The Jealousy Man and Other Stories
- Автор: Несбё Ю
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Alfred A. Knopf
- ISBN: 978-0-593-32100-3
- Переводчик: Robert Ferguson
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Jealousy Man and Other Stories». Краткое содержание книги:
A detective with a nose for jealousy is on the trail of a man suspected of murdering his twin; a bereaved father must decide whether vengeance has a place in the new world order after a pandemic brings about the collapse of society; a garbage man fresh off a bender tries to piece together what happened the night before; a hired assassin matches wits against his greatest adversary in a dangerous game for survival; and an instantly electric connection between passengers on a flight to London may spell romance, or something more sinister.
With Nesbø’s characteristic gift for outstanding atmosphere and gut-wrenching revelations, The Jealousy Man confirms that he is at the peak of his abilities.
‘I want my rifle back,’ I said. ‘And my gang.’
‘Your gang?’ said the other twin.
‘My gang,’ I repeated. ‘When Brad isn’t here I’m the leader of Chaos.’
One guy laughed loudly. Another new one.
‘Where’s Ragnar?’ I asked.
As though in reply came the snarl of an engine starting. A special, hoarse roar. I turned to the parked bikes and saw Ragnar riding towards us on his red Yamaha. He was steering with one hand. In the other he was holding what looked like a shiny new Kalashnikov with a pistol grip. Wonder how he’d come by that. I had my suspicions. He was fifty metres away when I turned the front of the bike towards him and fired off a short burst.
None of the bullets hit him but he braked sharply, only now realising it was a machine gun I had. And that meant superior firepower.
‘Jump her!’ he shouted. ‘She can’t take you all.’
‘But quite a few,’ I said in a voice so low only those at the table heard me.
‘That’s an order!’ shouted Ragnar.
‘The order is that you stay exactly where you are,’ I said. ‘I need you all alive.’
They stared at me. No one moved. Not that they thought I was the new leader. Not yet. But for the time being it was a machine gun giving the orders, not Ragnar. And it looked like he was losing.
But Ragnar knew the rules. He kicked out the stand, dismounted, and held up the Kalashnikov.
‘You and me, no weapons!’ he shouted, releasing the curving magazine and tossing it away so that it bounced and skidded across the floor. ‘Or don’t you dare, Miss Kickboxer?’
Of course I could have turned him down and just shot him there and then.
But I also knew that if the gang was going to accept a girl as leader then I had to show them something more than just that I was capable of pulling a trigger.
I dismounted, took the machine gun and walked over to the table, pulled out the bandolier and dropped it in front of them. Heard that hoarse roaring behind me, turned and saw that Ragnar was back on his bike and already on his way towards me, swinging the hook and chain around his head. I walked towards him, stopped between the meat hooks and waited. I’d seen it so many times. I knew his technique and I could read his body when he was about to throw. And when he did I held the machine gun up in front of me with both hands. The chain hit the top of the barrel, twisted round it once, the hook caught in the middle leaving me one second in which to act. I wedged the barrel down in two of the meat hooks, one on each side of Ragnar’s hook, let go of the gun and took a step backwards. There was a rustling and juddering from the pulleys and wires up by the beam as they tensed, and then a straight line of steel connecting Ragnar’s bike and the beam above. The engine of the Yamaha howled as it came to a sudden stop and the wheels had nothing to grip. Ragnar went flying over the handlebars in a perfect arc that threw him ten metres further down the hall, where he fell to the floor with a thud beneath a row of meat hooks.
I walked over to him.
He lay with his back to me, apparently unconscious. But as I got closer it was as though the sea monster on the back of his leather jacket flexed, and I saw his hand grab for something in the waistband of his trousers. I ran and kicked his hand as he turned. A glistening pistol — it looked like an expensive Glock — spun through the air. I could have let him get to his feet, I could have taken him anyway, but I had an audience. A gang wondering if this girl who said she was the leader was tough enough. Efficient enough. Merciless enough. So I gave Ragnar a simple but effective foot jab while he was still lying there. And before he’d recovered from that I was behind him with a so-called rear naked choke, my left arm around his throat, the right arm locking it, my forehead pressed against the back of his head as though comforting him. Then squeeze and cut off the supply of blood to the brain. Within ten seconds Ragnar was unconscious. I let go of him, pulled down one of the meat hooks directly above him. Glanced over at the table fifteen metres away and saw they were all watching. Rolled Ragnar onto his stomach, pulled up the red leather jacket and choked back the nausea as I drove the hook into the pale skin of his back. I crossed to the wall and turned the crank and Ragnar was hauled up into the air, the blood running evenly and steadily down his back towards the waistband of his trousers. I left him dangling a half-metre above the ground, walked over to his bike, unfastened the chain and then used it to tie his hands behind his back. Ragnar regained consciousness and began swearing and screaming at me, tried to twist himself loose but soon stopped, probably because he felt the meat hook digging into his muscles and tissue.
I walked back to the table and stood there. I could almost see the questions in their eyes. Who the hell was going to lead them now? Who was going to provide them with their next meal, with clothes, a roof over their heads and a place where they could be safe from their enemies? It wasn’t going to be that loser hanging there on the meat hook, that much was obvious. But could it really be her — a girl?
‘You took something that belongs to me,’ I said. ‘A Remington rifle. Which one of you has it?’
Of course they couldn’t help themselves; everyone turned towards the guy who had it.
‘You,’ I said to him, a boy with big red pimples who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. ‘Go and get it. Now.’
He stood up and began to walk towards the bikes.
‘Run!’
He ran.
‘You others come with me,’ I said, turning and heading back towards Ragnar. I heard nothing behind me and thought: shit, I’ve lost them. But then I heard the clinking of cutlery and the scraping of chair legs.
We stood in a semicircle around Ragnar. He was breathing heavily, his face twisted in pain, but he kept his mouth closed. Though it was nothing like when Dumbo got his throat cut, the blood dripped steadily from his boots and ran down the slope to the nearest sluice just the way it was meant to.
‘This man here forced one of our own to confess to a murder he didn’t commit,’ I said, pointing up at Ragnar. ‘After that he had him liquidated. There aren’t many rules in Chaos, but the ones we do have are all we have.’ I was talking loudly, louder than I had planned. Maybe it was to drown out the echo that made it sound as if I was standing in a church. ‘Rule number one: one for all and all for one. If we follow that then we’re invincible. If we don’t, Chaos will be history inside a month.’
I looked round. A couple of them nodded.
I heard running footsteps. I turned and the pimply guy handed me my Remington.
‘Ragnar,’ I said. ‘This is your jury. Do you plead guilty as charged?’
He groaned and kicked out with one leg, causing his body to half turn.
‘No, all right then,’ I said. I loaded the rifle and raised it. ‘Then...’
He made a hissing sound and I lowered the rifle.
‘I did it for us.’ His whisper was almost inaudible. ‘For Chaos. We wouldn’t get weapons, nothing, if Dumbo withdrew his confession.’