Thomas Enger - Pierced

The sound of a car approaching is unmistakable. Thorleif sits up, goes straight to the kitchen window and looks outside. Down the road an Audi comes to a halt before it turns left, towards the cabin. Thorleif’s heart skips a beat. Panicking, he considers rushing to the larder to hide when he notices an estate agent’s sign at the roadside by the crossroads. The sign wasn’t there yesterday.

There must be a viewing at one of the cabins this weekend, he concludes. It could attract many potential buyers. Thorleif swears softly. He hears the car spray gravel as it comes down the road. He steps back behind the curtain as it drives past. With a sigh he sits down at the dining table where a notepad and pen are waiting for him.

When he came home last night he began to write, inspired by Mia, the hotel receptionist. He did it in an attempt to keep himself busy since he couldn’t concentrate on reading, and he realised at once how good it felt to express himself in the old-fashioned way again. Writing on a computer is so quick by comparison.

He started with the man who forced him to kill Tore Pulli, tried to describe him in as much detail as possible in case he needed to remember it later. Then he tried to articulate what he had been through in the past week. At the end he realised that what he had written was a confession and an apology to Tore Pulli’s family and to his own. It was as if the words took on a will of their own.

It’s Saturday, Thorleif thinks. It’s almost twelve hours since he emailed Iver Gundersen. Perhaps Gundersen was working last night or he is at work today. Worst-case scenario is he won’t see Thorleif’s email until Monday. But he might get his emails forwarded to his mobile; he might be one of those people who can’t help checking their messages all the time. It could mean that Gundersen has already taken action and contacted someone he knows or trusts.

There is still hope, Thorleif says to himself.

Never give up hope.

Henning finds Nora on a chair outside the intensive-care unit where Iver is being monitored. Her skin is pale. The circles under her eyes have grown more noticeable, but she is just as beautiful as she always was. She stands up when Henning approaches her.

‘How is he?’ he asks. ‘Any change?’

She shakes her head.

‘He hasn’t regained consciousness yet?’

‘No.’

‘So what are the doctors saying?’

‘Not much. They’re just waiting for him to wake up.’

Henning nods and concentrates on her. ‘And how are you?’

She looks up. Her eyes are swollen.

‘Forget it,’ he says. ‘Stupid question. Have you had something to eat?’

She stares at him as if the concept of food is alien to her.

‘You have to eat something, Nora.’

There is silence for a few seconds. Then she says ‘You too, Henning.’

They stand there looking at each other.

‘Then let’s do that,’ he says.

They sit in the hospital’s cafe clutching warm mugs. Henning has coffee, Nora drinks tea. As always, each has taken two sugars. He bought a ham and cheese baguette and had it heated up in the cafe’s microwave oven, but neither Henning nor Nora are in a rush to sink their teeth into the chewy bread.

He studies her in brief flashes. He has never noticed until now how small vertical lines appear to be carved into her lips with a careful scalpel. It feels weird to be with her again after everything that has happened. Nora stares vaguely at something with a glowing melancholy in her eyes.

‘The police haven’t found the person who did it,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Iver’s attacker. The police haven’t got much to go on at the moment.’

‘Right.’

Henning takes a sip of his coffee. He knows there are other people present, but the only face he sees is Nora’s. It is like being caught in a force field. Even if he could, he isn’t sure that he would want to escape. Sitting here, opposite her, with food and drink on the table between them, makes it difficult not to remember the golden hours before everything became so bloody complicated. Before Jonas. And he knows deep down, in his heart of hearts, that they loved each other once.

For a while they eat in silence, and though Henning knows that it belongs to their past life, he recognises the feeling of companionship, the idea of a joint project where pauses are permitted so that the silence which follows each sentence can embrace them. But then the silence becomes uncomfortable and he knows that the longer they sit there without saying anything, the harder talking will be.

‘There is something I need to tell you.’

Nora takes a bite of her baguette and chews it absent-mindedly. Henning takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve discovered a clue,’ he says, uncertain as to how to continue.

‘What do you mean? What kind of clue?’

‘A clue that relates to the fire.’

‘The fire? What do you… ’ Her mouth opens.

‘I know that somebody set fire to my flat… our old flat… my place, on the day that-’

For no reason he makes a fencing movement with one arm.

‘Henning, what are you-’

‘Just listen to me, Nora, please,’ he interrupts her. ‘I know I’m right. And now I’ve discovered a clue which I believe changes the case. The day of the fire… Tore Pulli was outside my flat that day, and-’

Nora’s mug hits the table with a bang. ‘Henning, what the hell are you talking about? What clue? What case? Tore Pulli? Are you sitting there telling me that someone caused Jonas’s death? Is that what you’re saying to me?’

‘I-’

‘What the hell does Tore Pulli have to do with anything?’

Henning searches for the start of a sentence that will extinguish the embers he sees in her eyes, but he finds nothing. Nora pushes the chair out behind her.

‘Christ, Henning, I knew that you were mad‚ but not that you had lost the plot completely.’

‘Nora, please-’

‘Forget it. Just forget it. I don’t want to hear another word about it, I can’t bear it. And don’t come here again. Please, don’t come here again.’

On her way out she bumps into her chair, which almost falls over. People stand back to make way for her. Henning sees that she is crying as she leaves the cafe.

He doesn’t move for several minutes. You idiot, he says to himself. It has taken you almost two years to be able to breathe normally when Nora is in the same room as you. And then you go and ruin everything. And, honestly, what did he think would happen? That she would jump for joy and say, ‘ Well done, Henning. I’m thrilled that you’ve found a clue. Come here, I always knew that one day you would discover who killed our son. My all-time hero! ’

He should have tested the waters first, found out what Nora thought about that day, if she shares his suspicions. When he thinks about it, he knows that she has crossed Jonas out. Not deep down, because she carries him in her heart, but she applies correction fluid every day.

He shakes his head at himself. Great, Henning. Well played.

They ought to rename this dump Hole, Orjan Mjones thinks, as he gets back on the train after spending three hours wandering around the centre and vicinity of Gol. He is fed up with hotels and motels and bars and cafes, especially since none of the people inside them have seen anything of Thorleif Brenden. Durim might be right when he said it would be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Nor have the other two got anywhere in Fla and Nesbyen. They are on their way to Al and Geilo now. Mjones remembers what Langbein said. The clock is ticking.

He finds an empty seat by the window and updates Durim and Jeton before he rests his head against the wall and weighs up the situation. Brenden might have sat in this very seat. What did he think? What plans did he make?