Burned by Thomas Enger Read Free Book Online Page B

someone made a complete hash of urban planning: 1950s tenements painted a shade of gray that can best be described as concrete, and tiny, charming houses in vibrant colors, lie a hair’s breadth from each other. The incline of Damstredet reminds him of the narrow lanes of Bergen, while the buildings along the road leading to the city center evoke local government. There is a constant buzz and a permanent cloud of dust and pollution in the streets and the neighborhood’s few gardens.
    But right now, Henning couldn’t care less.
    It is packed with people under the big tree outside the entrance to the college. Friends huddle together, hugging each other. There is crying. And sobbing. He walks nearer, sees others plying the same trade as him, but ignores them. He knows what tomorrow’s newspapers will show. Photos of mourners, plenty of photos, but not very much text. Now is the time to wallow in grief, let the readers have their share of evil, the bereavement, the emotions; get to know the victim and her friends.
    It is a standard package he is putting together. He could almost have written the story before coming here, but it has been a while since he wrote anything, so he decides to start from scratch and think of some questions that might make the package a little less predictable.
    He opts for a slow and soft approach, quietly observing before identifying someone to interview. He has an eye for such people. Soon he is caught up in a river of tears and finds himself overcome by an unexpected reaction:
    Anger. Anger, because only a few people here know what real grief is, know how much it hurts to lose someone you care about, someone you love, someone you would willingly throw yourself in front of a bus for. He sees that many of the bystanders don’t grieve properly, they exaggerate, they pose, relishing the opportunity to show how sensitive they are. But it’s all fake.
    He tries to shake off his rage. He takes out his camera and shoots some pictures, moves around, focusing on faces, on eyes. He likes eyes. They are said to be the mirror of the soul, and Henning likes eyes because they reveal the truth.
    He zooms in on the impromptu shrine the victim’s friends have built under the huge tree to the right of the entrance. Three thick trunks have intertwined and created an enormous broccoli-shaped growth. The branches sag with the weight of the leaves. The roots of the tree are encircled by a low cobblestone wall.
    A framed photograph of Henriette Hagerup is leaning against one of the tree trunks. The photograph is surrounded by flowers, handwritten cards, and messages. Tea lights flicker in the gentle wind which has found its way here. There are photographs of her with her fellow students, with friends, at parties, on location, behind a camera. It’s grief. It’s condensed grief, but it’s still fake. A textbook example, no doubt about it.
    He looks up from the camera and concludes that Henriette Hagerup was a strikingly attractive woman. Or perhaps a mere child. There was something innocent about her: blond curly hair, not too long, a brilliant broad smile, and fair skin. He sees charm. And something more important, something better. Intelligence. He sees that Henriette Hagerup was an intelligent young woman.
    Who could have hated you so much?
    He reads some of the cards:
    We will never forget you, Henriette
    Rest in peace
    Johanne, Turid, and Susanne
    Missing you, Henry
    Missing you loads
    Tore
    There are between ten and twenty cards or notes about absence and grief, and all the messages have similar wording. He is scanning them absentmindedly, when his mobile starts to vibrate in his pocket. He takes it out but doesn’t recognize the caller’s number. He is supposed to be working, but decides to answer it nevertheless.
    “Hello?”
    He moves away from the crowd.
    “Hi, Henning, it’s Iver. Iver Gundersen.”
    Before he has time to say anything, a blast of jealousy hits him right in the solar plexus. Mister