Killing Moon полностью

It had spirits in it, he was sure of that. He wasn’t so sure what the rest of the stuff in there was but the colours were nice. Both in the glass and in the bar. Which he didn’t know the name of. The other guests were younger and looked over at him with stolen — and not so stolen — glances. They knew who he was. No, they knew what his name was. Had seen his picture in the papers, especially lately. And would have formed an opinion on him. Choosing this particular street for a pub crawl had been a mistake; you only had to look at the pretentious name of Oslo’s newest attempt at an avenue: Dronning Eufemias gate. Ouch! Femi. There you have it, a bloody gay street. He should have gone to some of the old spots. Places where people accepted the offer and flocked to the bar when a capitalist got to his feet and announced the next round was on him. In the last two bars he had been in they had just gawped at him as if he had spread his cheeks and shown them his balloon knot. In one place the barman had even asked him to sit down. As if they didn’t need the revenue. Those places would be out of business within a year, just wait. It was the old hands who survived, those who knew the game. And he — Markus Røed — knew the game.

His upper body began tipping forward, his dark hair flopping down towards the glass. He managed to straighten up at the last moment. A full head of hair. Real hair that didn’t need dyeing every fucking week. Put that in your pipe.

He gripped the glass, something to hold on to. Drained it. Maybe he should drink a little slower. On the way between the two first bars he had been crossing the street — sorry, avenue — when he heard the piercing clatter of a tram bell. He had reacted so sluggishly, as though wading through mud. But that drink he’d had in the first bar must have been strong, because not only were his reflexes poor, it was as if he had lost all sense of fear too. When the tram passed, so closely that he could feel the air pressure on his back, his pulse had hardly increased. Now that he wanted to live again as well! It was like a distant memory that he had asked to borrow Krohn’s tie when he was in custody. Not to improve his appearance but to hang himself. Krohn had said he wasn’t allowed to hand anything over. Idiot.

Røed looked around the room.

They were all idiots. His father had taught him that, beaten it into him. That everyone — except those with Røed as a surname — was an idiot. That it was an open goal, all you had to do was tap the ball in every time. But you had to do it. Don’t feel sorry for them, don’t feel you had enough, you had to keep going. Increase the wealth, get further ahead, take what came your way and then some. Damn it, he might not have been the most academically gifted in the family but unlike the others he had always done what his father said. And didn’t that give him the right to live it up once in a while? Snort a few lines. Slap a few boys on their tight arses. If they were under that idiotic age of consent, so what? In other countries and cultures they saw the big picture; knew that it did the boys no harm, that they grew up and moved on, became solid, decent citizens. Not drama queens and queers; it wasn’t contagious or dangerous getting a grown man’s cock in you when you were young, you could still be saved. He had often seen his father strike out but only once seen him lose his temper. It was when Markus was in fifth year and his father had walked into his bedroom to find Markus and the boy next door playing mummies and daddies in bed. Jesus, how he had hated that man. How frightened he had been of him. And how much he had loved him. One single word of approval from Otto Røed and Markus felt like the master of the world, invincible.

‘So this is where you are, Røed.’

Markus looked up. The man standing in front of his table was wearing a face mask and a flat cap. There was something familiar about him. About the voice too, but Markus was too drunk, everything was blurry.

‘Got any coke for me?’ Markus asked automatically, and wondered in the same moment where that had come from. Probably just the craving.

‘You’re not getting any coke,’ the man said, sitting down at the table. ‘You shouldn’t be out drinking at a bar either.’

‘I shouldn’t?’

‘No. You should be at home crying over that lovely wife of yours. And over Susanne and Bertine. And now another person is dead. But here you sit, looking to party. You worthless, fucking pig.’

Røed winced. Not because of what he said about the women. It was the word ‘worthless’ that had struck home. An echo from childhood and the man who had stood over him frothing at the mouth.

‘Who are you?’ Røed slurred.

‘Can’t you see? I’ve come from the Custody Unit. Jernbanetorget. Kevin Selmer. Ring any bells?’

‘Should it?’

‘Yes,’ the man said, removing his face mask. ‘You recognise me now?’

‘You look like my fuck,’ Markus slurred. ‘My father.’ He had the vague feeling he ought to be scared. But he wasn’t.

‘Death,’ the man said.