Exposed at the Back (11 page)

She Wants to Sleep with Me

This was where it started. Steinar passed the 3.5 km mark on the treadmill. His heart rate was 190. He needed these tough gym sessions to process new information. He needed to push himself.

His body felt heavier with every step he took, but over the past few years he’d learnt to appreciate this kind of exercise and the pain that accompanied it. He always started his exercise sessions with 5 km on the treadmill.

The pain in his calf muscles was constant, but then it spread to the front of his quadriceps, just above his knees. The stiffness spread up like wildfire. He was running at 14.8 km per hour. His heart rate jumped up to 192. His breathing was getting louder, and the others on the treadmills glanced at him.

The people who went to the gym to drink water were one of Steinar’s pet peeves. Some came out of the changing rooms already drinking water before they’d even touched a weight, before they’d put a single foot on the treadmill. He accelerated by another fraction. He passed the 4 km mark, now at a speed of 15.3. His heart rate was 194.

He let out a loud groan. A girl who had just started on the next treadmill got off and opted for the weight machine instead. 4.1 km. 4.2. At 4.4, his hip cramps started, every step sending waves of pain through his body. But giving up was not an option. Steinar would rather be injured than get off the treadmill before he reached 5 km. He pressed his thumbs into his hips, trying to keep the pain at bay. 4.5 km.

His heart rate reached 200 at 4.9 km, when he adjusted his speed for the last time. 16.1. He gritted his teeth and sprinted as fast as he could until the machine showed the magic 5 km. It had taken him 20 minutes and 15 seconds. He was getting closer, but he wouldn’t see the number 19 today either. The treadmills next to his were deserted.

He found some paper towels and took a couple of minutes to catch his breath, then he went upstairs to the next floor and the free weights. He put 95 kg on the bench press bar. He used to manage 4–6 reps with 115 kg, but that was before he chose to prioritise the treadmill. His fingers met the cool steel. He squeezed the pole, then relaxed again, moving his grip a little. He closed his eyes and pushed the bar up until his arms were straight out. Then he lowered the weight to his ribs, time after time, thinking: ‘She wants to sleep with me, she wants to sleep with me.’

4 reps with 95 kg. It was a start anyway. He sat up. He let his arms hang down and shook them. He turned his head from side to side, his neck cracking.

Myrens Verksted was an old factory building by the Aker River that had been converted into a gym. There was a high ceiling and space for a massive climbing wall. While Steinar waited for his body to get ready for the next bench press session, his eyes followed two girls scurrying like spiders up the white wall with its small climbing holds in all the colours of the rainbow.

He lay down and started lifting again. ‘She wants to sleep with me, she wants to sleep with me, she wants to sleep with me, she wants to sleep with me…’

He’d just barely managed to lift number four. As he held the bar at the top with his hands shaking, he knew that he was taking a chance. He lowered the bar to his chest, trying to let it bounce off his rib cage and get it moving back up. He just managed a few centimetres before the whole thing locked in place. The bar hung there for a couple of seconds. He heaved on the pole, his arms shaking and the small of his back rising up from the bench mat. He turned so that he could get the maximum out of his stronger right arm. He stopped himself from letting out a howl before closing his eyes and relaxing.

The bar was stuck on his rib cage, and there was nobody nearby to help. The only people he could see were the two girls hanging on the wall with their backs turned. The weight was beginning to cause pain in his ribs. There was only one way out.

He leant to the right, and a 2.5 kg, a 15 kg and a 20 kg weight slammed to the floor. He was thrown to the other side, where the weights were still attached and then fell to the ground at full speed as well. Bang! He lifted the bare bar back onto the stand and breathed out. Then he put the weights back in place and worked on his back, arms
and abs before going for a shower.

He got on his bike and coasted along the riverbank, having to slalom in between prams and pushers until he got to the Delicatessen in Grünerløkka, an up-and-coming part of town. His phone rang. It was the journalist from
Nettavisen
, calling for the third time that day. Steinar answered as politely as he could.

‘Once again, I’m sorry, but I’ve got no comment to make at the present time.’ He put his phone on silent and went up the steps into the restaurant.

Benedikte was sitting on one of the wooden chairs, her eyes fixed on her iPhone. She was wearing a sleeveless top in a multitude of colours, her sunglasses on her head. She noticed him approaching, stood up and gave him a hug.

‘I knew it would be behind closed doors, so I didn’t come.’

‘How did you work that out?’

‘Sports journalists in a courtroom? That’s a bad fit.’ She swiped her thumb over her iPhone screen. ‘So what’s happening to him now?’

‘He’s being transferred from the security cell at the city custody centre to Oslo Prison. I’m meeting him tomorrow.’

‘From what I’ve seen on various online forums, it looks like he might need help. There weren’t many people there who think he’s innocent, let alone among newspaper commentators. Those right-wing populists from the Progress Party have gained 6 per cent in today’s opinion polls. You’ve got some work to do.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘But it wasn’t Taribo I wanted to talk to you about. It was you.’

She went quiet, something on her phone catching her interest. Steinar sneaked a peek at her arms. He would soon have to tell her that he had a son and that things were complicated. Or would he? He wasn’t going to marry her, after all, couldn’t he just shag her and keep his trap shut?

A waiter who, unlike most waiters in Oslo, wasn’t Swedish, came over and gave them a couple of menus. Benedikte gave him the unopened menus straight back and asked him to bring some good tapas.

‘To drink?’

‘Sparkling water,’ said Steinar.

‘And you?’ asked the waiter, looking at Benedikte.

‘Answer yes or no. Have you got Tab Xtra?’

‘Er, no.’

‘Coke Zero?’

‘No.’

‘Diet Coke?’

‘No.’

‘Pepsi Max?’

‘Yes.’

‘So that’s what you’ve got.’

‘A Pepsi Max, then?’

‘No, I’ll have an apple juice.’

The waiter wrote this down, pushing his pen hard against the pad before turning and leaving for the kitchen.

Benedikte put her hand on Steinar’s arm, squeezing it.

‘You’ve got to tell me everything.’

Her squeeze sent a jolt through his body. Steinar looked down at the table, then back up at her.

‘Well, I’m divorced, or actually just separated, but…’

‘I meant that you should tell me why you stopped playing football.’

‘Shit.’

‘But, by all means, do tell.’

Steinar let out a deep breath. He opted for honesty. ‘It started with a trip round Asia. I wanted some peace, but I kept meeting Norwegians who recognised me and wanted to talk football. When I was recognised on the streets of Kuala Lumpur by three drunkards from northern Norway, I’d had enough. I went to Langkawi and checked into the best hotel there for two weeks. All I wanted was peace and quiet.’

The waiter came with their drinks. Steinar continued. ‘The first 10 days I spent drinking piña coladas and reading crime novels. On the eleventh day, I was tapped on the shoulder by a girl with dark brown, almost red hair. She said: “Can I join you?” We had a long chat about Langkawi and how beautiful it was, before we discovered that we both came from Oslo. I was from Grefsen, she was from Manglerud. She’d also needed to take a few days’ break from a trip round Asia, but now she was ready to rejoin the group she’d been travelling with. She asked if I wanted to come along with them, and I said yes without a second thought. We travelled round Asia for a year. Our other travelling companions dropped off one by one, and for the last couple of months it was just Mette and me left to enjoy the beaches.’

Steinar cursed himself for getting bogged down in his history with Mette. And why on earth had he just told her that he came from
Grefsen, like his friend Bjørnar always said, and not from Årvoll?

‘Go on,’ said Benedikte.

‘That same autumn we moved in together and both started studying law. Our student years went by quickly. She got a job in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and I got one in a big company at Aker Brygge.’

Steinar took a sip of his water. He could have done everything so much better. He’d walked away from his football career, he’d left a large legal firm and he’d lost the only woman he loved.

He looked at Benedikte. What would she think if she knew that he saw himself as a failure? Or that he longed for football like an alcoholic longs for the first drink of the day? She was only 26 with so many opportunities in front of her. There was a danger that he might push her away. And he’d still held back from telling her about Junior. Might the fact that he had a son mean that she wouldn’t want to get attached to him? A separation was more or less a piece of cake, a child meant a lot more. Steinar felt old.

Their food came. Steinar spread some aioli on a piece of bread. It was so simple yet so good, as was the fried chorizo. Maybe he was just hungry, he thought, feeling his mood improve.

‘I’ve been blocked,’ said Benedikte, finishing off some marinated scampi.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Steinar.

‘I was told not to investigate astroturf any further.’

‘Who told you, and why?’

‘My boss, in no uncertain terms, but I don’t know why yet.’

‘What next?’

‘I can go after other leads in the Golden case, like his agency and his rumoured relationship with Sabrina, but it’s best for me to leave the astroturf stuff aside. That’s why I was wondering whether you might be able to do me a favour.’

‘What is it?’

‘Naturally this astroturf trail is even more intriguing now, and I’ve arranged a meeting with the chairman of FK Framfor, who knows a great deal on the subject. Would you be able to meet him?’

‘That would be fine. I’ve got to get hold of Stanley and his mother, but I can get that done on the way.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Benedikte. She gave him a short briefing on the chairman of FK Framfor before finishing. ‘I’ve got to go now, but can I pop by your place tomorrow afternoon? We can carry on our
conversation then.’

There was something staccato, something stressed in Benedikte’s voice when she said those last words. It wasn’t like her to say ‘brilliant’. Steinar didn’t quite know why, but he thought it seemed like she had been making an effort to sound relaxed. It was also a bit odd for her not to push him a little further on why he stopped playing football. As for him, he’d neglected to mention Junior yet again. Why was he so afraid anyway? He brushed these thoughts aside just as quickly as they appeared, while Benedikte practically shot across the restaurant and out the door.

He twirled a chicken wing gently between his thumb and forefinger. So, she was coming round to his place the following day. The woman who’d said that she would sleep with him was going to meet him again. Not at his office, not at a restaurant, but at his home. Steinar put down the chicken wing. Honesty was overrated. What he had to do was clear away Junior’s toys and squeeze in an extra weight training session the next morning.

Not Only in Italy

‘Hi, Stig,’ said Benedikte.

Stig Nilsen got up and gave Benedikte a big hug. The hug was slightly too long for Benedikte’s taste, but everything about Stig was a little exaggerated.

‘Do you know what this is about?’ asked Benedikte when he’d finally let go.

‘No, they didn’t say anything. Probably something about me not swearing yet again. I watched the tape. I can understand it if that Båtsnes guy is pissed off.’

‘Båtsnes? Who’s that?’

‘The boss.’

‘He’s not called Båtsnes.’

‘Isn’t he? Are you sure?’

‘Positive,’ said Benedikte. But she wasn’t sure why she’d been summoned in person to the office of the controller of TV2. Was it even worse than she’d first thought? Had they been put under so much pressure that she’d have to go? And why was she there with Stig Nilsen?

The office door opened.

‘You can come in now,’ said Bertil Olsen.

The channel controller’s office was spartan. He had the obligatory flat-screen TV on the wall. On his desk was a laptop and an award that the channel had won the previous year for the best TV documentary. In front of his desk were two chairs of a considerably simpler design than his own leather seat. Otherwise his office was bare and tidy, not a single excess piece of paper or Post-it note to be seen. The controller himself seemed to be reading something on his laptop screen, and Olsen signalled Stig and Benedikte to sit down.

The controller looked up from his laptop and closed it. ‘I wanted to
see you about
Football Xtra
.’

Benedikte was convinced now. She was going to get the sack.

‘Let me start with you, Stig,’ said the controller.

‘Well, I’m sorry that I went a bit far last time, I didn’t mean to swear so much.’

‘Actually we’ve had nothing but positive feedback on you, the word “genuine” seems to be a recurring theme. I want to offer you a promotion. You’ll take turns as the main presenter. And then there’s you, Benedikte.’ The controller took a pause before continuing. ‘You’ll have to work it out with Stig to decide who presents when. You’ll take it in turns every other week.’

So it was Kristine who’d have to go, the 34-year-old mother of two who’d just fought her way back to the screen. Where would she go now? Benedikte was reminded once again how short a TV career could be, and how important it was to make a mark for yourself.

‘I’ll do it on one condition,’ said Stig, bringing Benedikte back to reality. She looked across at Stig, just as surprised as the controller and Olsen were.

‘Which is?’ asked the controller.

‘I’ll do it on the weekends that Tromsø’s playing away. I’ve got to be at Alfheim when the lads are playing at home. I don’t mind having to do reports, but I’ve got to be there!’

‘Like I said, you and Benedikte can discuss the rota between you.’

That brought a close to the meeting. There was something about the way the controller had presented the decision, as if the whole session were a warning for Benedikte. Normally, Bertil Olsen would’ve led a meeting of that sort.

Stig and Benedikte went out of the office and down along the corridor. Stig took hold of Benedikte’s shoulder. ‘I hope what I said won’t be a problem.’

‘You mean that my life will be run according to when Tromsø’s fixtures are?’ She smiled. ‘It’s no problem. We’ll work it out. But why don’t we go and have a beer or something this evening, since you’re here in Oslo?’

‘No bloody way. I hate Oslo. I’m getting out of here as quick as I can. I get lost in Oslo. And what would I tell the wife? She’d think I’d end up shagging you if I went out with you for a drink.’

Benedikte started laughing. She couldn’t help it when Stig got going.

‘But there’s something else,’ said Stig. He had a serious look in his
eyes, and Benedikte had never seen him like that before. ‘I hate to spread rumours, but you asked me about that Steinar Brunsvik.’

‘Do you know any more?’

‘I heard something about why he quit.’

‘Do tell.’

‘He just disappeared. Nobody knew what happened to him. The rumour was that he’d run off. Something happened that meant he couldn’t stay in football anymore.’

‘Why did he have to disappear?’

‘I heard he was involved in match fixing, and that he was about to be exposed.’

Benedikte hadn’t put enough pressure on Steinar. She’d backed off so he didn’t have to explain himself. She’d been weak. As a journalist, she couldn’t let herself be weak.

She bit off the end of a fingernail.