man. He guessed they were Pakistani. Or Arab
perhaps. His thoughts were interrupted by the
changing lights and he stepped purposefully across
the road and up the hill towards the illuminated
façade of the Palace. Even here there were people,
most of them young, on their way to and from God-
only-knew what. On the hill he stopped for a
breather, in front of the statue of Karl Johan astride
his horse, staring dreamily down towards the
Storting and the power he had tried to have moved
to the Palace behind him.
It hadn’t rained for over a week and the dried
leaves rustled as the old man turned right between
the trees in the gardens. He leaned back and
studied the bare branches outlined against the
starry sky above. A verse from a poem occurred to
him:
Elm and poplar, birch and oak,
Deathly pale, blackened cloak.
It would have been better if there hadn’t been a
moon this evening, he thought. On the other hand,
it made it easier to find what he was looking for:
the huge oak tree he had rested his head against the
day he learned his life was approaching its end. He
followed the trunk with his eyes up to the crown of
the tree. How old could it be? Two hundred years?
Three hundred? The tree might already have been
fully grown when Karl Johan was proclaimed King
of Norway. Nevertheless, all life comes to an end.
His own, the tree’s, yes, even kings’ lives. He
stood behind the tree so that he could not be seen
from the path and eased off his rucksack. Then he
crouched down, opened the rucksack and laid out
the contents: three bottles of a glyphosate solution,
which the sales assistant in a hardware shop in
Kirkeveien had called Round-Up, and a horse
syringe with a strong steel point, which he bought
at a chemist’s. He had said he was going to use the
syringe for cooking, to inject fat into meat, but that
had been unnecessary because the assistant had just
given him a bored look and had probably forgotten
him before he was out of the door.
The old man looked quickly around before
sticking the long steel point through the cork on one
of the bottles and slowly withdrawing the plunger
so that the shiny liquid filled the syringe. He
probed with his fingers until he found an opening
in the bark and stuck the syringe in. Things didn’t
go as easily as he had imagined. He had to press
hard for the syringe to penetrate the tough wood. It
wouldn’t have any effect if he injected the outer
layer; he had to reach the cambium, the tree’s
inner, life-giving organs. He applied more
pressure to the syringe. The needle shook. Damn!
He mustn’t break it, he only had the one. The tip
slid in, but after a few centimetres it came to a
complete stop. Despite the chilly temperature,
sweat was pouring off him. He gripped the syringe
tight and was about to push again when he heard
leaves rustling over by the path. He let go of the
syringe. The sound came nearer. He closed his
eyes and held his breath. The steps passed close
by. When he opened his eyes again he glimpsed
two figures disappearing behind the bushes, by the
lookout point over Frederiks gate. He breathed out
and turned his attention to the syringe again. He
resolved to go for broke and pushed with all his
might. And just as he was expecting to hear the
sound of the needle snapping, it slid into the trunk.
The old man mopped his brow. The rest was easy.
After ten minutes he had injected two bottles of
the mixture and was well down the third when he
heard voices approaching. Two figures came
round the bushes at the lookout point and he
assumed they were the same people he had seen
before.
‘Hello!’ It was a man’s voice.
The old man reacted instinctively. He
straightened up and stood in front of the tree so that
the tails of his coat obscured the syringe, which
was still in the tree trunk. The next moment, he was
blinded by light. He placed his hands in front of his
face.
‘Take the light away, Tom.’ A woman.
The glare was gone and he saw a cone of light
dancing between the trees in the gardens.
The pair came over to him and one, a woman in
her early thirties with attractive though
unexceptional features, held a card so close to his
face that even in the meagre moonlight he could see
her photograph, obviously taken when she was a
bit younger, wearing a serious expression. Plus a
name. Ellen something or other.
‘Police,’ she said. ‘My apologies if we frightened
you.’
‘What are you doing here in the middle of the
night, grandad?’ the man asked. They were both
wearing plain clothes, and under the man’s black
woollen hat he saw a good-looking young man
with cold blue eyes staring back at him.