earl cradles a shotgun after a good duck hunt. His right hand holds his knife. In the foyer there are boots, scarves, hats, and jackets. There are fishing poles and a box of candles. More than that, he cannot tell. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It is no longer his physical surroundings that count. He is no longer Donny, the boy soldier from the green hills of western Massachusetts who would grow up to be a New Yorker, a husband, and a failed father. He is no longer the man he was at war. The man who struggled to find a place. Now, here, dressed like a fool among the mad, he becomes the man he needs to be.
Facing the darkness, a rifle under his arm, he announces loudly and clearly so that no one in the house can possibly have any doubt about what is being said: ‘I am General Henrik Horowitz Ibsen. And you are surrounded!’
Chapter 23
In the living room, near the kitchen and connected by the foyer, Gjon has been handed the Black’s pistol and is checking it when the General announces himself. Burim is sweating and clenching his knife tightly. Enver looks into the kitchen with incredulity.
He speaks to
‘You said we were not alone.’
‘I was right.’
Enver grunts. The Black is still holding his own rifle. Enver has his knife in his belt.
‘Shall I go and take care of him?’ the Black asks.
‘Stay with the girl. We may need her as leverage.’
‘What do you want us to do?’
‘I’m going to Sweden with my son. You,’ he says, ‘and you, and you are going to stand your ground and make sure that happens.’
Burim’s sweat has now dripped into his eyes, and when Enver says this he wants to cry like a child into Adrijana’s nape and take it all back, take back every argument and stupid objection he has ever made. Tell her she was right about everything. Tell her that it has all gone horribly wrong and that he never understood that none of this was ever a game. It had just seemed… surreal. Yes, like a dream or hallucination. He was dabbling in a universe he didn’t understand, and he never intended any of this to happen. For any of it to go this far.
‘I’ll go!’ says Burim, and before any of the three men can even comment, he springs for the kitchen.
He is around the kitchen table in five long strides, and when he sees Sheldon he drops to his knees in front of him and looks up, pleading in English, ‘Let me go. Please. Let me go.’
‘Give me your gun.’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Is the girl OK?’
‘Yes. Please let me go.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Shh. She’s in the living room. Please. Let me go. Please.’
‘OK.’
And Sheldon stands aside.
Burim gets to his feet and takes one look behind him. He has been in the house for a long time. His eyes are adjusted to the light. He sees more than shadows. He sees the evil itself that is around the corner. He will now go home. And he will apologise for all he has done.
He pushes open the door, bounds over the two steps, and then runs. He runs with every ounce of energy in his young body. He runs with fear and purpose. He sprints for the dirt road at the end of the mews where they ran the Norwegian and American off the motorcycle last night as they tried to escape. He will run to the centre of town and announce himself to the police. He will beg forgiveness and take his punishment, and try to become the man that Adrijana has always wanted him to be.
Sigrid and Petter are out of the Volvo and making for the house on foot when they see a single young man clenching a large knife running towards them with the conviction of the devil. He is coming straight at them. He is closing fast. Sigrid raises her Glock and takes aim.
She calls out in Norwegian, ‘Halt or I’ll shoot.’
But Burim does not speak Norwegian.
‘Halt or I’ll shoot,’ she warns a second time.
But Burim, too afraid to stop, does not stop. He does not even know he is holding a knife, so it never occurs to him to drop it. He cannot imagine that he is even here.
Sigrid fires, and Burim falls.
For no particular reason, Sheldon checks his watch when he hears the shot from outside. It is twenty past two in the afternoon. This means absolutely nothing to him. What possible difference could it make?
He had this thought one time before when Saul was twelve. It was the middle of summer, and they were in New York. Something exciting — not to Sheldon, but to Saul and his friends — was about to happen at Union Square, and he had to rush out the door
But something caught Sheldon’s eye. It was also about twenty past two in the afternoon, and Mabel was starting to get supper organised as Sheldon was polishing all the black shoes in the house.
The something that caught his eye was a wristwatch on Saul’s wrist, which was not the wrist it was supposed to be on. Thinking back on it now, as Sheldon turns the corner into the living room of the summer house to see his granddaughter, he can’t remember what kind of watch it was. Which is strange, really, because he had made such a fuss over it.
‘Hey. Where are you going?’ he had asked Saul.
Saul practically skidded to a halt and launched into such a rapid slew of words Sheldon knew that whatever he was saying had to be true, and he immediately regretted asking because, really, what difference did it make?
Interrupting him, he held up his hand and said, ‘Yeah, yeah. OK. What are you wearing on your wrist?’
Saul looked down as though it were a trick question of some kind.
‘A watch.’
‘My watch.’
‘Well, yeah. So what? I wear it all the time.’
‘But you still have to ask.’
‘I wear it all the time! I always ask and you always say “Yes.” Can I go now?’
‘Not so fast. Asking is important. Every night after dinner, I ask your mother if I have to do the dishes. She always says “Yes”, but I still ask.’
‘I don’t think that’s the same thing.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. It just isn’t. Can I go now?’
Sheldon steps into the living room.
They are waiting for him. Two men — the one he failed to kill, and the one in the white Mercedes. Sheldon looks at their shoes.
‘My men have you surrounded. Give up. Let the girl and the child go. Maybe you’ll live.’
Enver studies his face intensely. Sheldon can feel him trying to penetrate his own stare. He is trying to make a connection beneath the layers of fabric and brush and bravado. And as close as Sheldon is to success in his charade, the one quality he cannot mask is his age.
He is, underneath it all, an old man.
‘I recognise you,’ says Enver.
‘And I’ve recognised you since before you were even born.’
It is only then that Rhea believes her ears, and only her ears. Though he is standing directly in front of her,
