Midnight Sun (7 page)

‘The coastguards?' Mattis laughed. ‘No, they stopped looking more than a week ago. Another fisherman found the life jacket in the water west of Hvassøya.' He looked and saw the questioning expression on my face. ‘The fishermen write their names on the inside of their life jackets. Life jackets float better than fishermen. That way the next of kin get to know for certain.'

‘Tragic,' I said.

He stared out into space with a distracted look. ‘Oh, there are plenty worse tragedies than being Hugo Eliassen's widow.'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Who knows?' He looked pointedly at his empty cup. I don't know why he was so eager to drink, he must have had crates of the stuff at home. Maybe the raw materials were expensive. I filled his cup. He moistened his lips with the drink.

‘Pardon me,' he said, and let out a fart. ‘Well, the Eliassen brothers were real hotheads even when they were young. They learned to fight early. They learned to drink early. And they learned how to get what they wanted early. And they learned all this from their father, of course, he had two boats and eight men working on them. And Lea was the prettiest young girl in Kåsund back then, with her long black hair and those eyes. Even with that scar. Her father, Jakob the pastor, watched her like a hawk. You know, if a Læstadian fucks outside of marriage, it's straight to hell with the lot of them, boy, girl and offspring. Not that Lea didn't know how to look after herself. She's strong, and she knows what she wants. But obviously, against Hugo Eliassen . . .' He sighed deeply. Turned the cup in his hands.

I waited until I realised he was expecting me to prompt him. ‘What happened?'

‘No one but the two of them really knows. But all the same, it was a bit odd. She was eighteen years old and had never given him a second glance, he was twenty-four and furious, because he thought she ought to worship the ground he walked on, seeing as he was heir to a couple of fishing boats. There was a drunken party at the Eliassens', and a prayer meeting in the Læstadians' hall. Lea walked home alone. It was during the dark season, so no one saw anything, but someone said they heard Lea and Hugo's voices, then there was a scream, followed by silence. And a month later Hugo was standing at the altar dressed up to the nines, watching Jakob Sara, who was walking his daughter down the aisle with an icy expression. She had tears in her eyes and bruises on her neck and cheek. And I have to say, that was the last time anyone saw bruises on her.' He drained his cup and got to his feet. ‘But what do I know, I'm just a wretched Sámi, maybe they were happy the whole way through. Someone must end up happy, because people are always getting married. And that's why I need to be getting home, because I've got to deliver the drink for the wedding in Kåsund in three days' time. Are you going?'

‘Me? I'm afraid I haven't been invited.'

‘No one needs an invitation, everyone's welcome here. Have you been to a Sámi wedding before?'

I shook my head.

‘Then you ought to come. A party lasting three days, if not longer. Good food, randy women and Mattis's drink.'

‘Thanks, but I've got a lot I need to get done here.'

‘Here?' He chuckled and put his hat on. ‘You'll end up coming, Ulf. Three days alone on the plateau is lonelier than you think. The stillness does something to you, especially to someone who's been living in Oslo for a few years.'

It struck me that he knew what he was talking about. Leaving aside the fact that I couldn't remember ever telling him where I was from.

When we went outside the buck was standing just ten metres away from the cabin. It raised its head and looked at me. Then it was as if it realised how close I was, backed up a couple of steps, then turned and lumbered off.

‘Didn't you say the reindeer up here were tame?' I said.

‘No reindeer's completely tame,' Mattis said. ‘But even that one has an owner. The mark on its ear tells you who stole it.'

‘What's that clicking sound it makes when it runs?'

‘That's the tendons in its knees. Good alarm if the married man shows up, eh?' He laughed out loud.

I have to admit that the same thought had occurred to me: the buck was a good watchdog.

‘See you at the wedding, Ulf. The ceremony's at ten o'clock, and I can guarantee that it'll be beautiful.'

‘Thanks, but I don't think so.'

‘Okay, then. Goodbye, good day and farewell. And if you're going anywhere, I wish you a safe trip.' He spat. The lump was so heavy that the heather sank beneath it. He carried on chuckling to himself as he rolled away in the direction of the village. ‘And if you get ill –' he called over his shoulder – ‘I wish you a speedy recovery.'

TICK-TOCK, TICK-TOCK.

I stared at the horizon. Mostly in the direction of KÃ¥sund. But they might take the long way round, through the woods, and attack me from the rear.

I only let myself have little shots, but even so I finished the first bottle during the course of the first day. I managed to wait partway into the next day before opening the second one.

My eyes were stinging worse now. When I eventually lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, I told myself that I would hear the reindeer's knee tendons if anyone approached.

Instead I heard church bells.

At first I couldn't work out what it was. It was carried on the wind, a thin remnant of a sound. But then – when the gentle breeze was blowing steadily from the village – I heard it more clearly. Bells ringing. I looked at the time. Eleven. Did that mean it was Sunday? I decided it was, and that I would keep track of what day it was from now on. Because they would come on a weekday. On a working day.

I kept drifting off to sleep. I couldn't help it. It was like being alone on a boat on the open sea – you fall asleep and just hope you don't hit anything or capsize. Maybe that's why I dreamed I was rowing a boat full of fish. Fish that would save Anna. I was in a hurry, but the wind was blowing off the land, and I rowed and rowed, pulled at the oars until I wore the skin off my hands and the blood meant I couldn't grip them properly, so I ripped my shirt up and wound strips of fabric round the oars. I fought against the wind and current, but I was getting no closer to land. So what good was it that the boat was full to the gunwales with lovely fat fish?

The third night. I woke up wondering if the howling I had heard was a dream or reality. Either way, the dog, or whatever it was, was closer. I went out for a pee and looked at the sun as it shuffled over the clump of trees. More of the disc was behind the thin treetops than yesterday.

I had a drink and managed to fall asleep for another couple of hours.

I got up, made coffee, buttered a slice of bread and went and sat outside. I don't know if it was the oil or the alcohol in my blood, but the midges had finally got fed up of me. I tried to entice the buck to come closer with a crust of bread. I looked at it through the binoculars. It raised its head and was looking back at me. Presumably it could smell me as well as I could see it. I waved. Its ears twitched, but apart from that its expression remained unchanged. Like the landscape. Its jaws kept churning like a cement mixer. A ruminant. Like Mattis.

I searched along the horizon with the binoculars. I smeared damp ash on the lens of the rifle. I looked at the time. Maybe they would wait until it was darker so that they could creep up on me unseen. I had to sleep. I had to get hold of some Valium.

He came to the door at half past six one morning.

The doorbell almost didn't wake me up. Valium and earplugs. And pyjamas. All year round. The useless old single-glazed windows in the flat let everything in: autumn storms, winter cold, birdsong and the sound of that bastard bin lorry which backed up into the entrance to the courtyard three days a week – right under my bedroom window on the first floor, in other words.

God knows, I had enough in that damn money belt to get proper double glazing, or move one floor higher up, but all the money in the world couldn't bring back what I'd lost. And since the funeral I hadn't managed to do anything. Apart from changing the lock. I'd installed a fuck-off great German lock. There had never been a break-in here before, but God knows why not.

He looked like a boy dressed up in one of his dad's suits. A scrawny neck stuck up above his shirt, topped by a big head with a wispy fringe.

‘Yes?'

‘The Fisherman's sent me.'

‘Okay.' I felt myself go cold, despite the pyjamas. ‘And who are you?'

‘I'm new, my name's Johnny Moe.'

‘Okay, Johnny. You could have waited until nine o'clock, then you'd have found me in the back room at the shop. Dressed and everything.'

‘I'm here about Gustavo King . . .'

Fuck.

‘Can I come in?'

As I considered his request I looked at the bulge in the left-hand side of his tweed jacket. A large pistol. Maybe that was why he was wearing such a big jacket.

‘Just to clear things up,' he said. ‘The Fisherman insists.'

Refusing to let him in would have looked suspicious. And pointless.

‘Of course,' I said, opening the door. ‘Coffee?'

‘I only drink tea.'

‘I'm afraid I haven't got any tea.'

He pushed his fringe to one side. The nail on his forefinger was long. ‘I didn't say I wanted any, Mr Hansen, just that that is what I drink. Is this the living room? Please, after you.'

I went in, shoved some copies of
Mad
and a few Mingus and Monica Zetterlund albums off one of the chairs and sat down. He sank down on the wrecked springs of the sofa next to the guitar. Sank so low that he had to move the empty vodka bottle on the table to see me properly. And get a clear line of fire.

‘Mr Gustavo King's body was found yesterday,' he said. ‘But not in Bunnefjorden, where you told the Fisherman you'd dumped it. The only thing that matched was that he had a bullet in his head.'

‘Shit, has the body been moved? Where . . .?'

‘Salvador, in Brazil.'

I nodded slowly.

‘Who . . .?'

‘Me,' he said, sticking his right hand inside his jacket. ‘With this.' It wasn't a pistol, it was a revolver. Big, black, and nasty. And the Valium had worn off. ‘The day before yesterday. He was definitely alive up to then.'

I carried on nodding slowly. ‘How did you find him?'

‘When you sit in a bar in Salvador every night boasting about how you managed to make a fool out of the drugs king of Norway, the drugs king of Norway is going to find out about it sooner or later.'

‘Silly of him.'

‘But having said that, we'd have found him anyway.'

‘Even if you believed he was dead?'

‘The Fisherman never stops looking for his debtors until he sees the corpse. Never.' Johnny's thin lips curled into a hint of a smile. ‘And the Fisherman always finds what he's looking for. You and I may not know how, but he knows. Always. That's why he's called the Fisherman.'

‘Did Gustavo say anything before you—?'

‘Mr King confessed everything. That's why I shot him in the head.'

‘What?'

Johnny Moe made a gesture as if to shrug his shoulders, but it was barely visible in his outsized suit. ‘I gave him the option of quick or drawn out. If he didn't lay his cards on the table, it would be drawn out. I'm assuming that you, as a fixer, are aware of the effects of a well-placed shot to the gut. Stomach acid in the spleen and liver . . .'

I nodded. Even if I had no idea what he was talking about, I did have a certain amount of imagination.

‘The Fisherman wanted me to give you the same choice.'

‘If I c-c-confess?' My teeth were chattering.

‘If you give us back the money and drugs that Mr King stole from the Fisherman, which you received half of.'

I nodded. The disadvantage of the Valium wearing off was that I was terrified, and it's seriously fucking painful being terrified. The advantage was that I was actually capable of a degree of thought. And it occurred to me that this was a direct copy of the attack-at-dawn scenario with me and Gustavo. So how about me copying Gustavo?

‘We can split it,' I said.

‘Like you and Gustavo did?' Johnny said. ‘So you end up like him, and me like you? No, thanks.' He brushed his fringe aside. His fingernail scratched the skin on his forehead. Put me in mind of an eagle's claw. ‘Quick or drawn out, Mr Hansen?'

I swallowed. Think, think. But instead of a solution, all I saw was my life – my choices, my bad choices – passing by. As I sat there quietly I heard a diesel engine, voices, untroubled laughter outside the window. The dustbin men. Why hadn't I become a dustbin man? Honest toil, clearing up, serving society, and going home happy. Alone, but at least I could have gone to bed with a degree of satisfaction. Hang on. Bed. Maybe . . .

‘I've got the money and gear in the bedroom,' I said.

‘Let's go.'

We stood up.

‘Please,' he said, waving the revolver. ‘Age before beauty.'

As we walked the few steps through the corridor to the bedroom I visualised how it would happen. I would go over to the bed with him behind me, grab the pistol. I'd turn round, not look at his face, and fire. Simple. It was him or me. I just mustn't look at his face.

We were there. I headed towards the bed. Grabbed the pillow. Grabbed the pistol. Spun round. His mouth had fallen open. Eyes wide. He knew he was going to die. I fired.

That's to say, I
meant
to fire. Every fibre of my being wanted to fire.
Had
fired. With the exception of my right forefinger. It had happened again.

He raised his revolver and aimed it at me. ‘That was silly of you, Mr Hansen.'

Not
silly
, I thought. Getting the money for treatment just a week or two after the illness had progressed so far that it was too late,
that
was silly. Mixing Valium and vodka was silly. But not managing to shoot when your own life is in the balance, that's a genetic disability. I was an evolutionary aberration, and the future of humanity would only be served by my immediate extinction.