The Redeemer(131)

He had been to three hairdressers, who had all shaken their heads and said they had no appointments left before the festivities. The fourth had nodded to a gum-chewing teenage girl sitting in a corner and looking lost – he guessed she was an apprentice. After several attempts at explaining what he wanted he had at length shown her the photograph. She had stopped chewing, looked up at him with eyes thick with mascara and asked in MTV English: 'You sure, man?'

Afterwards he had taken a taxi to the address in Sorgenfrigata, unlocked the doors with the keys he had been given by Martine and begun the wait. The telephone had rung several times, but otherwise it had been peaceful. Until, that is, he had been stupid enough to go to the window of an illuminated room.

He walked back to the living room.

At that moment there was a bang. The air quivered, the ceiling lamp shook.

'Mar-tine!'

He heard the person take another run-up, sprint and charge the door, which seemed to bulge into the room.

Her name was called out twice, followed by two bangs. Then he heard feet running down the stairs.

He went to the living-room window and watched the person race out. As the guy paused to unlock the car and the street light fell on him, he recognised him.

It was the young man who had helped him at the Hostel. Niclas, Rikard . . . something like that. The car started up with a roar and accelerated away into the winter night.

An hour later he was asleep, dreaming about landscapes he had once known, and only woke up when he heard the patter of feet and the sound of newspapers landing on doorsteps in the stairwell.


Harry woke up at eight. He opened his eyes and smelt the woollen blanket half covering his face. The smell reminded him of something. Then he threw it off. His sleep had been profound, without dreams, and he was in a curious mood. Exhilarated. Happy, no other word for it.

He went into the kitchen, put on the coffee, washed his face in the sink and hummed Jim Stärk's 'Morning Song'. Over the low ridge to the east the sky was reddening like a young maiden; the last star blanching and fading. A new, mysterious, unsullied world lay outside the kitchen window and, white and optimistic, it was surging towards the horizon.

He sliced some bread, found some cheese, poured water into a glass and steaming coffee into a clean cup, put it all on a tray and carried it into the bedroom.

Her black, untidy hair spilt over the duvet and she made no sound. He placed the tray on the bedside table, sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

The aroma of coffee slowly wafted through the room.

Her breathing became irregular. She blinked. Caught sight of him, rubbed her face and stretched with exaggerated, embarrassed movements. It was like someone operating a dimmer switch, and the light shining out of her eyes grew stronger and stronger until the smile reached her lips.

'Good morning,' he said.

'Good morning.'

'Breakfast?'

'Mmm.' Her smile grew broader. 'Don't you want any?'

'I'll wait. I'll make do with one of these if that's alright.' He produced a packet of cigarettes.

'You smoke too much,' she said.

'I always do after I've been boozing. Nicotine curbs the craving.'

She tasted the coffee. 'Isn't that a paradox?'

'What?'

'You who were so frightened of losing your freedom becoming an alcoholic.'

'True.' He opened the window, lit a cigarette and lay down beside her on the bed.

'Is that what frightens you about me?' she asked, snuggling up to him. 'That I will deprive you of your freedom? Is that why . . . you don't want . . . to make love to me?'

'No, Martine.' Harry took a drag of the cigarette, grimaced and eyed it with disapproval. 'It's because you are frightened.'

He felt her stiffen.

'Am I frightened?' she asked with surprise in her voice.

'Yes. And I would have been, too, if I were you. I've never been able to understand how women have the courage to share roof and bed with those who are, physically, their complete masters.' He stubbed out his cigarette in the plate on the bedside table. 'Men would never dare.'

'What makes you think I'm frightened?'

'I can sense it. You take the intiative and want to be in charge. But mostly because you're frightened what might happen if you let me take charge. And that's fine, but I don't want you to do it if you're frightened.'

'But it's not up to you to decide whether I want it or not!' she burst out. 'Even if I am frightened.'

Harry looked at her. Without warning she flung her arms around him and hid her face in his neck.

'You must think I'm quite strange,' she said.

'Not at all,' said Harry.

She held him tight. Squeezed him.

'What if I was always frightened?' she whispered. 'What if I never . . .' She paused.

Harry waited.

'Something happened,' she said. 'I don't know what.'

And waited.

'Yes, I know what,' she said. 'I was raped. Here on this farm many years ago. And I kind of went to pieces.'