Fear Not

‘Your mother?’ Rolf said. ‘You’ve asked Elsa to come and do the table for a party she isn’t even invited to?’

Marcus gave a resigned sigh. ‘It was Mum who wanted to have little Marcus stay over at her house tonight. Celebrate the New Year together, just the two of them. It’ll be more fun for both of them this way.’

‘That’s fine, but surely there’s absolutely no reason why she should waste the morning coming over here to lay the table? Ring her right now and tell her I’ll do it. By the way, what’s this?’

Rolf was holding out a small square metal box.

‘It’s a hard drive,’ said Marcus, his tone casual.

‘Right. And what’s it doing in the boot of the Maserati?’

‘That’s my car. How many times have I told you I’d prefer it if you used one of the others? You’re the worst driver in the world and-’

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Rolf smiled and leaned forward to kiss him.

Marcus turned away, glancing, without interest, at the hard drive.

‘It’s broken,’ he said. ‘I’ve put a new one in. That one can be thrown away.’

‘OK, I’ll chuck it,’ said Rolf, shrugging his shoulders. ‘And I think you ought to get yourself in a better mood before our guests arrive.’

He still had the hard drive in his hand when he left the room. It was all Marcus could do not to run after him; he wanted to destroy and throw away the bloody thing himself.

It wasn’t really a problem, he thought as he tried to keep his pulse rate down. It had only been a safety measure. Which probably wasn’t necessary. Not necessary at all. His pulse rate increased and he tried to concentrate on something completely different.

The menu, for example.

The fact that Rolf had found the hard drive was of no significance.

He couldn’t remember a thing about the menu.

Forget the hard drive. Forget it. It’s not important.

‘Did you ring Elsa?’

Rolf was back with his arms full of cloths, serviettes and candles.

‘Marcus, are you… Marcus!’

Rolf dropped the whole lot on the floor. ‘Are you ill? Marcus!’

‘I’m OK,’ said Marcus. ‘I just felt a bit dizzy. It’s gone now. Calm down.’

Rolf gently stroked his back. Because he was almost a head taller than Marcus, he had to lean forward in order to meet his downcast eyes.

‘Is it…? Are you…? Was it one of those panic attacks again?’

‘No, no.’ Marcus smiled. ‘That was years ago. You cured me, I told you that.’

It was difficult to make his dry, numb tongue work. His hands were clammy with cold sweat and he put them in his pockets.

‘Would you like a glass of water? Shall I bring you some water, Marcus?’

‘Thank you. That would be kind. A little drink of water and I’ll be right as rain.’

Rolf disappeared. Marcus was alone.

If only he hadn’t been so alone. If only he had spoken to Rolf from the start. They could have found a solution. Together they could have worked out what was the best thing to do; together they could do anything.

Suddenly he inhaled sharply through his nose. He straightened his back, moved his tongue around to get the saliva going and slapped both his cheeks. There was nothing to be afraid of. He decided once again.

There was nothing to worry about.

He had found a short item about Niclas Winter in Dagens Naeringsliv after Christmas. Reading between the lines, it seemed the man had died of an overdose. Of course that sort of thing was never stated directly, at least not so soon after the event. The artist’s death was ascribed to his unorthodox lifestyle, as the writer so tactfully put it. The battle for the rights to his unsold works of art was already under way. They were worth more since the death of their creator; three gallery owners and an exhibition organizer estimated that their value had more than doubled in a week. The article was more interesting than its position in the paper suggested. No doubt more information would be forthcoming.

Niclas Winter had died of an overdose and Marcus Koll Junior had nothing to fear. He held on to that thought and focused on it until Rolf came hurrying back with a glass of water. The ice cubes clinked as he emptied the glass in one.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m fine now.’

I have nothing to fear, he thought, and started to lay the table. A red cloth, red serviettes with a silver border, red and green candles in silver-plated glass holders. Niclas Winter had only himself to blame, he told himself firmly. He shouldn’t have taken that overdose.

His death has nothing to do with me.

He almost believed it himself.

***

Trude Hansen was fairly sure it was New Year’s Eve.

The tiny apartment was still a chaotic mess of leftover food, empty bottles and dirty clothes. There were bits of aluminium foil all over the place, and in one corner a pizza box had been used as a litter tray by the terrified animal that was now sitting yowling on the windowsill.

‘There now, Puss-cat! There’s my little Puss-cat! Come to Mummy.’

The animal hissed and arched its back.

‘You mustn’t be cross with Mummy!’

Her voice was fragile and high. She couldn’t remember if Puss-cat had been fed. Not today, anyway. Maybe not yesterday. No, not yesterday, because she’d been so furious that the fucking animal had pissed on the pizza.

‘Shoo! Shoo!’

Trude waved her arms at the cat, which shot across to the sofa like a furry rocket, where it started kneading the cushions with its sharp claws.

It must be New Year’s Eve, Trude thought.

She tried to open the window. It was stuck, and she broke a nail in the attempt. In the end it flew open, suddenly and with a crash. Ice-cold air poured into the musty room, and Trude leaned right out.

She could see rockets above the area to the east, the old buildings that blocked her view of Sofienberg Park. Red and green spheres of light fell slowly to the ground, and sparkling fountains rose towards the sky. The smell of gunpowder had already begun to spread through the streets. She loved the smell of fireworks. Fortunately there was always someone who couldn’t wait until midnight.

She had only one fix left. She had saved it for the evening; the day had been bearable, thanks to a bottle of vodka someone had forgotten about under the bed.

It was difficult to tell how late it was.

As she was closing the window, Puss-cat slipped out. The cat moved quickly along the narrow window ledge before sitting down a metre away, miaowing.

‘Come back, Puss-cat. Come to Mummy.’

Puss-cat was having a wash. Slowly and thoroughly she dragged her tongue over her fur. Rhythmically, after every fourth lick, she rubbed her paw over her ear.

‘Puss-cat,’ Trude snivelled as firmly as she could, stretching out to reach her. ‘Come back here at once!’

She could feel that she was no longer in contact with the floor. If she held on to the windowsill between the two bottom panes in the old-fashioned window, divided into four, she might be able to stretch her other arm out far enough to grab the cat by the scruff of the neck. Her fingers clutched the wood. The bitter wind blew over her bare forearms, and her teeth were chattering.

‘Puss-cat,’ she said one last time before she overbalanced and fell.

As she lived three floors up and hit the asphalt with her head and her left shoulder first, she died instantly. A man was standing at his window having a cigarette on the opposite side of the street, so the police were called