He never heard anything back that evening and he never chased it. The following morning, the story was published with not only the wrong photos, but also the wrong captions. Humble pie time. He tried to apologise to the victim’s relatives, but they refused to talk to him. ‘Yeah right, blame the news desk,’ they sneered.
But journalism is like any other profession. You learn from your mistakes. One of the first things a friend of his was told when he started his medical degree was that you won’t become a good doctor until you have filled up a cemetery. You learn on the job, acquire knowledge, master new technology, adapt, get to know your colleagues and their skills, and learn to work with them. It is a continuous process.
He opens Photoshop and uploads the pictures. Grief, fake grief and more fake grief. And then, Anette. He double-clicks on the photos, his shot of her. Even on his 15.6 inch screen, every detail is visible. When he views the photos as a slideshow, it becomes even more obvious. Anette looks around, as though she is being watched, but then she steals a moment with Henriette. It is over in seconds, but he caught it on camera.
Anette, he thinks again. What are you scared of?
*
Writing the story and sending it to the news desk takes him longer than he had expected. The sentences don’t come to him as easily as he had hoped. But he decides that even an old dog can learn new tricks. And he hopes Heidi is at home, foaming at the mouth because he kept her waiting.
He looks at the clock. 8.30 p.m. Too late to go to D?lenenga.
He sighs and leans back in the sofa. I should have gone to see Mum, he thinks. It has been days now. She is probably hurt. On reflection, he can’t recall the last time she wasn’t feeling sorry for herself.
Christine Juul lives in a simple two-bedroom flat in Helgesensgate. She has lived there for four years; it is one of those new developments, which cost a fortune to buy initially, but lose value over time. There are some of them in Grunerlokka as well.
Before Helgesensgate, she lived in Klofta, where Henning grew up, but it proved to be too great a distance to him and Trine. She wanted to be closer to her children, purely so that they could take care of her. She spent nearly all her money on a flat devoid of character; she has nothing on her walls, only plain once-white surfaces, discoloured from all the smoke she blows out into the room every day. But he doesn’t think that’s why she is hurt.
Henning believes Christine Juul was quite content with her lot in life until her husband died. She had a good job as a care assistant, an apparently happy marriage, apparently happy and thriving children; not many friends, but she valued the ones she had, she was involved with the local choir and wine-tasting club, but when Jakob Juul died unexpectedly, she fell to pieces. Overnight.
Even though Henning and Trine were only teenagers when it happened, they soon discovered they had to fend for themselves. They had to shop, cook, cut the grass, trim the hedge, wash the clothes, clean the house, take themselves to football training and matches, to school and to their holiday cabin by the sea. If they had any questions about their education, they had to ask the neighbours. Or leave them unanswered.
All because Christine Juul got herself a new best friend.
St Hallvard is a sweet herb liqueur made from potatoes and it contains just enough alcohol to numb an anxious mind. Now, not a week goes by without Henning visiting to re-fill her drinks cabinet. Two bottles, at least. She sulks if she only gets one.
He has given it plenty of thought and come to the conclusion that if she wants to drink herself to death, then far be it from him to stop her. She seemed only mildly interested when he got married, attended Jonas’s christening for less than an hour. She didn’t even cry when Jonas died, though she turned up for his funeral. She was one of the last mourners to arrive and she didn’t sit at the front with the rest of the family; she stood at the back and left the church as soon as the service had ended. Not even when Henning was a patient at Haukeland Hospital, in the Burns Unit, did she visit him or call to ask how he was. When he was transferred to Sunnaas Rehabilitation Centre, she visited only twice and never stayed for more than thirty minutes. She barely looked at him, hardly said a word.
Liqueur, Marlboro Lights and gossip magazines.
He feels he can’t deny her these pleasures, the only three she has left, at the age of sixty-two. She barely eats, though he stocks up her fridge at regular intervals. He tries to vary her diet, get her to eat some protein, calcium, essential nutrients, but she has very little appetite.
Every now and then, he cooks for her and sits at the small kitchen table while they have dinner. They don’t speak. They just eat and listen to the radio. Henning likes listening to the radio. Especially when he is with his mother.
He doesn’t know why she is so angry with him, but it’s probably because he hasn’t made something of himself, unlike his sister — Trine Juul-Osmundsen, who is Norway’s Minister for Justice. She seems to be making quite a name for herself. She is well liked, even by the police. But he only knows that because his mother told him.
He isn’t in touch with his sister. That’s how she wants it. He stopped trying long ago. He isn’t sure how they ended up like this, but at some point in their lives, Trine stopped talking to him. She left home when she turned eighteen and never came back, not even for Christmas. But she wrote; to her mother, never to him. He wasn’t even invited to her wedding.
The Juul family. Not exactly a happy one. But it’s the only one he has.
Chapter 17
He looks at the piano. It stands up against the wall. He used to love playing it, but he doesn’t know if he still can. It has nothing to do with his hands. His fingers work fine, despite the scars.
He recalls the night Nora told him she was pregnant. It was shortly after their wedding and it was a planned pregnancy, but they had heard about many couples who had tried for years without success. Henning and Nora, however, fell pregnant at their first attempt. Bull’s-eye.
He was working on a story when Nora came into his study. He could tell from her face that something had happened. She was nervous, but excited. Brimming with fear and awe of what they had started, the responsibility they were taking on.
I’m pregnant, Henning.
He recalls her voice. Cautious, trembling. The smile, which soon spread across her face before giving way to an uncertainty he couldn’t help but love. He got up, embraced her, kissed her.
Christ, how he had kissed her.
Nora was just over seven weeks pregnant that evening. He remembers her going to bed early because she felt nauseous. He sat alone for a long time, thinking, listening to the silence in the flat. Then he sat down at the piano. At the time, he was working very hard and he hadn’t played for ages. But it is always the same when he sits down at the keyboard after a long break. Everything he plays sounds fine.
That evening, he composed possibly the finest song he has ever written. He woke Nora up and dragged her out of bed to play it to her. Nauseous and magnificent, she stood behind him as his fingers caressed the black and white keys. The tune was soft and melancholic.
Nora rested her hands on his shoulders, bent down and hugged him from behind. Henning called the song ‘Little Friend’. Once Jonas was born, he often played it to him. Jonas liked to hear it in the evening, before going to bed. Henning wrote the lyrics too, but he is bad at writing lyrics, so he tended to hum along, mostly.
He should have played ‘Little Friend’ at the funeral, but he was in a wheelchair, encased in plaster and bandages. A friend could have played it, obviously, but it wouldn’t have been the same. It should have been him.
Henning hummed while the vicar spoke. He hasn’t hummed since.