Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

Harry felt the mattress move and knew she had turned towards him, he could feel her warm breath on his face.

‘You had it in your life, Harry, you had the only person you loved. At least the two of you had that. And I don’t know which of you I’ve been most jealous of.’

What was it that was making him so sensitive? Had he taken E or acid? And, if so, where had he got hold of it? He had no idea, the last twenty-four hours were a big blank.

‘They say you shouldn’t meet trouble halfway,’ she said. ‘But when you know that trouble is all that lies ahead of you, meeting it halfway is the only airbag you’ve got. And the best way to fend it off is to live each day like it was your last. Don’t you think?’

Beach House. He remembered this track. ‘Wishes’. It really was something special. And he remembered Rakel’s pale face on the white pillow, in the light yet simultaneously in the dark, out of focus, close, yet distant, a face in the dark water, pressed against the underside of the ice. And he remembered Valentin’s words. You’re like me, Harry, you can’t bear it .

‘What would you do, Harry? If you knew you were about to die?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Would you—?’

‘I said I don’t know.’

‘What don’t you know?’ she whispered.

‘If I would have fucked you.’

In the silence that followed he heard the scraping sound of metal being blown across the tarmac by the wind.

‘Just feel,’ she whispered. ‘We’re dying.’

Harry stopped breathing. Yes, he thought. I’m dying. And then felt that she had stopped breathing too.

Hallstein Smith heard the wind whistling in the gutters outside and felt the draught right through the wall. Even though they had insulated the walls as well as they could, it was and would remain a barn. Emilia. He had heard of a novel that was published during the war about a storm called Maria, and that that was the reason why hurricanes were given girls’ names. But that changed after the idea of gender equality became widespread in the seventies and people insisted that these catastrophic disasters should have boys’ names as well. He looked at the smiling face above the Skype icon on the big computer screen. The voice was running slightly ahead of the lips: ‘I think I have what I need, thank you so much for being with us, Mr Smith. At what for you must be very late, no? Here in LA it’s nearly 3 p.m. What time is it in Sweden?’

‘Norway. Almost midnight.’ Hallstein Smith smiled. ‘No problem, I’m just glad the press finally realise that vampirism is real, and are interested in it.’

They ended the conversation, and Smith opened his inbox again.

Thirteen unopened emails, but he could see from the senders and subject lines that they were requests for interviews and invitations to give lectures. He hadn’t opened the one from Psychology Today either. Because he knew it wasn’t urgent. Because he wanted to save it. Savour it.

He looked at the time. He had put the kids to bed at half past eight, then had a cup of tea at the kitchen table with May, as usual, going through their day, sharing its small joys and venting its small frustrations. In the past few days he had naturally had more to tell her than vice versa, but he had made sure that the smaller but no less important aspects of the home got as much attention as his own activities. Because what he said was true: ‘I talk too much, and you can read all about this wretched vampirist in the papers, darling.’ He looked out of the window, could just make out the corner of the farmhouse where they were all lying asleep now, all his loved ones. The wall creaked. The moon was slipping in and out of the clouds, scudding faster and faster across the sky, and the bare branches of the dead oak out in the field were waving as if it wanted to warn them that something was coming, that destruction and more death were on the way.

He opened an email inviting him to give a keynote speech at a psychology conference in Lyon. The same conference that had rejected his abstract last year. In his head he composed a reply in which he thanked them, said it was an honour to be asked, but that he had to prioritise more important conferences and therefore had to say no on this occasion, but that they were welcome to try again another time. Then he chuckled and shook his head. There was no reason to get too full of himself, this sudden interest in vampirism would vanish again when the attacks stopped. He accepted the invitation, aware that he could have asked for more in terms of travel, accommodation and fee, but couldn’t be bothered. He was getting what he needed, he just wanted them to listen to him, to join him on this journey into the labyrinths of the human psyche, recognise his work, so that together they could understand and contribute to making people’s lives better. That was all. He looked at the time. Three minutes to twelve. He heard a sound. It could have been the wind, obviously. He clicked the icon to bring up the security cameras on his screen. The first image he saw was from the camera by the gate. The gate was open.

Truls cleared his throat.

She had called. Ulla had called.

He put the washing-up in the dishwasher, rinsed the two wineglasses, he still had the bottle he had bought just in case before that evening when they had met at Olsen’s. He folded the empty pizza boxes and tried to push them down into the bin bag, but it split. Damn. He tucked them out of sight behind the bucket and mop in the cupboard. Music. What did she like? He tried to think back. He could hear something inside his head, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Something about barricades. Duran Duran? It was something a bit like a-ha, anyway. And he had a-ha’s first album. Candles. Damn. He’d had women here before, but on those occasions the mood hadn’t been so important.

Olsen’s was located right in the middle of things, so even if there was a storm on the way it wouldn’t be hard to get a taxi on a Wednesday evening, so she could be here any moment, which meant he couldn’t have a shower, he’d have to make do with washing his cock and armpits. Or armpits and cock, in that order. Fuck, he was stressed! He had been planning a quiet evening with Megan Fox in her prime, and then Ulla had called and asked if it was OK for her to pay a little visit. What did she mean by little visit? That she was going to bail on him like last time? T-shirt. The one from Thailand, with ‘Same Same, But Different’? Maybe she wouldn’t find it funny. And maybe Thailand would make her think of venereal disease. How about the Armani shirt from MBK in Bangkok? No, the synthetic fabric would make him sweat, as well as letting on that it was a cheap copy. Truls pulled on a white T-shirt of unknown origin and hurried into the bathroom. He saw that the toilet needed another go with the brush. But first things first …

Truls was standing at the basin with his cock in his hand when the doorbell rang.

Katrine stared at her buzzing phone.

It was almost midnight, the wind had gained in strength in just the past few minutes, and the gusts were now making howling, groaning, slamming sounds outside, but Harry was fast asleep.

She answered.

‘This is Hallstein Smith.’ His whispering voice sounded upset.

‘So I see. What is it?’

‘He’s here.’

‘What?’

‘I think it’s Valentin.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Someone’s opened the gate, and I … oh God, I can hear the door of the barn. What should I do?’

‘Don’t do anything … Try … Can you hide?’

‘No. I can see him on the camera outside. Dear God, it’s him.’ Smith sounded like he was crying. ‘What should I do?’

‘Fuck, let me think,’ Katrine groaned.