Jo Nesbo - Midnight Sun

‘There are the Firstborns in Alta, and the Lundbergians in South Tromsø, and the Old Læstadians in America, and—’

‘And they’re all going to burn?’

‘Grandpa says they will.’

‘Sounds like there’s going to be plenty of room in paradise. Have you thought about what would happen if you and I had switched grandfathers? Then you’d have been an atheist and me a Læstadian. And then you’d be the one who’d burn in hell.’

‘Maybe. But fortunately you’re the one who’s going to burn, Ulf.’

I sighed. There was something so settled about the landscape here. As if nothing was going to happen, or could ever happen, as if lack of change was its natural state.

‘Ulf?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you miss your father?’

‘No.’

Knut stopped. ‘Wasn’t he nice?’

‘I think he was. But we’re good at forgetting when we’re children.’

‘Is that allowed?’ he asked in a quiet voice. ‘Not missing your father?’

I looked at him. ‘I think so,’ I yawned. My shoulder ached. I needed a drink.

‘Are you really completely alone, Ulf? Haven’t you got anyone ?’

I thought for a moment. I actually had to do that, think about it. Dear God.

I shook my head.

‘Guess who I’m thinking about, Ulf.’

‘Your father and grandpa?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking about Ristiinna.’

I didn’t bother asking how he thought I might be able to guess that. My tongue felt like a dried-out sponge, but that drink would have to wait until he’d finished talking and left. He’d even given me some of the money back. ‘So who’s Ristiinna?’

‘She’s in year five. She’s got long, golden hair. She’s at summer camp in Kautokeino. We were supposed to be there too.’

‘What sort of camp is it?’

‘Just a camp.’

‘And what do you do there?’

‘Us kids play. When there aren’t meetings and sermons, I mean. But now Roger will ask if Ristiinna wants to be his girlfriend. And they might kiss.’

‘Isn’t kissing a sin, then?’

He tilted his head. Screwed one eye up. ‘I don’t know. Before she left I told her I loved her.’

‘You said you loved her, straight out?’

‘Yes.’ He leaned forward and said in a breathy voice with a faraway look in his eyes: ‘ I love you, Ristiinna .’ Then he looked up at me again. ‘Was that wrong?’

I smiled. ‘Not really. What did she say?’

‘Okay.’

‘She said “okay”?’

‘Yes. What do you think that means, Ulf?’

‘Well, who knows? Obviously it might mean that it was all a bit much for her. “Love” is a pretty big word. But it might mean that she wants to think about it.’

‘Do you think I’m in with a chance?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Even if I’ve got a scar?’

‘What scar?’

He lifted the plaster on his forehead. The pale skin underneath still showed signs of stitches.

‘What happened?’

‘I fell down the stairs.’

‘Tell her you had a fight with a buck, that you were fighting for territory. And that you won, obviously.’

‘Are you stupid? She won’t believe that!’

‘No, because it’s only a joke. Girls like boys who can tell jokes.’

He bit his top lip. ‘You’re not lying, are you, Ulf?’

‘Okay, listen. If it turns out that you’re not in with a chance with this particular Ristiinna this particular summer, there’ll be other Ristiinnas and other summers. You’re going to have loads of girls.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ I looked him up and down. Was he small for his age? He was certainly bright for someone his size. Red hair and freckles might not be a winning combination with women, but fashions like that came and went. ‘If you ask me, you’re Finnmark’s answer to Mick Jagger.’

‘Huh?’

‘James Bond.’

He looked blankly at me.

‘Paul McCartney?’ I tried. No reaction. ‘The Beatles. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. ’

‘You’re not very good at singing, Ulf.’

‘True.’ I opened the stove door, poked a damp cloth inside, then rubbed the moist ash on the shiny, worn sights of the rifle. ‘Why aren’t you at summer camp?’

‘Dad’s fishing for pollock, we’ve got to wait for him.’

There was something, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, something that didn’t make sense. Something I decided not to ask about. I looked along the sights. With a bit of luck, now the sun wouldn’t reflect off it and give away my location as I took aim at them when they came.

‘Let’s go outside,’ I said.

The wind had blown the midges away, and we sat in the sunshine. The buck moved further off when we came out. Knut had his knife with him, and sat there sharpening a stick.

‘Ulf?’

‘You don’t have to say my name every time you want to ask something.’

‘Okay. But Ulf?’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you going to get drunk when I’ve gone?’

‘No,’ I lied.

‘Good.’

‘Are you worried about me?’

‘I just think it’s a bit stupid that you’re going to end up—’

‘Burning in hell?’

He laughed. Then held the stick up as he tried to whistle through his teeth.

‘Ulf?’

I sighed wearily. ‘Yes?’

‘Have you robbed a bank?’

‘What on earth makes you think that?’

‘All the money you’ve got on you.’

I pulled out my cigarettes. Fumbled slightly with the packet. ‘Travelling’s expensive,’ I said. ‘And I haven’t got a chequebook.’

‘And the pistol in your jacket pocket.’

I peered at him as I tried to light a cigarette, but the wind blew the flame out. So the boy had searched my jacket before he woke me in the church.

‘You have to be careful when you’ve got cash and no chequebook.’

‘Ulf?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not very good at lying either.’

I laughed. ‘What’s that stick going to be?’

‘A thole pin,’ he said, and carried on whittling.

It was much more peaceful once the boy had gone. Obviously. But I wouldn’t have minded if he’d stayed a bit longer. Because I had to admit that he had a certain entertainment value.

I sat and dozed. I screwed up my eyes and saw that the buck had come closer again. It must have got used to me. It looked so lonely. You’d think reindeer ought to be fat at this time of year, but this one was skinny. Skinny, grey, and with pointlessly large antlers that had probably got it some females in the past, but now looked as if they were mostly just in the way.

The buck was so close that I could hear it chewing. It raised its head and looked at me. Well, towards me. Reindeer have bad eyesight. They rely on their sense of smell. It could smell me.

I shut my eyes.

How long ago was it now? Two years? One? The guy I was supposed to fix was called Gustavo, and I struck at dawn. He lived alone in a small, forsaken wooden house squeezed in between the tenement blocks of Homansbyen. Some fresh snow had fallen, but it was supposed to get milder during the day, and I remember thinking that my footprints would melt away.

I rang the doorbell, and when he opened up I held the pistol to his forehead. He backed away and I followed him. I shut the door behind us. The house smelled of smoke and cooking fat. The Fisherman had told me he’d recently found out that Gustavo, who was one of his permanent street-dealers, had been stealing money and dope. My job was to shoot him, plain and simple. And if I had done so there and then, things would have been very different. But I made two mistakes: I looked at his face. And I let him talk.

‘Are you going to shoot me?’

‘Yes,’ I said. Instead of firing. He had brown, puppy-dog eyes, and a wispy moustache that drooped sadly on either side of his mouth.