‘Iska Peller,’ he said aloud. ‘Australian. She’s at the Havass cabin. What do you think? Could she have seen anything?’
The other man’s vocal cords could hardly move enough air for them to make a sound. ‘Police. Police at cabin.’
‘I know. It’s in the papers. One detective.’
‘They’re there. The police have rented the cabin.’
‘Oh?’ He looked at the other man. Had the police set a trap? And was this bastard in front of him trying to help him, to save him from falling into it? The very idea angered him. But this woman must have seen something anyway, otherwise they wouldn’t have brought her all this way from Australia. He grabbed the poker.
‘Fuck, you stink. Have you shat your pants?’
The dead man’s head slumped onto his chest. The dead man had obviously moved in here. There were a few personal possessions in the drawers. A letter. Some tools. Some old family photographs. Passport. As if the dead man were planning an escape, thinking he could recover somewhere else. Other than down there, down to the flames where he would be tortured for his sins. Even though he had begun to think that the dead man might not have been behind all the devilry after all. There are limits to how much pain a man can stand before he talks.
He checked the phone again. No coverage, shit!
And what a stench. The storehouse. He would have to hang him out to dry there. That was what you did with smoked meat.
Kaja had gone to her bedroom, and he hoped she would catch some shut-eye before it was her watch.
Kolkka poured the percolated coffee into his own and then Harry’s cup.
‘Thanks,’ Harry said, staring into the darkness.
‘Wooden skis,’ Kolkka said, standing by the fireplace and inspecting Harry’s skis.
‘My father’s,’ Harry said. He had found the ski equipment in the cellar at Oppsal. The poles were new and made of some metal alloy that seemed to weigh less than air. Harry had for a moment wondered whether the hollow pole might have been filled with helium. But the skis were the same old broad mountain ones.
‘When I was small we went to my grandfather’s cabin in Lesja every Easter. There was this peak my dad always wanted to climb. So he told my sister and me that there was a kiosk at the top where they sold Pepsi, which was my sister’s favourite drink. So if we could manage the last slope, then we…’
Kolkka nodded and ran a hand over the back of the white skis. Harry took a swig of the fresh coffee.
‘Sis always managed to forget from Easter to Easter that it was the same old bluff. And I always wished I could have done the same. But I was lumbered with remembering everything that Dad instilled in me. The mountain code, how to use nature as a compass and how to survive avalanches. Norwegian kings and queens, the Chinese dynasties and American presidents.’
‘They’re good skis,’ Kolkka said.
‘Bit too short.’
Kolkka sat by the window at the other end of the room. ‘Yes, you think it will never happen. Your father’s skis being too short for you.’
Harry waited. Waited. Then it came.
‘I thought she was so wonderful,’ Kolkka said. ‘And I thought she liked me. Strange. I only touched her breasts. She didn’t put up any resistance. I suppose she must have been scared.’
Harry succeeded in curbing his urge to leave the room.
‘You’re right,’ Kolkka said. ‘You’re loyal to those who raise you from the rubbish heap. Even though you can see they’re using you. What else can you do? You have to choose sides.’
When Harry realised the conversational tap had been turned off, he got up and went to the kitchen. He went through all the cupboards in a vain attempt to find what he knew was not here, a kind of desperate diversion from the shouting inside his head. ‘A drink, just one.’
He had been given a chance. One. The ghost had undone his chains, lifted him up, sworn because of the stench of shit and helped him into the bathroom, where he had dropped him on the shower floor and turned on the water. The ghost had stood there for a moment watching him while trying to make a mobile phone call, cursed the lack of coverage and then gone back into the sitting room where he heard him trying again.
He wanted to cry. He had moved up here, hidden himself away so that no one would be able to find him. Installed himself in the mothballed Tourist Association cabin, taken with him what he needed. Thought he was safe among the precipices. Safe from the ghost. He didn’t cry. For as the water seeped through his clothes, soaking the remains of the red flannel shirt stuck to his back, it dawned on him that this was his chance. His mobile phone was in the pocket of his trousers, folded on the chair beside the sink.
He tried to get to his feet, but his legs wouldn’t respond. Didn’t matter, it was only a few metres to the chair. He put his scorched black arms on the floor, defied the pain and dragged himself forward, heard the blisters pop, noticed the smell, but in two lunges he was there, searching his pockets, grabbing his phone. He had saved that policeman’s number, mostly so that he would recognise it on the display if he called.
He pressed the call button. The phone seemed to be drawing breath in the tiny eternity between each ring. One chance. The shower was making too much noise for the man to hear him speak. There! He heard the policeman’s voice. He interrupted him with his hoarse whisper, but the voice continued regardless. And he realised he was talking to voicemail. He waited for the voice to finish, squeezed the phone, felt the skin on his hand tear, but didn’t let go. Couldn’t let go. Had to leave a message about… finish for Christ’s sake, come on, beeps!
He hadn’t heard him come in, the shower had drowned his light steps. The phone was seized from his hand, and he had time to see the ski boot coming.
When he regained consciousness, the man was standing over him and studying his phone with interest.
‘So you’ve got coverage?’
The man left the bathroom dialling a number, then the noise of the shower drowned everything. But not long after he was back.
‘We’re going on a journey. You and I.’ The man seemed to be in a good mood all of a sudden. The man was holding a passport in one hand. His passport. In the other hand he was holding the pliers from the toolbox.
‘Open wide.’
He swallowed. Lord Jesus, have mercy.
‘Open wide, I said!’
‘Mercy. I swear I’ve told you everything I-’ He didn’t say any more because a hand had grabbed him around the throat and stopped the supply of air. He fought for a while. Then at last came the tears. And then he opened wide.
57
Thunder
Under the glare of the lamp, Bjorn Holm and Beate Lonn were standing by the steel table in the laboratory staring at the navy blue ski pants before them.
‘That is definitely a semen stain,’ Beate said.
‘Or a line of semen,’ Bjorn Holm said. ‘Look at the shape.’
‘Too little for an ejaculation. Looks like an erect, wet penis has been shoved up the bottom of the person wearing the ski pants. You said Bruun was homosexual, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but he says he hasn’t worn them since he lent them to Adele.’
‘Then I would say we have semen stains typical of a rape. We’ll just have to send them for DNA testing, Bjorn.’
‘Agreed. What do you think about that?’ Holm pointed to the light blue hospital trousers, to two friction marks under both back pockets.
‘What is it?’
‘Something that won’t go away in the wash at any rate. It’s a nonylphenol-based material called PSG. It’s used in car cleaning products, among other things.’
