Killing Moon

Harry looked down at the lifeless man. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t how debt collectors operated. They might use a private detective to find him, but not to make contact or rough him up.

Harry flinched and ducked his head when he noticed a man standing between the shelves in the aisle. He was wearing a 7-Eleven T-shirt, and his arms were raised and pointing towards Harry. His hands gripped a revolver. He could see the man’s knees were trembling and the muscles in his face twitching uncontrollably. And he also saw what the 7-Eleven man saw. A bearded guy, dressed like a homeless person, holding the wallet of a guy in a suit who he’s obviously just assaulted.

‘Don’t...’ Harry said, putting the wallet down, lifting both hands in the air and getting to his knees. ‘I’m a regular here. This man—’

‘I saw what you did!’ the man said in a shrill voice. ‘I shoot! The police is coming!’

‘OK,’ Harry said, and nodded down at the fat man. ‘But let me help this guy, OK?’

‘Move and I shoot!’

‘But...’ Harry began, but held back when he saw the revolver being cocked.

In the silence that followed only the humming of the fridge and the sirens in the distance could be heard. Police. Police and the unavoidable consequences that brought, of interrogations and charges, were not good. Not good at all. Harry had outstayed his welcome long ago and had no papers to prevent them throwing him out of the country. After they had thrown him into prison, of course.

Harry took a deep breath. Looked at the man. In the vast majority of countries he would have made a defensive retreat, in other words, got to his feet with his hands above his head and calmly walked out of there, secure in the knowledge that the individual wouldn’t put a bullet in him, even though he appeared to be a violent thief. But this was not one of those countries.

‘I shoot!’ the man repeated, as though in response to Harry’s deliberations, and moved his legs further apart. His knees had stopped trembling. The sirens were getting closer.

‘Please, I must help...’ Harry began, but his voice was drowned out by a sudden fit of coughing.

They stared down at the man on the floor.

The detective’s eyes were bulging again, and his whole body shook from a continued bout of coughing.

The 7-Eleven man’s pistol swung this way and that, unsure if the hitherto presumed dead man now also represented a danger.

‘Sorry...’ the detective whispered as he gasped for breath, ‘...for sneaking up on you like that. But you are Harry Hole, right?’

‘Well.’ Harry hesitated while considering which of the evils was lesser. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘I have a client who needs to get in touch with you.’ The man, groaning, rolled onto his side, took a phone from his trouser pocket, tapped a key and held the phone out to Harry. ‘They are eagerly awaiting our call.’

Harry took the already ringing phone. Placed it against his ear.

‘Hello?’ a voice said. Strangely, it sounded familiar.

‘Hello,’ Harry answered, glancing at the 7-Eleven man, who had lowered the revolver. Was Harry mistaken or did he look slightly more disappointed than relieved? Maybe he was born and raised here after all.

‘Harry!’ the voice on the phone exclaimed. ‘How are you? This is Johan Krohn.’

Harry blinked. How long had it been since he had heard Norwegian?

5 Saturday

Scorpion tail

Lucille shooed one of the cats off the four-poster bed, stood up, drew the curtains and sat down at the make-up mirror. Studied her face. She had recently seen a picture of Uma Thurman, she was over fifty now, but looked like a thirty-year-old. Lucille sighed. The task seemed more insurmountable for each passing year, but she opened the Chanel tub, dipped her fingertips in and began spreading foundation from the centre of her face outwards. Saw how the increasingly loose skin was being pushed together in folds. And asked herself the same question she asked every morning. Why? Why begin every day in front of the mirror for at least half an hour in order to look like you’re not close to eighty but perhaps... seventy? And the answer was the same every morning too. Because she — like every other actor she knew — needed to do whatever it took to feel loved. If not for who they were, then for who they — with make-up, costume and the right script — pretended to be. It was an illness which ageing and lower expectations never quite managed to cure.

Lucille put on her musk perfume. There were those who thought musk was such a masculine aroma that it didn’t belong in a perfume for women, but she had used it with great success ever since she was a young actress. It made her stand out, it was a fragrance you didn’t forget easily. She tied her dressing gown and walked downstairs, taking care to avoid two cats who had settled on the staircase.