Rage

At around dinner time on 9 January the doorbell rang at a grey-painted house on Hystadveien in Sandefjord.

Synnøve Hessel was lying on the sofa. She was in a state somewhere between sleep and reality, in a haze of melancholy dreams. She couldn’t sleep at night. The darkest hours felt both interminable and wasted. She couldn’t search for Marianne when everyone else was asleep and everything was closed, but at the same time it was impossible to get any rest. The days just got worse and worse. From time to time she dozed off, as she had now.

There wasn’t much else to do.

Their joint bank account hadn’t been touched. Synnøve hadn’t yet managed to gain access to Marianne’s account. She had contacted every hospital in Norway, but without success. There were no more friends to ring. Even the most casual acquaintances and distant relatives had been asked if they had heard anything from Marianne since 19 December. Two days ago Synnøve had gathered her courage and finally phoned her in-laws. The last time she heard from them had been a terrible letter they had sent when it became clear that Marianne was going to leave her husband to move in with a woman. The call had been a waste of time. As soon as Marianne’s mother had realized who was calling she launched into a venomous, two-minute tirade before slamming the phone down. Synnøve didn’t even have time to tell her why she was calling.

And Marianne was still missing.

Synnøve had hardly eaten for a week and a half. She had spent the days after Marianne’s disappearance searching for her. At night she went for long, long walks with the dogs. Now she didn’t even have the energy for that. For the last two days they had had to make do with the dog run in the garden. Yesterday evening she had forgotten to feed them. When she suddenly remembered, it was two o’clock in the morning. Her tears had frightened the alpha male, who had whimpered and paced around, demanding lots of attention before he was prepared to touch his food. In the end Synnøve had crawled into one of the kennels and fallen asleep there with Kaja in her arms. She had woken up stiff with cold half an hour later.

The doorbell rang again.

Synnøve didn’t move. She didn’t want visitors. A lot of people had tried, but not many had got past the door.

Ding-dong.

And again.

She got up awkwardly from the sofa and folded the woollen blanket. She massaged her stiff neck as she shuffled towards the door, ready to convince yet another friend that she wanted to be alone.

When she opened the door and saw Kjetil Berggren standing there, she felt dizzy with relief. They had found Marianne, she realized, and Kjetil had come here to give her the good news. It had all been a terrible misunderstanding, but Marianne would soon be home and everything would be just like before.

Kjetil Berggren’s expression was so serious. Synnøve took a step backwards into the hallway. The front door opened wider. There was a woman standing behind him. She was probably around fifty, and was wearing a winter coat. Around her neck, where everyone else would have had a scarf to keep out the bitter January cold, she was wearing a priest’s collar.

The pastor was just as serious as the police officer.

Synnøve took another step back before sinking to her knees and covering her face with her hands. Her nails dug into her skin, making blood-red stripes on both cheeks. She was howling, a constant, desperate lament that was like nothing Kjetil Berggren had ever heard before. Only when Synnøve started banging her head on the stone floor did he try to lift her up. She hit out at him, and sank down once more.

And all the time that dreadful howling.

The intense sound of pain made the dogs in the backyard answer her. Six huskies howled like the wolves they almost were. The desolate chorus rose up to the low clouds, and could be heard all the way to Framnes on the other side of the grey, deserted, wintry fjord.

*

A siren sliced through the steady hum of the traffic as they stopped for a red light at a junction. In the rear-view mirror Lukas could see a blue flashing light, and he tried to manoeuvre the car closer to the pavement without encroaching on the pedestrian zone. The ambulance, travelling far too fast, came up on the outside of the queue and almost ran over an old man who walked straight in front of Lukas’s big BMW X5. He was obviously deaf.

‘That was close,’ Lukas said to his father, staring at the bewildered pedestrian until the cars behind him started sounding their horns.

Erik Lysgaard didn’t reply. He was sitting in the passenger seat, as silent as always. His clothes were now clearly too big. The seat belt made him look flat and skinny. His hair stuck out from his scalp in miserable, downy clumps, and he looked ten years older than he was. Lukas had had to remind his father to have a shower that morning; a sour smell had emanated from his body the previous evening when he reluctantly allowed himself to be hugged.

Nothing had changed.

Once more Lukas had insisted on taking his father back to his home in Os. Once more Erik had protested, and, as before, Lukas had eventually won. The sight of their grandfather had frightened the children yet again, and a couple of times Astrid had been on the point of losing her composure.

‘We need to make some plans,’ said Lukas. ‘The police say we can hold the funeral next week. It’ll have to be quite a big occasion. There were so many people who were fond of Mum.’

Erik sat in silence, his face expressionless.

‘Dad, you need to make some decisions.’

‘You can sort it all out,’ said his father. ‘I don’t care.’

Lukas reached out and turned off the radio. He was gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and the speed at which he travelled along the last section of Årstadsveien would have cost him his licence had there been a camera. The tyres screeched as he turned left into Nubbebakken, crossing the oncoming traffic before slamming on the brakes.

‘Dad,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Why has one of the photos disappeared?’

For the first time in the entire journey his father looked at him.

‘Photos?’

‘The photos in Mum’s room.’

Erik turned away again.

‘I want to go home.’

‘There have always been four photographs on that shelf. They were there when I was at the house the day after Mum was murdered. I remember, because that detective went in there by mistake. One of the photographs isn’t there any more. Why not?’

‘I want to go home.’

‘I’ll take you home. But I want an answer, Dad!’

Lukas banged his fist on the wheel. Pain shot up his arm, and he swore silently.

‘Take me home,’ said Erik. ‘Now.’

The coldness in his father’s voice made Lukas keep quiet. He put the car into gear. His hands were shaking and he felt almost as upset as when the police came to tell him that his mother was dead. When they pulled into the small area behind the open gate of his father’s house a few minutes later, he could clearly see the beautiful woman in the missing photograph in his mind’s eye. She was dark, and although the picture was black and white, he thought she had blue eyes. Just like Lukas. Her nose was straight and slender, like his, and her smile clearly showed that one front tooth lay slightly on top of the other.

Just like his own teeth.

Not enough of her clothing was visible to enable him to guess when the photo was taken. He hadn’t seen it until he was a teenager. Now that he had children of his own and had become aware of how observant children are, he had worked out that it couldn’t have been on display when he was younger. Once he had asked who she was. His mother had smiled and stroked his cheek and replied: ‘A friend you don’t know.’

Lukas stopped the car and got out to help his father into the house.

They didn’t exchange a word, and avoided looking at one another.

When the door closed behind Erik, Lukas got back in the car. He sat there for a long time as the wet snow obscured the windscreen and the temperature inside the car dropped.

His mother’s friend looked an awful lot like him.

*

‘She looks just like you! The spitting image!’

Karen Winslow laughed as she took the photograph of Ragnhild. She held it at an angle to avoid the reflection of the overhead lights, and shook her head. Ragnhild was lying in the bath with shampoo in her hair and a giant rubber duck on her tummy. It looked as if she was being attacked by a bright yellow monster.

‘So she’s the youngest,’ she said, handing back the photograph. ‘Have you got a picture of the older one?’

The photograph had been taken the previous Christmas.

Kristiane was sitting on the steps in front of the house on Hauges Vei, her expression serious. For once she was looking straight into the camera, and had just taken off her hat. Her thin hair was sticking out in all directions with static electricity, and the background light from the pane of glass in the door made it look as if she had a halo.

‘Wow,’ said Karen. ‘What a beautiful child! How old is she? Nine? Ten?’

‘Nearly fourteen,’ said Johanne. ‘It’s just that she’s not quite like other children.’

It was surprisingly easy to say.

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Who knows?’ said Johanne. ‘Kristiane was born with a heart defect, and had to undergo three major operations before she was one year old. Nobody has really managed to find out whether the damage was done then, or whether it’s an impairment she was born with.’

Karen smiled again and examined the photograph more closely. Looking at her old college friend reminded Johanne of how many years had passed. Karen had always been slim and fit, but now her face was thinner, more strained, and her black hair was streaked with grey. She had started wearing glasses. Johanne thought this must be recent, because she kept taking them off and putting them back on all the time, and she didn’t really know what to do with them when she wasn’t using them.

It was almost eighteen years since they last met, but they had recognized one another straight away. Johanne had been given the longest hug she could remember when Karen got out of the taxi outside Restaurant Victor on Sandaker, and as they walked inside she felt happy.

Almost exhilarated.

The waiter placed a glass of champagne in front of each of them.

‘Would you like me to go through the menu with you right away?’ he said with a smile.

‘I think we’d prefer to wait a little while,’ Johanne said quickly.

‘Of course. I’ll come back.’

Karen raised her glass.

‘Here’s to you,’ she said, smiling. ‘To think we’ve managed to meet up again. Fantastic.’

They sipped their champagne.

‘Mmm. Wonderful. Tell me more about Kris … Kristi …’

‘Kristiane. For a long time the experts insisted that it could be some form of autism. Asperger’s perhaps. But it doesn’t really fit. Admittedly, she does need fixed routines, and for long periods she can be highly dependent on order and clear systems. Sometimes she’s almost reminiscent of a savant, someone who is autistic but has certain highly developed skills. But then, all of a sudden, without any clue as to what has brought about the change, she’s just like an ordinary child with mild learning difficulties. And although she finds it difficult to make real friends, she shows great flexibility when it comes to relationships with other people. She’s …’

Johanne picked up her glass again, surprised at how good it felt to talk about her older daughter with someone who had never met her.

‘… tremendously loving towards her family.’

‘She really is absolutely adorable,’ said Karen, handing back the photograph. ‘You are so, so lucky to have her.’

Karen’s comment made Johanne feel warm, almost embarrassed. Isak loved his daughter more than anything on earth, and Adam was the most loving stepfather in the world. Both sets of grandparents worshipped Kristiane, and she was as well integrated into the social environment surrounding the Vik and Stubo families as it was possible for a child like her to be. Occasionally someone would remark that Kristiane was lucky to have such a good family. Live Smith had given Johanne the feeling that she was happy to have Kristiane in her school.

But no one had ever said that Johanne was lucky to have a daughter like Kristiane.

‘It’s true,’ said Johanne. ‘I’m … we’re really lucky to have her.’

She quickly blinked back the tears. Karen reached across the table and placed her hand on Johanne’s cheek. The gesture felt oddly welcome, in spite of all the years that lay between them.

‘Children are God’s greatest gift,’ said Karen. ‘They are always, always a blessing, wherever they come from, whoever they come to, and whatever they are like. They should be treated, loved and respected accordingly.’

A single tear escaped and trickled down Johanne’s cheek.

Americans and their big words, she thought. Americans and their pompous, high-flown, beautiful choice of words. She smiled quickly and wiped the tear away with the back of her hand.

‘Are you ready to order?’

The waiter reappeared, looking from one to the other.

‘Yes,’ said Johanne. ‘It would be very helpful if you could go through the menu in English so that I don’t have to translate for my friend.’

This was no problem for the waiter. He spent almost ten minutes explaining and describing each dish and answering all of Karen’s interested questions. When they had finally agreed on food and wine, Johanne realized that Karen was far more worldly than she was. Even the waiter seemed impressed.

They began with oysters.

There were no oysters on the menu, and the waiter didn’t mention them at all during his comprehensive account of what the restaurant had to offer. Karen shook her head when he had finished, smiled her dazzling white smile and suggested that every self-respecting master chef always has a few oysters tucked away.

Always, she insisted.

It was true.

The problem was that Johanne had never eaten oysters.

She was an academic with a PhD. Well-travelled and financially secure. She liked food. She had eaten dog in China and deep-fried spiders from a shack in Angkor Wat. But she had never dared to try oysters.

She looked at the plate. The half-shells lay there on a bed of ice, smelling faintly of the shoreline. Nobody could claim that the slimy, dirty white blobs looked appetizing. She glanced at Karen, who trickled a mixture of white wine and vinegar over each oyster from a small bowl, before picking up the first shell and sliding the contents into her mouth. She closed her eyes and rolled the oyster around in her mouth, then swallowed and exclaimed: ‘Perfect!’

Johanne followed suit.

The oyster was the best thing she had ever tasted.

‘Johanne,’ said Karen when the dish was empty. ‘Tell me more. Tell me everything. Absolutely everything!’

They talked their way through two more courses. They talked about their time at college and mutual friends from those days. About families and parents, about their joys and frustrations. About their children. They talked over each other, laughed and interrupted each other. The acoustics in the small restaurant were hopeless; Karen’s loud laugh bounced off the bare walls, disturbing the other guests. However, the waiter remained friendly, discreetly topping up their glasses as soon as they were almost empty.

‘Karen, I have to ask you about something.’

Johanne looked at the fourth course as it was placed in front of her: quail on a bed of artichoke purée. The little bird was surrounded by a circle of fine strips of Parma ham interspersed with pickled cherry tomatoes.

‘Tell me about the APLC,’ she said.

‘How do you know I work there?’ Karen carefully wiped her mouth with the thick fabric serviette before picking up her knife and fork again.

‘I googled you,’ said Johanne. ‘At the moment I’m working on a project that—’

Karen laughed, making the glasses clink.

‘We’ve been sitting here for over two hours, and we still haven’t got round to telling each other what we do! You first – start talking!’

And Johanne talked. She talked about her job at the Institute of Criminology, about the doctoral thesis she completed in 2000, about how she loved research but found the teaching obligations which went with her current position something of a trial, and about the joys and frustrations of having to combine her career with two demanding children. Gradually, she got around to talking about the project on which she was currently working. By the time she had finished, the quail were tiny skeletons on otherwise empty plates.

‘You must come over and see us,’ Karen said firmly. ‘What we do is highly relevant to your research.’

‘And now it’s your turn,’ said Johanne. ‘Off you go.’

She asked the waiter if they could have a short pause before the next course. She could feel that she had had a little bit too much to drink, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten out, and she definitely couldn’t remember when she had felt this good. So when the waiter refilled her glass, she smiled appreciatively at him.

‘We started in 1971, and we’re located in Montgomery, Alabama,’ Karen began, holding her glass of red wine up to the light to assess the colour. ‘The two founders – who are white by the way – were part of the civil rights movement. They founded the company mainly to work against racism. It doesn’t make any money, of course.’

She paused, as if trying to work out how to tell a long story in the shortest possible time.

‘From the start you could say we acted as an organization providing free legal aid. Not that I was there at the time!’

Once more her laughter echoed around the room, and an elderly couple two tables away glared in their direction.

‘In those days I hadn’t even finished elementary school. In 1981 the company set up an information department, simply to make it easier to reach our only real goal: an America that works in agreement with its once revolutionary constitution. For the first few years the struggle was mainly focused on white supremacy groups.’

‘Ku Klux Klan,’ Johanne said quietly.

‘Among others. We’ve won a series of cases against members of the Klan. A couple of times we’ve even managed to close down their training camps and busted pretty big active cells. Of course the problem is …’

She gave a little sigh and took a sip of her wine.

‘KKK aren’t the only ones in that particular arena. We’ve got the Imperial Klans of America, the Aryan Nations, the Church of the Creator … You name it. Over the years our information service has become pretty comprehensive, and today I think we have an overview of 926 different hate groups distributed across the whole of the US. And they’re extremely active.’

She emphasized the word extremely.

‘I presume they’re not all working against African-Americans?’

‘No indeed. For example, we have black separatist movements that want to get rid of the rest of us. The Jews also have enemies everywhere. In the US, too.’

Karen suddenly looked older. The lines around her eyes were not laughter lines, as Johanne had thought. Now that Karen was serious, they were much deeper.

‘The Institute for Historical Review, Noontide Press … way too many. On the other side, the Jews have the Jewish Defense League, which is most definitely a hate organization. So, there is enough hatred to go round in this world. We’ve got groups who are against South Americans, against Native Americans, for Native Americans, against all immigrants on more general and less prejudiced grounds …’

An ironic smile ended the sentence. She was speaking more quietly now, but the married couple who had been sitting over by the wall still glared reproachfully at them as they got up to leave. As they passed behind Johanne she heard something about a ruined evening and the fact that there ought to be a limit, even for Americans.

‘And then, of course, there are all those who hate gays,’ said Karen.

Dessert arrived at their table.

‘Strawberry carpaccio with a vanilla crust and a miniature champagne sorbet,’ said the waiter, placing the plates in front of them. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’

‘How big are these groups?’ asked Johanne when they were alone again.

Karen stuck her spoon into the slices of strawberry. She rested her elbows on the table and gazed at her food as she answered slowly.

‘That’s not an easy question to answer, actually. As far as the purely racist organizations are concerned, they’re bigger than you can imagine. Some of them are really old, and are run like military forces. As for the others, particularly the anti-gay groups, it’s much more difficult to …’

She put the spoon in her mouth and closed her eyes in bliss as she chewed. She searched for the right words.

‘How shall I put it? … More difficult to define.’

Johanne nodded. She was also trying to find the right words, and asked: ‘Because of strong links with church communities, which are actually legitimate?’

‘Yes,’ said Karen. ‘That’s one reason. Initially, we define a hate group as a more or less established organization that fosters hatred against groups, or promotes this hatred in some other way. They’re not classified as criminal until they overstep the mark with regard to the rules on freedom of speech to which most countries subscribe, incite others to carry out actions punishable by law, or carry out such actions themselves, where the individual focus of this criminal action is targeted because they belong to a large group of people with specific, recognizable characteristics.’

She let out a long breath.

‘That’s not the first time you’ve said that,’ smiled Johanne.

‘I might have gone through it a few times.’

She was eating more slowly now. Johanne was full to bursting, and pushed her plate away.

‘To give you one example,’ said Karen. ‘This happened in 2007. A young man, Satender Singh, was on holiday at Lake Natoma in California. He was from Fiji, and one day he was at a restaurant with some Indian friends. A group of people who spoke Russian decided that they could tell Satender was gay, and, to cut a long story short, they killed him.’

Johanne sat in silence.

‘It does happen that homosexuals are killed just because they’re homosexuals,’ Karen went on. ‘The particular thing about this case was that the murderers belonged to a very large group of Slavic religious immigrants in the Sacramento area. Their church communities are extreme in their condemnation of homosexuality. We’re talking about almost a hundred thousand people, divided among seventy fundamentalist congregations in an area which used to be heavily populated by gays. To say that the relationship between these groups is now highly charged would be something of an understatement. The Christians are running an intensive anti-gay propaganda campaign, using both their own TV and radio stations and an enormous capacity to mobilize. At some protest meetings held by gay organizations, there are more anti-demonstrators than demonstrators.’

She took a deep breath and scraped up the remains of her sauce with her fork before going on.

‘But when do they take that extra step and become criminals? On the one hand, it’s clear they feel hatred. Their use of language and not least the disproportionate amount of attention they give to this whole issue makes it very clear that this is a question of pure, insane hatred. In addition, several of their spiritual leaders have refused to distance themselves from the murder of Satender, for example. On the other hand, freedom of speech is, and will remain, quite far-reaching, and many of those within such communities right across the US are very careful not to incite violence and murder directly.’

‘They build the foundations for actions based on hatred, they refuse to condemn such actions when they occur, and afterwards they wash their hands of the whole thing because they didn’t come straight out and say “kill them”.’

‘Exactly,’ said Karen, nodding. ‘And when a priest proclaims into the ether that homosexuals are wallowing in sin and will die an agonizing death, they will burn in hell, they will … Well, he can simply say he was referring to the word and the will of God. If one of God’s children took him literally, that’s not his problem. And as you’re well aware, religious freedom and the freedom of speech are …’

‘The very basis of America’s existence,’ Johanne concluded.

‘More coffee?’

The waiter must have had a first-class degree in patience. They had been the only customers in the restaurant for more than half an hour. The staff were just waiting for them to finish. And yet the waiter took the time to top up their coffee cups and fetch more hot milk.

‘None of this is good news,’ said Karen when he’d gone. ‘And apart from these extreme church groups, we have more established organizations in several parts of the US. Like the American Family Association. Of course, they don’t incite murder either, but they make a hell of a lot of noise, and constantly create a bad atmosphere when it comes to public debate. A little while ago they started a boycott of McDonald’s, of all things.’

‘Actually, that sounds quite sensible,’ said Johanne with a smile. ‘But why?’

‘Because the chain had bought advertising space at one of the Gay Pride festivals.’

‘And how did it go?’

‘The whole thing failed, of course. On that occasion. But some of these groups are powerful and influential; they have plenty of money, and they don’t care what methods they use. They certainly express hatred, but you can’t call them criminal. But the most frightening thing of all is that …’

She raised her glass in a silent toast.

‘Recently we’ve seen signs of a more systematic persecution. Six murders of gay men during the past year are still unsolved: three in New York, one in Seattle and two in Dallas. Each case was thoroughly investigated over a long period by the local police. The murders were all carried out using different methods, and other circumstances varied. However, our investigators gradually discovered that two of the victims were cousins; the third had been a school friend of the first; the fourth had travelled around Europe by train with the second; and the last two had had brief relationships with the fourth two years apart. The FBI has taken over the cases. Not that they’ve got any closer to finding the perpetrator. But our department isn’t going to let this go until it’s solved.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Johanne mumbled. ‘What theories do you have?’

‘Plenty.’

The noise from the kitchen had increased in volume. Whisks and ladles crashed down on metal worktops, and they could clearly hear the dishwasher. Johanne looked at her watch.

‘I think we ought to make a move,’ she said, hesitating briefly before she added: ‘Do you still enjoy walking, Karen?’

‘Me? I walk all the time!’

Johanne asked for the bill. It had been ready for a long time, and Karen grabbed it before Johanne had even realized the waiter was there.

‘My treat.’

Johanne didn’t have the energy to argue.

‘Shall we walk back to my place and have a nightcap?’ she asked as Karen got out her credit card. ‘It’s only about twenty minutes from here. Maybe a bit more in this weather.’

‘Fantastic,’ said Karen delightedly. She showered the waiter with compliments, picked up her coat and headed for the door.

‘Oslo is a really quiet city,’ she said in surprise when they got outside.

The traffic lights at the junction between Hans Nielsen Hauges Vei and Sandakerveien changed from amber to red with not a car in sight. The dirt and fumes from the day’s traffic were concealed beneath a thin layer of fresh snow. There was hardly a footprint to be seen on the pavement. The clouds hung low over the city, and towards the southwest a pale yellow glow shone from the street lamps in the centre.

‘This is mainly a residential area,’ said Johanne. ‘And in any case people don’t go out much at night after Christmas. Norwegians party themselves to a standstill in December. January is the month of good intentions.’

They passed the video shop on the corner and set off along Sandakerveien.

‘Where were we?’ said Karen.

‘Your theories,’ Johanne reminded her. ‘About those six murders.’

‘Ah yes.’

Karen knotted her scarf more tightly as they walked. Johanne had forgotten how tall and long-legged her friend was; she had to hurry to keep up with Karen.

‘As far as the anti-gay movement goes, we’ve seen some strange new alliances. Jews and Christians, Muslims and even extreme right-wing groups haven’t been able to live in peace for hundreds and hundreds of years, but now they’ve found a common enemy: the gay community. We’ve just registered a group who call themselves “The 25’ers”. The curious thing about them is that they work very quietly.’

‘Quietly? Isn’t the whole point of groups like that to make as much noise as possible?’

‘As a rule. But these people are different. We think they originate from more traditional fundamentalist environments on both the Muslim and the Christian side. It’s as if they think everything is moving too slowly. That it’s time to do something radical. It’s the same people as before, but in a different combination, so to speak. They have the same goals, but are planning to use completely different methods to achieve them.’

They walked on for a while in silence. The conversation had taken an unpleasant turn, and Johanne wasn’t sure she wanted to follow it to its conclusion.

‘What methods?’ she asked anyway as they reached the point where Sandakerveien levels out and curves towards the north-west.

Karen stopped so abruptly that Johanne had gone a couple of metres before she realized.

‘Oslo isn’t exactly a beautiful city,’ said Karen, looking around.

Johanne smiled.

‘I think the point where we’re standing right now is the ugliest, most depressing place in the entire city,’ she said. ‘Not that I think our city is particularly beautiful, but don’t judge it by what you see here.’

On the right-hand side lay several box-shaped warehouses, trying to hide beneath the snow as if out of sheer embarrassment. In front of them – where Nycoveien takes a couple of hundred metres to reach a desolate roundabout – half the wall of Storosentret had been torn down because the complex was being extended. The vast, patched-up shopping centre looked more like a ruin than a building site. From the roof a gigantic red O flashed in the darkness, an inflamed Cyclops eye. Between the two streets an office block with vertical turquoise stripes cast garish reflections on the snow. On the left-hand side stood a handful of yellow brick buildings at an angle. For some reason the architect had thought it a good idea to put all the pipes on the outside; it looked like the backdrop to a cheap sci-fi film.

‘It’ll be better when we get up to Nydalen,’ said Johanne. ‘Come on.’

They set off again, trudging along in the middle of the road.

‘So far we don’t know nearly enough about The 25’ers,’ said Karen as they picked up speed. ‘But we have reason to believe that an unholy alliance – to put it mildly – has been formed between fundamentalist Muslims and fundamentalist Christians. We have a theory that the name comes from the digit sum of the numbers 19, 24 and 27, the first number relating to the Koran and the other two referring to the Bible – St Paul’s Epistle to the Romans. All very complicated. Of course we’re not talking about some kind of church community here. Nor a political group.’

‘So what are they?’

‘A militant group. A paramilitary force. We think we’ve identified at least three of the members: two ultra-conservative Christians and one Muslim. All three have a military background. One was actually a Navy Seal. The problem is they know that we know who they are, and they’ve gone quiet. All they’re doing at the moment is behaving perfectly normally. Unfortunately, we have reason to believe the group is quite large. Large and extremely well run. The FBI are banging their heads against a brick wall, and there’s not much the APLC can do under the circumstances. But we’re trying, of course. We’re trying as hard as we can.’

‘But what is it these people actually do?’

‘They murder homosexuals and lesbians,’ said Karen. ‘The 25’ers is an organization for the discontented. Those who want action, not words.’

She paused as they moved to the side of the road to avoid an oncoming car.

‘Fortunately, we make do with shouting at each other in Norway, thank God,’ said Johanne.

Karen gave a wry smile as she stopped at the next roundabout. ‘That’s how it starts. That’s exactly how it starts.’

There were no cars in sight, and they crossed the road.

‘Is the anti-gay movement in Norway mainly religious?’ asked Karen.

‘To a certain extent. I’d say the element that can be defined as a movement is characterized by the Christian conservatives. Some individuals are trying to construct a more morally philosophical platform for their homophobic arguments. But when you examine their reasoning, you discover they all have a deep faith in God as their starting point.’ She took a deep breath and sighed heavily. ‘And then there’s the constant whining from the caravans.’

‘Caravans?’

‘It’s just an expression. I mean the masses. Not particularly Christian and most definitely not philosophical. They just don’t like gays.’

They had reached the Congress Centre, and Karen stopped in front of one of G-sports windows. It obviously wasn’t the January sales display of ski equipment she was interested in, because she was looking at the reflection of Johanne’s face in the glass.

‘I’ve always thought you were so far ahead when it came to equality. Anti-racism. Gay rights.’

She suddenly leaned closer to the window, mumbling something that sounded like a calculation.

‘A thousand dollars? For those skis? I’ve got exactly the same ones, and they cost 450. I’m beginning to understand why the average wage is so high in this country.’

‘Something happened here when gays started having children,’ Johanne said thoughtfully, as if she’d suddenly been struck by a fresh insight. ‘Before that, most things were running fairly smoothly. But this business with children has caused a real backlash.’

The cloud cover had broken up. Over Grefsenkollen three stars appeared on a strip of black. The wind had increased since they left the restaurant, and the temperature must have fallen. Johanne put her hands together and blew warm air into her woollen gloves. The wind carried with it a damp chill, and she pushed her hands in her pockets with her gloves on.

‘More and more lesbians are having children,’ she went on. ‘At the beginning of this year a new gender-neutral law on marriage was brought in, guaranteeing the same rights to IVF as heterosexuals. In recent years gay men have also started on the same route, travelling to the US and using egg donors and surrogate mothers. All of which has led to …’

They set off again.

‘Do you know what they call those children?’ she said angrily. ‘Half-manufactured. Constructed children!’

Karen shrugged her shoulders.

‘History repeats itself,’ she said wearily. ‘There’s nothing new under the sun. When the first marriages between blacks and whites took place, some people claimed it went against God’s commandments. That it was against the will of God and nature and customs and against everything we were used to. Their children were also given a nickname: half-castes. Which sounds quite a lot like your half-manufactured.’

She took a deep breath.

‘It will pass, Johanne. In a few days a “half-caste” president will be inaugurated back home. Six years ago no one – but no one – would have thought that we would have a woman president, and now an African-American. It’s a pity about Helen Bentley, by the way. I was sorry she didn’t want to stand for a further term. I’ve nothing but praise for Obama, but deep down …’

It was half past eleven. A bus came chugging towards them. The driver was yawning as it passed, but he gave a start when a cat suddenly ran into the road, causing him to slam on the brakes.

‘Deep down I think it was an even greater victory to get a woman president in the White House,’ Karen said quietly, as if entrusting Johanne with a dangerous secret. ‘And when the most powerful leader in the world says she’s throwing in the towel for the sake of her family after only four years, I reserve the right not to believe her.’

Johanne tried to suppress a smile. She didn’t often feel the need to share the story of the dramatic events that took place in May 2005. The twenty-four hours she had spent with Helen Bentley in an apartment in Frogner, while the whole world assumed the American president was dead, had over the years become a locked-in memory which she rarely opened in order to examine it more closely. She had been instructed to keep quiet in the interests of the security of both Norway and the United States, and had kept all the pledges she had signed. Now, for the first time, she was tempted to break her word.

‘I’ve never heard of The 25’ers,’ she said instead. ‘Tell me more.’

They had reached Gullhaug Torg.

Karen moved her bag to the other shoulder. She opened her mouth a couple of times without saying anything, as if she didn’t really know what words to choose.

‘Rage,’ she said eventually. ‘While the rest of the hate groups grow strong on frenzy, prejudice and misdirected religious fervour, organizations like The 25’ers are built on holy rage. That’s something different. Something much more dangerous.’

They stopped on the bridge over the Akerselva and leaned against the railing. The water level was low, and beautiful ice sculptures had formed along the edges.

‘How … how do all these organizations finance their activities?’ asked Johanne.

‘It varies,’ Karen replied. ‘When it comes to the extreme church groups, they finance themselves just like any other faith community. Rich members and generous donations. And they’re not that expensive to run. The more militant groups also collect money from their members. But we think some of them are partly funded through serious crime.’

She paused and looked at a lovely arch of ice spanning three large rocks.

‘The Ku Klux Klan and the Aryan Nations, for example. While KKK has traditionally directed its hatred against African-Americans – and they’ve killed God knows how many over the years – the Aryan Nations base their existence on a pseudo-theological belief that it’s the Anglo-Saxons, not the Jews, who are God’s chosen people. They hate the blacks as well, of course, but for them it’s the Jews who are the real virus infecting the pure body of humanity. They rally an enormous amount of support in jails, something which has been a deliberate policy on the part of their leaders. Their money comes from …’

She turned to Johanne and held up one finger at a time on her left hand.

‘Fraud, larceny, narcotics, bank robberies.’

Four fingers stuck up in the air before her thumb joined them.

‘And murder. Professional murderers. There are actually those who provide that service.’

Johanne didn’t know much about the professional murder industry, and didn’t reply.

‘Someone orders a murder through an intermediary,’ Karen explained. ‘If the intended victim happens to be gay, you can hire a killer who thinks people like that should die anyway. If the victim is black you find an organization …’

She raised her shoulders to make the point.

‘You get the idea.’

A solitary duck had settled down for the night on the west bank of the river. It withdrew its beak from under its wing and stared at them in the hope that the two women on the bridge might have brought along some bread. When nothing happened it tucked its head down and became a round ball of feathers once again.

‘When it comes to The 25’ers, we know far too little about them,’ said Karen. ‘However, we know enough to conclude that they remind us of The Order, who sprang up in the eighties as a splinter group from the KKK and AN. They were going to start a revolution and bring down the American government. The most striking difference between them and these new groups is the level of cooperation between different religions. And unfortunately they’re not alone. For example, there’s another splinter group from—’

‘Stop,’ Johanne said with a smile, putting her arm around Karen’s shoulders. ‘I can’t cope with any more. I think we should say that’s enough talk of hatred for tonight. I want to hear about your children, your husband, your brother! Is he still such a ladies’ man?’

‘You bet! He’s on his third marriage!’

Johanne tucked her hand under Karen’s arm as they set off again.

‘Not far now,’ she said, guiding her off to the right. ‘Adam will be so pleased to see you.’

It was true. He would be pleased, however late it was.

By the time she had dealt with the children, her job, the house and the rest of the family, Johanne usually had no energy left. She and Adam sometimes went out to dinner, usually with old friends, but she always dreaded it. On very rare occasions they would invite someone round. It was always enjoyable, but took all of her strength for several days before and after. Adam, on the other hand, was good at pursuing his own interests as soon as he had an hour to spare. He devoted a lot of time to his grandson Amund, who had been a tiny baby when Adam’s grown-up daughter and wife died in a tragic accident. He also met friends. And he had recently started saying that he wanted to have a horse again – as if he had ten or twelve hours a week he didn’t know how to fill.

And he was always on at her. Go out. Ask somebody round. Ring a friend and go and see a film.

‘Kristiane will be fine without you for a couple of hours,’ he would say, more often than Johanne would like to admit.

Adam would be delighted.

They had almost reached Maridalsveien. The clouds were scudding across the sky, and the soughing of the bare treetops almost drowned out the hum of the traffic on Ringveien to the north.

Three minutes and they’d be home.

She was almost tempted to wake up Kristiane.

Just to show her off.