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.
‘We’ll find that out,’ said Brad. Already he sounded a little less certain.
I sighed. ‘I suppose you mean I’ll find that out?’
‘Can you?’
‘Who’s the one who always does stuff, Brad?’
‘You, Yvonne,’ he said, and even on a merry-go-round in motion I could feel his stinking alcohol breath on my face. ‘You fix the stuff these other pea-brains here can’t handle.’
‘Give me four days,’ I said.
‘Four? Why...?’
Because the guy I know in the Map and Planning Department is away and he won’t be back until then. I’ll check to see if the pipe goes in a straight line and exactly where it empties out so we don’t blow up the wrong house. OK?’
‘What the fuck would I do without you, Yvonne?’
‘You said it. But are you sure you want to go through with this?’
The lights around us went out, the barrel organ music began to drag, and then went hideously out of tune as the merry-go-round slowed down in the pale moonlight.
‘What the hell?’
‘We’re out of juice,’ I said. ‘But I was asking... d’you really want to kill them? Adams did let you go, after all.’
‘For chrissakes, Yvonne, don’t you get it? That is exactly what pisses me off. I want—’ he swallowed, a drunkard’s tears in his eyes now — ‘I want my father to know that I got the man who humiliated him. Because even if my dad is a bastard I love him. I love my mum and my sister too. But Dad... I’ve been a disappointment to him.’ The horses had stopped completely now, with his in its lowest position, so that I was looking down at him. He straightened up. ‘But once I’ve blown up that fortress and done what he wasn’t able to do himself — then, at last, he’ll see what I’m really capable of. Understand?’
There was a loud bang, a cheer, and the lights and music came back and the merry-go-round began slowly spinning again; Brad was up above me once more on his horse.
That night the whole gang slept inside the House of Horrors. Next morning, as I stood outside in the sharp daylight, Brad came over to me. He was pale and looked badly hung-over.
‘I think I got a bit carried away last night,’ he said as he stood tossing stones at the horses on the merry-go-round. ‘Can we just forget about it?’
‘You mean about Adams? Sure.’ I was relieved.
‘Not that. All that stuff about my dad. Forget it. That’s an order. Just you find out about that sewage pipe.’
My bike and I are finally out of the city and riding along the deserted motorway. The asphalt swallows up all the light coming from the bike and from the moon. I pass the burned-out car wreck that’s been there for the last couple of weeks. Several days pass before someone removed the charred remains from behind the steering wheel. I’m not sure what kind of story that was the end of, but of course the petrol tank was emptied a long time ago. It’s been four days since Brad asked me to find out about the sewage pipe leading into the villa. That’s all been sorted now. The fuel indicator is way over on the left now. It’s finished its story too and is only waiting for the engine to realise it. There are the oil pumps. I slow down. High above me I hear the sound of a helicopter. I glance up and see a light in the sky moving in the direction of the bay. Long before I reach the slaughterhouse I can hear music. There’s a party going on. Another party.
I pull up in front of the hall and see the twins holding up Eric, the guy who had my rifle. Eric’s drunk, swaying about but keeping a tight hold on the bazooka pressed to his shoulder. It looks like the target is a rusting caravan about two hundred metres away.
I drive slowly into the hall. The sound blaring out from the single vast speaker is once again ‘We are the Champions’. God, how I hate it. There are people sitting round the table and singing along. Others are dancing around beneath the meat hooks.
Brad sits alone at the end of the table with his feet up on a chair and a fat doobie in his hand. He looks up at me expectantly.
I take my time. Park my bike. Brush the thighs of my trousers.
‘You’re late,’ says Brad when I sit down next to him.
‘Met a few bumps along the way,’ I reply, recalling the feeling of driving over a guy lying spreadeagled on a spike strip. I nod towards the exit. ‘You’ve seen that the twins and Eric—’
‘They’ve got permission. So?’
‘I got the drawings from my pal in the maps department.’ I open the zip on my leather jacket and hold up the papers I got from Will Adams when I was at the villa, where I got the machine gun, and where I said yes to what he asked of me in return.
‘The sewage pipe goes up to the house in a straight line — all you have to do is stick the bazooka inside it and pull the trigger. I went and had a look around and I found the outlet for the pipe on the slope. The terrain is uneven and there’s a bit of climbing, but we can get there and away again without being seen.’
‘Perfect!’ says Brad with a laugh. ‘So what do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘About doing it.’
I shrug. Adams was insistent that I shouldn’t lead Brad on or try to manipulate him. I was to make sure both options were open, so that his choice really was free. Or as Adams put it: as free as we are to choose, being the people we are at any particular given moment in our lives. The point is — said Adams — the choice is Brad’s: he can be his own punishment, or his own redemption.
‘You’re the one who decides,’ I say.
‘We know that, but maybe you’ve heard it said that the sign of a good leader is that they ask for advice. Of course, it’s then up to them whether or not to take the advice.’
‘I can’t offer you any advice when Chaos doesn’t stand to lose or gain anything by this. You’ve got to follow your own heart and your own head, Brad.’
He seems irritated. ‘OK then. I’ve already decided to do it, I just wanted to hear your opinion.’
There’s a loud noise from outside and for a moment there’s silence in the room; even the guy with his ‘Champions’ song keeps his mouth shut for a few seconds. Firelight flares outside the windows and I hear the cheers of Eric and the twins.
‘I thought at dawn,’ says Brad. ‘What do you say?’
‘Dawn sounds good.’
‘But everyone knows that attacks always come around daybreak. Won’t they be especially on the alert, don’t you think?’
‘Could be.’
‘But you still think dawn is best?’
‘Dawn is always best.’
Brad nods. Gives me a long scrutiny before he gets up and shouts: ‘Party’s over, Chaos! Drink up! We ride an hour before dawn!’
Cheers from the stoned gang members. The cheers turn into a foot-stomping chant of: ‘Brad! Brad!’