The Redbreast(171)

Harry was back in the sitting room. He placed his

hand over his eyes. Why hadn’t he made the

connection as soon as he saw the picture of Helena

in Beatrice’s room? Mother and daughter. His

mind must have been elsewhere. Probably that was

exactly it – his mind was elsewhere. He saw Rakel

everywhere: on the street in passing women’s

faces, on ten TV channels when he was zapping

around, behind the counter in a café. So why would

he pay any particular attention to seeing her face in

a photograph of a beautiful woman on a wall?

Should he ring Mosken for confirmation of what

Gudbrand Johansen, alias Sindre Fauke, had

written? Did he need to? Not now.

He flicked through the manuscript until he arrived

at the entry for 5 October 1999. There were only a

few pages left. Harry could feel his palms were

sweaty. He felt a trace of the same thing that

Rakel’s father had described when he received

Helena’s letter – a reluctance to be confronted

finally with the inevitable.

Oslo. 5 October 1999.

I’m going to die. After all the things I have been

through it was curious to find out I was to be

given the coup de grâce , as most people are, by a common illness. How will I tell Rakel and Oleg? I

walked up Karl Johans gate and felt how dear

this life, which I have experienced as worthless

ever since Helena’s death, had suddenly become

to me. Not because I don’t yearn to be with you

again, Helena, but because I have neglected my

purpose on earth for so long and now there isn’t

much time left. I walked up the same gravel path

I did on 13 May 1945. The Crown Prince still

hasn’t come out on the balcony to say he

understands. He just understands all the others

in need. I don’t think he will come. I think he has

betrayed us.

Afterwards I fell asleep against a tree and

dreamed a long, strange dream, like a revelation.

And when I awoke, my old companion was awake

too. Daniel is back. And I know what he wants to

do.

The Ford Escort groaned as Harry brutally forced

the gearstick into reverse, first and second gears in

succession. And it roared like a wounded beast

when he pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor

and held it there. A man wearing a festive Østerdal

outfit, on his way over the zebra crossing at the

intersection between Vibes gate and Bogstadveien,

jumped and thus narrowly avoided an almost

perfectly treadless rubber-tyre mark on his

stockinged leg. In Hedgehaugsveien there was a

queue of traffic for the city centre, so Harry drove

down the left-hand side of the road with his hand

on the horn, hoping oncoming cars would have the

sense to swerve out of the way. He had just

manoeuvred his way around the verge outside

Lorry Kafé when a wall of light blue suddenly

filled his entire field of vision. The tram!

It was too late to stop, so Harry jerked the

steering wheel round hard, gave the brake pedal a

little squeeze to straighten the back up and bumped

across the cobblestones until he crashed into the

tram, left side on left side. There was a sharp bang

when the wing mirror disappeared, but the sound

of the door handle being dragged along the side of

the tram was long and piercing.

‘Fuck. Fuck!’

Then he was freed and the wheels spun

themselves out of the tram rails and found a grip on

the tarmac, propelling him towards the next traffic

lights.

Green, green, amber.

He drove off at full throttle, still with one hand

pressed against the centre of the steering wheel in

a vain hope that one paltry car horn would be able

to attract attention at 10.15 on 17 May in the centre

of Oslo. Then he shrieked, jumped on the brakes

and, as the Escort desperately tried to cling to

mother earth, empty cassette cases, packets of

cigarettes and Harry Hole flew forwards. He hit

his head on the wind-screen as the car came to

rest. A cheering crowd of children waving flags

had streamed out onto the zebra crossing in front of

him. Harry rubbed his forehead. The Palace

Gardens were right in front of him and the path up

to the Palace was black with people. From the

open cabriolet in the queue next to him he heard the

radio and the familiar live broadcast which was

the same every year.

‘And now the royal family is waving from the

balcony to the procession of children and the

crowds which have gathered here in the Palace

Square. People are cheering, especially for the

popular Crown Prince, who has returned home

from the USA. He is of course . . .’

Harry let the clutch out, accelerated and headed

for the kerb in front of the gravel path.

99

Oslo. 16 October 1999.

I HAVE STARTED LAUGHING AGAIN. IT IS DANIEL

LAUGHING, of course. I didn’t say that one of the