Read Online Beatles by Lars Saabye Christensen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lars Saabye Christensen
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father’s silverware. It was pure Count of Monte Cristo stuff.
I took the decision.
‘We’ll have to dump it in the sea.’
‘Where th-th-then?’ Ola had the Volvo badge in his hand.
‘Filipstad,’ Gunnar suggested.
‘Bygdøy,’ I said. ‘Not so many people.’
The others nodded gravely. We admired our hunting trophies in solemn silence, stuffed them into all the pockets we had and stomped out with rictus smiles, like four overweight scrap dealers.
Seb’s mother reappeared from nowhere, without a word, and my body seemed to go numb, she had big knockers that wobbled long after she had come to a halt, and her skirt was tight across her hips and it had a slit and stuff.
‘Have you done your homework?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Seb answered, his hands stuffed firmly down his pockets.
‘Hope you get to carry the flags then.’
He looked at her bemused. Ola was about to open his mouth, but I cut in.
‘Three people from every Class 7 are allowed to carry the flags,’ I said quickly. ‘And Ola plays the drums, so he can’t.’
And then we were out. We ran down the stairs and raced off towards Bygdøy. We parked our bikes behind the restaurant and went down to the water. We were alone apart from a dog barking in the distance. I could see over to Nesodden, the quayside, Hornstranda beach and the red beach hut. I shivered. Perhaps spring wasn’t here after all. It was like being in a warm room when someone opens the door and cold air streams in. It came from the fjord, which was dark and resembled corrugated iron.
‘Sh-sh-shall we chuck all of ’em?’ Ola asked warily.
‘All of them,’ Gunnar said with force.
Ola kicked a clump of seaweed.
‘D-d-do you think they’ll’ve t-t-taken fingerprints?’
‘Fingerprints!’ Seb laughed. ‘Where from?’
‘From the Volvo!’
‘They haven’t got any proof,’ I said. ‘Not once we’ve got rid of these.’
We ran up the beach to the craggy cliffs. There we stopped and scanned the horizon. No one around, the dog had gone, not a boat in sight, just a muddy barge that had been towed into Bundefjord.
‘Let’s throw stones first,’ Gunnar said. ‘And then we can chuck a few badges in between.’
A hail of objects fell over the water, Fiats, Mercs, Opels, Peugeots, Morrises, a Vauxhall, Renaults, a Hillman and even a Moskwitch.
‘D’you think anyone will find th-them?’ Ola mumbled at length.
‘The current will carry ’em away,’ Gunnar said. ‘A long way out. Perhaps all the way to Africa.’
‘And then one day my dad’ll be sittin’ and fishin’ on his day off and catch a Volvo badge on his hook,’ Seb chuckled.
We cheered and laughed and sprinted to the other side of the cliffs, but stopped in our tracks and stared at something lying on the stones by the edge of the water.
It was a pile of clothes.
‘Is someone s-s-swimmin’ now?’ Ringo stammered. ‘Must be bloody c-c-cold!’
We scanned the fjord, but couldn’t see anything. The cold wind hit us at full force now that we were no longer sheltered.
‘Must be an ice bather, at least,’ George whispered.
There was no one in the water, though, or on land. So we walked over to the clothes, slowly, holding our breath, I had never walked so slowly before. Perhaps someone had seen us after all. As we approached we saw there was a suit lying there, a white shirt, a tie and underwear, and a pair of polished black shoes placed neatly alongside. And on top of the suit there was a note held down by a stone. We stopped again. Our hearts were going like cardboard strips between wheel spokes. I went on, picked up the note, with great caution, as if it were an injured butterfly. I read aloud, my voice left me with a terrible taste: ‘I have taken my own life. I have no family. The little I have left behind should go to the Salvation Army. No grieving. I have peace now.’
I put back the note and ran to the others, clung to Gunnar.
‘Shi-it! He’s walked into the sea!’
We
I took the decision.
‘We’ll have to dump it in the sea.’
‘Where th-th-then?’ Ola had the Volvo badge in his hand.
‘Filipstad,’ Gunnar suggested.
‘Bygdøy,’ I said. ‘Not so many people.’
The others nodded gravely. We admired our hunting trophies in solemn silence, stuffed them into all the pockets we had and stomped out with rictus smiles, like four overweight scrap dealers.
Seb’s mother reappeared from nowhere, without a word, and my body seemed to go numb, she had big knockers that wobbled long after she had come to a halt, and her skirt was tight across her hips and it had a slit and stuff.
‘Have you done your homework?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Seb answered, his hands stuffed firmly down his pockets.
‘Hope you get to carry the flags then.’
He looked at her bemused. Ola was about to open his mouth, but I cut in.
‘Three people from every Class 7 are allowed to carry the flags,’ I said quickly. ‘And Ola plays the drums, so he can’t.’
And then we were out. We ran down the stairs and raced off towards Bygdøy. We parked our bikes behind the restaurant and went down to the water. We were alone apart from a dog barking in the distance. I could see over to Nesodden, the quayside, Hornstranda beach and the red beach hut. I shivered. Perhaps spring wasn’t here after all. It was like being in a warm room when someone opens the door and cold air streams in. It came from the fjord, which was dark and resembled corrugated iron.
‘Sh-sh-shall we chuck all of ’em?’ Ola asked warily.
‘All of them,’ Gunnar said with force.
Ola kicked a clump of seaweed.
‘D-d-do you think they’ll’ve t-t-taken fingerprints?’
‘Fingerprints!’ Seb laughed. ‘Where from?’
‘From the Volvo!’
‘They haven’t got any proof,’ I said. ‘Not once we’ve got rid of these.’
We ran up the beach to the craggy cliffs. There we stopped and scanned the horizon. No one around, the dog had gone, not a boat in sight, just a muddy barge that had been towed into Bundefjord.
‘Let’s throw stones first,’ Gunnar said. ‘And then we can chuck a few badges in between.’
A hail of objects fell over the water, Fiats, Mercs, Opels, Peugeots, Morrises, a Vauxhall, Renaults, a Hillman and even a Moskwitch.
‘D’you think anyone will find th-them?’ Ola mumbled at length.
‘The current will carry ’em away,’ Gunnar said. ‘A long way out. Perhaps all the way to Africa.’
‘And then one day my dad’ll be sittin’ and fishin’ on his day off and catch a Volvo badge on his hook,’ Seb chuckled.
We cheered and laughed and sprinted to the other side of the cliffs, but stopped in our tracks and stared at something lying on the stones by the edge of the water.
It was a pile of clothes.
‘Is someone s-s-swimmin’ now?’ Ringo stammered. ‘Must be bloody c-c-cold!’
We scanned the fjord, but couldn’t see anything. The cold wind hit us at full force now that we were no longer sheltered.
‘Must be an ice bather, at least,’ George whispered.
There was no one in the water, though, or on land. So we walked over to the clothes, slowly, holding our breath, I had never walked so slowly before. Perhaps someone had seen us after all. As we approached we saw there was a suit lying there, a white shirt, a tie and underwear, and a pair of polished black shoes placed neatly alongside. And on top of the suit there was a note held down by a stone. We stopped again. Our hearts were going like cardboard strips between wheel spokes. I went on, picked up the note, with great caution, as if it were an injured butterfly. I read aloud, my voice left me with a terrible taste: ‘I have taken my own life. I have no family. The little I have left behind should go to the Salvation Army. No grieving. I have peace now.’
I put back the note and ran to the others, clung to Gunnar.
‘Shi-it! He’s walked into the sea!’
We
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