Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

He stared into the white nothingness.

The way he had done for almost three years.

No one saw him, and he saw no one. Apart from each time the door opened and enough steam was sucked out for him to be able to glimpse a naked man for a brief moment before the door closed and everything was shrouded in fog.

The baths would be closing soon. He was alone.

He wrapped the white towelling bathrobe more tightly around him, got up from the wooden bench and walked out, past the empty swimming pool and into the changing room.

No trickling showers, no conversations in Turkish, no bare feet padding across the tiled floor. He looked at himself in the mirror. Ran a finger along the scar that was still visible after the last operation. It had taken him time to get used to his new face. His finger carried on down his throat, across his chest, and came to a halt at the start of the tattoo.

He removed the padlock from his locker, pulled on his trousers and put his coat on over the still damp bathrobe. Tied his shoelaces. He made sure he was definitely alone before going over to a locker with a coded padlock, one with a splash of blue paint on it. He turned the lock until it read 0999. Removed the lock and opened the door. Took a moment to admire the big, beautiful revolver that lay inside before taking hold of the red hilt and putting it in his coat pocket. Then he removed the envelope and opened it. A key. An address, and some more detailed information.

There was one more thing in the locker.

Painted black, made of iron.

He held it up against the light with one hand, looking at the wrought ironwork with fascination.

He would have to clean it, scrub it, but he already felt aroused at the thought of using it.

Three years. Three years in a white nothingness, in a desert of empty days.

Now it was time. Time he drank from the well of life again.

Time he returned.

Harry woke with a start. Stared out at the semi-darkness of the bedroom. It was him again, he was back, he was here.

Nightmare, darling? The whispered voice by his side was warm and soothing.

He turned towards her. Her brown eyes studied his. And the apparition faded and disappeared.

Im here, Rakel said.

And here I am, he said.

Who was it this time?

No one, he lied, and touched her cheek. Go back to sleep.

Harry closed his eyes. Waited until he was sure she had closed hers before opening his again. He studied her face. He had seen him in a forest this time. Moorland, wreathed in white fog that swirled around them. He had raised his hand and pointed something towards Harry. He could just make out the demonic, tattooed face on his naked chest. Then the fog had grown thicker, and he was gone. Gone again.

And here I am, Harry Hole whispered.

The Jealousy Bar was almost empty, but even so it was hard to breathe.

Mehmet Kalak looked at the man and woman standing at the bar as he poured wine into their glasses. Four customers. The third was a guy sitting on his own at a table, taking tiny little sips of beer, and the fourth was just a pair of cowboy boots sticking out from one of the booths, where the darkness occasionally gave way to the glow from the screen of a phone. Four customers at half past eleven on a September evening in the best bar district in Grnerlkka. Terrible, and it couldnt go on like this. Sometimes he asked himself why hed left his job as bar manager at the hippest hotel in the city to go it alone and take over this rundown bar with its pissed-up clientele. Possibly because he thought that by jacking up the prices he could replace the old customers with the ones everyone wanted: the neighbourhoods affluent, trouble-free young adults. Possibly because he needed somewhere to work himself to death after breaking up with his girlfriend. Possibly because the offer from loan shark Danial Banks had looked favourable after the bank rejected his application. Or possibly just because at the Jealousy Bar he was the one who picked the music, not some damn hotel manager who only knew one tune: the ringing of the cash register. Getting rid of the old clientele had been easy they had long since settled in at a cheap bar three blocks away. But it turned out to be a whole lot harder to attract new customers. Maybe he would have to reconsider the whole concept. Maybe one big television screen on which he showed Turkish football wasnt enough to merit the description sports bar. And maybe hed have to change the music and go for reliable classics like U2 and Springsteen for the guys, Coldplay for the girls.

Well, I havent been on that many Tinder dates, Geir said, putting his glass of white wine back down on the bar. But Ive worked out that theres a lot of strange people out there.

Have you? the woman said, stifling a yawn. She had short fair hair. Slim. Mid-thirties, Mehmet thought. Quick, slightly stressed movements. Tired eyes. Works too hard and goes to the gym in the hope that it will give her the advantage shes never had. Mehmet watched Geir raise his glass with three fingers round the stem, the same way as the woman. On his countless Tinder hook-ups he had always ordered the same thing as his dates, regardless of whether it was whiskey or green tea. Keen to signal that they were a match on that point too.

Geir coughed. Six minutes had passed since she had walked into the bar, and Mehmet knew that this was when he would make his move.

Youre more beautiful than your profile picture, Elise, Geir said.

So you said, but thanks again.

Mehmet polished a glass and pretended not to listen.

So tell me, Elise, what do you want from life?

She gave a rather resigned little smile. A man who doesnt just judge by appearances.

I couldnt agree more, Elise, its whats inside that counts.

That was a joke. I look better in my profile picture, and, to be honest, so do you, Geir.

Ha ha, Geir said, and stared down into his wine glass, slightly deflated. I suppose most people pick a flattering picture. So youre looking for a man. What sort of man?

One whod like to stay at home with three kids. She glanced at the time.

Ha ha. Sweat hadnt just broken out on Geirs forehead, but all over his large, close-shaven head. And soon rings of sweat would appear under the arms of his black slim-fit shirt, an odd choice given that Geir was neither slim nor fit. He toyed with his glass. Thats exactly my kind of humour, Elise. A dog is family enough for me for the time being. Do you like animals?

Tanrim, Mehmet thought. Why doesnt he just give up?

If I meet the right person, I can feel it, here... and here. He grinned, lowered his voice and pointed towards his crotch. But obviously you have to find out if thats right. What do you say, Elise?

Mehmet shuddered. Geir had gone all-in, and his self-esteem was about to take another beating.

The woman pushed her wine glass aside, leaned forward slightly, and Mehmet had to strain to hear. Can you promise me something, Geir?

Of course. His voice and the look in his eyes were as eager as a dogs.

That when I walk out of here in a moment, youll never try to contact me again?

Mehmet had to admire Geir for managing to summon up a smile. Of course.

The woman leaned back again. Its not that you seem like a stalker, Geir, but Ive had a couple of bad experiences. One guy started following me. He threatened the people I was with as well. I hope you can understand my being a bit cautious.

I understand. Geir raised his glass and emptied it. Like I said, theres a lot of strange people out there. But dont worry, youre pretty safe. Statistically speaking, the chances of getting murdered are four times greater for a man than a woman.