Soon she started sweating profusely, tiny beads formed on her upper lip and on her forehead. Suddenly she gagged violently, but nothing came up. She fell back onto the sofa and clasped her hand over her mouth.
'Why don't we go to see the doctor?' Alvar asked.
She still did not reply.
'I've taken out one thousand kroner, are you able to walk down to Bragernes Square?'
He was shocked at his own words, that he could even think along these lines. But seeing her like this was torture for him, so much so that he seriously contemplated going there himself, finding her dealer, buying her a hit and giving it to her so that she could get some relief. So that her hysterical body could calm down. Because he was feeling so distressed, he went out into the kitchen and poured her a glass of water which he placed in front of her. She took no notice of that either. She was shivering. She was shaking. She groaned, she wiped snot and tears away, she wiped away the sweat.
'A small sherry, perhaps?' he suggested out of sheer desperation.
He received no reply. Then he jumped up again and went out into the bathroom. Found a clean face cloth, dipped it in warm water, wrung it and returned.
'Look here,' he was practically pleading, 'you can wipe your face with this.' She did not take it. Then he pushed aside all his shyness, leaned forward and started cleaning her cheeks with the wet, warm cloth. She said nothing, she closed her eyes and Alvar let the cloth glide over her forehead, her nose and her chin, very lightly as though she was made of glass. He thought she began to relax a little. He stayed like this, bent over the sofa with the cloth in his hand, and he was filled by a strange sensation, it was something he had never experienced before. The satisfaction of easing another person's pain. Reaching out a hand and seeing how her features softened. If only she could fall asleep and sleep through it all, he thought, but she was unable to fall asleep. She started shivering and shaking again, it came in vicious fits. Suddenly she spoke in a laboured voice.
'My heart,' she said weakly.
Alvar pricked up his ears. 'Yes,' he said breathlessly, 'what about your heart?'
She groaned again, pressed both hands against her chest. 'It's going to burst out, I've got to keep it in place!'
He shook his head. 'No, it's not going to burst out,' he said quickly. 'It's not!'
'It feels that way,' she said hoarsely. 'I've got to keep it in place, it's going to explode. I can feel it oozing out between my ribs.'
'Do you want some paracetamol?' he asked helplessly.
She laughed a bitter laugh at his suggestion. 'Is that all you can offer me? Paracetamol?'
Her voice was brimming with pain and disdain.
He wrung his hands in desperation.
'What are we going to do?' he asked sheepishly. 'You can't lie here like this.'
She brushed her damp hair away from her face.
'I can't do this any more,' she said weakly. 'I haven't got the energy to live this life any longer.'
Alvar tore himself away and went over to the window. He stared down at the light-bulb factory and at the dome, which glowed. It competed with the grey November light.
'There's got to be someone who can help you,' he said.
'There are not enough places,' she replied from the sofa. 'I've tried lots of times. Not enough places, I don't get methadone, or subutex. Nothing. I haven't been using long enough.'
Alvar closed his eyes. Then she had another seizure and she howled into the sofa to cope with the pain. Every single fibre in Alvar's body tensed up.
'No one should have to feel like this!' he screamed into the glass. 'It's not right!'
He looked over at her thin body.
'Do you want me to go down to Bragernes Square?' he asked. 'Do you want me to try to get something for you?'
She was silent for a long time. Her breathing was irregular, he thought, her whole body fighting a huge battle.
'Do you think you could get me a fix?' she whispered. 'I'm shaking so badly that I don't think I can manage to go myself.'
Get her a fix? Was she asking him to inject her? He gasped at the thought.
'It's easy,' she whispered. 'I'll tell you what to do.'
He instinctively shook his head. There was no way he would inject drugs into another human being. Especially not a tiny girl, no matter how ill she might be. She had another fit, her voice was close to breaking point.
'Go find Roger,' she asked him, 'he usually hangs out by the quay at Skutebrygga. Long hair, green parka. Go now, please, Alvar, please! I'm begging you!'
Alvar clenched his fists. He felt a sudden urge to slap his own cheeks; he seemed unable to think straight. He ran out into the hall, driven by a mixture of desperation and determination. Put on his coat, snatched his keys from the key cupboard and left. Started the Mazda, drove down the hill and into Engene. Turned left at the fire station and then took another left so he had the river on his right. Pulled into a car park, locked the car and ran out. His eyes flashed in all directions, but there was no one on the quay, no dealer in a green parka. He checked the cars and the people in town, kids, old people, the cooing pigeons. The taxis lined up on Bragernes Square. But he could not see any drug dealers; it was as if they had all gone with the autumn wind. Helplessly he stood there looking around. He became aware that others were watching him. He probably had a look of panic in his eyes, a madness clear for all to see and everyone was wondering about him.
He began walking across the cobbled square, all the way to St Hallvard's fountain. There were some benches there; they were empty. He stared down the side streets, to see if there were any dealers there. But today, the eighteenth of November, only respectable people were out and about, the town's down-and-outs were nowhere to be seen. Exhausted, he let himself fall down on a bench. He rested his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands, hunched up to avoid the freezing wind. He had never in all his life felt as lost as he did now. He could see no way out of this mess, he could not return to her without something that would relieve her pain. Then he heard low voices. Someone had approached the bench, he was being watched.
'Having a bad day, mate?' a rusty male voice asked him. Alvar looked up. He saw a group of three people. Two men and a woman, dressed a little shabbily, were watching him.
'Are you Roger?' Alvar asked him hopefully, looking at the gangly man, who had long hair and was wearing a green parka.
'Who wants to know?' he replied, giving Alvar a doubtful look.
'Philippa needs heroin. She needs it now!'
They looked at him doubtfully, exchanged glances.
'We don't know anyone called Philippa.'
'She's blonde,' he said, touching his own bald head. 'She's very thin, her hair's almost white, she's ill, she's lying on my sofa and it's awful!'
They continued looking at him in a doubtful way.
'You mean Blondie?'
'Yes,' Alvar said swiftly. Of course she would tell them her name was Blondie, he was sure of that.
'I don't have any heroin,' the man said, 'but I've got something else.'
Alvar's heart sank.
'Will it help?' he asked anxiously.
The three people started to giggle as they sent each other telling glances. Roger dug his hand down into the parka's pocket.
'This works for everything,' he said, nodding. 'You got any money?'
Alvar fumbled to get his wallet out and showed them his money.
'All right,' Roger said. 'Come on, we're going down under the bridge.'
Together they walked across Bragernes Square. Alvar felt strange in such scruffy company; he trailed behind them like a little lost child, eyes fixed on the street, hands deep in his pockets. They gathered under the bridge, there was a walkway there, it was covered with syringes and other rubbish. A small sachet was shoved in Alvar's hand, he paid and thanked them. How easy it is, he thought, how easy it is to throw your life away if that's what you want. He put the small sachet in his pocket, followed the group with his eyes as they disappeared across the
