Don't Look Back

They each stared out at the road. Skarre fiddled with a lock of hair at the back of his neck and stretched it out full-length. When he let go, it curled up as swiftly as a worm on a hotplate.

CHAPTER 4

She thought there was something familiar about him. That's why she'd scooted her chair closer and stuck her wrinkled face all the way up to the television. The light of the screen fell on her so that he could see the whiskers on her chin which were still growing. They should have been shaved off, he thought, but he wasn't sure how to mention it to her.

'It's Johann Olav Koss!' she shrieked. 'He's drinking milk.'

'Hmm.'

'Good heavens, how handsome that boy is. I wonder if he knows it? He's just like a sculpture, he really is. A living sculpture!'

Koss wiped off his milk moustache and smiled with white teeth.

'Oh, just look at the teeth that boy has! Teeth as white as chalk! It's because he drinks milk. You should too, you should drink more milk. But he probably had a school dentist. We didn't.'

She tucked the tartan blanket around her lap. 'We couldn't afford to have our teeth fixed, just had to get them pulled out as they rotted away, one by one, but today all of you have school dentists and milk and vitamins and healthy diets and toothpaste and fluoride, and all manner of things.'

She sighed heavily. 'Let me tell you, I sat and cried in class, yes I did. Not because I didn't know my lessons, but because I was so hungry. Of course you're handsome, all of you young people today. I envy you! Do you hear what I'm saying, Halvor? I envy you!'

'Yes, Grandmother.'

His hands shook as he pulled photos out of a yellow Kodak envelope. A slender young man with narrow shoulders, he didn't look much like the skater in the TV commercial. He had a small mouth, like a girl, and one corner was stretched taut – when he smiled, which happened rarely, it refused to turn upwards. Close up, it was possible to see the scar from the stitches; it extended from the right side of his mouth to his temple. His hair was brown, cut soft and short, and his sideburns were sparse. From a distance he was often taken for a 15-year-old, and for a long time he'd had to show his ID at the cinema. He never made a fuss about it though, he was no troublemaker.

Slowly he shuffled through the pictures, which he had looked at countless times before. But now they had acquired a new dimension. Now he was searching them for signs of what was to happen later on, things that he hadn't known when he'd taken them. Annie with a wooden mallet, pounding in a tent peg with great force. Annie on the end of the diving board, erect as a pillar in her black bathing suit. Annie asleep in the green sleeping bag. Annie on her bike, her face hidden by her blonde hair. A picture of him as he struggled with the Primus stove. One of both of them, taken by the people in the next tent. He had to nag her to get her to agree. She couldn't stand being photographed.

'Halvor!' cried his grandmother from the window. 'There's a police car outside!'

'Yes,' he said in a low voice.

'Why are they coming here?' She looked at him, suddenly anxious. 'What do they want?'

'It's because of Annie.'

'What's wrong with Annie?'

'She's dead.'

'What did you say?'

Frightened, she stumbled back to her chair and leaned on the armrest.

'She's dead. They're coming here to interrogate me. I knew they would come. I've been waiting for them.'

'Why are you saying that Annie's dead?'

'Because she is dead!' he shouted. 'She died yesterday! Her father called me.'

'Yes, but why?'

'How should I know! I don't know why, all I know is that she's dead!'

He hid his face in his hands. His grandmother collapsed like a sack of flour into her chair, looking even paler than usual. Things had been so peaceful for such a long time. But it couldn't last, of course it couldn't.

Someone knocked loudly on the door. Halvor gave a start, shoved the photos under the tablecloth, and went to open the door. There were two of them. They stood on the porch for a moment and looked at him. It wasn't hard to guess what they were thinking.

'Are you Halvor Muntz?'

'Yes.'

'We've come to ask you some questions. Do you know why?'

'Her father called last night.' Halvor nodded over and over. Sejer caught sight of the old woman in the chair and said hello to her.

'Is she a relative of yours?'

'Yes.'

'Is there somewhere we can talk in private?'

'My room's the only place.'

'Well, if it's all right with you…'

Halvor led the way out of the living room, through a cramped little kitchen, and into his bedroom. This must be an old house, Sejer thought, they don't make houses with this floor plan any more. The two men cleared a place to sit on a sagging sofa, Muntz sat down on his bed. An old-fashioned room with green-painted panelling and wide windowsills.

'Is she your grandmother? The woman in the living room?'

'Yes, my father's mother.'

'And your parents?'

'They're divorced.'

'Is that why you live here?'

'I was allowed to choose where I wanted to live.'

The words sounded terse and clacking, like pebbles falling.

Sejer looked around, searching for pictures of Annie, and found a small one in a gold frame on the bedside table. Next to it stood an alarm clock and a statue of the Madonna and child, perhaps a souvenir from the Mediterranean. A single poster hung on the wall, presumably a rock singer, with the words 'Meat Loaf printed across the picture. A stereo and CD player. A wardrobe, a pair of trainers, not as fancy as Annie's. A motorcycle helmet hung from the doorknob of the wardrobe. The bed had not been made. Beside the window stood a narrow desk with a good computer. Next to it was a box containing diskettes. Sejer could see the one on top: Chess for Beginners. From the window he looked out on the courtyard, and he could see their Volvo parked in front of the shed, an empty doghouse, and a motorcycle covered with plastic.

'You ride a motorcycle?' he began.

'When it's running. It doesn't always start. I have to get it fixed, but I don't have the money right now.'

He fidgeted with the collar of his shirt.

'Do you have a job?'

'At the ice cream factory. Been there two years.'

The ice cream factory, Sejer thought. For two years. So he must have left at the end of middle school and gone to work. Might not be such a bad idea after all; he was getting work experience. It was clear that he wasn't athletic – a little too thin, a little too pale. Annie was much fitter in comparison, training diligently and working hard at school, while this young man packed ice cream and lived with his grandmother. Sejer didn't think it added up. But this was an arrogant thought, and he pushed it aside.

'I'm going to have to ask you about various things. Is that all right with you?'

'Yes.'