Burned

He starts by fetching the Hoover from a hallway cupboard and switches it on. He quickly hoovers the hallway, the small narrow bathroom, the bedroom and whirls his way through the living room. He is about to take the mouthpiece off the Hoover and suck up dust around the fireplace, when something on the marble mantelpiece catches his eye.

The mantelpiece is covered with pictures. He has seen them a hundred times before. Photographs of his mother, when she still was his mother, his parents on their wedding day, pictures of Trine, Trine and her husband, Pal Fredrik, when they got married, pictures of Trine and Henning together when they were kids, on the pebble beach by their cabin.

And he sees a photograph of Jonas.

He picks it up and studies it. Jonas smiles at the photographer. It is taken around Christmas. He knows this because there are Christmas cards on the wall behind Jonas’s blond curls, on a green silk ribbon. Instead of lining all the cards up on the mantelpiece, they would hang them on a silk ribbon with paperclips and create a Christmas-tree shape of good wishes.

Jonas was three years old when the photograph was taken. Henning doesn’t remember the occasion, but Jonas’s smile is filled with pre-Christmas anticipation. He looks at the picture for a long time while the Hoover hums next to him. He is unable to put it down.

He doesn’t know how long he has been standing there, but it’s a long time. He snaps out of his trance when his mother demonstratively turns up the volume on the radio to drown out the Hoover. That’s enough, he thinks, and puts the picture back.

But not face down.

Chapter 69

After his one-hour visit to his mother, he buys an economy-sized box of batteries. As he leaves the shop, he sees how Sofienberg Park is filling up with happy people enjoying their Friday. His mobile beeps. He opens the message while he walks and sees, to his great surprise, that it is from Anette.

You still alive?

He smiles to himself and types a reply.

Just about. Am tempted to ask you the same question. How are you?

He strolls on, still holding his mobile, while he watches people spread picnic rugs, unpack barbecue trays and unfold deckchairs. Anette replies swiftly. His mobile simultaneously vibrates and beeps in the palm of his hand. Four short beeps.

A bit groggy, but all right.

He has never been zapped with a stun gun. He hopes he never will, either. And he is convinced that Anette will never forget it.

He sends another text:

I’m hungry. Do you fancy a bite to eat somewhere?

He presses ‘ send ’, and hopes that Anette won’t misinterpret his message. He just feels the need to talk about what has happened. And he is genuinely hungry, he has barely eaten these last few days.

His mobile beeps again.

Yes, please. Am starving. Fontes in Lokka? They do good food.

He texts her straight away.

Great. See you there.

He snaps the mobile shut and speeds up. She’s right, he says to himself. Their food is good. And decides he has also earned himself a beer.

After all, it is Friday.

He has managed to down his first beer before Anette arrives. He is sitting near the fireplace, where a log fire is blazing like a small furnace, despite the June evening, and where people walk up and down the stairs to get to the toilets. He has doubts about the fire, but it was the only vacant table.

He waves at her. Anette spots him immediately and smiles as she walks towards him. He gets up. She hugs him.

It has been a long time since anyone hugged him.

They sit down. The waiter, a tall dark guy with the whitest teeth Henning has ever seen, is quick off the mark and takes their order.

‘A Fontes burger with bacon. And the biggest beer you’ve got,’ Anette says and smiles. Someone is breathing a sigh of relief, Henning thinks.

‘And one for me, too,’ he says. ‘Both, I mean.’

The waiter nods and leaves. Clumsy, Henning groans inwardly, expressing myself like that. He feels awkward. Even though his intentions are strictly honourable, it’s like they are on a date. And that’s an uncomfortable scenario.

‘So,’ she says, looking at him. ‘Did it make a good story?’

‘It’ll do,’ he says. ‘At least, I think so. I didn’t write it myself. Didn’t have the energy.’

‘So you got some poor sod to do it for you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘It’s much more fun to write yourself.’

‘I thought you wanted to be a director?’

‘Yes, but the best directors are often the best writers. Quentin Tarantino, for example. Oliver Stone. I was about to mention Clint Eastwood, but I don’t believe he writes very much himself, now that I think about it. Did you know that Clint Eastwood composes practically all his own film scores?’

‘No.’

‘Now you do. And very good scores they are too. Very jazzy, a lot of piano.’

Henning likes jazzy. And a lot of piano. They look at each other without saying anything.

‘What will happen to the film now?’ he asks, and immediately kicks himself for bringing up the subject so soon.

‘Which one of them?’

‘Well, both.’