The Redbreast(35)

‘I was only out walking,’ the old man said,

hoping that the tremble in his voice wouldn’t be

obvious.

‘Is that so?’ the one called Tom said. ‘Behind a

tree in the park, wearing a long coat. Do you know

what we call that?’

‘Stop it, Tom! Again, my apologies,’ the woman

said, turning to the old man. ‘There was an attack

here in the gardens some hours ago. A young boy

was beaten up. Have you seen or heard anything?’

‘I’ve only just got here,’ the old man said,

concentrating on the woman to avoid meeting the

man’s searching eyes. ‘I haven’t seen anything.

Only Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.’ He pointed to

the sky. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Was he badly hurt?’

‘Quite badly. Please excuse the disturbance,’ she

smiled. ‘Have a nice evening.’

They went off and the old man closed his eyes

and fell back against the tree trunk. The next

moment he was pulled up by his lapels and felt hot

breath in his ear. Then the young man’s voice.

‘If I ever catch you at it, I’ll cut it off. Do you

hear? I hate people like you.’

The hands let go of his lapels and were gone.

The old man collapsed and felt the cold moisture

from the ground soak through his clothes. Inside his

head, a voice hummed the same verse again and

again.

Elm and poplar, birch and oak,

Deathly pale, blackened cloak.

19

Herbert’s Pizza, Youngstorget. 12

November 1999.

SVERRE OLSEN WALKED IN, NODDED TO THE BOYS AT

THE corner table, bought a beer at the bar and took

it over. Not to the corner table, but to his own. It

had been his table for more than a year now, ever

since he beat up the slit-eye at Dennis Kebab. He

was early and for the moment no one else was

sitting there, but soon the little pizzeria on the

corner of Torggata and Youngstorget would be

full. It was benefit day. He cast a glance at the

boys in the corner. Three of the hard core were

sitting there, but he wasn’t talking to them at the

moment. They belonged to the new party –

Nasjonalalliansen – and there had been

ideological differences of opinion between them,

one might say. He knew them from his time in the

youth section of the Fedrelandspartiet; they were

patriotic enough, but now they were about to join

the ranks of the breakaway group. Roy Kvinset,

irreproachably shaven-headed, was, as always,

dressed in tight faded jeans, boots and a white T-

shirt with the Nasjonalalliansen logo in red, white and blue. Halle was new. He had dyed his hair

black and used hair oil to get it to lie flat. The

moustache, was obviously what provoked people

most – a neatly trimmed black toothbrush

moustache, an exact copy of the Führer’s. He had

stopped sporting the riding breeches and boots;

instead he wore green combat fatigues. Gregersen

was the only one who looked like a normal youth:

bomber jacket, goatee and sunglasses on his head.

He was undoubtedly the most intelligent of the

three.

Sverre’s gaze panned around the room. A girl and

boy were tucking into a pizza. He hadn’t seen them

before, but they didn’t look like under-cover

police. Nor like journalists. Were they from the

anti-fascist newspaper Monitor perhaps? He had

exposed a Monitor bozo last winter, a man with

scared eyes who had been in here a couple of

times too many, who had acted drunk and started

conversations with some of the regulars. Sverre

had sniffed treachery in the air and they had taken

him outside and torn off his sweater. He’d been

wearing a wire. He had confessed that he was from

Monitor before they even laid a hand on him.

Scared stiff. Bunch of twats, these Monitor types.

Thought this boys’ game, this voluntary

surveillance of fascist elements, was extremely

important and dangerous, that they were secret

agents whose lives were in constant danger. Yeah,

well, as far as that was concerned, perhaps they

weren’t so different from a few in his own ranks,

he had to admit. Anyway, the bozo had been sure

they would kill him and was so frightened that he

pissed himself. Quite literally. Sverre had spotted

the dark stripe meandering down his trouser leg

and across the tarmac. That was what he

remembered best from that evening. The little

stream of urine glittered dimly as it sought the

lowest point in the sparsely lit back alley.

Sverre Olsen decided that the couple was just

two hungry youngsters who happened to be passing

by. The speed they were eating suggested that now

they had become aware of the clientele and just

wanted to get out as quickly as possible. By the

window sat an old man in hat and coat. Perhaps a