Ю Несбё - Blood on Snow

And as we did that — passed it — I realised for the first time what it reminded me of. Metal against metal. A feeling of order, of things falling into place. Of destiny. It was the sound of my work, of the movable parts of a weapon — pin and hammer, bolt and recoil.

We were the only passengers who got off at Vinderen. I followed him. The snow crunched. I took care to match my steps to his, so he couldn’t hear me. Detached villas on either side of us, but we were still so alone that we might as well have been on the moon.

I walked right up to him, and, as he half-turned, perhaps to see if it was one of his neighbours, I shot him in the base of the spine. He collapsed beside a fence and I turned him over with my foot. He stared at me with glassy eyes and for a moment I thought he was already dead. But then he moved his lips.

I could have shot him through the heart, in the neck or head. Why had I shot him in the back first? Was there something I wanted to ask him? Maybe, but I’d forgotten what now. Or it didn’t feel important. He didn’t look anything special close up. I shot him in the face. A hyena with a bloodstained snout.

I noticed a boy’s head sticking up over the fence. He had lumps of snow on his mittens and hat. Maybe he’d been trying to make a snowman. It’s not easy when the snow’s so powdery. Everything keeps falling apart, crumbling between your fingers.

“Is he dead?” the boy asked, looking down at the corpse. Maybe it seems odd to call someone a corpse just a few seconds after the person in question has died, but that’s the way I’ve always looked at it.

“Was he your dad?” I asked.

The boy shook his head.

I don’t know why I thought that. Why I got the idea that just because the boy seemed so calm it must have been his father lying there dead. Well, I do know, actually. That’s how I would have reacted.

“He lives there,” the boy said, pointing with one mitten as he sucked at the snow on the other, not taking his eyes off the dead body.

“I won’t come back and get you,” I said. “But forget what I look like. Okay?”

“Okay.” His cheeks were tensing and relaxing around the snow-covered mitten, like a baby sucking a nipple.

I turned and walked back the same way I had come. I wiped the handle of the pistol and dropped it in one of the drains on which the thin snow hadn’t managed to settle. It would be found, but by the police rather than some careless kids. I never travelled by underground, bus or taxi after I’d fixed someone, that was forbidden. Normal, brisk walking, and if you saw a police car heading your way, you turned round and walked towards the scene of the crime. I had almost got as far as Majorstua before I heard any sirens.

It was just a week or so ago. As usual I was waiting, hidden by the rubbish bins in the car park behind the supermarket after closing time. I heard the soft click as a door opened and then slammed shut again. It was easy to recognise Maria’s footsteps from her limp. I waited a bit longer, then set off in the same direction. The way I see it, I’m not following her. Obviously she’s the one who decides where we go, and that day we weren’t going straight to the underground. We went via a florist’s, then up to the cemetery by Aker Church. There was no one else there, and I waited outside so she wouldn’t see me. When she came out again she no longer had the bouquet of yellow flowers. She carried on towards Kirkeveien, in the direction of the station, while I went into the cemetery. I found the flowers on a fresh but already frozen grave. The headstone was nice and shiny. A familiar, French-sounding name. There he was, her junkie. I hadn’t realised he was dead. Evidently not many other people had either. There was no date of death, just a month, October, and the year. I thought they always guessed at a date if they weren’t sure. So it didn’t look so lonely. Less lonely, lying here among the crowd in a snow-covered cemetery.

Now, as I walked home, I thought about the fact that I could stop following her. She was safe. I hoped she felt that she was safe. I hoped that he, her junkie, had stood behind her on the train and whispered: “I won’t come back and get you. But forget what I look like.” Yes, that’s what I hoped. I’m not going to follow you any more, Maria. Your life starts now.

I stopped by the phone box on Bogstadveien.

My life started then as well, with that phone call. I needed to be released from Daniel Hoffmann. That was the start. The rest was more uncertain.

“Fixed,” I said.

“Good,” he said.

“Not her, sir. Him.”

“Sorry?”

“I fixed the so-called lover.” On the phone we always say “fixed.” As a precaution in case we’re overheard or being bugged. “You won’t see him again, sir. And they weren’t really lovers. He was forcing her. I’m convinced she didn’t love him, sir.”

I had spoken quickly, more quickly than I usually do, and a long pause followed. I could hear Daniel Hoffmann breathing heavily through his nose. Snorting, really.

“You... you killed Benjamin?”

I already knew I should never have called.

“You... you killed my only... son?”

My brain registered and interpreted the sound waves, translated them into words which it then began to analyse. Son. Was that possible? A thought began to form. The way the lover had kicked his shoes off. As if he’d been there many times before. As if he used to live there.

I hung up.

Corina Hoffmann stared at me in horror. She was wearing a different dress and her hair wasn’t yet dry. It was quarter past five and — as on previous occasions — she had showered off all traces of the dead man before her husband came home.

I had just told her that I had been ordered to kill her.

She tried to slam the door shut, but I was too fast.

I got my foot inside and forced the door open. She stumbled backwards, into the light of the living room. She grabbed at the long chair. Like an actress onstage, making use of the props.

“I’m begging you...” she began, holding one arm out in front of her. I saw something sparkle. A big ring with a stone in it. I hadn’t seen it before.

I took a step closer.

She started screaming loudly. Grabbed a table lamp and threw herself at me. I was so surprised by the attack that I only just managed to duck and avoid her wild swing. The force and momentum made her lose her balance and I caught hold of her. I felt her damp skin against the palms of my hands, and the heavy smell. I wondered what she had used in the shower. Unless it was her own smell? I held her tight, feeling her rapid breathing. Dear God, I wanted to take her, there and then. But no, I wasn’t like him. I wasn’t like them.

“I’m not here to kill you, Corina,” I whispered into her hair. I inhaled her. It was like smoking opium — I felt myself going numb at the same time as all my senses quivered. “Daniel knows you had a lover. Benjamin. He’s dead now.”

“Is... is Benjamin dead?”

“Yes. And if you’re here when Daniel gets home, he’ll kill you too. You have to come with me, Corina.”

She blinked at me in confusion. “Where to?”

It was a surprising question. I’d been expecting “Why?”, “Who are you?” or “You’re lying!” But maybe she instinctively realised that I was telling the truth, that it was urgent, maybe that was why she got straight to the point. Unless she was just so confused and resigned that she blurted out the first thing that came into her head.

“To the room beyond the room,” I said.

She was sitting curled up in the only armchair in my flat, staring at me.

She was even more beautiful like that: frightened, alone, vulnerable. Dependent.