Ю Несбё - Blood on Snow

“He’s not coming back, Mum.”

“Of course he is. He always comes back.” She raised her glass again. “He’s very fond of me, you know. And you.”

“Mum, you helped me carry him...”

She put the glass down with a bang, spilling some of the gin.

“Oh,” she said without any trace of emotion, fixing her gaze on me. “Anyone who took him from me would have to be a terrible person, don’t you think?”

She wiped the glistening liquid from the table-cloth with one hand, then went on rubbing it, as if she were trying to erase something. I didn’t know what to say. She had put together a story of her own. And I mine. I could hardly start diving into that lake up in Nittedal just to see whose version was more truthful. So I said nothing.

But the knowledge that she could love a man who treated her like that taught me just one thing about love.

No, actually.

It didn’t.

It taught me nothing about love.

We never spoke about my father again after that.

I turned the wheel to follow the road, matching it as closely as I could, but it was as if it was trying to shake me off the whole time, swerving so that I and the car would hit a wall or one of the cars coming in the other direction, disappearing behind me with wailing horns that diminished in strength like an exhausted barrel organ.

I turned off to the right. Found myself in quieter streets. Fewer lights. Less traffic. Darkness was falling. And then it got completely dark.

I must have fainted and driven off the road. Not fast. I had hit my head on the windscreen but there was no damage, either to windscreen or head. And the lamp post that the radiator had buckled around wasn’t even bent. But the engine had stopped. I turned the key in the ignition a few times, but it just complained with ever decreasing enthusiasm. I opened the car door and crawled out. I lay on my knees and elbows like a Muslim praying, with the fresh snow stinging the palms of my hands. I moved my hands together, trying to gather up the powdery snow. But powdery snow is just that. It’s white and beautiful, but difficult to make anything enduring out of. It promises so much, but in the end everything you try to make collapses, crumbling between your fingers. I peered up and looked around to see where I’d driven.

Leaning on the car I got to my feet, then staggered over to the window. I pressed my face to the glass, which was lovely and cool against my burning forehead. The shelves and counters inside were bathed in a flickering half-light. I was too late, the shop was closed. Of course it was, it was the middle of the night. There was even a sign on the door saying they’d closed earlier than usual: “Closing at 17:00 on December 23 for stocktaking.”

Taking stock. Of course. It was the day before Christmas Eve, after all. The end of a year. Perhaps it was time for that.

In the corner, beyond the short train of trolleys, there was a Christmas tree, mean and small. But it still demanded the title — it was a Christmas tree, no matter what.

I didn’t know why I had driven here. I could have driven to the hotel and got a room there. Right across the street from the man we had just fixed. Opposite the woman who had fixed me. No one would think of looking for me there. I had enough money for two nights. I could call the Fisherman in the morning and ask to have the rest of the fee paid into my bank account.

I heard myself laugh.

Felt a warm tear trickle down my cheek, saw it fall and burrow into the fresh snow.

Then another one. It just disappeared.

I caught sight of my knee. Blood was oozing out through the fabric of the trousers and dribbling down to settle on the snow with a skin of slime, like egg whites. I knew it would disappear. Melt down and vanish like my tears. But it just lay there, red and quivering. I felt my sweaty hair stick to the glass of the window. It’s probably a bit late to mention it now, but in case I haven’t said, I’ve got long, slightly lank, blond hair and a beard, I’m average height and I’ve got blue eyes. That’s pretty much me. There’s an advantage to having a lot of hair and a beard: if there are too many witnesses to a job, you have the potential to change your appearance quickly. And it was this potential to change quickly that I now felt freezing to the window, setting root, like part of that coral reef I keep going on about. Anyway. I wanted to become one with this window, to become glass, just like the invertebrate anemones in Animal Kingdom 5: The Sea actually become the coral reef they live on. And in the morning I would be able to watch Maria, watch her all day without her seeing me. Whisper whatever I liked to her. Call out, sing. My only wish just then was to disappear — maybe it was the only thing I had ever wanted. To disappear, like Mum drinking herself invisible with neat spirits. Rubbing it in until it erased her. Where was she now? I no longer remember. I hadn’t been able to remember for a long time. It was odd, I could say where my father was, but where was my mother, the woman who had given me life and kept me alive? Was she really dead and buried at Ris Church? Or was she still out there somewhere? Obviously I knew, it was just a question of remembering.

I closed my eyes and rested my head against the window. Relaxed completely. So tired. I’d soon remember. Soon...

Darkness came. The great darkness. Spreading out like a huge, black cloak, coming towards me to take me in its embrace.

It was so quiet that I could hear a soft clicking sound that seemed to be coming from the door beside me. Then I heard steps, familiar, limping steps, approaching. I didn’t open my eyes. The footsteps stopped.

“Olav.”

I didn’t answer.

She came closer. I felt a hand on my arm. “What... Are... You... Doing... Here.”

I opened my eyes. Stared into the glass, at the reflection of her standing behind me.

I opened my mouth, but couldn’t speak.

“Are... You... Bleeding.”

I nodded. How could she be here now, in the middle of the night?

Of course.

Stocktaking.

“Your... Car.”

I formed my mouth and tongue to say “yes,” but no sound came out.

She nodded, as if to say she understood, then lifted my arm and put it over her shoulder.

“Come.”

I limped towards the car, leaning on her, on Maria. The strange thing was that I didn’t notice her limp; it was as if it were gone. She got me into the passenger seat, then went round to the driver’s side, where the door was still open. She leaned over me and ripped open the leg of my trousers, which tore without a sound. She took a bottle of mineral water from her bag, unscrewed it and poured water on my thigh.

“Bullet?”

I nodded and looked down. It didn’t hurt any more, but the bullet hole looked like the mouth of a gaping fish. Maria had pulled off her scarf and told me to lift my leg. Then she tied the scarf tightly round it.

“Hold... Your... Fingers... Here... And... Press... Hard... On... The... Wound.”

She turned the key, still in the ignition. The car started with a soft, amiable purr. She put it in reverse and backed away from the lamp post. Pulled out onto the road and drove.

“My... Uncle... Is... A... Surgeon... Marcel... Myriel.”

Myriel. The same surname as the junkie. How could she and he have an uncle with the same...?

“Not... At... The... Hospital.” She looked across at me. “At... Mine.”

I leaned back against the headrest. She wasn’t talking like a deaf mute. It was odd and jerky, but not like someone who couldn’t talk, more like someone...

“French,” she said. “Sorry... But... I... Don’t... Like... Talking... Norwegian.” She laughed. “I... Prefer... To... Write... Always... Have... Done. As... A... Child... I... Just... Read... Do... You... Like... Reading... Olav?”