Exposed at the Back (26 page)

Comeback

It was fascinating for Steinar to watch Junior sit down and do a jigsaw, read a book or, like now, draw. Small pockets of time came along now and then when the boy was able to be calm in his surroundings. And now that the Golden case was over, Steinar’s appointments diary was free enough to enjoy it.

Junior was wearing a white T-shirt with a green crocodile on the front. For the boy, all crocodiles were known as ‘Mr Croc’ after a children’s book that he liked. Steinar liked these small ‘mistakes’, like the fact that Junior called all tigers ‘Tyger Tyger’ after the poem. Steinar didn’t want to correct him. That way, Junior wouldn’t grow up quite as fast. But what was that? Steinar went over to him.

Snot was coming out of his nose. It wasn’t yet another symptom, was it? Steinar took hold of Junior carefully by the neck with one hand, clearing up the snot with a cloth. Junior held his breath and didn’t blink. He wasn’t even really looking at Steinar, just on pause. Steinar let go, and Junior turned his full attention back to his drawing pad.

Steinar looked at the lines he was drawing, which filled the page. There were long lines drawn in black felt-tip, and he’d put some purple spots in between. Stop there, thought Steinar, it’s a nice picture.

The phone rang.

It was Bjørnar Ramstad. ‘Jakobsen’s bed was empty,’ he said.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Steinar, immediately regretting it. It could only mean one thing, that his old coach had died.

Steinar closed his eyes, put his hand to his forehead and felt a couple of wrinkles on the way towards his hair. His thoughts went back to hill running.

Jakobsen had forced him up Grefsenkollen. Run 100 metres, walk 50, run 200 metres, walk 50, run 50 metres, walk 50, run 200 metres.
‘Steinar Brunsvik, you little devil, you weren’t giving it your all. We’re going back down 500 metres to do it again!’ They’d carried on like that all the way up to the viewpoint, Steinar on foot, Jakobsen in his old Mazda 323, leaning halfway out the window and shouting orders at his player.

‘I was sure that he’d died,’ said Bjørnar.

‘What?’

‘He had just vanished, and when I asked the nurses, a wild panic broke out. It’s quite unusual to misplace coma patients, after all.’

‘Did you find him?’

‘Guess where.’

Steinar didn’t answer.

‘In the canteen! Bent over a hamburger, with four empty sachets of Thousand Island dressing next to him. He was holding the burger in both hands, his mouth wide open.’

‘Does that mean he’s better?’

‘Can’t you hear what I’m saying? He’s eating! I was sure that he wouldn’t wake up again. According to the combined experience of the medical profession, he should’ve died long ago. One of the nurses used the word “miracle”.’

‘I’m on my way,’ said Steinar, hanging up.

When they opened the door to Ståle Jakobsen’s room on the second floor of the Cancer Centre, Junior stared wide-eyed at the man in the hospital bed.

Jakobsen patted his hand on the bed and Steinar lifted up his son so that he could sit on the edge. After a few seconds’ silence, Steinar gave Jakobsen a bear hug.

‘What’s Daddy doing?’ said Junior, who then became very interested in a blue machine with lots of buttons on a trolley. Steinar checked that it wasn’t plugged in, then let his son play with it.

Bjørnar came into the room and took Steinar aside.

‘I popped into Benedikte’s room too. She’s stable, but still unconscious.’

Steinar knew. It was four days since she’d been attacked and Steinar had been to see her every day. The short time that had passed since they first met had been filled with the Golden case, Junior’s illness and the promise she’d given Steinar to sleep with him. In between all of that, he hadn’t had the chance to get to know her properly. He hadn’t
found out what Kringlebotn meant when he said she hadn’t had it easy as a child. But now that his days were following more of a routine and he saw her lying there in bed, he realised just how much he wanted to find out all about her.

‘Do you know anything about her progress?’ he asked.

‘Too early to say, but she definitely would’ve died if it hadn’t been for you. How on earth did you get the idea of performing an improvised tracheostomy?’

‘I just did it. Didn’t think about it.’

‘Like when you were on the pitch?’

‘Something like that. Listen, I’m worried about Junior. He was a witness to the attack, do you know how that might affect him later on?’

‘That’s not my specialism, Steinar, but I can get you a child psychiatrist.’

‘Just tell me what you think, I’d value your opinion.’

‘Well, they say that children’s memories aren’t really reliable until they’re four years old.’

‘I don’t believe that. Time and again Junior’s shown that he’s got an almost photographic memory for people and places. I’m sure that he remembers it. Do you think it’ll affect him?’

‘Honestly, I don’t know.’

They went back to Jakobsen’s bed. Bjørnar started telling Jakobsen about his condition, but he was abruptly cut off.

‘I don’t give a shit about that. What I want to hear about is that training session: eleven against eleven, the first team against the second, and you scoring two goals to win 2–1.’ Jakobsen looked at Steinar, who didn’t answer. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’ve been throwing your talent away for long enough now. You were born to play football so tell me now, yes or no, will you consider making a comeback?’

Steinar had loved every second of that training session, but could he bring himself back to fitness enough to take that every day? Wasn’t it really too late? It was far too long since he’d played for Ajax, after all. Or was it?

‘Turn up the volume!’ said Jakobsen. A blonde stand-in for Benedikte appeared on the TV screen. The headline read: ‘Marius Bjartmann confesses.’

Bjartmann had been found tied to the blue turbine monument in Svartdalsparken, by the river where they’d had their stand-off. A yellow Post-it note with the message ‘I killed Arild Golden’ was stapled to his
forehead. His left knee was dislocated, and it was doubtful that he’d ever be able to play football again.

In the poll for footballer of the year, Bjartmann had received a huge number of votes over the past few hours, he was heading to the top. Meanwhile Vålerenga fans had set up a Facebook group calling for Bjartmann to be let out of prison for league matches. It was unlikely that any of the prosecutors had clicked on the ‘Like’ button.

When questioned by police, Bjartmann confirmed that he’d killed Golden, but he hadn’t admitted anything in connection with Benedikte. She would have to wake up and identify him if he was to be convicted of assaulting her.

‘Can you calm your boy down a little?’ said Bjørnar, pointing at Junior, who was doing his best to push over the blood pressure and pulse monitor. Steinar lifted up his son and put him on his lap. A picture on the TV screen caught the boy’s attention too. It was a closeup of Marius Bjartmann’s face. Shit, thought Steinar, he should shield Junior’s eyes from having to see the man who’d attacked Benedikte.

But Junior said: ‘Daddy, who’s that?’

Acknowledgements

Thank you to:

The father of the step over feint, Thorvald Steen, for his literary advice.

Football doctor Kjell Erik Strømskag for his advice on everything from tracheostomies to literature.

Psychologist-back Stål Bjørkly for his advice on psychology.

Heart surgeon Terje Aass for his advice on medicine.

Trainee lawyer Bernt Birkeland for his advice on legal matters.

Gunnar Stavrum, a tank of a striker as well as an editor, for his advice on financial crime.

Anchor Davy Wathne for his advice on television.

Skeid and Brumlebassen Nursery for all their comments.

Thank you to Kari Joynt and everybody else from the Norwegian publishers, Forlaget Oktober.

And thanks to Ole and Lisbet: we’re alright!