He continued slowly through the shiny streets, stopping now and then so Frank could sniff the gutter. He thought about the white house in Gamle Møllevej outside Roskilde, where he grew up. Hollyhocks climbed the wall, small white hens trotted around the garden. Being a little boy, playing between the trees in the garden, plucking sour currants from the bushes, eating them, and making sour faces with his friend Ole. Laughing at the tiniest things. Then, when the day was over, he would head back to his house without trepidation. Be welcomed like someone unique, someone loved, as if he, the little boy Konrad, was an event in and of himself, returned home finally after a long absence. But that’s not how it is for everyone, he thought. There are kids who open the door, afraid, who cower and sneak into their homes, kids who don’t know what to expect. Who flee again because what they see is unbearable. Like drunkenness. Words of abuse. Or violence. Or all of it together in one hellish, destructive cocktail. He thought again of his childhood friend Ole. He was just a guest in his mother’s house. No, you can’t be here now, she’d say, the weather’s so nice. No, not today, I’m cleaning. One of my friends is visiting. I have a migraine. You should be outside. Now, out you go! And Ole would leave. In rain and storm and cold. In the evening he would sneak back in, make himself a sandwich and tiptoe to his bed like a masterless dog. There was no violence in the house, no one drank. But no one loved him either. Sejer bent down and stroked Frank’s back. Some people claimed that you couldn’t blame parents for the misery that plagued their children. But he disagreed vehemently. You could blame mothers for a lot. The child was at the mercy of her moods, her anger and her doubt, her bitterness and her shortcomings. And they were at the mercy of their father’s despair, his absence and lack of attention.
Frank had stopped to sniff at a half-eaten bun. When he was done, he raised his leg and urinated on an old rusty gate. They continued through the city, the tall grey man and the small, wrinkled dog. Admittedly, I’m a little heavier in my steps, Sejer thought, than I was a few years ago. But I’m also older and wiser. At that moment a sudden, brief dizzy spell overcame him once more. The city and the back alleys sailed away in front of his eyes. To be on the safe side he moved closer to a house wall, leaned against it and closed his eyes. Stood and waited for the spell to pass. Frank stopped too. He looked up at his master with his black eyes. I wobbled a few steps to the left, Sejer thought. I always wobble to the left. Maybe this is an asymmetric symptom? No, cut it out, he thought, it’s probably just some calcified veins in my neck. Maybe I’m anaemic.
He began walking again.
His mobile rang in his pocket.
He recognised the number, and listened to Skarre’s account of the forgotten gloves. At the end of the conversation Skarre mentioned something else. ‘Helge Landmark’s health has taken a turn. He’s been admitted to the hospital, and he’s on a respirator.’
Chapter 25
Sometimes Johnny Beskow dreamed that everyone was out to get him.
That the police had sent a throng of people that now chased him through the forest with German shepherds snapping at his heels. The night was black as pitch and they searched for him with torches. He saw cones of light dance between the trunks of trees, heard threats and shouts and dogs panting, but he was faster than they were, and craftier.
Like a weasel he slipped away.
He found a cave and hid inside, balled up against the wall listening. Lightning quick he clambered up a tree and looked down through the leaves at the crowd. Wading over a brook, he put them off the scent.
He still had this dream. Each time he woke with a feeling of satisfaction, because it wasn’t a nightmare — more like play, a game he always won.
They can’t even catch me in dreams.
Because I’m faster, he thought.
I’m Johnny Beskow, and I’m invincible.
The moped wouldn’t start. It just coughed a few times, and spluttered out. The tank was just about empty of petrol, and he had no money. So he walked. He had good legs and good trainers, and he didn’t want to be at home. As he walked, he remembered the gloves he’d lost, and it occurred to him that they might be at the shop in Lake Skarve. Perhaps he had taken them off and put them on the conveyor belt when he was paying, and then left them behind. It could’ve happened that way, and maybe they’d kept them. He decided he would go to the shop and ask, so he took the path down to the water. He walked fast. The heat filled his body from his feet upwards; it rose to his head, and he felt light and good. Before going in he strolled around by the lake for a while, watching the ducks and the neat rings they created in the water. When he crossed the car park and walked to the entrance, he hesitated a moment. Something rang in his head, a warning bell. He felt as though he was being watched. At the same time he caught sight through the window of a notice that said a pair of black-and-red gloves had been found.
Ask Britt, it said.
He opened the door and went in, continued cautiously to the till, to two girls sitting idle and staring at him with large, round eyes.
Afterwards, when he considered it, he thought the two girls had acted strangely. The simple question, Could you get the gloves? had led to an incomprehensible commotion. They opened their eyes wide. They exchanged glances. One disappeared immediately into the back room, and she took her time. The other went outside, walked aimlessly around the car park as though searching for something. Now and then she stopped and glanced about, puzzled, as though something was missing. She’s looking for the moped, he realised. I’ll be damned. Perhaps there was a reason for the empty petrol tank. The other one finally came back, and gave him the gloves. He slipped out the door and bolted as fast as he could, heading towards Bjerkås.
Again he thought about the dream he’d had. The fun might soon be over, he thought, they’re on my trail. Maybe I have to do something spectacular while there’s time.
One way or another.
Then he walked all the way to Rolandsgata. In the sunshine and the mild late-summer breeze, surrounded by ditches with wild flowers and green meadows. It took an hour. As he went, he hummed a song, ‘Hermann is a Cheery Fellow’. When he arrived, he called through the house.
‘Didn’t you ride your moped?’ Henry Beskow asked. ‘I didn’t hear it.’
He explained that the tank was empty. He said it in a light, indifferent way, because he wasn’t the kind of person to beg, and he had good legs to walk on.
‘I’m pretty fit,’ he said. ‘And it’s good to walk sometimes.’
‘Out in the shed there’s an old plastic canister, Johnny. You can fill it with petrol. Then take some money from the glass jar in the kitchen. You’ve got to have your moped, it’s important that you can get around.’
Johnny took care of food and drink. He buttered slices of bread and mixed squash in a jug, carried them into the lounge and set them on the table with the two-handled mug. Then he had a thought. As usual, it was boiling hot in the room. He went to the windows; both were closed. He examined them carefully, traced the sill with a finger. Squinting out at the road, he was blinded by the low sun.
‘You need fresh air,’ he said.
‘Can’t,’ the old man protested. ‘The wasps.’
Johnny turned and looked at him. He wanted to be the boss, so he stood tall and crossed his arms. ‘I’ll call a carpenter. We’ll get him to put in one of those insect screens. One for each window. Then they can stay open all summer. You’ll be fresh and clear-headed, not heavy and sluggish like you are now.’