Punishment aka What Is Mine

really had to summon up his strength to even take in what she was telling him.

“I didn’t get the papers.”

“But what about afterwards? You must have heard about it afterwards, from other people, from your fellow inmates, from…”

“I had no friends in prison. It wasn’t a very… friendly place.”

“Didn’t any journalists try to talk to you? I’ve got the clippings with me, so you can have a look. Surely some of them must have tried to contact you after you were sentenced? I’ve tried to trace the two journalists who were most critical, but unfortunately they’re both dead now. Can you remember if they tried to get an interview with you?”

The glass of beer was already half empty. He ran his finger around the rim.

“Maybe. It’s so long ago now. I thought everyone… I thought every…”

You thought that everyone was out to get you, thought Johanne. You didn’t want to talk to anyone. You walled yourself in, both physically and mentally, and didn’t trust anyone. You mustn’t trust me, either. Don’t think that I can do anything. Your case is too old. It won’t be taken up again. I’m just curious. I’ve got questions. I want to make notes. I’ve got a notebook and a tape recorder in my bag. If I get them out, there’s a risk you’ll leave. That you’ll say no. That you’ll finally realize that I’m only looking after my own interests.

“Like I said…”

She nodded at the beer glass. Did he want another? He shook his head.

“I do research. And the project I’m working on at the moment is trying to compare…”

“You’ve already told me.”

“Right. I wondered if… is it okay if I take notes?”

A large lady slapped the bill down on the table in front of Aksel. Johanne snatched it up a bit too fast. The waitress tossed her head and waddled back out to the kitchen without turning around. Aksel’s face darkened.

“I’ll pay,” he said. “Give me the bill.”

“No, no… let me. I’ll expense it… I mean, it was me who asked you out.”

“Give me that!”

She let go of the bill. It fell to the floor. He picked it up. Then he took out a worn wallet and started to count the bills.

“I might talk to you later,” he said, without looking up from the money. “I need to think about all this. How long are you here for?”

“A few days, at least.”

“A few days. Thirty-one, thirty-two…”

It was a big pile of worn bills.

“Where are you staying?”

“The Augustus Snow.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

He pushed back his chair and got up with heavy movements. Gone was the man who had climbed up a rickety ladder to switch a weathercock for a pig earlier in the day.

“Can I ask you something?” said Johanne quickly. “Just one question before you go?”

He didn’t answer, but made no effort to go.

“Did they say anything when you were released? I mean, did they give you any explanation as to what had happened? Did they tell you that you’d been pardoned or…”

“Nothing. They said nothing. I was given a suitcase to put my things in. An envelope with one hundred kroner. The address of a hostel. But they said nothing. Except, there was a man, a… he wasn’t wearing a uniform or anything like that. He just said I should keep my mouth shut and be happy. ‘Keep your mouth shut and be happy.’ I remember that sentence well. But explanation? Nope.”

Again he bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile. It was horrible and made her look down. Aksel Seier walked toward the entrance and then disappeared, without waiting for her, without making any further arrangements. She twisted her water glass in her hand. She tried to formulate a thought but couldn’t.

There was something in Aksel Seier’s house that didn’t belong there. She had seen something. She had reacted to something, afterwards, when it was too late, something that was part of the bizarre interior, but that stood out all the same. She closed her eyes and tried to recreate Aksel Seier’s living room. The galleon figure. The battlefield. The sad Sami in a faded jacket. The knight on the wall. The wall clock with horseshoe weights. The bookcase with four books in it, but she couldn’t remember any of the titles. An old coffee jar with small change in it by the door. The TV with an indoor antenna. A lamp in the shape of a shark, with its teeth in the floor and a light in its tail. A lifelike labrador in black painted wood. Absurd, intriguing objects that belonged together in some indescribable way.

Plus something else. Something she had reacted to, without paying attention before it was too late.

Aksel Seier walked fast. His thoughts turned back to that spring day in 1966, when he saw Oslo for the last time. The fjord was covered in a blanket of fog. He stood by the railings on the MS Sandefjord, sailing to the U.S. with a cargo of artificial fertilizer. The captain had nodded briefly when Aksel explained his situation, honestly and without any embellishment. That he had served a long prison sentence and it looked like nothing would work out for him here in Norway. The captain didn’t need to worry; Aksel Seier was an American citizen. The passport that was thumped down on the table was genuine enough. All he wanted was to make himself useful during the voyage over the Atlantic. If he could, that was.

He could help out in the galley. Before they reached the Dyna lighthouse, he had peeled nine pounds of potatoes. Then he went out on deck for a while. He knew that he was leaving for good. He cried and didn’t know why.

Since then, he had never shed a tear, until now.

He ran home. The bolt in the gate was difficult and gave him problems. The mailman stuck his head out of the car window, pointed at the pig, and laughed. Aksel Seier jumped over the low fence and rushed indoors. Then he locked the door carefully behind him and climbed into bed. The cat meowed loudly outside the window; he paid no attention.

TWENTY-FOUR

And you’re wasting time on this?”

Adam Stubo rubbed his face. The palm of his hand rasped against the dry stubble. It was past two in the morning on Wednesday, May 24. A cluster of around twenty-five journalists and nearly as many photographers huddled outside Asker and B?rum Police Station in Sandvika. They were being kept out of the red-brick building by a couple of police cadets, who had resorted to brandishing their batons in the last fifteen minutes. They paced back and forth in front of the entrance, angrily smacking their batons into their hands, like caricature policemen from a Chaplin film. The photographers pulled back a step or two. Some of the journalists started to look at their watches. One guy from Dagbladet, whom Adam Stubo recognized, yawned loudly and obviously. He barked at one of the photographers before shambling over to a Saab that was parked illegally. He got in, but the car didn’t move.

Adam Stubo let the curtain fall and turned back to the room.

“Jesus, Hermansen, the poor guy has never hurt a fly!”

“And who said that our abductor necessarily had a criminal record?”

Hermansen blew his nose on his fingers and swore.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, what the hell do you mean then? Just four hours after yet another child was abducted, there’s a guy at the first crime scene, dressed in camouflage like he’s planning a career in the CIA, jerking himself off and moaning the girl’s name to himself! And now he’s sitting downstairs and can’t tell us what he was doing on Thursday, May 4, when Emilie Selbu disappeared, or May 10, when Kim was abducted. He can’t even remember what he was