Phantom(100)

Saw the headlamps of a car turning into the chapel.

‘In fact they said they would come straight away,’ said the young guard, retreating to a safe distance. ‘I told them it was the grave of the guy who was shot, you see. Who are you?’

Harry switched off the torch and it was pitch black.

‘I’m the one you should be rooting for.’

Then Harry set off at a run. He headed east, away from the chapel, back along the route they had come.

He took his bearings from a bright light he assumed was a lamp post in Frogner Park. If he could make it to the park he knew, in his current form, he could outrun most of them. He only hoped they didn’t have any dogs. He hated dogs. Best to keep to the gravel paths so as not to stumble over headstones and bunches of flowers, but the crunching made it more difficult to hear any potential pursuers. By the war memorial Harry moved onto the grass. He couldn’t hear anyone behind him. But then he saw it. A quivering beam of light on the treetops above. Someone was chasing him with a torch.

Harry emerged onto the path and headed for the park. Tried to shut out the pain round his neck and run in a relaxed, efficient way, concentrating on technique and breathing. Told himself he was pulling away. He ran towards the Monolith, knowing they would see him under the lamps on the pathway that continued over the hill and it would look as if he was making for the park’s main gate on the eastern side.

Harry waited until he had topped the crest and was out of sight before heading south-west towards Madserud allé. Adrenalin had kept him going, but now he could feel his muscles stiffening. For a second, things went black and he thought he had lost consciousness. But then he was back, and a sudden feeling of nausea engulfed him, followed by overwhelming giddiness. He looked down. Blood was oozing from under his jacket sleeve and dripping between his fingers, like strawberry jam off a slice of bread at his grandfather’s house. He wasn’t going to last the distance.

He craned his head. Saw a figure pass through the light under the lamp at the top of the hill. A big man, but with a light running style. Tight-fitting black clothes. Not a police uniform. Could it be a Delta guy? In the middle of the night at such short notice? Because someone was digging in a cemetery?

Harry swayed but managed to steady himself. He had no hope of outrunning anyone in this state. He had to find a place to hide.

Harry aimed for one of the houses in Madserud allé. Left the path, sprinted down a grass slope, had to stretch out his arms so as not to fall, continued across the tarmac road, jumped over the low picket fence, carried on into the apple trees and round the back of the house. Where he threw himself into the long, wet grass. Took a deep breath, felt his stomach constrict, braced himself to vomit. Concentrated on breathing as he listened.

Nothing.

But it was just a matter of time before they would be here. And he needed a decent bandage for his neck. Harry got to his feet and walked to the terrace of the house. Peered through the glass in the door. Dark living room.

He kicked in the glass and slipped his hand inside. Good old naive Norway. The key was in the door. He slid into the gloom.

Held his breath. The bedrooms were probably on the first floor.

He switched on a table lamp.

Plush chairs. Cabinet TV. Encyclopedia. A table covered with family photographs. Knitting. So elderly occupants. And old people sleep well. Or was it badly?

Harry found the kitchen, switched on the light. Searched the drawers. Cutlery, cloths. Tried to remember where they had always kept that kind of thing when he was small. Opened the second-bottom drawer. And there it was. Standard tape, parcel tape, gaffer tape. He grabbed the roll of gaffer tape and opened two doors before he found the bathroom. Pulled off his jacket and shirt, held his head over the bath and the hand-held shower over his neck. Watched the white enamel gain a red filter in a second. Then he dried himself with the T-shirt and squeezed the edges of the wound together with his fingers while winding the silver tape round his neck several times. Tested to make sure it wasn’t too tight. After all he needed some blood to go to the brain. Put on his shirt. Another attack of dizziness. He sat down on the edge of the bath.

He noticed a movement. Raised his head.

From the doorway an elderly woman’s pale face was staring at him with enlarged, frightened eyes. Over her nightdress she was wearing a red, quilted dressing gown. It gave off a strange sheen and electric static whenever she moved. Harry guessed it was made of some synthetic material that no longer existed, was banned, carcinogenic, asbestos or something.

‘I’m a police officer,’ Harry said. Coughed. ‘Ex-police officer. And in a bit of trouble right now.’