Thomas Enger: Pierced

‘No screw-ups this time.’

Mjones looks at him long and hard. Beads of sweat force their way out of the pores of Redzepi’s forehead. He pinches the needle so hard that his knuckles go white.

Calmly, he approaches the cat in the cage. Behind him the others get up and move closer. Redzepi’s look is one of deep concentration.

He opens the cage and looks at the sleepy animal, which barely raises its eyelids to look back at him.

‘Meow,’ Redzepi says, softly.

Then he aims the needle at the cat’s neck.

And pricks it.

Henning wakes up early Sunday morning after a dreamless sleep. He goes to the kitchen to make some coffee. While he showers he turns over in his mind the information he found on Tore Pulli the previous night.

Pulli’s parents died in a car crash a few days after his eleventh birthday, and it was left to his grandparents, Margit Marie and Sverre Lorents, to try to turn young Tore Jorn into a good citizen. The boy’s life had, however, already taken a wrong turn. As the youngest member of a tagging gang, he constantly had to prove his place. In his early teens he was involved in a series of minor burglaries. He started smoking cigarettes and moved on to cannabis. He was quick to start fights. He drove a moped long before he was legally allowed to. His path to the biker gang was a short one. And it was at that point that he took up bodybuilding in earnest.

One evening, when Pulli and his biker friends had been drinking heavily, Fred Are Melby — a notorious enforcer — came over to Pulli and started talking to him. Pulli, who was eighteen or nineteen years old at the time, thought this was cool until Melby’s fist connected with his temple and floored him. Pulli quickly got back on his feet and proceeded to beat Melby to a pulp, including breaking his jaw with a lightning fast jab with his elbow.

In the days that followed Melby’s discharge from hospital Pulli was expecting some form of retaliation, but it never came. Instead, Melby offered him a job and promised to teach him everything he knew about the business. Pulli had got his foot in the door. Melby encouraged him to perfect his fast elbow move, thus establishing Pulli’s signature trademark. Later, Pulli discovered that the initial provocation had simply been a kind of initiation test.

For six years he worked as a debt collector. Loan sharks and dodgy builders knew that they could trust him, and as his reputation started to precede him he no longer had to resort to violence to collect on his clients’ behalf. As soon as people heard Pulli had been hired, they paid up. However, brute force alone wasn’t enough, even though Pulli now regarded his body as a temple and never touched a drop of alcohol. He soon learned the importance of charisma, and the combination of strength and knowledge was — in his eyes — unbeatable. For that reason he read not only all the literature about weapons and combat techniques he could get his hands on but also biographies on great military leaders and personalities. Pulli enjoyed huge respect within his circle, and in the course of time he came to be a wealthy man.

His grandfather, Sverre Lorents, who had worked as a carpenter all his life, advised Pulli to invest in property, and he entered the market at a favourable time. He reinvested the money he made in larger ventures which provided him with even greater profits and enabled him to continue down the same road. Soon he no longer needed to rely on his enforcer activity to make a living. Nor was it beneficial to his legitimate business interests to have at least one foot firmly anchored in the criminal underworld. In 2004, he shelved his knuckle-duster, or, more precisely, he hung it on the wall of his study. And then he met Veronica Nansen. They married two years later, and the tabloid press regarded their wedding as the highlight of its year.

Nansen is the owner of Nansen Models AS, a popular supplier of girls for a variety of glamorous assignments. Before that, she earned her living as a high-profile model and hosted a reality-TV show that promised to give young, skinny and very ordinary girls the chance to make a living from their looks.

Henning would not normally call anyone on a Sunday, but given that the matter affects both him and Tore Pulli he has no scruples disturbing Veronica Nansen. After many long rings the telephone is answered by a woman whose voice is rusty with sleep. ‘Hi, sorry for disturbing you. My name is Henning Juul.’

Henning’s other hand drums the table impatiently while he waits for her to reply. ‘I don’t know if Tore has-’

‘I spoke to Tore yesterday,’ Nansen says sharply. ‘I know who you are.’

Her words sow a seed of guilt without him quite knowing why, but he shakes it off.

‘So you know that I’m also-’

‘I know that you’re giving Tore false hope. It’s the last thing he needs right now.’

‘False-’

‘As far as I’m concerned, he’s free to seek comfort in a pipe dream that someone outside the prison walls will ride to his rescue, but I’ve no time for people like you.’

‘People like me? You don’t even know what I-’

‘Oh, yes, I do. You’re attracted to mysteries, aren’t you? Riddles nobody has managed to crack. And now you want to turn up and save the day.’

‘Not at all-’

‘Tore doesn’t need this now.’

‘So what do you think he needs?’

‘He needs to prepare himself for his appeal. He should be trying to find out how to challenge his sentence rather than-’

Nansen fails to find a suitable ending.

‘So he’s guilty?’

‘Did I say that?’

‘No, but-’

Nansen interrupts him with a snort. ‘If you knew what I know, you would have done Tore a favour and turned down the job. He has been through enough.’

Henning changes tactics. ‘Have you ever been to prison?’ he asks. He hears that she is about to reply, but interrupts her. ‘Have you sat in a room no bigger than a broom cupboard where your door is locked at 8.40 every night, knowing you won’t be able to leave until seven o’clock the next morning?’

Her sigh is heavier and more laboured than he had expected. ‘No, but-’

‘Sometimes hope is the only thing that keeps you going,’ he continues. ‘If Tore believes that I can help him, then I don’t think — with all due respect — that you should try to oppose it.’

His comment verges on the pompous, but it works. He thinks.

‘I’m just trying to be realistic,’ she says eventually.

‘Okay, I understand, but could we at least have a chat about his case? You probably know him better than anyone, and perhaps you know more about the case. And just so you know, I haven’t decided if I’m going to take this job yet.’

‘You’re right,’ she says quietly, after a long pause. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so abrasive. It’s just that-’

‘Forget it,’ Henning says. ‘Is there any chance that we could meet? Today preferably, if that’s all right? I know it’s a Sunday and all that, but-’

‘Could you be here in half an hour?’

Surprised at her sudden co-operation, Henning looks at his watch. ‘I can.’

‘Can we play the snake game? Please, please, pleeeeease!’

Thorleif Brenden hears his daughter’s voice from the bedroom while he takes out plates from the kitchen cupboard. Glasses and cutlery are waiting on the table with cold cuts, cheese, orange juice and milk. The oven is on. A saucepan with water and eggs splutters on the cooker, but the sounds from the bedroom drown out even the dulcet tones of Norwegian songbird Marit Larsen from the Tivoli radio on the windowsill.

The snake game, Thorleif thinks, and smiles. The kids never get bored with it, even though Elisabeth has been playing it with them for years. First with Pal, then with Julie. And now with both of them. Thorleif hears a hissing sound, and the expectant squeals from the children who are hoping — or dreading — being bitten by their mother’s hand snaking towards them under the duvet. The game usually ends in tears, either when Julie is kneed in the stomach or her eye is poked by a stray finger. Even so, the tears are always forgotten by the next time.