‘She wouldn’t believe that you could do this to me. That you’d be able to. She just wouldn’t believe it. It’s not too late, Eirik, it’s not too late to make Juliane proud of you still. Think about it. You’ve spent your whole life trying to make her proud. Did you think I didn’t know that about you? But it’s not too late. It’s up to—’

‘Shut up, Kristina, Jesus Christ.’

‘Juliane would have been the proudest mother on Earth to see you as prime minister. With me by your side. It’s why you chose me, isn’t it? Because I’m the kind of woman your mother would have chosen for you. If only she’d lived. But she lives on in you, and you’re right to honor her in everything you do. If you do this to me, it will all be for nothing. All of it. Her life, and yours, and mine. All of our sacrifices. Think about the promise eleven-year-old Eirik made to himself that night, on her deathbed. You would make her proud. You promised. It was the last thing she ever heard…’

My desperate words are having the right effect; Eirik is sobbing openly now and has dropped the rope to the ground, but just then a gunshot tears through the night and my husband falls to the ground.

75

Elisabeth, August

‘Look what I got you,’ she says, pressing the bag into Elisabeth’s fist. The words sound distorted and far away, blurred with all the alcohol. Elisabeth doesn’t understand at first, but she recognizes the feel of the smack in the palm of her hand, the fine powder taking the shape of her hand as she grips it through the plastic.

‘No,’ she whispers.

‘Yes,’ whispers Kristina. ‘It’s okay.’

‘No.’

‘Let me help you.’ Kristina takes the little plastic bag back, zips it open, sets about preparing the hit. The room is swimming and Elisabeth is face-down on the bed, trying to focus on the chair in the corner to regain control of herself and the situation. How does Kristina know how to do this? Elisabeth turns toward her, but the movement makes the room lurch, vodka-vomit splashing from her mouth and onto the bedsheet. She can’t fully focus, but she registers Kristina’s fluid movements as she holds the flame under the spoon and she hears the hiss of the smack as it crystallizes, then runs clear. It’s as though all her senses are heightened; she can even hear the little sound as the heroin is sucked into the syringe – it sounds like a kiss.

‘No,’ she whispers again, but her tongue feels thick and foreign in her mouth and the word comes out distorted and faint. ‘Please.’