Blood on Snow

“We wait until we hear a car start up and drive away,” I said. I remembered the calm look of concentration beneath the bearskin cap. I could always hope he wasn’t really that devoted to duty.

“The gravedigger has—”

“Shut up!”

Klein stared at me. The tip of the shotgun tilted upwards slightly. Until he noticed where my pistol was pointing, and lowered it again. And he shut up.

But someone else didn’t. The voice came from under the table.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking bastard fucking hell...”

For a moment I thought that the guy was dead but his mouth was refusing to stop, like the body of a snake chopped in half. I’d read that they could carry on wriggling for up to a day afterwards.

“Shit crap fucking bollocking bastard fucking cunt crap.”

I squatted down beside him.

Where Pine had got his nickname was a subject of debate. Some people said it came from the Norwegian word for “pain,” because he knew exactly where to cut his women if they didn’t do their job, places that would cause more pain than disfigurement, and where the scars wouldn’t damage the goods too much. Others said it was from the English word “pine,” because he had such long legs. But right now it looked as if he would be taking his secret with him to the grave.

“Argh, shitting bastard cocksucker! Christ, it fucking hurts, Olav!”

“Doesn’t look like it’s likely to hurt much longer, Pine.”

“No? Shit. Can you pass me my cig?”

I pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and stuck it between his trembling lips. It bobbed up and down, but he managed to keep hold of it.

“L-l-light?” he stammered.

“Sorry, I’ve given up.”

“Sensible man. You’ll live longer.”

“No guarantee.”

“No, course not. You m-might get hit by a b-b-bus tomorrow.”

I nodded. “Who’s waiting outside?”

“Looks like you’re sweating, Olav. Warm clothes or stress?”

“Answer.”

“And what do I get for t-t-telling you, then?”

“Ten million kroner, tax-free. Or a light for your cigarette. Your choice.”

Pine laughed. Coughed. “Only the Russian. But he’s good, I think. Career soldier, something like that. Don’t know, poor sod doesn’t talk much.”

“Armed?”

“Christ, yes.”

“What with? An automatic?”

“How are you getting on with that match?”

“Afterwards, Pine.”

“Show a dying man some mercy, Olav.” He coughed up some blood onto my white shirt. “You’ll sleep better, you know.”

“Like you slept better after you forced that deaf-mute girl to go on the streets to pay back her guy’s debts?”

Pine blinked at me. The look in his eyes was weirdly clear, as if something had eased.

“Ah, her,” he said quietly.

“Yes, her,” I said.

“You must have m-m-misunderstood that one, Olav.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She was the one who came to me. She wanted to repay his debts.”

“She did?”

Pine nodded. It almost looked like he was feeling better. “I actually said no. I mean, she wasn’t that pretty, and who wants to pay for a girl who can’t hear what you want her to do? I only said yes because she insisted. Then, once she’d taken on the debt, it was hers, wasn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have an answer. Someone had rewritten the story. My version was better.

“Oy, Dane!” I shouted over to the entrance. “Have you got a light?”

He moved his pistol to his left hand without taking his eyes off the steps as he fished out a lighter with his right hand. We’re such weird creatures of habit. He tossed it to me. I caught it in the air. The rough scraping sound. I held the yellow flame to the cigarette. I waited for it to be sucked into the tobacco, but it carried on burning straight up. I held it there for a moment, then lifted my thumb. The lighter went out, the flame was gone.

I looked around. Blood and groaning. Everyone concentrating on their own business. All except Klein, who was concentrating on mine. I met his gaze.

“You go first,” I said.

“Huh?”

“You go first up the steps.”

“Why?”

“What do you want me to say? Because you’ve got a shotgun?”

“You can have the shotgun.”

“That isn’t why. Because I say you should go first. I don’t want you behind me.”

“What the fuck? Don’t you trust me, then, or what?”

“I trust you enough to let you go first.” I couldn’t even be bothered to pretend that I wasn’t pointing at him with the pistol. “Dane! Shift yourself. Klein’s leaving.”

Klein stared at me steadily. “I’ll get you back for this, Johansen.”

He kicked off his shoes, walked quickly over to the bottom of the stone steps and crept up them into the gloom, crouching as he went.

We peered after him. We saw him stop, then straighten up to take a quick look above the top step, then crouch down again at once. Evidently he hadn’t seen anyone, because he stood up and carried on going, holding the shotgun in both hands at chest height, like it was a fucking Salvation Army guitar. He stopped at the top of the steps and turned back towards us, waving us up.