rest of their lives in the hours they had before the
train left.
‘I cannot go with you.’
The name of André Brockhard had tasted like gall
on her tongue, and she had spat it out. Together
with the rest: the surety, the mother who was in
danger of being thrown on to the street, the father
who didn’t want a decent life to return to, Beatrice
who had no other family. Yes, all that was said,
but when? Had she told him everything in the
cathedral? Or after they had run through the streets
down to Filharmonikerstraße? Where the pavement
was littered with bricks and shards of glass, and
the yellow flames licked out of the windows in the
old Konditorei, lighting their way to where they
rushed into the opulent but now deserted blacked-
out hotel reception, lit a match, arbitrarily took a
key from the wall and sprinted up the stairs with
carpeting so thick that they made no noise at all,
ghosts who flitted along the corridors searching for
Room 342. Then they were in each other’s arms,
tearing off each other’s clothes as if they too were
on fire, his breath burning against her skin; she
scratched him till he bled and put her lips to the
cuts afterwards. She repeated the words until it
sounded like an incantation: ‘I cannot go with you.’
When the air-raid siren sounded, signalling that
the bombing was over for this time, they were
lying entwined in the bloody sheets, and she wept
and wept.
Afterwards everything merged into a maelstrom
of bodies, sleep and dreams. When they had been
making love and when she had only dreamed that
they were making love, she didn’t know. She had
awoken in the middle of the night to the sound of
rain, and knew instinctively that he was not by her
side; she had gone to the window and stared down
at the streets below being washed clean of the ash
and soil. The water was already running over the
edges of the pavement and an opened, ownerless
umbrella sailed down the street towards the
Danube. Then she had gone back to bed. When she
awoke again it was light outside, the streets were
dry and he was lying beside her, holding his
breath. She looked at the clock on the bedside
table. Two hours until the train left. She stroked his
forehead.
‘Why aren’t you breathing?’ she whispered. ‘I’ve
just woken up. You aren’t breathing, either.’
She snuggled up to him. He was naked, but hot
and sweaty.
‘So we must be dead.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You went somewhere.’
‘Yes.’
She could feel him trembling.
‘But you’re back now,’ she said.
Part Four
PURGATORY
35
Container Port, Bjørvika. 29 February
2000.
HARRY PARKED BESIDE A WORKMEN’S HUT ON TOP
OF THE only hill he could find in the flat quay area
of Bjørvika. A sudden spell of mild weather had
started to melt the snow, the snow was shining and
it was simply a wonderful day. He walked
between the containers piled up like gigantic Lego
bricks in the sun, casting jagged shadows on the
tarmac. The letters and symbols declared that they
came from such distant climes as Taiwan, Buenos
Aires and Cape Town. Harry stood on the edge of
the quay, closed his eyes and imagined himself
there as he sniffed in the mixture of sea water, sun-
warmed tar and diesel. When he opened his eyes
again, the ferry to Denmark slipped into his field of
vision. It looked like a refrigerator. A fridge
transporting the same people to and fro in a
recreational shuttle service.
He knew it was too late to pick up on any leads
from the meeting between Hochner and Uriah. It
wasn’t even certain that this was the container port
where they had met; it could equally as well have
been Filipstad. Nevertheless, he had still had
hopes that the place would be able to tell him
something, give his imagination the necessary
prod.
He kicked a tyre that was protruding over the
edge of the quay. Perhaps he should buy a boat so
that he could take Dad and Sis out to sea in the
summer? Dad needed to get out. The man who had
once been so sociable had become a loner since
Mum died eight years ago. And though Sis didn’t
get far under her own steam, you could often forget
that she had Down’s syndrome.
A bird dived with glee between the containers.
The blue tit can reach a speed of twenty-eight
kilometres an hour. Ellen had told him that. A
mallard can reach sixty-two kilometres an hour.
They both managed equally well. No, Sis wasn’t a
problem; he was more concerned about his father.
Harry tried to concentrate. Everything Hochner
had said, he had written in his report, word for
word, but now he focused on the man’s face to try