The first time I had met Johnny boy was one hot, sultry July day in 1970. Elsa Dragesund and I had been sent on a home visit to a flat on the Rothaugen estate, the massive grey blocks of flats near Rothaugen School. Some neighbours had reported the matter to the council and the social security people had passed it on to us.
Out of the two of us, Elsa was the one with the most social services experience. She was a sharp but good- natured woman, just turned forty at this point, with carrot-coloured hair and a tendency to dress in colours that were a bit too bright. I was completely new to the job.
The stairway was dark and damp even on a day like this; it was almost twenty-five degrees in the shade. There was no sign of any kind on the brown first-floor door. Through the matt glass panes we could hear the sound of loud music. We had to press the doorbell several times before shuffling steps could be heard inside; the door was opened a little way and a sallow face stared at us.
‘What d’you want?’ came the response, in broad local dialect.
Elsa put on a pleasant smile and said: ‘Mette Olsen. Is that you?’
The woman in the doorway gave us a vacant look. She was blonde, but her hair was greasy and unkempt. She was wearing a T-shirt with holes and threadbare jeans that had not been washed for the last month at least. She was thin, haggard and stooped, as though trying to dull chronic abdominal pains. Her lips were dry and cracked, and under the thin material of the T-shirt sprouted two small breasts, like children’s buns, flat and uneven.
‘We’re from social services,’ Elsa said. ‘Can we come in?’
For a second or two, a sudden fear flared up in her eyes. Then the channel closed, she stepped aside docilely and held the door open for us.
The smell that hit us when we entered the narrow unlit hallway was a delicate blend of acrid cigarette smoke, refuse and alcohol. On top of that, there was a smell of untended toddlers — something I would become depressingly used to during the years I was employed by the welfare authorities.
Without waiting for our host we followed the sound of the loud music into the sitting room, where a portable radio cassette player was playing a hissing cassette at full volume. I couldn’t place the music; it was rock with a heavy bass line which made the walls vibrate. Elsa resolutely strode in, saw the radio and pressed the right button.
The silence was deafening. Mette Olsen had trudged after us. She was gesticulating with her arms. Her eyes were blank and glassy. The explanation was not hard to find. On the worn coffee table and floor was a glorious selection of empty bottles, mostly beer bottles, but also wine and spirits, and the characteristic plastic containers used by homebrew suppliers. On a small chest of drawers were several empty boxes of pills, upside down and without lids, seemingly discarded after a last desperate search.
‘Where’s your little boy?’ Elsa asked.
Mette Olsen gazed around helplessly, then nodded towards a half-open door at the other end of the room. We stood listening for a moment, but not a sound reached us. Carefully, we walked towards the door, Elsa first, and pushed it slowly open.
A broad unmade bed filled one wall. A wooden drying rack had been shoved into one corner, loaded down with laundry. Clothes were scattered across the entire room, with no apparent system or pattern. There was a cot beside the bed, and in it was sitting a small boy, two and a half to three years old as far as I could judge, in a stained vest that had once been white and a swollen, soaking wet paper nappy under a plastic liner. He hardly reacted when we entered the room, just looked at us with blank, apathetic eyes. His mouth was half-open and dribbling, and in one hand he held a sandwich with what looked like chocolate in the middle. But worst of all was the silence. Not a sound came from him.
Elsa took a few steps forward before turning on her heel and staring at Mette Olsen — thin, shadowless and with an aggrieved expression on her face — in the doorway behind us.
‘Is this your child?’ Elsa asked with an audible tremor from her vocal cords.
Mette Olsen nodded and swallowed.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Jan.’
‘Jan?’
‘Jan Elvis.’
‘How long is it since you changed his nappy?’
She sent us a blurred look and waved her arms around. ‘Yesterday? I don’t remember.’
Elsa sighed loudly. ‘You’re aware that this is unsatisfactory? That we will — have to do something about it?’
The young woman looked at us with sadness in her eyes, but she did not react, giving us the impression that she had barely understood what had been said.
Elsa looked at me. ‘Classic case of clause five. Mother needs treatment, the child acute referral.’
The front door slammed and a coarse local voice resounded round the flat. ‘Meeette! You there?’
No one answered, and shortly afterwards we heard loud cursing and the sound of bottles rolling around the room behind us.
‘Where the fuck’ve you hidden yourself?’
We turned to the doorway, from which Mette had nervously retreated towards us.
‘What the fuck are you all doin’ here? Who are you? What are you doin’ here?’
The man was big and strong, closer to forty than thirty, with tattoos over both forearms. He was wearing a dark brown polo shirt and light trousers; the blood vessels in his forehead were visibly swollen.
‘We’re from social services,’ Elsa said coolly. ‘Are you the child’s father perhaps?’
‘That’s got fuck-all to do with you!’ he snapped and stepped into the room.
Elsa stood her ground. I moved forward a pace, between them. That made him turn on me.
He clenched his fists and glowered at me. ‘What was it you wanted? Wanna bit of this, do you?’
‘Terje,’ sobbed Mette Olsen. ‘Don’t…’
‘What the fuck is it to do with you whether I’m the father of her kid or not? We’re old enough to vote, aren’t we.’
I shrugged. ‘Social security asked us…’
‘Social security can go to hell. Piss off, the pair of you!’
I looked at Elsa. She was the one with most experience. She summoned up all her authority and said: ‘This child is in a critical situation, herr…’ She sent him a quizzical glance, but when he reacted with no more than a snort, she continued: ‘He requires emergency treatment and we’re going to have to take him with us. Your wife… She also needs help, as far as I can see. Should you have any objections, may I ask you to contact us through the appropriate official channels and then we will confer on the matter.’
He opened his mouth wide. ‘Tell me, do you understand all the words that come out of that slippery gob of yours? If you and that prick with you are not out of here this minute, you’ll get a taste of this.’ He brandished a clenched fist in front of her. ‘Have you got that?’
I could feel I was beginning to simmer inside. ‘Look, big mouth… I may not have as many tattoos as you, but I went to sea for long enough to learn a few tricks, so if you were thinking of attacking anyone, then…’
He focused his attention on me again, his eyes a little less secure now. He cast a quick eye over my physique.
Elsa broke in. ‘I assume that you are — herr Olsen?’
‘My name’s not fuckin’ Olsen! Hers is, and she’s not my missus, either. My name’s Hammersten. Remember that!’ he said with a menacing look.
‘If you don’t let us take the child, we’ll be obliged to call the police,’ Elsa said.
‘Terje,’ Mette Olsen appealed again. ‘Don’t!’
‘But first we’ll have to put a dry nappy on him,’ Elsa said, looking at Mette. ‘If you have any?’
She nodded. ‘In the bathroom.’
‘Then I’ll go and get them.’
Elsa walked right past Terje Hammersten and out. The rest of us stayed where we were. I could feel the tension in my body and was ready for anything. Then he gave a snort of contempt, kicked at the air and left the room. I followed to make sure that he didn’t attack Elsa, but nothing happened. She returned with a bag of unused nappies and directly afterwards we heard the door slam shut.
‘So you’re not married?’ Elsa asked.
