made no difference. The intense heat scorched his face. Breathing became difficult and he started to cough.
A glimpse of light appeared in the smoke. Henning blinked and focused on the opening, which grew ever larger; he could see a door being eaten up by the flames. He coughed again. Then the gap started to close up and soon the smoke covered it completely. It was burning hot and black as night everywhere. And then Jonas started to scream.
Again.
*
Henning exhales at the sight of the flashing red light. His eyes seek out the other smoke alarm in the ceiling. He waits for it to emit its cyclical indicator of rude health. But the seconds pass. And some more. And even more. He feels a tightness creep across his chest and spread out to his shoulders and neck. At last the second smoke alarm lights up. A quick red flash.
He flops back on to his pillow and breathes out while he waits for the monster in his chest to calm down. Eventually it resumes its normal pace. He touches the scars on his face again. They still hurt. Not just on the outside. And he knows that they will keep hurting until he finds out who torched his flat. Who snuffed out the life of the best little boy in the whole world.
Henning turns to the clock on the bedside table. It’s not even 10.30 in the evening. The headache which made him lie down an hour and a half ago is still throbbing. He massages his temples as he shuffles to the kitchen and takes the last can of Coke from the fridge. Back in the living room he tidies away clothes and newspapers from the sofa before he sits down and opens the can. The sound of bubbles rising to the surface makes him sleepy. He closes his eyes and longs for a dream without snowflakes.
Chapter 2
‘How long are you going to be? I want to go home.’
Gunhild Dokken leans over the counter and looks across the room. A song by Jokke amp; Valentinerne belts out from the loudspeakers. Geir Gronningen is lying on a bench, pressing 135 kilos up from his chest while he groans. Behind him, in front of the mirror, a short sturdy man is guiding the movement of the bar with his hands — without helping him.
‘We’ve just got a few more reps to do,’ Petter Holte says without taking his eyes off the bar.
Dokken turns around and looks up at the clock on the wall. It says 22.45.
‘It’s Friday, guys. Friday night, for God’s sake. It’s almost eleven o’clock. Haven’t you got anything better to do?’
None of the men replies.
‘Put your back into it,’ says Per Ola Heggelund who is standing with his arms folded across his chest at the end of the bench. Gronningen has nearly raised the bar above his head. Holte gently takes hold of the bar and assists Gronningen’s trembling arms.
‘One more,’ he says. ‘You can do one more.’
Gronningen takes a deep breath, lowers the bar until it touches his chest and pushes as hard as he can. His muscles quiver while Holte lets him earn every single millimetre, right until the kilos have been raised and a roaring Gronningen can return the bar to the forked holders. He pulls a face and flexes his pecs, scratches his straggly beard and shakes his long thin hair away from his face.
‘Good job,’ Heggelund says and nods with approval. Gronningen scowls at him.
‘Good? It was crap. I can usually do much better than that.’
Heggelund glances nervously at Holte, but all he gets is a sour look in return. Holte loosens his gym belt while he studies himself in the mirror. His shaven head — like the rest of him — has the deep tan of a sunbed. He adjusts his black gloves slightly and observes the muscles under the tight-fitting white vest, nods with satisfaction as he tenses them and watches the contours in his biceps stand out. He hoists up his Better Bodies sweatpants before he marches over to the reception counter behind which a bored-looking Gunhild Dokken is flicking through a magazine, her fringe covering her eyes.
‘Are you doing anything tonight?’ Holte asks and stops in front of her. His voice is soft and hopeful.
‘I’m going home,’ she replies without looking up.
Holte nods slowly while he gazes at her.
‘Do you want company?’
‘No,’ she replies, unequivocally.
Holte’s nostrils flare.
‘Are you meeting anyone?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ Dokken huffs.
After a brief pause, Holte turns to Gronningen, who gives him an encouraging nod.
‘It’s just us here,’ Holte says. ‘I can lock up for you, if you like.’
Dokken slams the magazine shut.
‘Couldn’t you have told me that earlier? While there was still some of the evening left?’
‘Yes, but I-’
A shadow falls across Holte’s face as he stares at the floor.
‘Okay,’ she sighs, sullenly. ‘You know where the keys are.’
Dokken goes over to a coat stand and puts on a thin black jacket. She drops her mobile into her handbag, which she slips over her shoulder.
‘Don’t work too hard.’
‘We’re not training again until Sunday.’
‘Wow,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘A day off.’
Holte smiles and follows her with his eyes as she marches towards the door. A bell above her head chimes before the door shuts firmly behind her. Then she is gone in the night. Holte shakes his head almost imperceptibly before he goes behind the counter, stops the music and takes a Metallica CD, And Justice for All, from the stand. He finds track number eight, ‘To Live Is to Die’, turns up the volume and fast-forwards to the middle of the song.
‘Still no luck?’ Heggelund smiles when Holte comes back. Holte glares at him, but makes no reply. Instead he asks who is next.
‘Heggis,’ Gronningen replies and looks at Heggelund.
‘Yep, me it is,’ Heggelund replies, cheerfully. He goes over to the bar and removes 15 kilos from each side. Then he sits on the bench and breathes in deeply a couple of times before he lies down and finds the points on the bar where he always places the up-yours finger. He fills his lungs with air again. Holte is back in position behind him while James Hetfield proclaims, ‘When a man lies, he murders some part of the world.’
Heggelund lifts the bar from the stand. The weights clang against each other before he lowers the bar and raises it again. His first lift goes without a hitch. He tries to establish a steady rhythm, and his next repetition is smooth, too. Two lifts later his grunting has become more aggressive. Holte straightens his back and ensures his legs are evenly balanced before he puts his hands under the bar, ready to assist. He looks at Gronningen, who nods as he moves a little closer. From the sound system, Metallica launches into the thumping riff that is the opening of ‘Dyers Eve.’
Heggelund closes his eyes and summons up all his strength for the next repetition, but the bar refuses to move. He opens his eyes. Holte’s hands have moved from the underside to the top of the bar. Gronningen is standing by the side of the bench. He sits down astride Heggelund’s stomach. Heggelund groans loudly. Holte pushes the bar down and lets it hover a few centimetres above Heggelund’s Adam’s apple. His eyes fill with panic.
‘What… what-’
‘How long have you been coming here?’ Gronningen asks him. ‘Two months? Two and a half, perhaps?’
Heggelund tries to say something, but all his strength goes into keeping the bar off his throat.
‘Do you think we’re idiots?’ Holte says, and eyeballs him. ‘Do you think we let just anybody work out with us without checking them out first?’
