Ю Несбё - The Kingdom

Willumsen went through all the gear, the tools, anything that could be screwed down or taken apart before making his offer.

‘That’s not much,’ I said. ‘You know enough about the business to know that this is all top-quality gear.’

‘You said it yourself, Roy. The equipment needs to be upgraded to keep the accreditation.’

‘But you won’t be running an authorised repair shop, Willumsen. All you’ll be doing is just enough repairs so those wrecks you sell will keep running for a week after you’ve sold them.’

Willumsen gave a hearty laugh. ‘I’m not pricing the stuff on what it’s worth to you, Roy Opgard, I’m pricing it on what it’s not worth to you.’

I was learning something new every day.

‘On one condition,’ I said. ‘You take Markus as part of the deal.’

‘Part of the deal as the troll that comes with the barn? Come on, that Markus is more of a troll than a mechanic.’

‘That’s the deal, Willumsen.’

‘Really don’t know if I can use a little troll like Markus, Roy. National insurance. Social outlays.’

‘Yeah yeah, I know all that. But Markus will make certain the cars you sell aren’t actually a danger to traffic. Which is more than you do.’

Willumsen plucked at the lowest of his chins and looked as if he was working out the cost. He looked at me with one of his big octopus eyes and then offered an even lower price.

I couldn’t stand it any more. Said OK and Willumsen straight away held out his hand, probably to make sure I wouldn’t change my mind. I looked at those five spread, small grey-white fingers, like a latex glove filled with water. Shuddered as I took it.

‘I’ll be over tomorrow to pick it all up,’ said Willumsen.

Willumsen sacked Markus after three months, in the middle of his trial period so he didn’t have to give Markus paid notice. He told Markus it was because he’d been turning up late, been given a warning, and then turned up late again.

‘And is that right?’ I had asked Markus when he came to me looking for a job at what was now my one-man service station, the place where I was spending twelve hours every working day.

‘Yes,’ said Markus. ‘Ten minutes in September. And four minutes in November.’

So with that there were three guys living off two petrol pumps. I’d installed a dispensing machine with soft drinks and snacks in the old repair shop, but for the locals the Co-op was nearer and had more choice.

‘It’s not going to work,’ said Carl, pointing to the balance sheet we had drawn up together.

‘Further up the valley they’re selling cabins on three new sites,’ I said. ‘Just wait for the winter – we’ll have all the new cabin owners driving past here.’

Carl sighed. ‘You’re a hell of an obstinate bugger.’

One day an SUV pulled up in the forecourt. Two guys got out and wandered off round the repair shop building and the car wash as though looking for something.

‘If you’re looking for the toilet, it’s in here,’ I called out.

They walked over to me, each gave me his card, from which I learned that they were from what was definitely the biggest chain of service stations in the country, and asked if we could have that talk. I asked ‘What talk?’, and then realised Carl must have been in touch with them. They said they were impressed by how much I had got out of so little, and explained how much I could get with just a little bit more.

‘Franchise agreement,’ they said. ‘Ten years.’

They had also heard about the massive investment in new cabins further up the valley and the traffic prognosis for our main road.

‘What did you say to them?’ asked Carl excitedly when I got home.

‘I said thanks,’ I answered, and slumped down at the kitchen table. Carl had heated up some meatballs.

‘ Thanks ?’ said Carl. ‘As in…’ He read my face as I tucked in. ‘As in no thanks? What the fuck, Roy!’

‘They wanted to buy everything,’ I said. ‘The buildings, the land. Lots of money, of course, but I guess I like owning it. Must be the farmer in me.’

‘But for chrissakes, it’s all we can do just to keep our heads above water here.’

‘You should’ve told me they were coming.’

‘You would have said no even before hearing what they had to say.’

‘That’s probably true.’

Carl groaned and put his head in his hands. Stayed like that for a while. Sighed. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t get involved. Sorry. I was only trying to help.’

‘I know that. Thanks.’

He opened the fingers of one hand and looked at me through one eye. ‘So you got nothing out of the visit at all?’

‘Sure did.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘They had a long drive back, so they had to fill up the tank.’

EVEN THOUGH DAD HAD TAUGHT me a bit of boxing, I don’t really know if I was that good a fighter.

There was a dance at Årtun. Same band as usual, all in tight-fitting white suits, playing hits from Sweden. The vocalist, a skinny guy everyone called Rod because his ambition was to sound like Rod Stewart and score as many girls, got things going, howling away in a mixture of Norwegian and Swedish that made him sound like Armand, the travelling preacher who passed through the village now and then preaching about the great wave of awakening that was breaking over the land, and how it was good, because the Day of Judgement was nigh. If he’d been in Årtun that evening the preacher would have realised there was quite a bit of work still to do. People of all ages and both sexes, off their heads on home brew that would have been confiscated if they tried to take it inside, staggering around on the grass in front of the village hall, couples propping each other up as Rod sang about those golden-brown eyes. Until they too had had enough and spilled out onto the grass for another swig or else to copulate among the birch trees, puke or take a crap. Some didn’t even bother to head for the trees. People talked about the time our very own Rod invited a diehard female fan up onstage to join him in singing one of the band’s own compositions, ‘Are You Thinking of Me Tonight’. It was so like Eric Clapton’s ‘Wonderful Tonight’ that it was a miracle he was able to keep a straight face. After two verses he got the guitarist to play an extra-long solo, disappeared into the wings with the girl and the microphone, and when it was time for the third verse it came somewhat breathlessly from offstage. Halfway through the verse Rod came strutting out again, alone this time, winked at a couple of girls in front of the stage and, noticing the horrified looks on their faces, glanced down and saw the smeared blood on his white trousers. He sang the last verse, put the microphone back in the stand, and with a sigh and a smile and a ‘well well well…’ counted in the next number.

Long, light summer nights. As a rule the fighting didn’t start before ten o’clock. Two boys, and the cause was almost always a girl. A girl somebody had spoken to, or danced with a bit too often, or a bit too closely. Maybe the story started way before that particular Saturday evening at Årtun, but it was now, fuelled by alcohol and urged on by spectators, that the thing came to a head. Sometimes the girl was just a handy excuse for boys who wanted to fight, and there were plenty of those. Guys who thought they were good at fighting and maybe not much else, and who used the dances at Årtun as their stage.

And of course there were other times when the jealousy was real. This was usually the case whenever Carl was involved, though he himself was never the one who started a fight. The new Carl was too disarming for that, too charming, and too little of a benchmark for the hard cases to bother with. Those who attacked Carl did so in the heat of the moment. Sometimes Carl hadn’t even done anything, just made the girls laugh, been a bit more romantic than their own beaux could manage, had some girl’s eyes meet his own blue gaze but done nothing about it. Because Carl had a girlfriend, the council chairman’s daughter no less. He shouldn’t have been a threat, but things probably looked different through the fog of whisky, and they wanted to teach the silver-tongued lover boy a lesson. They started swinging, got even more provoked by Carl’s genuine and almost patronising surprise when the first punch landed, and wound up even more by the way he wouldn’t defend himself.