‘They’ll believe me, Harry. For the simple reason…’ He ran a finger across his top lip. ‘… that no-one will be able to contradict me.’
Harry knew what the plan was now. The lift. There was no camera in the lift. That’s where it was going to happen. He didn’t know how Waaler had imagined he would present it afterwards – a scuffle had broken out and Harry had grabbed the gun – but he was in no doubt: they were all going to die there, in the lift.
‘Daddy…’ Oleg began to say.
‘Everything’ll be OK, son,’ Harry said, trying to smile.
‘Yes,’ Waaler said. ‘Everything’ll be OK.’
They heard a clicking noise, a metallic smacking sound. The lift was getting closer. Harry looked at the round wooden handle on the lift door. He had secured the gun in such a way that he could place his hand around the handle of the gun, put his finger on the trigger and pull it off all in one movement.
The lift stopped in front of them with a thud and swayed a little.
Harry breathed in and stretched out his hand. His fingers closed around and underneath the tiled wooden surface. He expected to feel the cold, hard steel against his fingertips. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Only more wood. And a loose bit of tape.
Tom Waaler sighed.
‘I’m afraid I threw it down the disposal chute, Harry. Did you really think I wouldn’t search for planted weapons?’
Waaler pulled open the iron door with one hand while pointing the gun at them.
‘The boy goes in first.’
Harry averted his eyes when Oleg looked up at him. He couldn’t meet Oleg’s questioning gaze searching for further assurances. Instead Harry nodded mutely towards the door. Oleg went in and stood at the back of the lift. A dim light from the ceiling fell onto the brown walls of imitation rosewood and a collage of declarations of love, slogans, sexual organs and greetings carved into its surface.
SCREW U was etched above Oleg’s head.
A burial chamber, Harry thought. It was a burial chamber.
He stuffed his free hand inside his jacket pocket. As he had demonstrated before, he didn’t like lifts. Harry jerked his left hand and the sudden movement sent Sven sprawling against Waaler. Waaler turned towards Sven as Harry raised his right hand over his head. He took aim like a matador with a sword. He knew he would get only one stab, and accuracy was more important than power.
He brought down his hand.
The point of the chisel went through the leather jacket with a tearing sound. The metal end sank into the soft tissue over the right collar-bone, perforated the jugular vein and penetrated the network of nerves in the plexus brachialis and paralysed the motor neurones leading to the arm. There was a clunk as the gun hit the stone floor and clattered down the stairs. Waaler looked down at his right shoulder with an expression of surprise. Beneath the protruding short green handle his arm hung limply by his side.
It had been a long, shitty day for Tom Waaler. The shit had started when he was woken up and told that Harry had taken Sivertsen and cleared off. And it continued when it proved to be much harder to find Harry than he had anticipated. Tom had explained to the others in the association that they would have to use the boy. They had refused; it was too risky, they said. In his heart of hearts he had always known that he would have to take the last few steps on his own. It was always like that. No one would stop him and no one would help him. Loyalty was a question of how much something was worth; charity began at home. And the shit just kept coming. He couldn’t feel his arm any longer. The only thing he felt was the warm stream down his chest telling him that something with a lot of blood in had been punctured.
He turned towards Harry again, just in time to see his face grow in size, and the next moment his head was filled with a crunching sound as Harry’s spring-loaded skull hit him over the bridge of his nose. Harry took a swing at him with his right arm, but Waaler managed to move out of the way. Harry went after him, but was pulled back by Sven Sivertsen’s left arm. Tom inhaled greedily through his mouth as he felt the pain unleash the blind, life-giving rage into his veins. He regained his balance. In all senses. He estimated the distance, went into a crouch position, kicked out and whirled round on one foot with the other held high. It was a perfect O’ou tek and hit Harry in the temple. He fell sideways and dragged Sven Sivertsen down with him.
Tom turned and looked for the gun. It was on the landing below them. He held onto the railing and was down there in two bounds. His right arm still wouldn’t obey him. He swore, picked up the gun with his left hand and sprinted back.
Harry and Sven had disappeared.
He turned, just in time to see the lift door close. He clenched the gun between his teeth, grabbed hold of the door handle with his left hand and yanked. It felt as if his arm was coming out of its socket. Locked. Tom put his face against the round window in the door. They had pulled the grille shut and he could hear the excited voices inside.
An absolutely shit day. But now it was going to come to an end. Now it would be perfect. Tom raised his gun.
Out of breath, Harry leaned against the back wall and waited for the lift to move. He had just managed to close the grille and press the BASEMENT button when the door began to shake and they heard Waaler swearing on the other side.
‘The bloody lift won’t start!’ wheezed Sven. He had sunk down to his knees beside Harry.
The lift gave a jerk, like a massive hiccup, but it didn’t move.
‘If the bloody lift is that slow, he can just run down the stairs and then say “welcome back” when we get there!’
‘Hell,’ Harry muttered. ‘The door between the entrance and the basement is locked.’
Harry saw a shadow flit across the round window.
‘Look out!’ he screamed, pushing Oleg over towards the grille.
The sound was like a cork being drawn out of a wine bottle as the bullet bored its way into the pseudo- rosewood panel above Harry’s head. He pulled Sven over towards Oleg.
At that moment the lift jerked again and, with a lot of creaking noises, started to move.
‘Fuck,’ Sven whispered.
‘Harry…’ Oleg began.
There was a crash. Harry caught a fleeting glimpse of a clenched fist between the latticework of the grille and above Oleg’s head before he instinctively closed his eyes as the glass fragments showered over him.
‘Harry!’
Oleg’s scream went right through Harry. Through his ears, his nose, his mouth, his throat, he drowned in it. Harry opened his eyes again and looked straight into Oleg’s wide-open eyes; his gaping mouth distorted with pain and panic; his long, black hair caught by a large white hand. Oleg was being lifted off the floor.
‘Harry!’
Harry went blind. He thrust open his eyes, but couldn’t see anything. Only a white sheet of panic. But he could hear. Hear Sis screaming.
‘Harry!’
He could hear Ellen screaming. Rakel screaming. Everyone was screaming his name.
‘Harry!’
He stared into the white void as it slowly transformed itself into black. Had he passed out? The screams subsided, like fading echoes. He floated away. They were right. He was never there when it mattered. He made sure he was elsewhere. Packed his case. Opened a bottle. Locked the door. Became scared. Went blind. They were always right. And if they weren’t, they would be.
‘Daddy!’
A foot struck him in the chest. He could see again. Oleg was dangling in front of him, his legs kicking out; his head held tight in Waaler’s hand. But the lift had stopped. He instantly saw why. The grille had been knocked out of position. Harry looked at Sven, who was sitting on the floor beside him, his eyes fixed into a frozen stare.
‘Harry!’ Waaler’s voice from outside. ‘Bring the lift up or I’ll shoot the boy.’
Harry stood up and then ducked again immediately. He had seen what he needed to see. The door to the fourth floor was half a metre higher than the lift.
