Thomas Enger - Pierced

He looks out of the window searching for something he can focus on and lose himself in, but he finds nothing. Only children in the park, people in cafes. Life passing by. He recognises the mood from this morning. Something is brewing. He starts to feel dizzy. The little box he was given is burning a hole in his inside pocket.

Thorleif hears the man’s voice inside his head: There is no reason why you can’t go home from work today. You just have to do one small thing for us. If you do that you’ll be able to carry on with your life just as it was before. If you don’t, we’ll kill not only you but also your children.

Thorleif closes his eyes.

The car stops. The ground feels soft as he gets out. Ole Reinertsen, the other cameraman, opens the boot. Both of them pick up their cameras and recording equipment. Thorleif slings the lighting kit over his shoulder and soon feels his forehead flush with heat. The camera seems heavier than usual. The details around him lose substance and float past. He lets himself be guided through doors and finally into a room. He stares at the grey linoleum floor, feeling trapped by the white painted concrete walls.

‘Okay,’ Guri says. ‘We’ll probably need fifteen minutes to get ready. Or what do you think, Toffe?’

He nods. He hears a kind male voice reply that that’s fine and that he will be back. Thorleif is the last person to enter the room. He puts down his bags, his tripods and his camera. The room is small and narrow. A beech and glass table stands in the middle. The curtains have a pattern that looks like butterflies.

‘What do you think?’ Reinertsen asks him. ‘Two lights and a camera right behind Guri, roughly here?’

Reinertsen makes a square with his hands. Thorleif nods.

‘And I’ll be filming him as he enters.’

‘Mm.’

‘Could you pass me the tripod, please?’

Reinertsen points to the tripod. Thorleif does what he is asked. Behind him, Palme is marching up and down the floor with notes in her hands which she alternately looks at and away from. Thorleif’s work absorbs his attention for several minutes. He rigs the Panasonic 905 and finds a microphone and an XLR cable. Normally he would have said, I just need to attach this to you, and the interviewee would instantly forget that they were wearing a mike. But Thorleif doesn’t know if he will be able to say that today.

He tries to concentrate on the lighting. Three lights, perhaps a spot at the back to create an illusion of depth by contrasting objects. The light coming from behind is too sharp. He will have to close the curtains. Put a Dedolight in front, perhaps, with a Chimera attachment. It’ll be fine. The Chimera will disperse the light and soften it. If he dims the Dedolight, the colour will be warmer.

Rigging the lights distracts Thorleif and briefly makes him feel better. But in less than ten seconds the task facing him consumes him again.

Fifteen minutes later he is ready. He takes a deep breath, reaches inside his pocket, takes the box, opens it, turns away, places the needle in his left hand with the greatest of care, closes the box and puts it back. Do everything, he thinks. You have to do everything.

Near him, a door is opened. He sees Palme’s face light up. She has put on her camera face. She smiles. Extends her hand. Thorleif struggles to stop his knees from knocking. You’ll never be able to do it, a voice inside him whispers. You’ll fail. You’ll never succeed.

The room contracts. Thorleif presses his fingers together. His feet refuse to be still. The air grows clammy and difficult to inhale. Palme nods and smiles, she practically curtsies. ‘Thank you for coming. We’re delighted to start the Dypdykk series with this interview.’

A shadow appears in the doorway. Thorleif looks up. Dark, conspicuous tattoos. A woman’s face on a forearm.

He meets the eyes of the towering shadow. The man holds out his hand. Thorleif takes it, hears the man’s voice, deep and thundering.

‘Tore Pulli.’

Thorleif’s hand disappears inside the huge fist. He barely has enough strength to return the handshake. He looks up and says feebly, ‘Thorleif Brenden. N-nice to meet you.’

The fan on the windowsill whooshes noisily but still loses its battle with the quivering heat. The heat moistens Henning’s face as he leans over the kitchen table and scrolls through a Google search. Hundreds of articles about Rasmus Bjelland. More irrelevant hits than useful ones.

The vibrating of his mobile makes him turn his head. It’s Iver. Henning decides to ignore the call, but the mobile keeps twitching and buzzing. Finally, Henning hits the green answer button with irritation. A couple of seconds pass.

‘Hello?’

‘Mm.’

‘Is that you, Henning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really…? It doesn’t sound like you. Never mind… listen, have you heard the news?’

‘No?’

‘You won’t believe it. You know Tore Pulli? The ex-enforcer?’

Henning sits up in his seat. ‘Yes, what about him?’

‘He’s dead.’

The noise from the street disappears. The heat gives way to an icy blast. The space Henning is staring at narrows and contracts. His heart beats faster and faster until he swallows and inhales sharply. ‘W-what did you say?’

‘Tore Pulli is dead.’

Henning puts his elbow on the table and runs his hand across his face, letting it come to a rest on his forehead. His eyelids slide shut. He hears Iver say something, but the words refuse to sink in. All he can think about is Jonas. And his faint hope. That, too, has been extinguished.

‘Dead how?’

‘Jesus Christ, what kind of question is that?’

‘How did he die?’

‘I don’t have all the details yet. He appears to have just dropped dead, I believe, completely out of the blue. But you haven’t heard the worst. Or best, depending how you look at it. He died while he was being interviewed by TV2.’ The table moves in on him. ‘Unfortunately it wasn’t a live broadcast, otherwise we could have had a ball with it.’

Henning stares at the dents and scratches in the table top. The grain in the wood expands, it grows darker and deeper.

Who on earth will help him now?

‘When did it happen?’

‘About an hour ago. It’s completely-’

Henning plugs in the mobile’s headset and puts it down. He holds up his hands in front of his mouth and nose so they form a closed triangle.

‘Are you still there?’ Iver asks.

‘I’m here,’ Henning mumbles into his hands.

‘Are you coming in or what? I could do with some help here.’

‘No.’

‘But you’re supposed to be working today and-’

‘I’m taking a day’s leave.’

‘But I-’

Henning presses the red off button and buries his face in his hands.

Thorleif Brenden is shaking all over as the TV2 car drives slowly down the cobbled avenue leading away from Oslo Prison. Everything is out of focus.

Guri Palme in the front seat turns around to check on him.

‘How are you doing, Toffe?’

Her voice makes him jump.

‘F-fine,’ he replies.

‘Are you sure? You don’t look it.’

Thorleif doesn’t respond. He is trying to forget Tore Pulli’s eyes, but it’s impossible. They turned cold and still as if someone had covered them with a moist membrane. Saliva and mucus dribbled from his mouth and mixed with something white and foaming. His hands started to quiver, and the twitching spread to each body part like an infection. Then Pulli slumped on his side where he lay shaking for a few seconds before silence descended on him like a blanket.

‘We should expect to be called in to make a statement later today,’ Palme continues.