B-gjengen or Svenskeligaen, Henning thinks. He knows there aren’t many members of Svenskeligaen left in Oslo. And he can’t knock on the door of B-gjengen and ask them if they were behind a fire in a flat that led to the death of a six-year-old boy. He has to come up with another way to approach them.
But how?
The answer is obvious though it goes against the grain and holds little appeal for Henning.
Tore Pulli.
Chapter 44
Before Thorleif unlocks his car, he stops and glances around. Cars and buses zoom up and down Bygdoy Alle. Pedestrians are quietly using the pedestrian crossing, but nobody is walking down Nobelsgate in his direction. His hands tremble as he opens the door and gets in. He checks the rear-view mirror. Sees nobody.
He takes a breath, starts the engine and drives towards the centre of Oslo where he finds a parking space in Kirkegaten. The engine has just stopped when there is a bang on the windscreen. Thorleif is startled and jumps, but all he sees is a man in tracksuit bottoms and a white T-shirt walk away from the car at a leisurely pace.
Then Thorleif notices the yellow Post-it note attached to the windscreen. He gets out, searches for the man and sees him disappear around the corner. He doesn’t look back. Thorleif snatches the note and reads what it says.
Oslo Cathedral. Five minutes.
A wave of panic sweeps through him, and he has to make an effort to breathe. It’s starting again. He leans forwards and supports himself against the bonnet of the car while he tries to calm down. He stands like this for a while before he straightens up and takes a deep breath. Then he walks up Kirkegaten in the direction of the cathedral whose spire and verdigris top soar towards the open sky. His footsteps are feeble, reluctant, as if deep down he is hoping they will refuse to lead him to his executioner, acquire a will of their own and carry him to safety. Thorleif looks up at the pedestrians coming towards him, trying to make eye contact, but nobody returns the looks he gives them. I’m on my own, he thinks. I’m the only one who can deal with this.
He crosses Karl Johansgate and continues towards the cathedral while he wonders if he can stop himself from crying. The cathedral door is open, he sees, as he crosses the street by the taxi rank on Stortorvet. He enters the darkness and is instantly mesmerised by the silence that always fills a church space.
He hears mumbling, sees fingers pointing up at the ceiling, at the stained-glass windows and the paintings. He checks his watch. He needs to be at work in five minutes. He swears quietly to himself and instantly feels remorseful in view of the location and his surroundings. His shame evaporates when he detects the smell of leather behind him. He spins around and stares right into a grave face. The same face he learned to fear yesterday.
They remain opposite each other for a while. The man looks at Thorleif for a long time before he nods and walks further into the cathedral. Thorleif follows him. They sit down on a bench. The man waits until a group of Japanese tourists have moved on. Then he slips one hand into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and takes out a box. He opens it with care and shows it to Thorleif.
‘W-what’s that?’ Thorleif whispers, looking down at it. Reluctantly, he realises that he is intrigued.
‘This,’ the man says, reverently. ‘This is a piercing needle.’
Chapter 45
‘Are you all right?’
Thorleif looks up at Guri Palme’s concerned face.
‘You’re as white as a sheet. Are you sure you’re okay to work?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Thorleif groans, and forces a smile. ‘I’ll be fine. But I think I might not start the editing today.’
‘Fine. It’s not going out until Saturday, anyway,’ Palme says sympathetically. ‘Are you really all right? You look terrible.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he assures her.
Palme scrutinises him for several seconds before she puts her hand on his shoulder.
‘Good. It’s a big day today.’
They get into a white Peugeot 207 with TV2’s familiar ‘2’ and the letters ENG 12 on the right front wing and drive off. He is numb; it’s as if the body sitting in the car doesn’t belong to him. He can’t feel the seat underneath him.
He looks out of the window searching for something he can focus on and lose himself in, but he finds nothing. Only children in the park, people in cafes. Life passing by. He recognises the mood from this morning. Something is brewing. He starts to feel dizzy. The little box he was given is burning a hole in his inside pocket.
Thorleif hears the man’s voice inside his head: There is no reason why you can’t go home from work today. You just have to do one small thing for us. If you do that you’ll be able to carry on with your life just as it was before. If you don’t, we’ll kill not only you but also your children.
Thorleif closes his eyes.
The car stops. The ground feels soft as he gets out. Ole Reinertsen, the other cameraman, opens the boot. Both of them pick up their cameras and recording equipment. Thorleif slings the lighting kit over his shoulder and soon feels his forehead flush with heat. The camera seems heavier than usual. The details around him lose substance and float past. He lets himself be guided through doors and finally into a room. He stares at the grey linoleum floor, feeling trapped by the white painted concrete walls.
‘Okay,’ Guri says. ‘We’ll probably need fifteen minutes to get ready. Or what do you think, Toffe?’
He nods. He hears a kind male voice reply that that’s fine and that he will be back. Thorleif is the last person to enter the room. He puts down his bags, his tripods and his camera. The room is small and narrow. A beech and glass table stands in the middle. The curtains have a pattern that looks like butterflies.
‘What do you think?’ Reinertsen asks him. ‘Two lights and a camera right behind Guri, roughly here?’
Reinertsen makes a square with his hands. Thorleif nods.
‘And I’ll be filming him as he enters.’
‘Mm.’
‘Could you pass me the tripod, please?’
Reinertsen points to the tripod. Thorleif does what he is asked. Behind him, Palme is marching up and down the floor with notes in her hands which she alternately looks at and away from. Thorleif’s work absorbs his attention for several minutes. He rigs the Panasonic 905 and finds a microphone and an XLR cable. Normally he would have said, I just need to attach this to you, and the interviewee would instantly forget that they were wearing a mike. But Thorleif doesn’t know if he will be able to say that today.
He tries to concentrate on the lighting. Three lights, perhaps a spot at the back to create an illusion of depth by contrasting objects. The light coming from behind is too sharp. He will have to close the curtains. Put a Dedolight in front, perhaps, with a Chimera attachment. It’ll be fine. The Chimera will disperse the light and soften it. If he dims the Dedolight, the colour will be warmer.
Rigging the lights distracts Thorleif and briefly makes him feel better. But in less than ten seconds the task facing him consumes him again.
Fifteen minutes later he is ready. He takes a deep breath, reaches inside his pocket, takes the box, opens it, turns away, places the needle in his left hand with the greatest of care, closes the box and puts it back. Do everything, he thinks. You have to do everything.
Near him, a door is opened. He sees Palme’s face light up. She has put on her camera face. She smiles. Extends her hand. Thorleif struggles to stop his knees from knocking. You’ll never be able to do it, a voice inside him whispers. You’ll fail. You’ll never succeed.