Black Seconds (20 page)

"Top speed twenty-one knots," Willy stated. "How fast is twenty-one knots?"

Tomme frowned. "No idea. Forty kilometers per hour, perhaps?"

"Forty? That's not a lot." Willy stared out of the window at the lazy gray waves. He was holding his pint with both hands. "On the other hand," it occurred to him, "this forty-thousand-ton baby is cutting through the waves in the middle of the sea at forty kilometers an hour. And in rough weather, too! That's not bad when you think of it." He drank more beer.

He's nervous, Tomme thought. He has done this loads of times before and it has always gone without a hitch, but now he's nervous. So am I. The police have been to his garage. But they were looking for me. Perhaps they're out to get both of us. He shuddered and gulped down his beer.

"So what's up?" Willy said, glancing at him sideways. "Any more news from the cops?"

Tomme considered his answer carefully. He would prefer not to talk about his cousin Ida and everything that had happened recently. However, it was hard to avoid. "An officer turned up at our house the other day. Fucking tall guy!" He looked up at Willy. "He's heading the investigation. I've seen him on TV."

"He's the one who came to my garage." Willy nodded.

"He wanted to know how I smashed the car. Exactly how it happened." He was watching Willy closely. "They've even checked out the crash barrier at the bridge. Would you believe it? They sent a man out to look for traces of black paint from the Opel!"

"Yeah?" Willy said; he was so fascinated by this that his eyes looked as if they were about to jump out of his head.

"And they found them," Tomme said. "I was shitting myself."

"But it's true!" Willy stated. "You're only telling them the truth!"

"I know. But I was still shitting myself."

"And what else? What else are they doing?" Willy said.

"I think they've got a lead. I wish I knew what it was. I don't understand any of it," Tomme concluded, rubbing his neck with a clammy hand. Despite the thick carpets, the floor was throbbing underneath his feet. It was weird to think that they were on a ship. It didn't feel like it; it was more like a huge restaurant with a strong humming sound coming from the basement. A power station or something like that. Tomme touched his neck with his hand again and started massaging it. He was sitting with his back against the wall and a chilly draft was coming from the window behind him.

***

Tomme did not dream. He fell asleep quickly and the low hum from the engines kept him company throughout the night. The next morning they went ashore. It felt good to have solid ground underneath his feet once more, but the gale was strong. The boys walked sideways against the fierce wind and warded off the worst gusts with their shoulders. Tomme's jacket had a hood; he pulled it over his head and tightened the toggles. When you looked at him from the side, his narrow nose stuck out like a fragile beak.

On Saturday Willy carried out his bit of business at Bar Spunk. That was how he phrased it. It was no big deal, just a bit of business. He had no intention of getting anyone hooked. He never forced his drugs on anyone, people came to him. Adults. Regulars always. This was how he looked at it, a welcome bit of extra cash. His wages at Mestern bowling alley were measly, and as far as he had been able to work out, none of his regular clients had ever ended up with a serious drug habit.

"But there's no way you can know that," Tomme said. "Kids might get their hands on the drugs. Terrible things could happen."

"That's not my problem," Willy said. "I sell to responsible adults. What they do with them has got nothing to do with me."

Tomme was in a café eating chicken and french fries. Willy had gone off purposefully with the Puma bag over his shoulder. It did not look noticeably heavier when he returned just under an hour later. Afterward they drifted around the streets, people-watching. Later that day Tomme called his mother to assure her that everything was all right. With him and with Bjørn. Then it was time to go home.

They returned to the bar, to the same cabin below. Willy did not say anything about what his business had involved, he just tossed his bag casually into the cabin. True, once during the evening he ducked out to check something, as he put it, but he was back quickly. Tomme wondered if the bag, which looked entirely innocent, might have a false bottom or a secret compartment. In fact it was an ordinary sports bag made from cheap nylon. Willy seemed on top of the world. During the evening he got quite drunk. Tomme was nursing his third beer and feeling clear-headed. Another gale was brewing. However, it hardly affected them; they were comfortably ensconced in their armchairs. Suddenly Willy went over to the bar and bought three pints at once. He started downing the first one.

"Why did you do that?" Tomme said, baffled. He stared at the three glasses.

"The gale is about to hit us," Willy said. "If it gets too severe, they'll stop serving." He took a huge gulp. "I travel a lot," he explained, "so I know these things."

Tomme shook his head in disbelief. He sipped his beer carefully and accepted that he would end up carrying Willy back to their cabin later on.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you," Willy said. His speech was beginning to slur and his face had taken on an ugly expression, which unnerved Tomme.

"Oh?" Tomme said. He tried to sound indifferent. All the same, he could not help feeling scared. He had been expecting this.

"I mean, let's face it," Willy said. "You owe me a favor. Or two."

"And why's that?" Tomme said. He suddenly felt sober, and he pushed his glass aside to indicate that he was in another place. That he was in control.

"To begin with, there's this weird story of yours," Willy said. "Though your secret's safe with me, that goes without saying. And then there's the fact that I fixed your car for free."

"But now you want to be paid, is that what you're saying?" Tomme said acidly. Christ, he wished he had not come with Willy. He reached for his glass and drank fiercely. He was angry. It felt good; everything was easier when you were angry. Anger sped things up, made the blood run faster.

"Now, now, don't be crude," Willy said. "I'm not talking about money."

"I didn't think for a moment that you were," Tomme said.

"Just a small favor in return," Willy said. "A little job. It'll only take a few minutes."

Tomme waited for him to continue.

"When we go ashore," Willy said, "we'll swap bags."

Tomme jumped in his chair and his eyes widened with fear. "No way," he said, clutching his glass.

Again Willy smiled his vicious smile and leaned across the table. "Please, let me finish," he said.

"I'm going back to the cabin," Tomme said. "I don't want to hear another word about it. And don't you go thinking that telling my weird story to anyone will get you very far."

"Won't it?"

"Think about it, for Christ's sake. I don't even understand a single word of it myself. So why would the police?"

"Perhaps they're smarter than you?" Willy suggested.

"I don't think so. You're blackmailing me," Tomme accused him.

Willy looked at him and pretended to be hurt. "Aren't we as bad as each other? I've got something on you. You've got something on me. I wouldn't call that blackmail. I would call it a standoff. It'll only take you a few minutes. All I want you to do is carry the gear through customs for me."

"Do you take me for an idiot? You're drunk," Tomme declared. "Let's go to bed. It's late, and they're shutting the bar soon anyway. I've had enough of this."

"Still got some beer left," Willy slurred. "I just thought you might want to help me out. Given that I helped you."

"You're asking a lot, I think," Tomme said bitterly.

"As were you. If you think about it. If you really think about it," Willy said, pronouncing each word with exaggerated clarity.

Tomme kept staring out of the window, hoping to see the sea. No use. It was almost impossible to believe that the sea was on the other side, right on the other side. Inside it was bright and cozy. Inside there was music and good times to be had. Now and again bursts of laughter rang out and the clinking of glasses could be heard. It was like a different sort of sea, waves of warm bodies, music, rhythm, and all of it lit up so strangely that it reminded him of the undulating surface of the ocean. He suddenly felt worn out. So tired and fed up with it all.

"Take your beer outside and let's get a bit of fresh air," Willy said.

Tomme yawned. "It's the middle of the night."

"I want to see the gale," Willy said. He drank three huge gulps so the glasses would not spill when he carried them. They left the bar and climbed up the stairs. The wind got hold of them the moment they opened the door to the stormy deck.

"For fuck's sake," Tomme said. "We'll get soaked."

"Fantastic," Willy screamed with elation. He stood with his arms stretched out to the sides and the icy wind hitting him straight in his face. It was totally exhilarating. "The perfect storm!" he yelled.

Tomme crouched as he felt the wind grab hold of him. He held on to the railings and moved cautiously toward the stern of the ship.

Willy followed him on unsteady legs. "Fresh air!" he hollered. "Christ, this should sober me up," he muttered into his glass.

Tomme felt the salty spray stick to his face. He bent over the railings. Far below he could see the black swell with the foaming white peaks. Suddenly he hated Willy. His story would haunt him forever as long as he knew Willy. It would rear its ugly head whenever Willy wanted something from him. Whenever he wanted him to walk through customs with a bag full of drugs. He shuddered and stared down at the waves. Willy came over to the railings. Climbed up on to them and gazed down at the black water. He was taller than Tomme, but skinny as a rake. His hair was soaked through.

"Just what exactly did you buy?" Tomme said eventually.

"Eh?" Willy screamed. The roar of the sea drowned out all other sounds. The sharp rain pricked their faces.

"What's in your bag?"

"Well, it's not exactly sweets," Willy giggled. He drank from his glass again. Suddenly it slipped out of his hand and disappeared into the waves. Amazed, he followed it with his eyes.

"Perhaps I hit a fish," he mumbled optimistically. "Right in the middle of its fishy head."

"Tell me, for God's sake!"

Willy turned and faced him. "What a way to carry on, man. I asked you to do me a favor and you said no. That's fine, you've made your point. But I wasn't being serious; I just wanted to test your loyalty. You didn't pass," he declared.

It was said in jest, but Tomme knew him better than that. There was a bitter ring to the drawling voice. Suddenly he felt uneasy.

"I'll speak to a garage," Tomme said, "and get a quote for the work. Then I'll pay you back when I get some money."

Personally he felt this was an honorable attempt at reestablishing the equilibrium between them. Willy didn't reply. He was hanging over the railings. His eyes were distant, as if the rush from the beer and the roar of the sea had carried him far away. Tomme suddenly imagined the skinny body toppling over and disappearing into the waves. Imagined Willy sinking and taking his story with him. And that he himself would take it with him to his own grave when the time came. And that no one else knew. Only Willy. He was so drunk and reeling. So unprepared. Not a soul could see them up here.

Tomme was horrified by his own fantasies. He pulled back from the railings and sat down on a crate. His clothes were wet. It was raining harder. He remembered that he had no other trousers apart from these damp ones he was wearing now. Only a dry sweater in his bag.

He heard Willy starting to hiccup over by the railings. He hiccupped loudly four or five times, then turned around and looked at Tomme. In the darkness and the rain their faces were lit up like dim lanterns and a silence grew between them that neither of them wanted to break. Tomme studied his friend's face and saw it as a moon-colored oval; the eyes and the mouth appeared as blurred shadows. It seemed to float in the air, detached from the rest of Willy's body. Every time a gust of wind came, his hair was forced over his face, dividing the oval into two halves. White fingers appeared and glowed in the darkness, only to disappear as if spirited away by a magician.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" Willy said.

***

Seven hours later Tomme woke up in agony from a severe headache. He could barely move his head. He stayed in his berth for several minutes without opening his eyes. His mind was in turmoil. Had it all been a dream? Something evil, something utterly incredible surfaced as snippets of light and sound. He did not know whether it was still night or early morning. If they were in the middle of the fjord or nearly in port. There was no porthole in the cabin. He could raise his left arm and look at his watch if he wanted to. However, that seemed to him to require too much effort. The steady hum from the diesel engines was still there. Its pleasant vibrations spread to his body and he felt a strong reluctance to get up and lose this sensation. He could not hear any voices or footsteps. Finally he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Tried to swallow. His mouth was dry. Perhaps we're in port, he thought. Perhaps all the other passengers have disembarked. There's only you left, Tomme Rix, all alone in a berth in a cabin at the bottom of the ship. At the very bottom. He could stay on and travel back to Copenhagen. And later return to Oslo. He could sail across the sea for ever and ever. Lock himself in the cabin. Bolt the door. He did not want to get up, did not want to leave the ship, did not even want to be conscious. But he was unable to go back to sleep. There were voices in the distance after all. They brought him out of his trance. He sat up drowsily and planted his feet on the floor. He had slept in his clothes. His jeans were still wet from his time on deck. He staggered over to the small sink. Splashed cold water on his face without looking in the mirror. Dried himself with the towel. The towel was stiff, he thought; it scratched his skin.