blocks, the red shale and the three people. The temperature fell, too. Like a stone, as though the obstruction in front of the light not only cut off the heat but also radiated cold. But Trond didn't notice. All he sensed and saw was the policewoman's brief, hurried gulps of air, her wan, expressionless face and the muzzle of the policeman's gun staring at him like a black eye which had finally found what it was seeking and was already boring through him, dissecting him and stretching him out. The distant thunder rumbled. But all he heard was the sound of blood. The policeman's flesh was open and the contents were spilling out. The blood, his insides, his life dripped loudly onto the grass. It wasn't being devoured; it did the devouring, burned its way into the ground. Trond knew that even if he closed his eyes and covered his ears, he would still hear his own blood rushing in his ears, singing and throbbing to get out.
He felt the nausea like a kind of mild labour pain, a foetus which would be born through his mouth. He swallowed, but the water was running from all his glands, greasing his insides, preparing him. The fields, the blocks and the tennis court began to revolve. He huddled up, tried to hide behind the policewoman, but she was too small, too transparent, just a gossamer veil of life trembling in the squalls. He clung to the gun as though it was holding him up and not the opposite, tightened his finger on the trigger, then waited. Had to wait. What for? For the fear to release its grip? For things to recover their equilibrium? But they wouldn't, they just whirled around and would not come to rest until they had smashed on the bottom. Everything had been in free fall from the moment Stine had said she was leaving, and the blood rushing in his ears had been a constant reminder that the pace was gathering. He had woken every morning thinking that now he must have got used to falling, now the horror must have let go, the end was in sight, he had been through the pain barrier. But it wasn't true. Then he had begun to long to hit rock bottom, the day he would stop being frightened. And now he could see the bottom he was even more frightened. The ground on the other side of the wire fence rushed towards him.
'Twenty-four.'
The countdown was nearing the end. Beate had the sun in her eyes, she was standing inside in a bank in Ryen and the light outside was dazzling, making everything white and harsh. Her father stood beside her, as silent as ever. Her mother was shouting from somewhere, but she was far away, she always had been. Beate counted the images, the summers, the kisses and the defeats. There were a lot, she was surprised how many there were. She recalled faces, Paris, Prague, a smile from under a black fringe, a clumsily expressed declaration of love, a breathless, fearful: Does it hurt? And a restaurant she hadn't been able to afford in San Sebastian, but where she had reserved a table anyway. Perhaps she should be grateful after all?
She had woken from these thoughts when the gun nudged her forehead. The images disappeared and there was only a white, crackling snowstorm on the screen. She wondered: Why did Father only stand beside me? Why didn't he ask me for something? He had never done that. And she hated him for it. Didn't he know it was the only thing she desired, to do something for him, anything at all? She had walked where he had walked, but when she found the bank raider, the killer, the widow-maker and wanted to give her father his vengeance, their vengeance, he had stood beside her, as silent as ever, and refused.
Now she was standing where he had stood. All the people she had watched on the bank videos from all over the world at night in the House of Pain, wondering what they were thinking. Now it was her turn and still she didn't know.
Then someone had turned off the light, the sun disappeared and she was immersed in the cold. She had awoken again in the cold. As if the first awakening had only been part of a new dream. And she had started counting again. But now she was counting places she had never been, people she had never met, tears she had never cried, words she had never heard said as yet.
'Yes, I do,' Harry said. 'I have this piece of evidence.' He produced a sheet of paper and set it on the long table.
Ivarsson and Mшller leaned forward together, clunking heads.
'What is this?' Ivarsson barked. ' 'A Wonderful Day'.'
'Scribbles,' Harry said. 'Written on a notepad at Gaustad hospital. Two witnesses, Lшnn and myself, were present and can testify that the writer was Trond Grette.'
'So?'
Harry looked at them. He turned his back and walked slowly to the window. 'Have you examined your own scribbles when you imagine you're thinking about something else? They can be quite revealing. That was why I took the piece of paper, to see if it made any sense. At first, it didn't. I mean when your wife has just been killed and you're sitting in a closed psychiatric ward writing 'A Wonderful Day' again and again, then you're absolutely barking mad or you're writing the opposite of what you think. Then I discovered something.'
Oslo was pale grey, like the face of a tired old man, but today in the sun the few colours still remaining shone. Like a final smile before saying goodbye, Harry mused.
' 'A Wonderful Day',' he said. 'It's not a thought, a comment or an assertion. It's a title. Of the kind of essay you write at primary school.'
A hedge sparrow flew past the window.
'Trond Grette wasn't thinking, he was just scribbling on automatic pilot. As he had done from his school days when he sat practising the new handwriting style. Jean Hue, the handwriting expert at Kripos, has already confirmed the same person wrote the suicide letter and the school essays.'
The film seemed to be stuck, the image frozen, not a movement, not a word, only the repeated actions of a photocopier outside in the corridor.
Finally, Harry turned around and broke the silence: 'Seems like the mood is for Lшnn and me to bring Trond Grette in for a little bit of questioning.'
Fuck, fuck, fuck! Harry tried to hold the gun steady, but the pain was making him giddy and the blasts of wind were pulling and pushing at his body. Trond had reacted to the blood as Harry had hoped, and for a moment Harry had a clear line of fire. But Harry had hesitated and now Trond had Beate in front of him so that Harry could only see part of his head and his shoulder. She was similar, he could see that now, my God she was so similar. Harry blinked hard to get them in focus. The next blast of wind was so strong it caught hold of the grey coat on the bench and for a moment it seemed as if an invisible man clad only in a coat was running across the tennis court. Harry knew a downpour was on its way; this was the air mass the wall of rain was pushing forward as the final warning. Then it went as dark as night, the two bodies in front of him merged and then the rain was overhead; large, heavy drops hammered down.
'Twenty-five.' Beate's voice was suddenly loud and clear.
In the flash of light Harry could see their bodies casting shadows on the red shale. The crack which followed was so loud it attached itself to their ears like a lining. One body slipped away from the other and fell to the ground.
Harry sank to his knees and heard his voice roar: 'Ellen!'
He saw the figure still standing turn and begin to walk towards him, gun in hand. Harry took aim, but the rain was streaming down his face and blinding him. He blinked and aimed. He no longer felt anything, neither pain nor cold, sorrow nor triumph, only a huge void. Things were not meant to make sense; they just repeated themselves in an eternal, self-explanatory mantra-living, dying, being reborn, living, dying. He squeezed the trigger halfway. Took aim.
'Beate?' he whispered.
She kicked open the door and passed the AG3 to Harry, who grabbed it.
'What…happened?'
'The Setesdal Twitch,' she said.
'The Setesdal Twitch?'
