The Redbreast(34)

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.