He goes into the living room where two heavy dumb-bells lie on the floor next to the fireplace. In front of the television is a messy pile of DVDs, a mixture of action movies and exercise videos with muscular men on the cover. At the centre of the room, a clothes horse laden with socks, underwear and T-shirts dominates the space. On one T-shirt three monkeys are covering their eyes, ears and mouth respectively while appearing to find something hilarious; ‘That’s what friends are for’, it says on another. And a Metallica one, of course. The T-shirts are a size ‘small’, presumably so they will cling as tightly as possible.
Henning stops and listens again, but he can’t hear any noise coming from the outside. He starts on the shelving unit in the living room, rifling through the drawers and finding takeaway menus, cables and a box with a video camera inside it. He opens the drinks cabinet, checks behind books, looks in the drawer under the TV unit, behind the sofa, under the sofa, inside every cupboard, but he finds nothing of interest.
In the bedroom he is met by the smell of stale sleep but resists the temptation to open the windows. Methodically, he searches the cupboards and drawers in there as well but discovers only what he assumes to be a jar of steroids. Under the bed all he finds is dust, a vacuum cleaner and a transparent plastic box with spare duvets and pillows. On the bedside table, a book by R. N. Morris is gathering dust. Henning has difficulties imagining a man like Holte devoting much time to literature, but then again crime fiction is considered light entertainment by some.
The bathroom smells of mould. The cupboard above the sink reveals only toothpaste, shaving foam, some lotions and dental floss. In the laundry basket he catches sight of a bloodstained T-shirt. Iver’s blood? he wonders. He is tempted to take the T-shirt with him, but he decides to photograph it instead.
He spins around when a bang echoes from the stairwell. He rushes back to the hallway and leaves the flat as quietly as he can. The footsteps come closer. Henning looks about him for another way out. As the noise coming from below grows louder, he kicks off his shoes and tiptoes upstairs. When he reaches the fifth floor he leans against the wall and holds his breath. The footsteps stop. Henning can’t be sure, but he thinks that someone is outside Holte’s flat. Perhaps he didn’t go to the gym after all.
There is a jingling of keys. Henning hears a key being inserted and turned, but the door doesn’t budge. It appears to be jammed.
He hears grunting coming from below, but he can’t identify the voice. The door finally opens with a bang before it is slammed shut again. Henning seizes his chance and doesn’t wait to put on his shoes but races down the stairs. His socks are so slippery that he nearly skids down several steps and he has to cling to the banister for support. It’s not until he is back on the ground floor that he stops and breathes a sigh of relief as he quickly glances upwards.
No one is there.
Chapter 91
Light. Is that a light?
Dots far away. They are black, and they dance up and down. Something beeps. A pounding sound comes closer. His eyelids slide open. Yes, there is light. Something white appears. Gradually everything comes into focus, but he doesn’t recognise his surroundings. Where is he?
A fan whirrs in the ceiling. He senses movement by his side. He tries to turn his head. Movement is impossible, but he sees a bright, smiling face.
‘Hi, Iver. I’m glad you’ve finally woken up.’
The grip on his neck. The exploding pulse. Something hard hitting him in the face. He didn’t manage to dodge the punch. Damn.
‘My name is Maria.’
‘Hello, Maria.’ His voice is alien. As if it belongs to someone else.
‘I’ll let the doctor know that you’re awake and he’ll come to have a look at you.’
She appears to float across the floor, away from him.
‘Wait,’ he says in a rusty voice.
Maria turns around and comes back. Nice face. Pretty smile. He still can’t move.
‘Have I been paralysed?’
A warm smile.
‘Oh, no. No danger of that. You’re in plaster, and you have some bandages that will make it hard for you to move for a while. But you’re going to be fine.’
Iver feels himself sinking back into the mattress. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Since Friday.’
‘And today is-’
‘Today is Sunday.’
Iver nods, gingerly. He remembers straight hair combed back, a man with stubble. A man who spoke Swedish. Jacob Aalls Restaurant. Dinner. The text message. To Henning.
Maria is about to leave the room when Iver calls out again.
‘Yes?’
‘Please would you do me a favour?’
*
Henning has only just stepped back out into the Indian summer when his mobile rings.
‘Hi?’ he says in a hopeful voice.
‘Iver is awake,’ Nora says.
‘He is?’ Henning exclaims. ‘That’s brilliant. Is he… is there any permanent damage?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Has he said anything yet?’
‘No, not very much.’
‘Have the doctors said anything about his injuries?’
‘No, I’m on my way to the hospital now. But… he wants you to come as well.’
Henning stops. ‘He said that?’
‘Yes, you were… the first person he asked after.’
Henning hears an element of disappointment in her voice, but he doesn’t want to address it at this moment in time. So instead he says, ‘Okay, I’m on my way.’
Chapter 92
After regaining consciousness, Iver has been moved from the intensive-care unit to a side ward. Henning spends a long time asking for directions until he finds the right door, and when he finally arrives he hesitates outside it for a few seconds. Going in feels intrusive, like entering someone’s bedroom while they are still under the duvet. That Nora now shares a bed with Iver doesn’t make it easier, but he tries to ignore the image that conjures up.
Henning knocks on the door, opens it tentatively and enters. Nora is sitting on a chair by Iver’s bed. She lets go of his hand. Henning can barely see Iver’s eyes because of the swelling to his face. His lips look dry.
‘Hello,’ Henning says, sheepishly.
‘Hello,’ Iver and Nora reply in unison.
‘How are you?’ Henning asks him.
‘Good, I think. Or good enough.’
Iver’s voice is slow and feeble. His lips curl into a thin, crinkled smile. Henning looks around for a spare chair, but finds none. His eyes stop at a vase with fresh, long-stemmed flowers on the table.
‘I think I’ll go and get myself a cup of coffee,’ Nora says, standing up. ‘Would anyone else like one?’
‘No, thank you,’ Henning says, shaking his head.
Nora looks at Iver.
‘I don’t think I’m allowed to drink coffee yet,’ he says.
Nora nods. Henning waits until she has closed the door behind her before he approaches Iver’s bed.
‘I should have brought something, but… ’
His sentence hangs in the air.
‘What would that be? Flowers?’ Iver’s lips stretch again. They look as if they might tear open at any moment. ‘Sit down, would you please? I get stressed when people stand.’
‘Oh, yes, sorry, I forgot.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
Henning smiles. ‘Christ, you look Swedish,’ he says as he sits down on the chair. The seat is still warm.
‘Why?’
‘Your face is blue and yellow.’
‘Ah.’
Iver’s lips crack into a smile again. A bad time to make jokes, Henning thinks. The silence starts to stick to the walls. Henning looks at Iver in the knowledge that he looked very much like him almost two years ago. But with one crucial difference. The chair by his bed wasn’t warm.