Chapter 2
‘How long are you going to be? I want to go home.’
Gunhild Dokken leans over the counter and looks across the room. A song by Jokke amp; Valentinerne belts out from the loudspeakers. Geir Gronningen is lying on a bench, pressing 135 kilos up from his chest while he groans. Behind him, in front of the mirror, a short sturdy man is guiding the movement of the bar with his hands — without helping him.
‘We’ve just got a few more reps to do,’ Petter Holte says without taking his eyes off the bar.
Dokken turns around and looks up at the clock on the wall. It says 22.45.
‘It’s Friday, guys. Friday night, for God’s sake. It’s almost eleven o’clock. Haven’t you got anything better to do?’
None of the men replies.
‘Put your back into it,’ says Per Ola Heggelund who is standing with his arms folded across his chest at the end of the bench. Gronningen has nearly raised the bar above his head. Holte gently takes hold of the bar and assists Gronningen’s trembling arms.
‘One more,’ he says. ‘You can do one more.’
Gronningen takes a deep breath, lowers the bar until it touches his chest and pushes as hard as he can. His muscles quiver while Holte lets him earn every single millimetre, right until the kilos have been raised and a roaring Gronningen can return the bar to the forked holders. He pulls a face and flexes his pecs, scratches his straggly beard and shakes his long thin hair away from his face.
‘Good job,’ Heggelund says and nods with approval. Gronningen scowls at him.
‘Good? It was crap. I can usually do much better than that.’
Heggelund glances nervously at Holte, but all he gets is a sour look in return. Holte loosens his gym belt while he studies himself in the mirror. His shaven head — like the rest of him — has the deep tan of a sunbed. He adjusts his black gloves slightly and observes the muscles under the tight-fitting white vest, nods with satisfaction as he tenses them and watches the contours in his biceps stand out. He hoists up his Better Bodies sweatpants before he marches over to the reception counter behind which a bored-looking Gunhild Dokken is flicking through a magazine, her fringe covering her eyes.
‘Are you doing anything tonight?’ Holte asks and stops in front of her. His voice is soft and hopeful.
‘I’m going home,’ she replies without looking up.
Holte nods slowly while he gazes at her.
‘Do you want company?’
‘No,’ she replies, unequivocally.
Holte’s nostrils flare.
‘Are you meeting anyone?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ Dokken huffs.
After a brief pause, Holte turns to Gronningen, who gives him an encouraging nod.
‘It’s just us here,’ Holte says. ‘I can lock up for you, if you like.’
Dokken slams the magazine shut.
‘Couldn’t you have told me that earlier? While there was still some of the evening left?’
‘Yes, but I-’
A shadow falls across Holte’s face as he stares at the floor.
‘Okay,’ she sighs, sullenly. ‘You know where the keys are.’
Dokken goes over to a coat stand and puts on a thin black jacket. She drops her mobile into her handbag, which she slips over her shoulder.
‘Don’t work too hard.’
‘We’re not training again until Sunday.’
‘Wow,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘A day off.’
Holte smiles and follows her with his eyes as she marches towards the door. A bell above her head chimes before the door shuts firmly behind her. Then she is gone in the night. Holte shakes his head almost imperceptibly before he goes behind the counter, stops the music and takes a Metallica CD, And Justice for All, from the stand. He finds track number eight, ‘To Live Is to Die’, turns up the volume and fast-forwards to the middle of the song.
‘Still no luck?’ Heggelund smiles when Holte comes back. Holte glares at him, but makes no reply. Instead he asks who is next.
‘Heggis,’ Gronningen replies and looks at Heggelund.
‘Yep, me it is,’ Heggelund replies, cheerfully. He goes over to the bar and removes 15 kilos from each side. Then he sits on the bench and breathes in deeply a couple of times before he lies down and finds the points on the bar where he always places the up-yours finger. He fills his lungs with air again. Holte is back in position behind him while James Hetfield proclaims, ‘When a man lies, he murders some part of the world.’
Heggelund lifts the bar from the stand. The weights clang against each other before he lowers the bar and raises it again. His first lift goes without a hitch. He tries to establish a steady rhythm, and his next repetition is smooth, too. Two lifts later his grunting has become more aggressive. Holte straightens his back and ensures his legs are evenly balanced before he puts his hands under the bar, ready to assist. He looks at Gronningen, who nods as he moves a little closer. From the sound system, Metallica launches into the thumping riff that is the opening of ‘Dyers Eve.’
Heggelund closes his eyes and summons up all his strength for the next repetition, but the bar refuses to move. He opens his eyes. Holte’s hands have moved from the underside to the top of the bar. Gronningen is standing by the side of the bench. He sits down astride Heggelund’s stomach. Heggelund groans loudly. Holte pushes the bar down and lets it hover a few centimetres above Heggelund’s Adam’s apple. His eyes fill with panic.
‘What… what-’
‘How long have you been coming here?’ Gronningen asks him. ‘Two months? Two and a half, perhaps?’
Heggelund tries to say something, but all his strength goes into keeping the bar off his throat.
‘Do you think we’re idiots?’ Holte says, and eyeballs him. ‘Do you think we let just anybody work out with us without checking them out first?’
Heggelund can only manage some gurgling sounds.
‘You’ve been lying to us,’ Holte says through clenched teeth. ‘You’ve been having us on. Did you really think we wouldn’t find out that you’re starting at the Police College in the autumn?’
Heggelund’s eyes widen even further.
‘So what was your game?’ Gronningen continues. ‘Have you been watching too much television? Did you think you could get a head start? Go under cover, like?’
‘No chance,’ Holte takes over. ‘No one messes with us like that!’
‘Please,’ Heggelund begs as his arms tremble. Holte pushes the bar down until it makes contact with Heggelund’s skin. Sparks fly from his eyes.
‘So do you think you’ll be coming back here?’ Gronningen asks him. Heggelund squeezes his eyes shut and tries to shake his head. Tears mix with drops of sweat on his face.
‘Are you going to tell anyone about this?’ Holte hisses. Again, Heggelund attempts to shake his head. Gronningen looks at him for a few seconds before he gets off and nods to Holte. Heggelund can barely breathe, but Holte doesn’t remove the bar.
‘Petter!’
Reluctantly Holte lifts the bar aided by what little is left of Heggelund’s strength. He slams it back in the stand. Holte turns around and snatches a towel while he snorts with contempt. Gronningen pulls him to one side.
‘You could have killed him!’ he whispers. Holte doesn’t reply, he merely looks at Heggelund, who is gasping for air. His cheeks are stained with tears, his eyelids heavy.
‘Enough is enough,’ Gronningen says. ‘Have you forgotten everything Tore taught us?’
Holte makes no reply, he just walks off a few steps. Heggelund discreetly moves into a sitting position while James Hetfield’s voice roars from the sound system. Gronningen turns around and goes back to Heggelund, who is still clutching his throat. Gronningen waits until the two of them have eye contact before he nods his head in the direction of the door. Heggelund struggles to his feet and staggers towards the exit, where the name of the gym glows at him in letters the colour of blood: Fighting Fit.