Much clearer, she thought, with a slight shake of her head.
Verse 27 was also clearer when clothed in more modern language.
Johanne regarded herself as an agnostic. For her that was just a more elegant word for ‘indifferent’. However, she had to deal with believers in her work and always tried to do so with due respect. Apart from a brief flirtation with religion in her teens, faith in God had never really interested her.
Until now.
Over the past few months she had been forced to develop a relationship with various religions on the most intense level. Texts such as the ones she had just read didn’t frighten her in themselves. As a researcher and a non-believer, she looked at them within the historical context and found them quite interesting. However, taken literally with relevance to people living in 2009, she thought Paul’s words were appalling.
If Karen and the APLC were right, and the name ‘The 25ers’ really could be traced back to these verses, then they must be an organization working directly against homosexuals and lesbians. Without paraphrasing. No church group. No religious community.
A pure hate group.
If ultra-conservative Christians really had joined up with radical Muslims in a new organization of their own, there was every reason to believe that their hatred was more violent than any she had spent the last few months examining more closely.
She read the last line again:
She shuddered and picked up the printout of Karen’s e-mail.
The number 19. The Arabic-sounding name Rashad Khalifa. Her fingers flew over the keyboard: 4,400 hits on Google.
‘Morning, Mummy. I need porridge.’
Ragnhild scurried across the living-room floor on bare feet. Johanne just had time to put the laptop on the coffee table before her daughter hurled herself into her arms.
‘I’m not going to nursery today,’ Ragnhild laughed. ‘Today you and me are going to have a Teddy Bear Day!’
Johanne gently pushed her daughter away in order to make eye contact, then she said: ‘No, sweetheart. You are going to nursery today. It’s Monday.’
‘Teddy Bear Day,’ Ragnhild said mulishly, pushing out her lower lip.
‘Another time, chicken. Mummy has to work today, and you have to go to nursery. Don’t you remember? You’re all going skiing in Solem Forest. You’ll be cooking sausages over the fire and everything!’
The sulky face split into a big smile.
‘Oh yes! And how many days is it till my birthday?’
‘Nine days. It’s only nine days until you’re five!’
Ragnhild laughed happily.
‘And I’m going to have the best birthday in the world, with bells on!’
‘So to make sure you get to be such a big girl, we’re going to make porridge. But first of all you and I are going to hop in the shower.’
‘Yess!’ her daughter replied, hopping off towards the bathroom like a rabbit.
Johanne smiled at the sight of her. It had been a lovely weekend, and she intended to enjoy an hour alone with her youngest daughter before she tackled a new week.
If only she could push away the thought of The 25’ers.
The last person to push open the door of the small chapel at Ostre Crematorium was called Petter Just. He stood there for a moment, wondering if he was in the right place. It was three minutes to twelve, but there couldn’t be more than twenty people in the chapel. Petter Just, a classmate of Niclas Winter’s who hadn’t seen his old friend for many years, had thought it would be packed. Niclas had done very well in life, from what he had read. Sold his work to museums and private collectors. A year ago the local paper had run a big article about Niclas and his work, and Petter Just had got the impression that he was on his way to a major international breakthrough.
A thin, elderly man wearing glasses that suggested he was almost blind pushed a folded sheet of paper into his hand. A photograph of Niclas adorned the front page, with his name and the dates of his birth and death printed in an old-fashioned typeface underneath.
Petter Just took the small leaflet and sat down quietly right at the back.
The clock struck its last four chimes, then fell silent as the organ took over.
The chapel was simple, almost plain: slate slabs on the floor and beige stone walls that turned into severe, rectangular windows for the last few metres. Instead of an altarpiece, the front wall was adorned with a fresco that Petter Just didn’t understand at all. More than anything it reminded him of an old advertising poster for Senterpartiet, with trees and seeds, farmers and fields and a horse that looked an awful lot like a Norwegian fjord horse. At any rate, no animal like that had ever trotted around in the Middle East, he thought, as he tried to find an acceptable sitting position on the hard pew that was covered in red material with stains on it.
He really had thought that Niclas was famous. Not a celebrity like the people you see in magazines and on VG, of course, but fairly well known within his field. A real artist, kind of. When Petter decided to go to the funeral, it had been mainly because he had once had a lot of fun with Niclas. They’d had a pretty cool time for a while, in one way or another. Niclas had been completely crazy when it came to drugs and so on. He hadn’t been all that particular about who he went to bed with, either.
Petter Just almost blushed at the thought.
At any rate, he didn’t do that kind of thing any more. He had a girlfriend, a fantastic girl, and they were expecting their first child in July. He had never been like Niclas really, but when his mother happened to mention that his old friend was dead and the funeral was today, he wanted to pay his respects.
Hardly anyone was singing.
He didn’t even bother miming, which he suspected the two men sitting on the other side of the aisle three pews ahead of him were doing. Some of the time, anyway.
There was only one woman in the chapel, and she didn’t exactly seem crushed. Nor had she managed to dig something black out of her wardrobe. Her suit was elegant, fair enough, but red wasn’t really appropriate for a funeral. She was sitting there looking bored stiff.
The music came to an end. The priest stepped up to the pulpit, directly in front of the central aisle, which resembled an oversized bar stool that might fall over at any moment.
The two men in front of Petter started a whispered conversation.
At first he was annoyed. It wasn’t right to talk during a sermon. Well, maybe ‘sermon’ wasn’t the right word, but any rate it was rude not to keep quiet while the priest was talking.
‘… found several works of art… no children or siblings…’
Petter Just could hear fragments of the conversation. Although he didn’t really want to, he found himself concentrating on them.
‘… in his studio… no heirs…’
The priest indicated that the congregation should stand. The two men were so absorbed that they didn’t react until everyone else was on their feet. They kept quiet for a little while, then started whispering to each other again.
‘… lots of smaller installations… sketches… a final masterpiece… nobody knew that…’
The bastards were ruining the entire service. Petter leaned forward.
‘Shut up, for God’s sake!’ he hissed. ‘Show a little respect!’
Both men turned to look at him in surprise. One was in his fifties with thinning hair, narrow glasses and a moustache. The other was somewhat younger.
