‘I’m sending it together with a short text message I prepared,’ the boy said. ‘Listen. Hello, world. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I’ve decided that I can no longer live with what I’ve done. So, I’m going to burn myself to death in the same house where Molle did. Goodbye. What do you think? Not exactly poetry, but loud and clear, right? I’ll send it to your list of contacts with a time delay so they get it just after midnight.’
Røed opened his mouth to say something but didn’t manage to get a word out before something was forced between his lips.
‘Soon everyone you know will discover what a perverted pig you are,’ Prim said, fixing a piece of tape over Røed’s mouth, into which he had stuffed one of the Bulgarian’s left-behind woollen socks. ‘And after a day or so the rest of the world will know as well. What do you think of that?’
No answer. Just a pair of wide-open eyes and tears rolling down round cheeks.
‘There, there,’ Prim said. ‘Let me offer you a little comfort, Father. I’m not going to carry out my original plan, which was to out you, then take my own life, and let you live with the public humiliation. Because I want to live after all. You see, I’ve found a woman I love. And tonight, I’m going to propose. Look what I bought for her today.’
Prim took the burgundy velvet-covered box from his trouser pocket and opened it. The small diamond on the ring glittered in the torchlight from the phone on the stand.
‘So I’ve decided to live a long and happy life instead, but of course that entails my identity not being revealed. And that means those who do know need to die in place of me. You must die, Father. I realise that’s hard enough in itself, never mind doing so in the knowledge that your family name is ruined. Mum told me how important that sort of thing was to you. But at least you don’t have to live with the humiliation. And that’s nice, isn’t it?’
Prim wiped away one of Røed’s tears with his forefinger and licked at it. They wrote about bitter tears in literature, but didn’t all tears actually taste the same?
‘The bad news is I was planning to kill you slowly to compensate for you avoiding the humiliation. The good news is I’m not going to kill you very slowly, given that I have a date with my beloved in not too long.’ Prim checked the time. ‘Oops, I need to get home to shower and change, so we’d best get started here.’
Prim took hold of the mattress with both hands. After two or three hard yanks he managed to pull it from under Røed, the iron bedsprings issuing a screech as the weight of his body landed on them. Prim walked over to the blackened brick wall and fetched the camping stove beside the jerrycan. He placed the camping stove on the floor beneath the bed directly below his stepfather’s head, turned on the gas and lit it.
‘I don’t know if you remember, but this is the best torture method in that book about Comanches you gave me as a Christmas present. The skull is the pot and in a while your brain will begin to bubble and boil. The consolation is the parasites will die before you.’
Markus Røed writhed and thrashed about. Some of the iron springs pierced his skin and drops of blood fell on the ash-covered floor. And then sweat also began to drip from his back. Prim watched as veins protruded on Markus Røed’s neck and forehead as he tried to scream behind the woollen sock.
Prim watched him. Waited. Swallowed. Because nothing was happening inside him. That is to say, something was happening, but not what was supposed to happen. Yes, he had been prepared for vengeance not tasting as sweet as it had in his imagination, but not this. Not that it would taste like his stepfather’s bitter tears. It came as more of a shock than a disappointment to feel this way. He felt sorry for the man lying there. The man who had destroyed his childhood and was to blame for his mother killing herself. He didn’t want to feel this way! Was it Her fault, was it because She had brought love into his life? In the Bible it said that Love was the greatest. Was that true, was it greater than revenge?
Prim began to cry, could not stop. He walked over to the charred staircase, found the heavy, old spade lying half buried in ash. Took hold of it and went back over to the iron bed. This wasn’t the plan, long drawn-out suffering had been the intention, not compassion! But he raised the spade above his head. Saw the desperation in Markus Røed’s eyes as he jerked his head this way and that to avoid the flat blade, as though he would rather live a few more torturous minutes than die quickly.
Prim aimed. Then brought the spade down. Once, twice. Three times. Wiping away the spray of blood that had hit his eye, he bent down and listened for breathing. Straightened up and lifted the spade above his head again.
Afterwards, he exhaled. Checked the time again. All that remained was to remove every trace. Hopefully the impact of the spade hadn’t left any marks on the cranium to cast doubt on it being suicide. The flames would soon remove all else. He undid the straps and stuck them in his pocket. He cut the start and the end of the film on Røed’s phone so no one would suspect another person had been present but it would seem as though Røed himself had edited the recording before he sent it out. Then he marked every contact on Røed’s list, set the time to 00.30 and pressed Send. Thought about all the horrified, disbelieving faces lit up by screens. Then he wiped his fingerprints off the phone before slipping it into Røed’s suit jacket, noticed he had eight missed calls, three of them from Johan Krohn.
He poured petrol on the body. Let it soak in and repeated the process three times until he was certain the body was properly marinated. Doused the remaining beams and the walls still standing which were flammable. He walked around igniting it. Remembered to place the lighter by the bed so it appeared as though the last thing his stepfather had done was to set himself alight. Walked out of the shell of his childhood home, stood on the gravel drive and turned his face to the sky.
The ugliness was over. The moon had risen. It was beautiful and would soon be even more beautiful. Darkened, covered by blood. A celestial rose for his beloved. He would tell her that, use exactly those words.
47
Friday
Blueman
‘Blueman, blueman, my buck, think of your small boy.’
Katrine sang the last note almost soundlessly as she tried to gauge from Gert’s breathing if he had fallen asleep. Yes, it was deep and even. She pulled the duvet a little higher up and made ready to leave.
‘Whew is Uncle Hawny?’
She looked down into his blue, wide-open eyes. How had Bjørn not seen that they were Harry’s? Or had he, had he known right from day one in the delivery room?
‘Uncle Harry is at the hospital with a friend who’s sick. But Granny is here.’
‘Whew aw you going?’
‘To a place called Frognerseteren. It’s almost in the forest, high up in the hills. Maybe you and I can take a trip up there one day.’
‘And Uncle Hawny.’
She smiled at the same time as she felt a prick in her heart. ‘And maybe Uncle Harry,’ she said, and hoped she wasn’t lying.
‘Is de beaws deh?’
She shook her head. ‘No bears.’
Gert closed his eyes and moments later was asleep.
Katrine looked at him, could hardly tear herself away. Looked at the clock. Half eight. She had to get going. She kissed Gert on the forehead and left the room. Heard the faint clink of her mother-in-law’s knitting needles from the living room and stuck her head in.