Phantom(159)

The priest walked past a gravestone, saw on it the remains of something white in the moonlight, as if someone had written in chalk and then erased it. It was the gravestone of Askild Cato Rud. Also known as Askild Øregod. From time immemorial the rule had been that the lease of graves expired after a generation, unless an extension was paid for – a privilege reserved for the rich. But for reasons unknown the grave of the poverty-stricken Askild Cato Rud had been preserved. And once it was really old, it had been protected. Perhaps there had been an optimistic hope that it could become a site of special interest: a gravestone from Oslo East’s poorest district where the unfortunate’s relatives were able to afford only a small stone and – since the stonemason was paid per letter – only the initials before the surname and the dates, no text beneath. One authority had even insisted the correct surname was Ruud, and they had saved themselves a mite there as well. So there was this myth that Askild Øregod still walked abroad. But it had never had much wind in its sails. Askild Øregod had been forgotten and left – quite literally – to rest in peace.

As the priest went to close the cemetery gate behind him a figure slipped out of the shadows by the wall. The priest automatically stiffened.

‘Have mercy,’ rasped a voice. And a large, open hand was thrust forward.

The priest looked into the face beneath the hat. It was an old face with rutted landscape, a robust nose, large ears and two surprisingly clear, blue, innocent eyes. Yes, innocent. That was precisely what the priest thought after giving the poor man a twenty-krone coin and continuing on his way home. The innocent blue eyes of a newborn baby that needs no forgiveness for sins as yet. He could put that in tomorrow’s sermon.

I’ve come to the end now, Dad.

I’m sitting here, and Oleg is standing over me. He’s holding the Odessa shooter with both hands as if hanging on for dear life, a falling branch. Holding tight and shouting. He’s gone totally mental. ‘Where is she? Where’s Irene? Tell me, or else … or else …’

‘Or else what, dopehead? You aren’t capable of using the gun anyway. You haven’t got it in you, Oleg. You’re one of the good guys. Come on, relax and we’ll share the fix. OK?’

‘Like hell I will. Not until you’ve told me where she is.’

‘Will I get the whole fix then?’

‘Half. It’s my last.’

‘Deal. Put the gun down first.’

The idiot did as I said. Very flat learning curve. Tricked as easily as the first time on the way out of the Judas concert. He bent down, put the weird gun on the floor in front of him. I saw the lever on the side was set for C, which means it fired salvos. The slightest pressure on the trigger and …

‘So where is she?’ he asked, getting up.

And now, now that I didn’t have the muzzle pointing at me any longer, I could feel it coming. The fury. He had threatened me. Just like my foster-father had. And if there is one thing I can’t bear, it’s being threatened. So instead of peddling the nice version – she was at a secret rehab centre in Denmark, isolated, mustn’t be contacted by friends, who might get her back on drugs, blah, blah, blah – I twisted the knife. I had to twist the knife. Bad blood flows through my veins, Dad, so you keep your mouth shut. What’s left of my blood, that is, because most of it’s on the kitchen floor. But I twisted the knife round like the idiot I am.

‘I sold her,’ I said. ‘For a few grams of violin.’

‘What?’

‘I sold her to a German at Oslo Central. Don’t know what his name is or where he lives. Munich perhaps. Maybe he’s sitting in his flat in Munich with a pal and they’re both being sucked off by Irene, with her little mouth. And she’s as high as a kite and doesn’t know which dick is which because all she can think of is her true love. And his name is—’

Oleg stood open-mouthed, blinking and blinking. Looking as stupid as the time he gave me five hundred at the kebab shack. I spread my arms like some fricking magician.

‘—violin!’

Oleg kept blinking, so shocked that he didn’t react when I launched myself at the gun.

Or so I thought.

Because I’d forgotten something.

He’d followed me that time. He’d known he wasn’t going to get to taste any meth. He had certain skills. He could read people’s thoughts too. At any rate, a thief’s.

I should have known. I should have settled for half a dose. He reached the gun before me. May have just brushed the trigger. It was set on C. I saw his shocked face before I hit the floor. Heard everything go so quiet. Heard him stoop over me. Heard a low, whining drone, like an engine idling, as if he wanted to cry but couldn’t. Then he walked slowly to the end of the kitchen. A proper druggy does things in a prioritised sequence. He put the syringe next to me. Even asked if we should share. Sounded good, but I couldn’t talk any more. Only listen. And I listened to his slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs as he left. And I was alone. More alone than I have ever been.