'Must be Ali,' Harry said, getting up from the sofa. 'The neighbour.'
In the six seconds it took Harry to get off the sofa, go into the hall and open the door, it went through his mind that it was too late to be Ali. And he usually knocked, anyway. And if anyone had come in to the block or gone out after Martine and him the main door was bound to have been left open.
It wasn't until the seventh second that he realised he shouldn't have opened up. He looked at the person standing there and had an intimation of what was in the offing.
'Now you're happy, I suppose,' Astrid said with a slight slur.
Harry didn't answer.
'I've just come from a Christmas dinner. Are you going to invite me in, Harry boy?' Her red lips tautened against her teeth as she smiled and her stiletto heels clattered on the floor as she stepped sideways to regain balance.
'It's not convenient,' Harry said.
She scrunched up her eyes and studied his face. Then she peered over his shoulder. 'Got a lady there, have you? Is that why you skipped the meeting today?'
'We can talk another time, Astrid. You're drunk.'
'We discussed Step Three at the meeting today. We took the decision to put our lives in God's care. But I can't see any God, I can't, Harry.' She took a half-hearted swipe at him with her bag.
'There is no third step, Astrid. Everyone has to look after themselves.'
She stiffened and looked at him as the tears welled in her eyes. 'Let me in, Harry,' she whispered.
'It won't help, Astrid.' He put a hand on her shoulder. 'I'll ring for a taxi to take you home.'
His hand was knocked away with surprising force. 'Home?' she screeched. 'I'm not fucking going home, you bloody impotent lecher.'
She swivelled round and started to stagger down the stairs.
'Astrid . . .'
'Get out of my sight! Screw your other tart.'
Harry watched her until she was gone, heard her fighting with the door, her curses, the creaking door hinges and then the silence.
When he turned Martine was right behind him in the hall slowly doing up her coat.
'I . . .' he began.
'It's late.' She flashed a fleeting smile. 'I was a bit tired anyway.'
It was three o'clock in the morning and Harry was still sitting in the wing chair. Tom Waits was singing in a low voice about Alice as the brushes swished on the snare drum.
'It's dreamy weather we're on. You wave your crooked wand along an icy pond.'
His mind ran unchecked. All the bars were closed now. He hadn't refilled his hip flask after emptying it down the dog's gullet in the container terminal. But he could phone Øystein. He drove a taxi almost every night and always kept a bottle of gin under the seat.
'It won't help.'
Unless you believed in ghosts, of course. Believed in those encircling his chair and staring down at him with dark, hollow eye sockets. In Birgitta who had come up from the sea with the anchor still around her neck; in Ellen who was laughing with the baseball bat protruding from her head; in William who hung like a galleon figurehead from the rotary dryer and Tom who had come to get his watch back waving a bloody stump of an arm.
The booze couldn't free him; it could only give temporary relief. And right now he was willing to pay a lot for that.
He lifted the telephone and tapped in a number. It was answered on the second ring.
'How is it, Halvorsen?'
'Cold. Jon and Thea are asleep. I'm sitting in the room with a view of the road. I'll have to have a nap tomorrow.'
'Mm.'
'We have to drive back to Thea's flat tomorrow to get more insulin. She's a diabetic.'
'OK, but take Jon with you. I don't want him left on his own.'
'I could get someone to come here.'
'No!' Harry said sharply. 'I don't want anyone else involved for the time being.'
'Right.'
Harry sighed. 'Listen, I know babysitting isn't in the job description. You'll have to say if there's anything I can do in return.'
'Well . . .'
'Come on.'
'I promised to take Beate out one evening before Christmas to let her try lutefisk. She's never tasted it before, poor thing.'
'That's a promise.'
'Thanks.'
'And, Halvorsen?'
'Yes?'
'You're . . .' Harry took a deep breath. '. . . OK.'
'Thanks, boss.'
Harry rang off. Waits was singing that the skates on the icy pond spelt Alice.
21
Friday, 19 December. Zagreb.
HE SAT SHAKING WITH COLD ON A BIT OF CARDBOARD ON the pavement by Sofienberg Park. It was rush hour and people were racing by. Some still had time to drop a few kroner in the paper cup in front of him. It would soon be Christmas. His lungs ached because he had been on his back breathing in smoke all night. He raised his eyes and looked up Gøteborggata.
That was all he could do now.
He thought about the Danube flowing past Vukovar. Patient, unstoppable. As he would have to be. Patient, waiting for the tank to come, for the dragon to stick its head out of the cave. For Jon Karlsen to come home. He looked at a pair of knees that had stopped right in front of him.