on drawing. One heart after another. Red and yellow, black and purple.

‘Daddy, are you crying?’

‘No,’ he sniffles.

‘So why are your cheeks wet?’

‘Because.’

He looks at her for a long time: at her swift movements, her tangled hair, the traces of tomato sauce at the corners of her mouth. He removes a strand of hair from her eyes.

‘It’s going to be really good,’ he says, pointing to her drawing.

‘What are you going to draw, Daddy?’ she asks him.

Thorleif looks at the red heart and turns over the paper before he looks up at the ceiling, scanning the room for something small and round that might be a camera. But he sees nothing. Even so he bends down and speaks carefully into her ear.