'I'm going to treat all of you to a Coke,' she said, and left.
Kannick was thinking about that 'inner urge' as his blood sugar slowly rose to an acceptable level and he felt the warm drowsiness come over him that only sweets could produce. He felt comfortably tired and just a little lethargic, as if he was intoxicated. In the intoxication he found peace. He didn't know from what, but he could never get enough of it.
'What's the betting we get a Diet Coke,' he sighed as he tore open the Hubba Bubba packet. There was exactly enough gum for each of them. His generosity knew no bounds. The murder of Halldis had brought them together as never before. Usually they were a divisive group, everybody fighting one another, each boy struggling for his own pathetic position in this tiny society of outsiders. They had given up their dreams of the future, except for Simon, who was said to have a rich uncle who had hinted that Simon could come to live at his farm where he had 30 racehorses. But first he had to serve a four-month sentence for accounting irregularities, and he couldn't come and get the boy as long as he stood in the atonement line, as he put it. But soon they would make a new start together.
Margunn reappeared carrying, as predicted, some sugar-free Cokes and a tray of glasses.
'Don't spill it on the floor, boys.'
She gave Kannick a warning glance. Margunn wasn't one to scold. They were her boys, and she was fond of them. Any attempt to reprimand fell flat, like a deflated balloon, and they all loved her because she was the only person in their lives who cared about them. There were others on the staff, such as Thorleif, Inga and Richard. And they were all right and did their jobs, but they were young and wanted to move on to something better. For them the boys were just a stretch of rugged terrain they had to traverse as fast as possible. Margunn, on the other hand, was old. She was almost 60 and had no ambition to move on. She had ended up here, in this ugly building covered with sheets of grey asbestos, with the smell of something green and close in all the rooms. And she liked it, the way people like the mouldy places in the back of the cellar because they never give up hope that one day they'll find something of value hidden among the junk. It was easy for the boys to sense that. Only Simon didn't draw his own conclusions. He asked the others and accepted the answers they gave him.
Karsten poured the Coke and sent the glasses around. Everyone's jaws were working at the gum. Kannick frowned down at the bedspread as he considered whether to share more of his loot or save the rest for bad days to come. This was a golden moment, and it might be a long time until the next one.
'Where is Halldis now?' Palte asked after Margunn had left. His real name was Pal Theodor, and he was there by mistake, but no-one had realised it yet. Somewhere in his future adult life a formidable compensation payment of several million kroner for wrongful incarceration was waiting. That was what kept him going.
'In the corpse cellar,' Kannick said, taking a gulp of his Coke. 'In a freezer.'
'Refrigerator,' Karsten corrected him. 'There will have to be an autopsy, of course, and if she's frozen, they won't be able to cut her open.'
'Cut?' Simon's eyes grew dark with fear.
Karsten put his arm around the boy's shoulders. 'When somebody dies, they're cut open. To find the cause of death.'
'The cause of death was a hoe in her head,' Philip remarked, with a belch.
'They have to find out precisely what it struck. They can't just guess.'
'It hit her right in the eye.'
'Yes, but they have to write up a death certificate. No-one can be buried without a death certificate. I wonder why he used a hoe?' Karsten said. 'He could have killed her perfectly well with his bare hands.'
'I guess he didn't feel like it at the time,' Kannick replied, pursing his lips. Then he blew a big bubble that hid half his face before it finally popped and covered his nose and mouth. He scraped the gum together with his dirty fingers and put it back in his mouth.
'But the police are looking for him now, aren't they?' Simon was pulling on his earlobe, as if to calm himself down.
'Of course they are. They're on a manhunt with their guns loaded, I would imagine. And with bulletproof vests. I'm sure they'll get him.'
Karsten tossed his head in annoyance. 'The stupid thing is that they have to take him alive and unharmed.'
He looked at them. This was something he knew all about. 'It's better in the US. The police just shoot them dead, and show a lot more consideration for the community. I'm all for the death penalty!' he proclaimed.
And with this last comment, the meeting was over.
CHAPTER 8
The man who called himself Morgan was sitting on a little grassy mound. His gun lay at his side in the grass. Errki kept stealing glances at his Bermuda shorts covered with palm trees and fruit.
Morgan was trying to assess the situation. Things could be worse. He was out of the bank, out of the city, out of the car. And he had the money, just as he had promised. The car was hidden, and if this path wasn't used much, it could be days before it was discovered. They wouldn't find his fingerprints in the car, because he had never taken off his gloves. He wondered whether they had identified his hostage. Maybe the quality of the video surveillance in the bank would turn out to be poor.
'Listen here,' he said in a low voice. The drum roll was more muted, Errki thought, he must have created a greater sense of order in his head. 'You can at least answer this question.'
He looked up at Errki, who was sitting on a tree stump with his knees pulled up. 'Just tell me if you've escaped from somewhere. A home or something like that. Or whether you're on your own and have a flat, or you live with your mother. I'm curious. That's not too much to ask, is it?'
While he waited, he took a packet of tobacco out of his bag. Errki didn't reply. Nestor was about to take up his position, the one where he squatted down with his chin pressed to his knees and his hands linked around his legs. That was the position. When he sat like that, Errki was allowed to speak.
'I mean, have you run away from a hospital or something? Is anyone looking for you? Is there a search going on?'
The question made Errki wag his head back and forth.
'Let's make a deal,' Morgan said. 'I'll ask you a question. If you answer, you have the right to ask me one, which I have to answer if I want to ask you something else. How about that?'
Morgan felt quite proud of this suggestion as he looked at his hostage. In spite of the black leather jacket and dark trousers, he didn't look sweaty. That was odd. He, on the other hand, was drenched with sweat, and his sleeveless shirt had big dark patches.
'I'd just like to find out who you are,' he added. 'It's not that easy.'
'A person can't see much when the Devil is holding the candle,' Errki said.
He spoke in a weary voice, as if it cost him far too much energy to waste words on a poor man like Morgan.
Morgan started at the sound of Errki's voice. It was bright and pleasant-sounding, and he spoke with great solemnity. Errki tilted his head and listened intently to Nestor's whispering. The robber's suggestion sounded familiar. A game they used to play at the asylum. In group therapy.
'I'll start,' he said.
Morgan smiled, relieved to hear such a normal remark.
'But the same applies to you, right? If I answer honestly, then I have the right to ask you a question and get a truthful reply.'
Errki assented by meeting his glance.
'What are you going to do now?' he asked, and at the same moment he heard Nestor laughing shrilly down in the depths of the cellar.
Morgan frowned. He scowled at the black-clad figure and licked his lips.
