‘A striker, eh?’ Waaler asked, smiling and ruffling the young boy’s hair.

Harry stared at his colleague’s strong, sinewy fingers, Oleg’s dark strands of hair against the back of Waaler’s tanned hand, hair that stood up on its own. He could feel his legs giving way under him.

‘No,’ Oleg said, with his eyes still firmly fixed on Harry. ‘I play in defence.’

‘No,’ Oleg said, with his eyes still firmly fixed on Harry. ‘I play in defence.’

‘Hey, Oleg,’ Waaler said, looking over at Harry enquiringly. ‘Harry has still got a bit of shadow-boxing to do in here – I do the same when something gets on my nerves – but perhaps you and I could go up top and see the view from the roof terrace while Harry tidies up.’

‘I’m staying here,’ Oleg stated unequivocally.

Harry nodded.

‘OK. Nice to meet you, Oleg.’

Waaler patted the boy on his shoulder and left. Oleg stood in the doorway.

‘How did you get here?’ Harry asked.

‘Metro.’

‘On your own?’

Oleg nodded.

‘Does Rakel know you’re here?’

Oleg shook his head.

‘Don’t you want to come in?’ Harry’s throat was dry.

‘I want you to come home,’ Oleg said.

Four seconds after Harry pressed the bell, Rakel tore open the door. Her eyes were black with fury.

‘Where’ve you been?’

For an instant Harry thought that the question was directed to them both before her eyes swept past Harry and beamed in on Oleg.

‘I didn’t have anyone to play with,’ Oleg said with his head bowed. ‘I took the metro to town.’

‘The metro. On your own? But how…?’

Her voice failed her.

‘I slipped out,’ Oleg said. ‘I thought you would be happy, Mummy. After all you said you also wanted…’

She suddenly took Oleg into her arms.

‘Do you realise how worried I’ve been about you, my lad?’

She viewed Harry askance while she hugged Oleg.

Rakel and Harry stood by the fence at the back of the garden and gazed down over Oslo and Oslo fjord. They were silent. The sailing boats stood out against the blue sea like tiny white triangles. Harry turned to face the house. Summer birds took off from the lawn and flitted between the apple trees in front of the open windows. It was a large house, with black timber cladding – a house constructed for winter, not for summer.

Harry looked at her. Her legs were bare and she was wearing a thin, red cotton button-up jacket over a light blue dress. The sun glistened on the droplets of sweat on her bare skin under the necklace with the cross that she had inherited from her mother. Harry mused that he knew everything about her: the smell of the cotton jacket, the gentle curve of her back under the dress, the smell of her skin when it was sweaty and salty, what she wanted from her life, why she didn’t say anything.

All this knowledge to no end.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ve rented a log cabin. We can’t have it until August. I was late getting in.’

The tone was neutral, the accusation scarcely perceptible.

‘Have you injured your hand?’

‘Just a cut,’ Harry said.

A strand of hair blew across her face. He resisted the temptation to brush it away.

‘I had someone round to value the house yesterday,’ she said.

‘To value it? You’re not thinking of selling it, are you?’

‘The house is too big for only two people, Harry.’

‘Yes, but you love this house. You grew up here. And so did Oleg.’

‘You don’t need to remind me. The thing is that the work over the winter cost twice as much as I had imagined. And now the roof has to be redone. It’s an old house.’

‘Mm.’

Harry watched Oleg kicking a ball against the garage door. He smashed the ball again and as soon as it left his foot he closed his eyes and raised his arms to an imaginary crowd of fans.

‘Rakel.’

She sighed.

‘What is it, Harry?’

‘Can’t you at least look at me when I’m talking?’

‘No.’ Her voice was neither angry nor upset; she was just establishing a fact.

‘Would it make any difference if I gave it up?’

‘You can’t give it up, Harry.’

‘I mean the police.’

‘I guessed that.’

He kicked at the grass.

‘I may not have a choice,’ he said.

‘Haven’t you?’

‘No.’

‘Why the hypothetical question then?’

She blew away the strand of hair.

‘I could find a quieter job, be at home more, take care of Oleg. We could -’

‘Stop it, Harry!’

Her voice was like a whiplash. She bowed her head and crossed her arms as if she were frozen in the burning sun.

‘The answer’s no,’ she whispered. ‘It won’t make any difference. It’s not your job that’s the problem. It’s…’

She breathed in, turned round and looked him in the eyes.

‘It’s you, Harry. You’re the problem.’

Harry saw the tears welling up in her eyes.

‘Go now,’ she whispered.

He wanted to say something, but changed his mind. Instead he nodded towards the sailing boats on the fjord.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I am the problem. I’ll have a chat with Oleg and then I’ll be off.’

He took a few steps, then stopped and turned round.

‘Don’t sell the house, Rakel. Don’t do it, do you hear? I’ll come up with something.’

She smiled through her tears.

‘You’re a strange man,’ she whispered and reached out a hand as if she was going to stroke his cheek, but he was too far away and she let it drop again.

‘Take care of yourself, Harry.’

As Harry left, a shiver ran down his spine. It was 5.15. He would have to hurry to get to the meeting.

I’m in the building. It smells of cellar. I’m standing quite still and studying the names on the noticeboard in front of me. I can hear voices and footsteps on the stairs, but I’m not afraid. They cannot see that, but I am invisible. Did you hear? They cannot see that, but… It isn’t a paradox, darling. I just expressed it in that way to sound like one. Everything can be formulated as a paradox. It isn’t difficult. It’s just that true paradoxes don’t exist. True paradoxes, ha, ha. Do you see how easy it is? It’s just words, the lack of precision in language. I have finished with words. With language. I’m looking at my watch. This is my language. It’s clear and there are no paradoxes. I’m ready.

14

Monday. Barbara.

Barbara Svendsen had begun to think a lot about time of late, not that she was particularly philosophical by nature; most people she knew would have said exactly the opposite. It was just that she had never given it a thought before. She had never considered that there was a time for everything and that this time was being eaten away. She had realised several years ago that she was never going to make it as a model and would have to be satisfied with the title of ex-mannequin. It sounded good even if the word originating from Dutch did mean ‘little man’. Petter had told her that. As he had told her most things he thought she ought to know. He had got her the job in the bar at Head On. And because of the pills she hadn’t felt like going straight from work to Blindern University, where she was studying to become a sociologist.

However, the time for Petter, pills and dreams of becoming a sociologist was over and one day she found herself alone with debts for unfinished studies and pills to pay off, and a job at the most boring bar in Oslo. So Barbara dropped everything, borrowed money from her parents and went off to Lisbon to get her life back on an even keel and perhaps learn a little Portuguese. Lisbon was a wonderful time. The days passed in a whirl, but this didn’t bother her. Time was simply something that came and went, until the money stopped coming, until Marco was no longer ‘true until eternity’ and the fun was over. She returned home a few experiences older; she had learned, for example, that Ecstasy was cheaper in Portugal than in Norway, but it made a mess of your life in just the same way, that Portuguese was an extremely difficult language and that time was a limited, nonrenewable resource.