'Simple physics,' she had explained. If only she had explained to him what this was instead. A demented suitor? A jealous ex-lover. It wasn't the police anyway because he had started up again: a desperate, pained howl that made his blood run cold.
'Mar-tine! Mar-tine! Then a few tremulous words in Norwegian. And then almost a sob: 'Martine…'
He had no idea how the guy had got in through the front door, but now he could hear one of the other doors opening and a voice. Among the snatches of foreign words there was one he recognised now: politi.
Then the neighbour's door was slammed shut. He heard the person outside groaning in despair and fingers scratching at the door. Then footsteps finally dying away. He heaved a sigh of relief.
It had been a long day. Martine had driven him down to the station in the morning and he had caught the local train to town. The first thing he had done was go to the travel agent at Oslo Central where he had bought a ticket for the last flight to Copenhagen the following evening. They hadn't reacted to the Norwegian-sounding surname he had given them. Halvorsen. He had paid with the cash in Halvorsen's wallet, thanked them and left. From Copenhagen he would call Zagreb and have Fred fly there with a new passport. If he was lucky, he would be back for Christmas Eve.
He had been to three hairdressers, who had all shaken their heads and said they had no appointments left before the festivities. The fourth had nodded to a gum-chewing teenage girl sitting in a corner and looking lost – he guessed she was an apprentice. After several attempts at explaining what he wanted he had at length shown her the photograph. She had stopped chewing, looked up at him with eyes thick with mascara and asked in MTV English: 'You sure, man?'
Afterwards he had taken a taxi to the address in Sorgenfrigata, unlocked the doors with the keys he had been given by Martine and begun the wait. The telephone had rung several times, but otherwise it had been peaceful. Until, that is, he had been stupid enough to go to the window of an illuminated room.
He walked back to the living room.
At that moment there was a bang. The air quivered, the ceiling lamp shook.
'Mar-tine!'
He heard the person take another run-up, sprint and charge the door, which seemed to bulge into the room.
Her name was called out twice, followed by two bangs. Then he heard feet running down the stairs.
He went to the living-room window and watched the person race out. As the guy paused to unlock the car and the street light fell on him, he recognised him.
It was the young man who had helped him at the Hostel. Niclas, Rikard… something like that. The car started up with a roar and accelerated away into the winter night.
An hour later he was asleep, dreaming about landscapes he had once known, and only woke up when he heard the patter of feet and the sound of newspapers landing on doorsteps in the stairwell.
Harry woke up at eight. He opened his eyes and smelt the woollen blanket half covering his face. The smell reminded him of something. Then he threw it off. His sleep had been profound, without dreams, and he was in a curious mood. Exhilarated. Happy, no other word for it.
He went into the kitchen, put on the coffee, washed his face in the sink and hummed Jim Stark's 'Morning Song'. Over the low ridge to the east the sky was reddening like a young maiden; the last star blanching and fading. A new, mysterious, unsullied world lay outside the kitchen window and, white and optimistic, it was surging towards the horizon.
He sliced some bread, found some cheese, poured water into a glass and steaming coffee into a clean cup, put it all on a tray and carried it into the bedroom.
Her black, untidy hair spilt over the duvet and she made no sound. He placed the tray on the bedside table, sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
The aroma of coffee slowly wafted through the room.
Her breathing became irregular. She blinked. Caught sight of him, rubbed her face and stretched with exaggerated, embarrassed movements. It was like someone operating a dimmer switch, and the light shining out of her eyes grew stronger and stronger until the smile reached her lips.
'Good morning,' he said.
'Good morning.'
'Breakfast?'
'Mmm.' Her smile grew broader. 'Don't you want any?'
'I'll wait. I'll make do with one of these if that's alright.' He produced a packet of cigarettes.
'You smoke too much,' she said.
'I always do after I've been boozing. Nicotine curbs the craving.'
She tasted the coffee. 'Isn't that a paradox?'
'What?'
'You who were so frightened of losing your freedom becoming an alcoholic.'
'True.' He opened the window, lit a cigarette and lay down beside her on the bed.
'Is that what frightens you about me?' she asked, snuggling up to him. 'That I will deprive you of your freedom? Is that why… you don't want… to make love to me?'
'No, Martine.' Harry took a drag of the cigarette, grimaced and eyed it with disapproval. 'It's because you are frightened.'
He felt her stiffen.
'Am I frightened?' she asked with surprise in her voice.
'Yes. And I would have been, too, if I were you. I've never been able to understand how women have the courage to share roof and bed with those who are, physically, their complete masters.' He stubbed out his cigarette in the plate on the bedside table. 'Men would never dare.'
'What makes you think I'm frightened?'
'I can sense it. You take the intiative and want to be in charge. But mostly because you're frightened what might happen if you let me take charge. And that's fine, but I don't want you to do it if you're frightened.'
'But it's not up to you to decide whether I want it or not!' she burst out. 'Even if I am frightened.'
Harry looked at her. Without warning she flung her arms around him and hid her face in his neck.
'You must think I'm quite strange,' she said.
'Not at all,' said Harry.
She held him tight. Squeezed him.
'What if I was always frightened?' she whispered. 'What if I never
…' She paused.
Harry waited.
'Something happened,' she said. 'I don't know what.'
And waited.
'Yes, I know what,' she said. 'I was raped. Here on this farm many years ago. And I kind of went to pieces.'
The cold scream of a crow in the woods rent the silence.
'Do you want…?'
'No, I don't want to talk about it. There's not very much to talk about, anyway. It's a long time ago and I'm in one piece now. I'm just
…' she snuggled up to him again, '… a tiny bit frightened.'
'Did you report it?'
'No. I wasn't up to it.'
'I know it's tough, but you should have done.'
She smiled. 'Yes, I've heard you should. Because another girl's next, isn't that right?'
'This is no joke, Martine.'
'Sorry, Daddy.'
Harry shrugged. 'I don't know if crime pays, but I do know it repeats itself.'
'Because it's in your genes, right?'
'That I don't know.'
'Have you read the research into adoption? It shows that children with criminal parents who grow up in a normal family with other children, unaware that they're adopted, have a much greater chance of turning out to be criminals than the other children in the family. So there has to be a criminal gene.'
'Yes, I've read that,' Harry said. 'Behavioural patterns may be hereditary. But I prefer to believe that in our own way each of us is infamous.'
'You think we're programmed creatures of habit?' She curled a finger and tickled Harry under the chin.