Beatles by Lars Saabye Christensen Read Free Book Online Page A

and wash ourselves.
    ‘There’s such a thing as a premonition,’ Seb said under his breath.
    ‘Premonition?’ Gunnar turned to face him.
    ‘Yes. Kind of omen. He said he felt somethin’ in his legs on the way, didn’t he.’
    We thought about this and looked at each other, unconvinced.
    ‘P’raps it was predetermined that he was goin’ to score an own goal,’ Seb continued.
    ‘Predetermined?’ I said. ‘By whom?’
    ‘By… by… I haven’t a clue, God, maybe,’ Seb answered with a blush.
    We went quiet again. The idea that God had interceded in the match between the boys’ teams of Slemmestad and Frigg was not an easy one to assimilate.
    ‘I s’pose God scored my goal, too, did he!’ Gunnar snapped.
    ‘Not at all,’ Seb said meekly. ‘I was just thinkin’ that it was… pretty weird.’
    ‘He was just unlucky,’ Gunnar reasoned. ‘It could’ve happened to anyone.’
    ‘
Unlucky
! With
that
shot!’
    ‘He’s not used to playin’ in defence,’ I said. ‘He may’ve forgotten and thought he was a striker.’
    We contented ourselves with that. The coach drove past Sjølyst, our stop was Frogner church. We sat locked in our own thoughts about what might have happened to Ola. Either he had started walking or he had taken the train, if he had any money. Or he was still there. Christ.
    Åge came to the back of the coach and crouched down.
    ‘I’ll ring his parents to find out if he’s got home okay.’
    We nodded in unison.
    ‘And you make sure he comes to training. Everyone can have a bad day. We’ll find him a place.’
    ‘He’s good in goal,’ Seb said.
    ‘Right.’ Åge looked at us. ‘It would be difficult for him to oust Aksel.’
    ‘He could be the reserve goalie,’ Gunnar suggested.
    Åge stood up.
    ‘That’s an idea. I’ll keep that in mind.’
    The coach stopped outside the church and we scrambled out.
    There was only one thing to do. We walked en masse down to Observatoriegata. But Ola had not come home. His father opened the door.
    ‘Didn’t Ola come back with you?’ he asked.
    Gunnar and Seb looked at each other, lost for words. I cleared my throat and said:
    ‘We had a training session in Tørtberg after the match. Ola went with some others from the class we met in Majorstuen.’
    ‘No, he’s not home yet.’
    Jensen, the hairdresser, pulled up his shirt sleeve, checked his watch, raised his combed eyebrows and slowly shook his head. ‘Do you know where he is?’
    ‘He’s probably with Putte or Goose,’ I said with alacrity.
    Then the mother appeared too, a small, thin lady with lots of curls in her hair and worried eyes.
    ‘Is anything the matter?’
    And then the phone rang from deep inside the flat. That must have been Åge, so we backed down the stairs and charged out of the door.
    We couldn’t walk to Slemmestad. There was nothing else for it but to go home. We hung on in the vague hope that Ola might turn up. He did not. It was strange to think that he might be walking along the road on his own at this moment. He might even have got lost. And soon it would be dark. We shivered, agreed to meet tomorrow at five in Mogens Thorsens Park, Mogga Park to us. Then we each went our own way. The sun was going down behind the red clouds above Holmenkollen Ridge, casting a dark, flat light over the town. Getting home was a priority now because Saturday warfare had started. The Frogner gang could strike at any time. I slunk along a house wall, peered around every corner, thinking about Ola, and about knuckledusters, headbutts, a nose bone which had been smashed into the brain, a boy in the street whose eye went into spasm a couple of years back, the centre of his eyeball quivered while he screamed and screamed.
    I ran the last stretch.
    I showered, washed the Slemmestad crap off myself and joined my mother and father in the sitting room. I had to tell them about the match and was given sausages, griddle cakes, Pommac and stuff. But I couldn’t sit still. Ola might