Blood on Snow: A novel Page 3

  And you can probably imagine, Maria, that a man doesn’t get that fucking turned on by you laughing loudly and shrilly in that way deaf people do because he’s managed to write “What lovely eyes you’ve got” with four separate spelling mistakes.

  Whatever. I didn’t go. That’s all there was to it.

  Daniel Hoffmann wanted to know why it was taking so long to get the job done.

  I asked him if he agreed that I should take care not to leave any evidence that could be traced back to either of us before I got going. He agreed.

  So I carried on watching the apartment.

  Over the following days the young guy visited her every day at exactly the same time, three o’clock, right after it had got dark again. Came in, hung his coat up, hit her. It was the same every time. At first she would hold her arms up in front of her. I could see from her mouth and neck muscles that she was shouting at him, begging him to stop. But he didn’t stop. Not until the tears were streaming down her cheeks. Then—and only then—would he pull her dress off. Every time a new dress. Then he would take her on the chaise longue. And it was obvious he had the upper hand. I suppose she must have been hopelessly in love with him. The way Maria was in love with her junkie boyfriend. Some women don’t know what’s best for them, they just leak love without demanding anything in return. It’s almost as if the very lack of any reciprocation just makes them worse. I suppose they’re hoping they’ll be rewarded one day, poor things. Hopeful, hopeless infatuation. Someone ought to tell them that isn’t how the world works.

  But I don’t think Corina was in love. She didn’t seem interested in him like that. Okay, so she would caress him after they made love, and follow him to the door when he was about to leave, three-quarters of an hour after he arrived, and hold on to him in a slightly affected way, presumably whispering sweet nothings. But she seemed almost relieved once he had gone. And I like to think I know what love looks like. So why would she—the young wife of the city’s leading purveyor of ecstasy—be willing to risk everything for a tawdry affair with a man who hit her?

  It was the evening of the fourth day when it dawned on me. And my first thought after that was how strange it was that it had taken me so long to work it out. Her lover had something on her. Something he could take to Daniel Hoffmann if she didn’t do as he wanted.

  When I woke up on the fifth day I had made up my mind. I wanted to test the short cut to the place we didn’t know about.

  CHAPTER 5

  It was snowing gently.

  When the guy arrived at three o’clock he had brought something for her. Something in a little box. I couldn’t see what it was, only that she lit up for a moment. She lit up the night darkness outside the large living-room window. She looked surprised. I was surprised myself. But I promised myself that the smile she had shown him, she’d let me have that. I just had to do this properly.

  When he left, just after four—he stayed a bit longer than usual—I was standing ready in the shadows on the other side of the street.

  I watched him disappear into the darkness and looked up. She was standing in front of the living-room window, like she was onstage, and held up her hand and studied something in it, I couldn’t see what. Then she suddenly raised her eyes and stared at the shadows where I was standing. I knew she couldn’t possibly have seen me, but still…That penetrating, searching look. Suddenly there was something scared, desperate, almost pleading in her face. “An awareness that fate can’t be forced,” as the book said, God knows which one. I squeezed the pistol in my coat pocket.

  I waited until she had pulled back from the window, then stepped out of the shadows. I quickly crossed the street. On the pavement I could see his boot-prints in the fine dusting of fresh snow. I hurried after him.

  I caught sight of his back as I went round the next corner.

  Obviously I had thought through a number of possibilities.

  He might have a car parked somewhere. In which case it would probably be somewhere in one of the back streets in Frogner. Deserted, poorly lit. Perfect. Or he might be going somewhere—a bar, a restaurant. In that case I could wait. I had all the time in the world. I liked waiting. I liked the time between making the decision and carrying it out. They were the only minutes, hours, days of my admittedly short life when I was someone. I was someone’s destiny.

  He might be going to take a bus or taxi. The advantage of that would be that we would end up a bit further away from Corina.

  He was heading towards the underground station by the National Theatre.

  There was hardly anyone about, so I moved closer.

  He went down onto one of the westbound platforms. So he was from the west side of the city. Not somewhere I’d spent much time. Too much money, too little use for it, as my dad used to say. I’ve no idea what he meant by that.

  It wasn’t the line that Maria usually took, although they shared the track for the first few stations.

  I sat in the seat behind him. We were in the tunnel, but there was no longer any difference between that and the night outside. I knew that we would soon reach the place. There would be a rattling of metal and the train would do that little lurch.

  I toyed with the idea of putting the mouth of the pistol against the back of the seat and pulling the trigger as we passed that point.

  And as we did that—passed it—I realised for the first time what it reminded me of. Metal against metal. A feeling of order, of things falling into place. Of destiny. It was the sound of my work, of the movable parts of a weapon—pin and hammer, bolt and recoil.

  We were the only passengers who got off at Vinderen. I followed him. The snow crunched. I took care to match my steps to his, so he couldn’t hear me. Detached villas on either side of us, but we were still so alone that we might as well have been on the moon.

  I walked right up to him, and, as he half-turned, perhaps to see if it was one of his neighbours, I shot him in the base of the spine. He collapsed beside a fence and I turned him over with my foot. He stared at me with glassy eyes and for a moment I thought he was already dead. But then he moved his lips.

  I could have shot him through the heart, in the neck or head. Why had I shot him in the back first? Was there something I wanted to ask him? Maybe, but I’d forgotten what now. Or it didn’t feel important. He didn’t look anything special close up. I shot him in the face. A hyena with a bloodstained snout.

  I noticed a boy’s head sticking up over the fence. He had lumps of snow on his mittens and hat. Maybe he’d been trying to make a snowman. It’s not easy when the snow’s so powdery. Everything keeps falling apart, crumbling between your fingers.

  “Is he dead?” the boy asked, looking down at the corpse. Maybe it seems odd to call someone a corpse just a few seconds after the person in question has died, but that’s the way I’ve always looked at it.

  “Was he your dad?” I asked.

  The boy shook his head.

  I don’t know why I thought that. Why I got the idea that just because the boy seemed so calm it must have been his father lying there dead. Well, I do know, actually. That’s how I would have reacted.

  “He lives there,” the boy said, pointing with one mitten as he sucked at the snow on the other, not taking his eyes off the dead body.

  “I won’t come back and get you,” I said. “But forget what I look like. Okay?”

  “Okay.” His cheeks were tensing and relaxing around the snow-covered mitten, like a baby sucking a nipple.

  I turned and walked back the same way I had come. I wiped the handle of the pistol and dropped it in one of the drains on which the thin snow hadn’t managed to settle. It would be found, but by the police rather than some careless kids. I never travelled by underground, bus or taxi after I’d fixed someone, that was forbidden. Normal, brisk walking, and if you saw a police car heading your way, you turned round and walked towards the scene of the crime. I had almost got as far as Majorstua before I heard any sirens.

  CHAPTER 6

 
It was just a week or so ago. As usual I was waiting, hidden by the rubbish bins in the car park behind the supermarket after closing time. I heard the soft click as a door opened and then slammed shut again. It was easy to recognise Maria’s footsteps from her limp. I waited a bit longer, then set off in the same direction. The way I see it, I’m not following her. Obviously she’s the one who decides where we go, and that day we weren’t going straight to the underground. We went via a florist’s, then up to the cemetery by Aker Church. There was no one else there, and I waited outside so she wouldn’t see me. When she came out again she no longer had the bouquet of yellow flowers. She carried on towards Kirkeveien, in the direction of the station, while I went into the cemetery. I found the flowers on a fresh but already frozen grave. The headstone was nice and shiny. A familiar, French-sounding name. There he was, her junkie. I hadn’t realised he was dead. Evidently not many other people had either. There was no date of death, just a month, October, and the year. I thought they always guessed at a date if they weren’t sure. So it didn’t look so lonely. Less lonely, lying here among the crowd in a snow-covered cemetery.

  —

  Now, as I walked home, I thought about the fact that I could stop following her. She was safe. I hoped she felt that she was safe. I hoped that he, her junkie, had stood behind her on the train and whispered: “I won’t come back and get you. But forget what I look like.” Yes, that’s what I hoped. I’m not going to follow you any more, Maria. Your life starts now.

  I stopped by the phone box on Bogstadveien.

  My life started then as well, with that phone call. I needed to be released from Daniel Hoffmann. That was the start. The rest was more uncertain.

  “Fixed,” I said.

  “Good,” he said.

  “Not her, sir. Him.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I fixed the so-called lover.” On the phone we always say “fixed.” As a precaution in case we’re overheard or being bugged. “You won’t see him again, sir. And they weren’t really lovers. He was forcing her. I’m convinced she didn’t love him, sir.”

  I had spoken quickly, more quickly than I usually do, and a long pause followed. I could hear Daniel Hoffmann breathing heavily through his nose. Snorting, really.

  “You…you killed Benjamin?”

  I already knew I should never have called.

  “You…you killed my only…son?”

  My brain registered and interpreted the sound waves, translated them into words which it then began to analyse. Son. Was that possible? A thought began to form. The way the lover had kicked his shoes off. As if he’d been there many times before. As if he used to live there.

  I hung up.

  —

  Corina Hoffmann stared at me in horror. She was wearing a different dress and her hair wasn’t yet dry. It was quarter past five and—as on previous occasions—she had showered off all traces of the dead man before her husband came home.

  I had just told her that I had been ordered to kill her.

  She tried to slam the door shut, but I was too fast.

  I got my foot inside and forced the door open. She stumbled backwards, into the light of the living room. She grabbed at the long chair. Like an actress onstage, making use of the props.

  “I’m begging you…” she began, holding one arm out in front of her. I saw something sparkle. A big ring with a stone in it. I hadn’t seen it before.

  I took a step closer.

  She started screaming loudly. Grabbed a table lamp and threw herself at me. I was so surprised by the attack that I only just managed to duck and avoid her wild swing. The force and momentum made her lose her balance and I caught hold of her. I felt her damp skin against the palms of my hands, and the heavy smell. I wondered what she had used in the shower. Unless it was her own smell? I held her tight, feeling her rapid breathing. Dear God, I wanted to take her, there and then. But no, I wasn’t like him. I wasn’t like them.

  “I’m not here to kill you, Corina,” I whispered into her hair. I inhaled her. It was like smoking opium—I felt myself going numb at the same time as all my senses quivered. “Daniel knows you had a lover. Benjamin. He’s dead now.”

  “Is…is Benjamin dead?”

  “Yes. And if you’re here when Daniel gets home, he’ll kill you too. You have to come with me, Corina.”

  She blinked at me in confusion. “Where to?”

  It was a surprising question. I’d been expecting “Why?”, “Who are you?” or “You’re lying!” But maybe she instinctively realised that I was telling the truth, that it was urgent, maybe that was why she got straight to the point. Unless she was just so confused and resigned that she blurted out the first thing that came into her head.

  “To the room beyond the room,” I said.

  CHAPTER 7

  She was sitting curled up in the only armchair in my flat, staring at me.

  She was even more beautiful like that: frightened, alone, vulnerable. Dependent.

  I had—somewhat unnecessarily—explained that my flat wasn’t much to boast about, basically just a simple bachelor pad with a living room and an alcove for the bed. Clean and tidy, but no place for a woman like her. But it had one big advantage: no one knew where it was. To be more precise: no one—and by that I do literally mean no one—knew where I lived.

  “Why not?” she asked, clasping the cup of coffee I’d given her.

  She’d asked for tea, but I’d told her she’d have to wait till morning, and that I’d get some as soon as the shops opened. That I knew she liked tea in the morning. That I’d watched her drinking tea every morning for the past five days.

  “It’s best if no one knows your address when you’re in my line of work,” I replied.

  “But now I know.”

  “Yes.”

  We drank our coffee in silence.

  “Does that mean you don’t have any friends or relations?” she asked.

  “I have a mother.”

  “Who doesn’t know…?”

  “No.”

  “And obviously she doesn’t know about your job either.”

  “No.”

  “What have you told her you do?”

  “Fixer.”

  “Odd jobs?”

  I stared at Corina Hoffmann. Was she really interested, or just talking for the sake of it?

  “Yes.”

  “Right.” A shiver ran through her and she folded her arms over her chest. I’d turned the oven on full, but with the single-glazed windows and temperatures down at minus twenty for over a week, the cold had got the upper hand. I fiddled with my cup.

  “What do you want to do, Olav?”

  I got up from the kitchen chair. “See if I can find you a blanket.”

  “I mean, what are we going to do?”

  She was okay. You know someone’s okay if they can ignore things they can’t do anything about and move on. Wish I was like that.

  “He’s going to come after me, Olav. After us. We can’t hide here for ever. And that’s how long he’ll go on looking. Believe me, I know him. He’d rather die than live with this shame.”

  I didn’t ask the obvious question: So why did you take his son as your lover?

  Instead I asked a less obvious one.

  “Because of the shame? Not because he loves you?”

  She shook her head. “It’s complicated.”

  “We’ve got plenty of time,” I said. “And as you can see, I haven’t got a television.”

  She laughed. I still hadn’t fetched that blanket. Or asked the question that for some reason I was desperate to ask: Did you love him? The son?

  “Olav?”

  “Yes?”

  She lowered her voice. “Why are you doing this?”

  I took a deep breath. I had prepared an answer to this question. Several answers, actually, in case I felt that the first one didn’t work. At least, I thought I had prepared some answers. But at that moment they all vanished.

  “It’s wrong,” I sai
d.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What he’s doing. Trying to have his own wife killed.”

  “And what would you have done if your wife was seeing another man in your own home?”

  She had me there.

  “I think you’ve got a good heart, Olav.”

  “Good hearts come cheap these days.”

  “No, that’s not true. Good hearts are unusual. And always in demand. You’re unusual, Olav.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true.”

  She yawned and stretched. Lithe as a pussycat. They have really flexible shoulders, so wherever they can get their heads in, they can also squeeze their whole body. Practical for hunting. Practical for flight.

  “If you’ve got that blanket, I think I might get some sleep now,” she said. “There’s been a bit too much excitement today.”

  “I’ll change the bed, then you can have that,” I said. “The sofa and I are old friends.”

  “Really?” she smiled, winking one of her big blue eyes. “Does that mean I’m not the first person to spend the night here?”

  “No, you are. But sometimes I fall asleep reading on the sofa.”

  “What do you read?”

  “Nothing special. Books.”

  “Books?” She tilted her head to one side and smiled mischievously, as if she’d caught me out. “But I can see only one book here.”

  “The library. Books take up space. Besides, I’m trying to cut down.”

  She picked up the book that was on the table. “Les Misérables? What’s this one about, then?”

  “Lots of things.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Mostly about a man who gets forgiveness for his sins,” I said. “He spends the rest of his life making up for his past by being a good man.”

  “Hmm.” She weighed the book in her hands. “It feels a bit heavy. Is there any romance in it?”