Spacious room with physiotherapy equipment. A WOMAN is lying face down on a massage table with her arms by her side. Outside it will soon be completely dark. The wind is howling, and branches of the birch tree outside are striking the window. A MAN dressed in white with black Crocs on his feet is quietly walking around the room.

MAN: November already. Soon be time for the opening of the season at Beitostølen.

WOMAN (muffled from the table): Yes, if I can get this hamstring sorted. It’s still bothering me a bit.

MAN: I’m sure we’ll be able to sort things out. This is the third treatment. Nothing is torn.

The MAN opens a drawer, takes out a tube. Squeezes out a good dose of cream into his left hand, puts the tube back in the drawer, locks it and approaches the table.

WOMAN: It felt better after the last time, but it’s still a bit tight. Here.

The WOMAN touches the back of her thigh, and pinches it.

WOMAN: What are you using?

MAN: Some oil.

WOMAN: Can I see the bottle?

The MAN grabs a large bottle of massage oil from a bench. The WOMAN raises her head, looks at the bottle, and lies down again. The MAN pours some of the oil into his hand, mixes it with the cream he has already squeezed out, and starts to massage her. Vigorous, slow strokes. The WOMAN moans from time to time, but is otherwise completely silent.

702 INTERIOR, CORRIDOR, HOLMENKOLLEN, EVENING

The same MAN walks through a bright, long corridor. Art on the walls. Glass walls at both ends of the corridor. The DIRECTOR OF FINANCE dashes out through an office door, nods briefly and rushes towards a door marked with an icon for the men’s toilets. He enters. The MAN sees that the office door has been left open. Hesitates for a moment, before his face takes on a determined expression. Goes in and closes the door behind him.

703 INTERIOR, OFFICE, HOLMENKOLLEN, EVENING

Close-up of the MAN’s hands. Writing down two series of numbers on a Post-It. Puts an official document back in a drawer, heads quickly to the door as he stuffs the note into his breast pocket. Looks relieved, almost triumphant, as he steps outside, as if something he had thought might be difficult has turned out to be straightforward. He leaves the door open and hurries away in the opposite direction from where the DIRECTOR OF FINANCE had disappeared.

FRIDAY 15 DECEMBER 2017

THE POKER TURK

The doorbell rang.

Darius wailed with displeasure and jumped down from the bed. Selma scrambled out of a deep sleep and the cosy quilt. She grabbed a T-shirt and hopped into a pair of trousers on her way to the door. The only person who knew she lived here was Jan Morell.

‘You could just have phoned,’ she said as she opened the door.

‘Hello there!’ said the Poker Turk.