?’
Oleg’s enthusiastic voice drowned out the spitting fat in the kebab shop crowded with people pouring in after the concert at Oslo Spektrum. Harry nodded to Oleg who was standing in his hoody, still sweaty, still moving to the beat, as he prattled on about the members of Slipknot by name, names Harry didn’t even know since Slipknot CDs were sparing with personal data, and music magazines like
MOJO
and
Uncut
didn’t write about bands like that. Harry ordered hamburgers and looked at his watch. Rakel had said she would be standing outside at ten o’clock. Harry looked at Oleg again. He was talking non-stop. When had it happened? When had the boy turned eleven and decided to like music about various stages of death, alienation, freezing and general doom? Perhaps it ought to have worried Harry, but it didn’t. It was a starting point, a curiosity that had to be satisfied, clothes the boy had to try on to see if they fitted. Other things would come along. Better things. Worse things.
‘You liked it too, didn’t you, Harry?’
Harry nodded. He didn’t have the heart to tell him the concert had been a bit of an anticlimax for him. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was; perhaps it just wasn’t his night. As soon as they had joined thecrowd in Spektrum, he had felt the paranoia which regularly accompanied drunkenness, but which during the last year had come when he was sober. And instead of getting into the mood he had had the feeling he was being observed and stood scanning the audience, studying the wall of faces around them.
‘Slipknot rules,’ Oleg said. ‘And the masks were übercool. Especially the one with the long, thin nose. It looked like a … sort of …’
Harry was listening with half an ear, hoping Rakel would come soon. The air inside the kebab shop suddenly felt dense and suffocating, like a thin film of grease lying on your skin and over your mouth. He tried not to think his next thought. But it was on its way, had already rounded the corner. The thought of a drink.
‘It’s an Indian death mask,’ a woman’s voice behind them said. ‘And Slayer was better than Slipknot.’
Harry spun round in surprise.
‘Lots of posing with Slipknot, isn’t there?’ she continued. ‘Recycled ideas and empty gestures.’
She was wearing a shiny, figure-hugging, ankle-length black coat buttoned up to her neck. All you could see under the coat was a pair of black boots. Her face was pale and her eyes made up.
‘I would never have believed it,’ Harry said. ‘You liking that kind of music.’
Katrine Bratt managed a brief smile. ‘I suppose I would say the opposite.’
She gave him no further explanation and signalled to the man behind the counter that she wanted a Farris mineral water.
‘Slayer sucks,’ Oleg mumbled under his breath.
Katrine turned to him. ‘You must be Oleg.’
‘Yes,’ Oleg said sulkily, pulling up his army trousers and looking as if he both liked and disliked this attention from a mature woman. ‘How d’ya know?’
Katrine smiled. ‘“How d’ya know?” Living on Holmenkollen Ridge as you do, shouldn’t you say “How do you know?”’ Is Harry teaching you bad habits?’
Blood suffused Oleg’s cheeks.
Katrine laughed quietly and patted Oleg’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, I’m just curious.’
The boy’s face went so red that the whites of his eyes were shining.
‘I’m also curious,’ Harry said, passing a burger to Oleg. ‘I assume you’ve found the pattern I asked for, Bratt. Since you’ve got time to come to a gig.’
Harry looked at her in a way that spelt out his warning: Don’t tease the boy.
‘I’ve found something,’ Katrine said, twisting the plastic top off the Farris bottle. ‘But you’re busy so we can sort it out tomorrow.’
‘I’m not
so
busy,’ Harry said. He had already forgotten the film of grease, the feeling of suffocation.
‘It’s confidential and there are a lot of people here,’ Katrine said. ‘But I can
Oleg’s enthusiastic voice drowned out the spitting fat in the kebab shop crowded with people pouring in after the concert at Oslo Spektrum. Harry nodded to Oleg who was standing in his hoody, still sweaty, still moving to the beat, as he prattled on about the members of Slipknot by name, names Harry didn’t even know since Slipknot CDs were sparing with personal data, and music magazines like
MOJO
and
Uncut
didn’t write about bands like that. Harry ordered hamburgers and looked at his watch. Rakel had said she would be standing outside at ten o’clock. Harry looked at Oleg again. He was talking non-stop. When had it happened? When had the boy turned eleven and decided to like music about various stages of death, alienation, freezing and general doom? Perhaps it ought to have worried Harry, but it didn’t. It was a starting point, a curiosity that had to be satisfied, clothes the boy had to try on to see if they fitted. Other things would come along. Better things. Worse things.
‘You liked it too, didn’t you, Harry?’
Harry nodded. He didn’t have the heart to tell him the concert had been a bit of an anticlimax for him. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was; perhaps it just wasn’t his night. As soon as they had joined thecrowd in Spektrum, he had felt the paranoia which regularly accompanied drunkenness, but which during the last year had come when he was sober. And instead of getting into the mood he had had the feeling he was being observed and stood scanning the audience, studying the wall of faces around them.
‘Slipknot rules,’ Oleg said. ‘And the masks were übercool. Especially the one with the long, thin nose. It looked like a … sort of …’
Harry was listening with half an ear, hoping Rakel would come soon. The air inside the kebab shop suddenly felt dense and suffocating, like a thin film of grease lying on your skin and over your mouth. He tried not to think his next thought. But it was on its way, had already rounded the corner. The thought of a drink.
‘It’s an Indian death mask,’ a woman’s voice behind them said. ‘And Slayer was better than Slipknot.’
Harry spun round in surprise.
‘Lots of posing with Slipknot, isn’t there?’ she continued. ‘Recycled ideas and empty gestures.’
She was wearing a shiny, figure-hugging, ankle-length black coat buttoned up to her neck. All you could see under the coat was a pair of black boots. Her face was pale and her eyes made up.
‘I would never have believed it,’ Harry said. ‘You liking that kind of music.’
Katrine Bratt managed a brief smile. ‘I suppose I would say the opposite.’
She gave him no further explanation and signalled to the man behind the counter that she wanted a Farris mineral water.
‘Slayer sucks,’ Oleg mumbled under his breath.
Katrine turned to him. ‘You must be Oleg.’
‘Yes,’ Oleg said sulkily, pulling up his army trousers and looking as if he both liked and disliked this attention from a mature woman. ‘How d’ya know?’
Katrine smiled. ‘“How d’ya know?” Living on Holmenkollen Ridge as you do, shouldn’t you say “How do you know?”’ Is Harry teaching you bad habits?’
Blood suffused Oleg’s cheeks.
Katrine laughed quietly and patted Oleg’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, I’m just curious.’
The boy’s face went so red that the whites of his eyes were shining.
‘I’m also curious,’ Harry said, passing a burger to Oleg. ‘I assume you’ve found the pattern I asked for, Bratt. Since you’ve got time to come to a gig.’
Harry looked at her in a way that spelt out his warning: Don’t tease the boy.
‘I’ve found something,’ Katrine said, twisting the plastic top off the Farris bottle. ‘But you’re busy so we can sort it out tomorrow.’
‘I’m not
so
busy,’ Harry said. He had already forgotten the film of grease, the feeling of suffocation.
‘It’s confidential and there are a lot of people here,’ Katrine said. ‘But I can
Similar Books
