En / No

He would have preferred death to be nothing, not a thing, just zero, a darkness where the world existed without him and his consciousness. Soulfully flowing like a stream of energy in a dim and soundless landscape, left behind in a dark birch forest was not the death Hendrick had envisioned. Finding home would be problematic. As he floated around, he felt like a driftwood, drifting aimlessly, far from land.

That was until he was quietly and, to the driver, unnoticeably pulled into a passing back seat.

As the backseat approached familiar territory, the world grew back. Outside the windows, houses and people sprouted up, sounds and smells became increasingly apparent.

The feeling of the body’s gravity against the leather seat increased to old proportions.

Involuntarily he hitchhiked back to a reality and a life that insisted on his presence.

Both Hendrick and the world were back in full swing.

The driver’s wide-eyed eyes in the rear-view mirror competed with his foot on the brake. Hendrick gently thanked the ride, opened the door and got out. The car drove calmly on and disappeared.

A couple of hours into the celebration, Hendrick and glass number four of Glenfiddich had ended up on the table with Marita, a lady from Svolvær who didn’t know any better. That was what she said, after sailing alone down to Oslo and now on her way home. She talked a lot and about everything. About knitting in calm weather, wet clothes, the silly people in Arendal, being late for something in Bergen. Hendrick struggled to follow the conversation, but she had at least reconsidered if she had known what the trip actually entailed. And made the trip again, with experiences in the luggage. They continued on, home to Hendrick.

Hendrick sensed a confusion about time, it could have been a few days. Or was it hours since she left? What was her name again? He heard eager murmuring and plastic bags being opened, filled and packed away. Were they in the back room? In the bathroom? A boy in white overalls who might still be in the eighth grade came into the kitchen and patted the uniformed policeman on the shoulder, who was making sure Hendrick stayed calm on the kitchen chair. It was Marita. This was the second time that day the police had visited and this time they certainly found something.

Bjørn Andreas (call me B.A.) with the strict uniform and the soft eyes asked when Henrick last got involved with a goose. Hendrick apparently thought about it, maybe a little too long, but didn’t remember and landed on never. Never should be easy to remember without hesitation, countered the cross-armed policeman. Hendrick insisted that his life did not revolve around geese. They shit too much, like dogs. What did you shoot last, asked the policeman. Never shot, Hendrick admitted. Never. Whether the universe eventually contracts into a fiery ball, began Bjørn Andreas, or expands and freezes, the outcome is in any case inevitable – humanity will die. It is therefore pointless for you not to admit anything. In that case it’s probably just as pointless for me to admit anything at all, since we’re all going to die soon anyway, countered Hendrick. Soon might be exaggerated, said the policeman. Hendrick shrugged. But then it is probably all the meaningless that gives life meaning.

When Hendrick was alone again, he aired out the smell.

When did she leave? Wasn’t the purpose of a raid to imprison the person in possession of prohibited goods? When did the routine become to look, find, shut up about it and leave? Had she, Marita, left something behind and tipped off the police herself? But a goose? Or five feathers? He wanted to be confronted. The box in the bedroom closet with hair bands and scrunchies he had found and collected over the years, was still there. They set up an idiot bingo where only they themselves knew all the tricks and were going to win.

It couldn’t be long before they came that she left. He was barely awake. They held each other in bed. Freshly boiled eggs rested in cold water and she poured in coffee, but had to catch the southeast. This could not be official police work. Idiot bingo.

B.A. Reksten was bitter. The whole thing had gotten out of hand. His reputation as a highly trusted police officer was at risk. Whatever this Marita had tried to contribute had only made everything worse, not least after getting involved with this Hendrick. The amount of dead weight of loose threads delayed the whole process. The only B.A. wanted now was to knock them down to a manageable level. Among other things, Hendrick had to die. Also, the gear shifter was sticky.

Hendrick was not completely unfamiliar with sitting in a car with his head covered, but it was the first time he was scared at the same time. It seemed very official and genuine when B.A. was at the door with papers and handcuffs. The neighbours seemed convinced and scowled and stayed away, while Hendrick by no means understood anything. The two teens on either side of him in the back seat talked quietly, excitedly about tomorrow’s math submission, until B.A. told them to shut up. This could not be official police work. Hendrick noticed from the bumping that they had left the tarmac and his heart pounded a little extra as his thoughts raced back to a couple of days earlier. He became painfully aware of the forest when they carelessly dragged him out of the car and ripped off the cover.

Surrounded, Hendrick stood outside the car without anyone saying anything. The leaves on the birch trees fluttered. B.A. rested his hand on the muzzle of the pistol in his belt. Where is Marita? Southeast, answered Hendrik perplexed. Wind from the southeast, she sails north, she said. The coffee was finished, I don’t know. Why did you have a knife with blue spots hidden in the shed? Blood spots? I don’t have … knife? Blue spots, claimed B.A. Blue. The colour blue. Not blood. And why did we find .308 caliber blanks at your home? Because … I don’t know, Hendrick insisted. Because you wanted to? A clenched fist landed on his left cheekbone causing him to lurch into the car and collapse. The boys laughed.

Do you know who Marita is, asked B.A. when Hendrick was again upright. She is someone I met yesterday when I celebrated with Glen. If it even was yesterday. Glen, commented one of the pimple-faced. Another one we have to deal with. Glenfiddich, corrected Hendrick. Whiskey. I met Marita in town and she came home with me. But feel free to take care of Glen anyway, he doesn’t have anything good with him anyway. She told me, said B.A., that you could help me with my occupation, but that you had to clean up the goose chase first. It’s not hunting season for another three months. So she works in the police, Hendrick asked. No, answered B.A. I think you are rather fooling me.

What’s going on in Stryn, Hendrick asked, after thinking it over, in a sudden sense of courage, before everything went black again.

To the sound of shovels, Hendrick awoke at the root of a birch. He lay on his back, but did not float in a dim, soundless landscape. Still, he realized. Realized what was going to happen. History repeated itself. Can I have a piss? Piss all you like, replied the one who had taken a break from digging. B.A. was nowhere to be seen. Help me up. He helped Hendrick up. They watched as he leaned against a tree, opened his pants and began to urinate. What the hell, don’t watch! Are you gay or what? They turned away incredulously. Hendrick ran. Ran. Staid alive. Scratched up in more places than he cared about, but still alive. Ran on. Heard the voices running behind him. Fell. Got up and ran on. Closed the pants. Was lit up by their flashlights, refused to stop. Ran. Ran. Ran. Until the voices fell silent behind him, the echoes among the trees died away. It was getting dark and he slowed down.

A quiet white light flash. One more. Hendrick crouched down. The lights did not stop, but were too strong to be from flashlights. Rhythmically, the trees were flooded by a piercing light that swept silently through the forest. Slowly. Again. And again.

A lighthouse. Of course, Hendrick thought. He stood on the path and looked up at the tower with the rotating white light. After all, it was dark and a time when lighthouses should be a signal of a safe path. He was just unfamiliar with the location in the middle of a forest. It blinked slowly, invitingly. The front foot was barely moving before he had a gun muzzle pressed against the back of his head. Hey, Tobias, up to the tower and check the weather? Hendrick did not get a chance to answer. Any famous last words? The light from the lighthouse seemed extra intense as it swept over them again. Hendrick bend his neck from the muzzle of the gun. Tag, he said and took his arm behind him, to get it over with. The arm fumbled and found no one to give the tag to.

The dark was quiet. A new light swept over the forest. Hendrick glanced without seeing anything move. Turned completely around and was alone. Good job, he whispered to the lighthouse. Strolled back to the car. The lights followed him all the way.

He heard the car long before he saw it. Or rather, it was the young people he heard. Or the music they had blasting as they sat in each front seat swiping on their mobiles. Hendrick seated himself in the middle of the back seat. The music was turned down so he heard one of the youths ask if everything went well, boss? Went fine, just drive, Hendrick replied. The kids in the front seats were startled, but the car was soon started, turned around and they were on their way back.

As the backseat approached familiar terrain, the world around him got dim.

Outside the windows, houses and people withered. Sounds and smells became increasingly indistinct.

The feeling of the body’s gravity against the back seat became increasingly lighter.

Soon his role in the world was nothing, just zero.

It existed without him and his consciousness.

~——~—‐–~——~

It was raining on Torunn even though the sun was shining. There had been a storm between them for a long time, but he, Bjørn Andreas, at least tried. Uselessly, he held the ice creams while she fastened her seat belt. Friendly, she took over the ices while he started the car. She was more than happy to let one melt over the gear shifter. Sorry.

They met as children, she as a toothless girl on a tin of liver paste, Bjørn Andreas as a grinning boy with a head full of foam on a Lano bottle. Unknown, nameless fame, forever joked about by those close to them, those who knew. It had to be them and it was. It couldn’t end well, and it took her 17 years to get tired of Bjørn Andreas still having a head full of foam.

All Torunn wanted now was to find a deserted island with two cannons, so she could be left alone and shoot geese.