Ю Несбё - The Kingdom

Because it went on.

Not as often as before, maybe, I don’t remember.

Remember only that he no longer cared if I was asleep or not, didn’t care if Mum was asleep, cared only to show that he was master in his own house, and that a master does as he pleases. And that he had turned me into his physically equal opponent, as though to show us that he controlled us spiritually, not physically. Because what is physical is evanescent and fades, while spirit is eternal.

And I felt shame. Shame as my thoughts tried to flee from the sounds down below, from the swaying and creaking frame of the bunk beds, from that house. And after he’d gone I climbed down to Carl, held him until his crying stopped, whispered in his ear that one day, one day we’d go somewhere far away. I’d stop him. Stop that fucking mirror image of me. Empty words that only made my shame the greater.

We grew old enough to go to parties. Carl drank more than he should. And wound up in trouble more often than he should. And I was glad of it, because it opened up a place where I could do what I could never do at home: protect my little brother. It was simple, I just did what Dad had taught me: hit first and hit hard. Hit faces as though they were punchbags with Dad’s face on them.

But the day had to come.

And the day did come.

Carl came and told me he’d been to the doctor’s. That they’d examined him and asked him a lot of questions. That they had their suspicions. I asked what was wrong with him and he pulled down his trousers and showed me. I felt so angry I began to cry.

Before going to bed that night I went to the porch and took down the hunting knife. I put it under my pillow and waited.

On the fourth night he came in. As usual I was woken by the little creak from the door. He’d turned off the light in the corridor so all I saw was the outline in the doorway. I put my hand under the pillow and gripped round the handle of the knife. I had asked Uncle Bernard, who had read all about the saboteurs in Os during the war, and he said that silent killing was something you did by sticking your knife into the enemy’s back at the level of the kidneys. That cutting someone’s throat was much more difficult than it looks in films, that a lot of them ended up cutting their own thumb that was holding the enemy. I didn’t know exactly how high up the kidneys were, but my plan anyway was to stab lots of times, so one of them would probably hit. If not, then I’d have to go for his throat and my thumb, I didn’t give a fuck.

The figure in the doorway swayed slightly, maybe he’d drunk a few more beers than usual. He just stood there, as though wondering if he’d taken the wrong turning. As indeed he had. For years. But this would be the last time.

I heard a sound, as though he was drawing breath. Or sniffing the air.

The door closed, pitch darkness descended and I got ready. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it literally pressing against my ribs. Then I heard his footsteps on the stairs and realised he had changed his mind.

I heard the front door open.

Had he sensed something? I had read somewhere that adrenaline has a distinctive smell that our brain – consciously or unconsciously – registers, and puts us on the alert automatically. Or had he come to a decision there in the doorway? Not just to walk away from it tonight, but that it was over. That it would never happen again.

As I lay there I could feel my body start to shake. And when a rasping sound came from my throat as I drew breath I realised I had been holding it from the moment I heard the door creak.

After a while I heard the sound of someone crying quietly. I held my breath again, but it wasn’t coming from Carl, he was breathing regularly again. It was coming through the stovepipe.

I crept out of bed, pulled on some clothes and went downstairs.

Mum was sitting in the half-dark in the kitchen by the worktop. She was wearing her red dressing gown that looked like a quilted coat, and staring out the window towards the barn, where the lights were on. She was holding a glass, and on the table stood the bottle of bourbon that for years had remained unopened in the cupboard in the dining room.

I sat down.

Looked in the same direction as her, towards the barn.

She emptied her glass and filled it up again. It was the first time since that evening at the Grand Hotel that I had seen her drinking when it wasn’t Christmas Eve.

When at last she spoke her voice was hoarse and trembling.

‘You know, Roy, that I love your father so much I can’t live without him.’

It sounded like the conclusion of a long, silent discussion she’d been having with herself.

I said nothing, just stared across at the barn. Waiting to hear something from over there.

‘But he can live without me,’ she said. ‘You know, there were complications when Carl was born. I had lost a lot of blood and was unconscious, and the doctor had to let your father take the decision. There were two ways of doing it, one that was a risk for the foetus, and one that was a risk for the mother. Your father chose the one that was dangerous for me, Roy. Afterwards he said that of course I would have made the same choice, and he was right about that. But I wasn’t the one that chose, Roy. It was him.’

What was I expecting to hear from the barn? I know what it was. A shot. The door to the porch had been open when I came down the stairs. And the shotgun that usually hung high up on the wall was gone.

‘But if I had had to choose between saving your life and Carl’s, then I would have chosen him, Roy. So now you know. That’s all the mother I’ve been to you.’ She raised the glass to her mouth.

I had never heard her talk that way before, and yet I didn’t care. All I could think about was what was happening in the barn.

I got up and walked out. It was late summer, and the night air was cool against my hot cheeks. I didn’t rush. Walked at a measured tread, almost like a grown man. In the light from the open barn door I saw the shotgun, leaning up against the door jamb. As I came closer I saw the ladder leaning against one of the roof beams, and a rope slung over it.

I heard the dull thud of punches against the plastic covering of the punchbag.

I stopped before I reached the door, but close enough to be able to see him. He was punching and jabbing the bag. Did he know the face I had drawn on it was his? Probably.

Was that shotgun leaning there because he hadn’t managed to finish what he had started? Or was it an invitation to me?

My cheeks were no longer hot. Abruptly, along with the rest of my body, they had turned ice cold, and the slight night breeze blew right through me as though I were a fucking ghost.

I stood there and watched my father. Of course I knew that he wanted me to stop him, stop what he was doing, stop his heart. Everything was arranged. He’d organised things so that it would look as though he’d done it himself, even that rope gave its own clear message. So all I needed to do was shoot at close range and lay the shotgun beside the body. I shook. I could no longer control my body, nothing obeyed, my limbs quivered and shook. I didn’t feel anger or fear any longer, all I felt was impotence and shame. Because I couldn’t do it. He wanted to die, I wanted him to die, and yet I still could not fucking do it. Because he was me. And I hated him and I needed him, as I hated and needed myself. As I turned and walked away I heard him groan and punch, swear and punch, sob and punch.

At breakfast next morning it was as though it hadn’t happened. As though it was all just something I had dreamed. Dad peered out the kitchen window and passed some remark about the weather, and Mum hurried Carl along so he wouldn’t be late for school.