Thomas Enger - Pierced

‘What?’

‘He’s in a coma.’

Henning’s jaw drops. His eyes flicker from side to side. ‘Where are you?’ he asks.

‘At Ulleval Hospital.’

‘Okay,’ he says, and stands up. ‘I’m on my way.’

Iver, in a coma, beaten senseless. Given what he was investigating, it can be no coincidence, Henning thinks and throws 200 kroner on to the passenger seat for the cab driver. He rushes inside the hospital. Walking as fast as he can manage, he makes his way to Emergency Admissions. The highly polished floor swims in front of his eyes as he goes through two doors, passes waiting next of kin, sees white walls and randomly displayed pictures with equally random motifs and notices doctors and cleaners, but he doesn’t look anyone in the eye. Not until he sees Nora.

She gets up from a chair and comes to meet him. Even from a distance he can see that her eyes are red. She doesn’t stop walking until he embraces her, and then she clings to him.

Christ, how she clings to him.

He holds her for a long time and feels his body grow hot all over. Old memories are reawakened, images he doesn’t want to see and certainly doesn’t want to relive. But he is incapable of suppressing the memory of their time together, which is so far distant now that nothing can bridge the gap between them. And he hates himself because it hurts him so much that she is crying and even more that she is crying for somebody else.

‘What are the doctors saying?’ Henning asks and holds her out from him.

She sniffs and shakes her head at the same time. ‘They don’t know very much yet.’

‘He’s still in a coma?’

She nods and dries the tears from her eyes. They walk over to a seating area and sit down.

‘Who found him?’

‘An old lady who lives nearby. The noise woke her up so she decided to have a look outside.’

‘But she didn’t see who did it?’

Nora shakes her head again, lifts her hands to her mouth and squeezes her eyes tightly shut. Fresh tears roll down.

‘How did you find out?’

‘Iver briefly regained consciousness when he was brought in here.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Not that I know of.’

Henning nods. A nurse marches past them.

‘Have the police been here?’

‘Yes, but they’ve gone again.’

Henning breathes in deeply, stays in his seat and looks around without taking anything in.

‘Have you been to see him?’

‘Only for a minute.’

‘What did he look like?’

Nora stares at him for a long time. Then she says in a voice that breaks, ‘Bloody awful.’

Henning returns her gaze, watches her tears. ‘Are you staying here until he wakes up?’ he asks her.

She nods.

‘It could be a long time — you know that, don’t you? The doctors never try to rush this. You must let nature take its course. Iver will wake up when he is ready.’

She looks at him with eyes that well up. ‘ If he wakes up.’

Henning doesn’t know how Nora reacted when she was told that Jonas was dead. Nor does he want to know. But he heard that she lost fourteen kilos in the four weeks that followed. Several of them are still missing, but she is slowly starting to recover. And if there is anything left of the Nora he knew, then she has been balancing on a knife’s edge every single day since.

Henning considers a sentence that is forming itself inside him. He never thought he would say it, let alone mean it. ‘Iver is a fighter, Nora. He’ll be all right.’

She looks at him. ‘I hope so.’

‘He will.’

‘I can’t bear to lose… ’

Henning is grateful that she doesn’t complete the sentence. He pulls his jacket more tightly.

‘Give him my best when he wakes up,’ he says and stands up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To work.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes. I’ve a story to write.’

The duty editor raises an eyebrow when Henning lets himself into the office and presses the button for black coffee. Henning gives him a quick update before he sits down at his desk.

On his way to the office he wondered how he should approach the story. The headline was obvious: Famous Journalist in Coma. He knows that anyone awake at this time of night will click on it. Given the headline it could be anyone in the media, an industry fond of turning its own into celebrities. And celebrities sell. That’s just the way it is. If the story is also placed on the front page, where the introduction can’t be seen so that the readers won’t automatically see which celebrity it concerns, the story will generate loads of hits.

It’s macabre, Henning thinks, to take such things into consideration at a time like this, but he is sure that Iver wouldn’t have minded. On the contrary: he would have insisted on it.

Henning starts to write. When he was at the hospital, he couldn’t take it in. Nor did it sink in when he was talking to the duty officer at the police station to get some quotes. But when he types the word ‘coma’ and writes that Iver Gundersen is hovering between life and death, the brutal truth that Iver might actually die finally dawns on him.

*

Orjan Mjones turns towards the morning sun, shielding his face with one hand as he peers towards the entrance door, which only stays closed for short periods. Passengers with bags and suitcases on wheels are walking in his direction. Mjones looks at his watch. The train leaves in five minutes.

He lights another cigarette and sucks it greedily. He is about to ring Jeton Pocoli when both Pocoli and Durim Redzepi come shuffling down the platform. Their tired faces grimace when the sun greets them.

Mjones nods when they reach him and pulls them aside.

‘Let’s go over this once more: Durim, you get off at Fla, you take a picture of Brenden with you and start looking around. Check out shops, petrol stations, hotels, post offices and restaurants.’

Redzepi grunts.

‘And you,’ Mjones says, looking at Pocoli. ‘You’ll do the same at the next station. Nesbyen. I’ll take Gol. And we’ll keep each other updated.’

More bleary-eyed looks.

‘What about Flurim? Isn’t he coming?’ Pocoli asks.

‘He’s monitoring data traffic, you know that. This wouldn’t have been necessary if you had done your job properly in the first place.’

Pocoli looks down and makes no reply.

‘If we don’t strike lucky at any of those stations we’ll carry on to Al, Geilo and so on.’

Mjones looks at them. Nobody nods. A ticket inspector with a backpack passes to one side of them. Mjones checks the clock on his mobile. Ten minutes past eight.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘We’ll travel in separate compartments. I don’t want anyone seeing us together.’

It is just past nine o’clock in the morning when Henning rings Geir Gronningen’s doorbell at number 13 Toyengata. He presses the bell four times and keeps his finger on it extra long on the last ring. Soon afterwards he hears a hello in a voice still thick with sleep. Henning can’t be sure, but he thinks it’s Gronningen.

‘Henning Juul. May I come in, please?’

A few seconds of silence follow. ‘Now?’

‘Yes, now. I need to talk to you again.’

‘Are you kidding? At this time in the morning?’

‘I wouldn’t be here at this hour if it wasn’t urgent,’ Henning barks.

Again there is silence. A morose snort can be heard from the intercom. ‘Hang on a minute, I just need to put some clothes on.’

Henning looks around while he waits impatiently for the door to buzz. Soon he is let in, and he stomps up to the third floor. The smell of spices which hits him the moment he entered the stairwell grows less noticeable the higher he gets. Gronningen meets Henning in the doorway of his flat at the top of the stairs.