‘No, no. I…’

‘So tell me who Arild was.’

‘Arild? He grew up in Verftet, went to Nordnes school from 1950 to fifty-seven, later he was at Tanks upper secondary. He did teacher training, was at the Haakonsvern naval base, went to university and wrote in the papers. I knew him well. I knew them all. I went to school with them too.’

She sent me a disdainful look, but it was clear she was impressed.

‘And you? When did you meet Arild?’

She looked towards the curtains, out to the real world. ‘They were playing a gig here, one Saturday evening. I … was invited to the party afterwards. They stayed in the youth club, in the 235basement. We … got to know each other, Arild and I. We hung out afterwards. I moved to Bergen and we had a few great years, talked about getting married. Arild always introduced me as his “fiancée”. But then it finished.’

‘On the sixteenth of October, 1975.’

‘Yes! I couldn’t live with something like that. After all, I was brought up decently.’ She fidgeted uneasily, looking at the dark curtain.

‘So tell me what happened.’

‘You’d better talk to Anita. She’s the one who really knows.’

‘OK. She’ll soon be the only one.’ Again I counted on my fingers. ‘Harry’s dead, Arild, Johnny. Don’t you think that’s remarkable?’

‘Yes.’ She swallowed. ‘But maybe … rightly so.’

‘Was it that serious?’

‘It was.’

‘So serious that you broke off all relations with Arild, from that day forth?’

She shrugged and nodded. In a stifled voice she said: ‘Yes. I left a note on the table, packed my things, went to work and quit my job that day, caught the ferry here and…’ She looked around. ‘My parents were still alive. They let me stay with them.’

‘And you never saw him again?’

She shook her head.

‘What about him? He didn’t try to get in touch?’

‘Arild?’ Her face darkened. ‘From what I heard he soon found himself another “fiancée”. Anita said…’ Again she stopped.

‘So you don’t know anything about his last, dark years?’

‘No, it was finished, everything.’

‘And you never sent him any pictures of angels?’ I held my breath.236

‘Angels? What do you mean?’

‘Him … and the others?’

‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Do I look like someone who sends pictures of angels to people?’ For an instant there was actually a glint of humour in her eyes, and I had to smile myself.

‘No, actually you don’t. But you do seem to be a whiz with a red felt pen.’

She pursed her lips and blushed.

Outside, darkness was descending. The light from the kitchen, where the tap was still dripping, fell in a rectangle into the room where we were, cutting off the tip of her slippers and separating my legs from the rest of my body. Everything else lay in twilight, like the past I had been investigating.

I looked over her shoulder, to the curtain. ‘What makes you devote your attentions to … stuff like inside there?’