Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

Marte Ruud went over to the customer who had just walked in through the door of the otherwise empty Schrøder’s Restaurant.

‘Sorry, but we stopped serving beer half an hour ago, and we’re closing in ten minutes.’

‘Give me a coffee,’ he said, and smiled. ‘I’ll drink it quickly.’

She went back to the kitchen. The cook had gone home over an hour ago, as had Rita. They usually only had one member of staff working this late on Monday evenings, and even though it was quiet, she was still a bit nervous because this was her first evening on her own. Rita would be coming back just after closing time to help with the till.

It didn’t take more than a few seconds to boil enough water for a single cup in the kettle. She added freeze-dried coffee. Went back out and put the cup down in front of the man.

‘Can I ask you something?’ he said, looking at the steaming cup. ‘Seeing as it’s just the two of us here.’

‘Yes,’ Marte said, even though she meant no. She just wanted him to drink the coffee and go, leaving her to lock the door and wait for Rita, so she could get home. Her first lecture started at quarter past eight tomorrow morning.

‘Isn’t this where that famous detective drinks? Harry Hole?’

Marte nodded. To be honest she hadn’t actually heard of him before he showed up, a tall man with an ugly scar on his face. Then Rita had told her all about Harry Hole, in great detail.

‘Where does he usually sit?’

‘They say he sits over there,’ Marte said, pointing at the corner table by the window. ‘But he doesn’t come as often as he used to.’

‘No, if he’s going to catch that “wretched pervert”, as he puts it, he probably hasn’t got time to sit here. But this is still his place. If you understand me?’

Marte smiled and nodded, even though she wasn’t sure that she did understand.

‘What’s your name?’

Marte hesitated, unsure if she liked the direction the conversation was taking. ‘We’re closing in six minutes, so if you’re going to have time to drink your coffee, maybe you …’

‘Do you know why you have freckles, Marte?’

She froze. How did he know her name?

‘You see, when you were little and had no freckles, you woke up one night. You’d been having a kabuslar , a nightmare. You were still frightened when you ran into your mother’s bedroom so that she could tell you that monsters and ghosts didn’t exist. But in her bedroom a naked blue-black man was sitting hunched up on your mother’s chest. Long, pointed ears, blood running from the sides of his mouth. And as you just stood there staring, he puffed up his cheeks, and before you could get away he blew out all the blood he had in his mouth, covering your face and chest with tiny drops. And that blood, Marte, it never went away, no matter how hard you washed and scrubbed.’ The man blew on his coffee. ‘So that explains how you got freckles, but the question is, why? And the answer to that is as easy as it is unsatisfactory, Marte. Because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The world simply isn’t very fair.’ He raised the cup to his lips, opened his mouth wide, and poured the still steaming black liquid into his mouth. She gasped in horror, short of breath, scared that something might be about to happen, without knowing what. And she didn’t have time to see the spray from his mouth before the hot coffee hit her in the face.

Blinded, she turned round and slipped on the liquid, one knee hit the floor, but she got to her feet and rushed for the door, pushing a chair over to slow him down as she tried to blink the coffee away. She grabbed the door handle and tugged it. Locked. He’d put the latch on. She heard creaking footsteps behind her as she put her finger and thumb on the lock, but didn’t have time to do more before she felt him grab hold of her belt and jerk her backwards. Marte tried to scream, but all she could get out were small whimpering sounds. Footsteps again. He was standing in front of her. She didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to look at him. She had never had a nightmare about any blue-black man when she was little, only one about a man with a dog’s head. And she knew that if she looked up now, that was what she would see. So she kept her gaze lowered, staring at the pointed cowboy boots instead.

MONDAY NIGHT, TUESDAY MORNING

‘YES?’

‘Harry?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wasn’t sure if this was your number. It’s Rita. From Schrøder’s. I know it’s late, and I’m sorry to wake you.’

‘I wasn’t asleep, Rita.’

‘I called the police, but they … well, they’ve been here, and now they’ve gone again.’

‘Try to calm down, Rita. What’s happened?’

‘It’s Marte, the new girl you met the last time you were here.’

Harry remembered her rolled-up shirtsleeves and slightly nervous eagerness. ‘Yes?’

‘She’s gone. I got here just before midnight to help her with the till, but there was no one here. The door wasn’t locked, though. Marte’s reliable, and we had an arrangement. She wouldn’t just leave without locking up. She’s not answering her phone and her boyfriend says she hasn’t come home. The police checked the hospital, but nothing. And then the policewoman said it happens all the time, people disappearing in odd ways, then showing up again a few hours later with a perfectly reasonable explanation. She said I should call them if Marte hasn’t shown up again within twelve hours.’

‘What they said is actually true, Rita, they’re just following routine.’

‘Yes, but … hello?’

‘I’m here, Rita.’

‘When I was cleaning up, getting ready to close I found that someone had written something on one of the tablecloths. It looks like lipstick, and it’s exactly the shade of red that Marte uses.’

‘OK. So what does it say?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘No. It’s just a single letter. A “v”. And it’s in your place.’

Three o’clock in the morning.

A roar forced its way out between Harry’s lips, echoing off bare cellar walls. Harry stared at the iron bar that was threatening to fall and crush him as his trembling arms held it up. Then, with one final effort, he thrust the weights away from him, and they clanked against each other as he let the bar rest in its cradle. He lay on the bench gasping for breath.

He closed his eyes. He had promised Oleg that he would be with Rakel. But he had to get back out there. Had to catch him. For Marte. For Aurora.

No.

It was too late. Too late for Aurora. Too late for Marte. So he had to do it for those who hadn’t yet become victims, who could still be saved from Valentin.

Because it was for them, wasn’t it?

Harry took hold of the bar, felt the metal against the calluses on his hands.

Somewhere you can be useful.

His grandfather had said that, that all you need is to be useful. When his grandmother had been giving birth to Harry’s father, she had lost so much blood that the midwife had called the doctor. Grandfather, who had been told there was nothing he could do to help, couldn’t bear to listen to Grandma’s screams, so he walked out, harnessed the horse to the plough and started to plough one of the fields. He drove the horse on with his whip and with cries loud enough to drown out those from the house, then started pushing the plough himself when his faithful old horse began to stumble in the harness. When the screaming had stopped and the doctor came out to tell him that both mother and child were going to survive, Grandfather fell to his knees, kissed the ground and thanked the God he didn’t believe in.

That same night the horse collapsed in its stall and died.