Thomas Enger - Pierced

Buses are out of the question. Too claustrophobic and too slow. So he checks the list of InterCity trains. Skien, Lillehammer, Bergen, Halden, Trondheim. The train to Bergen departs in nine minutes, he sees. The one to Gothenburg in eight. With his pulse throbbing in his neck, Thorleif rushes over to one of the numerous red ticket machines. He types in the letters and feeds money into the slot.

‘The train to Eidsvoll is ready to depart from platform number 10.’

Thorleif snatches the ticket and sets off. The train leaves in four minutes. And he still has one more thing to do.

When Orjan Mjones catches sight of his own reflection in the shop window, he has to make an effort not to grin. Everything went according to plan. His plan. And no screw-ups this time.

It was bloody brilliant.

But it’s not over yet. The home leg remains. Getting rid of Brenden and picking up the rest of the money. After that he will leave Oslo for good. He can’t risk staying here or returning later if Brenden’s absence proves problematic.

Mjones laughs to himself. Problematic?

He has yet to decide on a destination, but it will be far away. He feels a strong urge to go to the woods and sleep under the trees for weeks. He could do that, of course, but not in Norway. And he certainly isn’t going to a place where cheap cocktails and scantily clad women are as easily accessible as the beach. That kind of life has never appealed to him.

Once he has collected the cash, he won’t need to work. Not for a long time. The question is how long he can manage without it. Idleness gives him cabin fever. His brain needs stimulating, and work makes him feel alive.

Around him people are rushing with briefcases in their hands or dragging suitcases behind them as they throw swift, panicky glances at their watches or mobiles. Mjones has nothing but contempt for those who subject themselves to this every day for a whole lifetime. It is so humdrum.

Mjones has never been attracted to a life of respectability. As a teenager, he carried out ram-raids most weeks. It was easy to do, and the cops were always completely baffled. Why should he be stuck in some dead-end job earning 180 kroner per hour when he could easily make a quarter of a million in a weekend?

He had a girlfriend once who tried to turn him into a law-abiding citizen, but he only lasted a couple of months. Every day he would sit in an office trying to sell some rubbish while his body ached to be elsewhere, casing a joint, on a job, mapping and planning. His mother had asked him several times why he couldn’t respect the law like everyone else, but that wasn’t who he was. He enjoyed destruction, he got a thrill from stirring things up, he sought out excitement and action precisely so that life wouldn’t be so bloody boring. It wasn’t society that turned him into a criminal. It was a life he had chosen for himself. And if he had the chance to live his life all over again, the result would have been exactly the same.

His inside pocket vibrates. Mjones takes out his mobile and answers it.

‘We’ve a problem,’ Jeton Pocoli says.

‘Go on.’

‘Number One. I don’t know where he is.’

Mjones’s smile freezes. He transfers the mobile from one hand to the other, pulls a face and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.

‘Where did you lose him?’

‘He went into Burger King. I walked up and down outside for five to ten minutes, but I started to worry when he never reappeared. I went inside to look for him. I found his clothes in the gents.’

Mjones says nothing.

‘Which Burger King was it?’

‘The one at the bottom of Karl Johansgate.’

‘Close to Oslo Central Station?’

‘Yes. That’s where I am now, but I can’t see him.’

Mjones considers this as he looks at his own reflection in the window of GlasMagasinet.

‘Okay,’ he says, eventually.

‘What do we do?’ Pocoli asks.

‘I’ll ring you back. Stay where you are.’

Mjones ends the call before Pocoli has time to reply and rings Flurim Ahmetaj straight away.

‘Speak,’ says the Swedish Albanian.

‘Has he called Number Two yet?’

‘No.’

‘Has he called anyone at all?’

‘No.’

‘Can you see where his mobile is now?’

‘No, but I can find out.’

‘Do that. And check his bank accounts. Number One has done a runner.’

‘Right.’

Mjones looks at himself while he processes the news. Gradually, a fresh smile emerges on his face. ‘It’s no big deal.’

‘Eh?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Number One is about to make the biggest mistake of his life.’

There is a strange noise inside his head.

Is it the sound of the sea? He can definitely hear waves crashing.

Henning swallows, but the sound refuses to go away. It’s as if he has been to a concert where the noise level was too loud. He blinks as well, but the people around him still look weird. They blur and dissolve. Their voices mingle. The grass under him seems to come closer. An ant climbs up on his hand. It looks as if it is about to crawl inside his skin when Henning flicks it away and gets up. He stands there, swaying. The first steps hurt, the next ones are even worse. He turns away from the sun and lets it burn his neck instead. He carries on walking. The fence, where’s the fence? Tarmac under his feet again. The whoosh from a bicycle racing past grabs hold of him just as a fresh, sharp pain begins under the soles of his feet. When he puts pressure on them, they feel wet.

Nearby something bounces.

‘Oi!’

Henning is startled and looks up.

‘Stop the ball!’

He sticks out his more painful foot, feels something hit it and come to a halt. Someone runs towards him. Henning keeps the ball in place under his foot. He sees a boy with long blond hair. Ice-blue eyes. There is something familiar about them.

‘Thanks,’ the boy says. He is eight, maybe nine years old. ‘Can I have it back, please?’ he asks. Henning looks at him.

‘What’s your name?’ he hears himself say.

‘Fredrik.’

Henning takes a step to the side for support, tries to make eye contact with the boy, but can’t manage it. Instead he rolls the ball towards the boy, who kicks it up and catches it with his hands, but drops it instantly.

‘Yuk, it’s covered in blood!’

The ball rolls away. Henning tries to work out where it has gone, but he can’t. He only registers that the boy is leaving. The stinging pain under his feet grows more intense. He looks down. It’s not until then he realises that he is wearing slippers.

*

Thorleif has always experienced a sense of calm when travelling by train. There is something infinitely serene about gazing idly through a window. If his eyes follow the tracks, the world rushes past. If he looks out at the landscape, everything seems almost stagnant. It’s something which has always fascinated him. But not now.

Today he can’t be bothered to look for deer or admire the fields or the passing mountains. Instead he closes his eyes and tries to clear his mind. It proves to be impossible; he can’t stop reliving what he has done. On his fingertips Thorleif can still feel the tiny hairs on Tore Pulli’s body as he attached the microphone to the tight T-shirt. The needle in the palm of his hand, clammy and smooth. The startled look in Pulli’s eyes as he Thorleif can’t bear to complete the thought. He wonders what everyone will think in the next few days. Especially the children. Elisabeth will probably tell them that Daddy had to go abroad for work and that she doesn’t know how long he will be away. But how long will she be able to keep that up? Pal is eight years old and he is a bright boy. He will soon guess that something is wrong. I need to let them know that I’m in one piece, Thorleif thinks, tell Elisabeth not to worry. But how will he manage that if their flat is being monitored? What if they have bugged Elisabeth’s mobile? I can’t risk it, Thorleif concludes. I can’t risk them suspecting that she knows where I am.