The Bat(77)

‘What about the wonga, sweetie?’ she said.

Harry didn’t move, so she picked up his trousers and took out the wallet. Birgitta had collapsed on a chair and for a moment all that could be heard was Sandra’s low, concentrated counting and Birgitta’s half-stifled sobs.

‘I’m outta here,’ Sandra said when she was happy and on her way.

‘Wait!’ Harry said, but it was too late. The door was slammed shut.

‘Wait?!’ Birgitta said. ‘Did you say wait?’ she screamed, getting out of the chair. ‘You whoremonger, you bloody piss-artist. You’ve no right—’

Harry tried to put his arm round her, but she punched him away. They faced each other like two wrestlers. Birgitta seemed to be in some kind of trance; her eyes were glazed and blind with hatred and her mouth trembling with fury. It occurred to Harry that if she’d ever wanted to kill him she would have done it there and then, without any hesitation.

‘Birgitta, I—’

‘Drink yourself to death and get out of my life!’ She turned on her heel and stormed out. The whole room shook as she slammed the door.

The phone rang. It was reception. ‘What’s going on, Mr Holy? The lady in the adjacent room to you has rung and—’

Harry cradled the receiver. A sudden, uncontrollable fury rose in him, and he cast around for something to smash. He snatched the whiskey bottle from the table and was about to launch it at the wall, but changed his mind at the last moment.

Lifelong training in self-control, he thought, opening the bottle and putting it to his mouth.





36


Room Service


THERE WAS A rattle of keys and Harry was woken by the door opening.

‘No room service now. Please come back later!’ Harry shouted into the pillow.

‘Mr Holy, I represent the management of this hotel.’

Harry turned over. Two besuited individuals had entered the room. They stood at a respectful distance from the bed, but seemed very determined nonetheless. Harry recognised one as the receptionist from the previous night. The other continued.

‘You have breached hotel rules, and I regret to say we are obliged to ask you to settle your account as soon as possible and leave the premises, Mr Holy.’

‘Hotel rules?’ Harry could feel he was about to spew.

The suit coughed. ‘You brought into your room a woman who, we suspect, was a . . . well, a prostitute. Not only that, you woke half the residents on this floor with your commotion. We are a respectable hotel and cannot condone this sort of behaviour. I’m sure you understand, Mr Holy.’

Harry grunted by way of answer and turned his back on them.

‘Fine, Mr Management Representative. I’m leaving today anyway. Let me sleep in peace until I check out.’

‘You should already have checked out, Mr Holy,’ said the receptionist.

Harry squinted at his watch. It was a quarter past two.

‘We have been trying to wake you.’

‘My plane . . .’ Harry said, bundling his legs out of the bed. After two attempts he had terra firma beneath his feet and stood up. He had forgotten he was naked, and the receptionist and the manager retreated in fright. Harry felt dizzy, the ceiling did a couple of circuits and he had to sit down on the edge of the bed again. Then he threw up.





BUBBUR





37


Two Bouncers


THE WAITER AT Bourbon & Beef removed his untouched Eggs Benedict and sent the customer sympathetic looks. He had come here every morning for a week, read the paper and eaten his breakfast. Some days he had looked tired, true enough, but the waiter had never seen him in such a state as today. Furthermore, it had been almost half past two when he arrived.

‘Hard night, sir?’

The customer sat with his suitcase beside him at the table staring into the middle distance, red-eyed and unshaven.

‘Yeah. Yup, it was a hard night. I did . . . a lot.’

‘Good on ya. That’s what King’s Cross is for. Anything else, sir?’

‘No thanks. I’ve got a plane to catch . . .’

The waiter listened with regret. He had begun to like the calm Norwegian who seemed a little lonely, but was friendly and gave handsome tips.

‘Yes, I can see the suitcase. If that means it’s the last time you’ll be in for a while, this one’s on me. Are you sure I can’t offer you a bourbon, a Jack Daniel’s? One for the road, as it were?’

The Norwegian looked up at him in surprise. As though the waiter had just suggested something the customer had not managed to think of himself and which had been the obvious move all along.

‘Make it a double, please.’

Kristin had moved back to Oslo a few years later. Via friends Harry had gathered that she had a little girl of two, but that the English guy had been left in London. Then one evening he saw her at Sardines. Moving closer, he saw how changed she was. Her skin was pale and her hair hung limp. When she noticed him her face cracked into a kind of terror-stricken smile. He said hi to Kjartan beside her, a ‘musician friend’ he thought he recognised. She spoke quickly and nervously about all sorts of inconsequential things, not letting Harry slip in the questions she knew he had. Then she talked about her future plans, but her eyes had no spark and the wildly gesticulating arms of the Kristin he remembered were replaced with slow, apathetic movements.