Burned

Westerdal School of Communication is situated on Fredensborgvei, close to St Hanshaugen. As always, when he finds himself in this part of Oslo, he thinks someone made a complete hash of urban planning: 1950s tenements painted a shade of grey that can best be described as concrete, and tiny, charming houses in vibrant colours, lie a hair’s breadth from each other. The incline of Damstredet reminds him of the narrow lanes of Bergen, while the buildings along the road leading to the city centre evoke local government. There is a constant buzz and a permanent cloud of dust and pollution in the streets and the neighbourhood’s few gardens.

But right now, Henning couldn’t care less.

It is packed with people under the big tree outside the entrance to the college. Friends huddle together, hugging each other. There is crying. And sobbing. He walks nearer, sees others plying the same trade as him, but ignores them. He knows what tomorrow’s newspapers will show. Photos of mourners, plenty of photos, but not very much text. Now is the time to wallow in grief, let the readers have their share of evil, the bereavement, the emotions; get to know the victim and her friends.

It is a standard package he is putting together. He could almost have written the story before coming here, but it has been a while since he wrote anything, so he decides to start from scratch and think of some questions that might make the package a little less predictable.

He opts for a slow and soft approach, quietly observing before identifying someone to interview. He has an eye for such people. Soon, he is caught up in a river of tears and finds himself overcome by an unexpected reaction:

Anger. Anger, because only a few people here know what real grief is, know how much it hurts to lose someone you care about, someone you love, someone you would willingly throw yourself in front of a bus for. He sees that many of the bystanders don’t grieve properly, they exaggerate, they pose, relishing the opportunity to show how sensitive they are. But it’s all fake.

He tries to shake off his rage. He takes out his camera and shoots some pictures, moves around, focussing on faces, on eyes. He likes eyes. They are said to be the mirror of the soul, but Henning likes eyes because they reveal the truth.

He zooms in on the impromptu shrine the victim’s friends have built under the huge tree to the right of the entrance. Three thick trunks have intertwined and created an enormous broccoli-shaped growth. The branches sag with the weight of the leaves. The roots of the tree are encircled by a low cobblestone wall.

A framed photograph of Henriette Hagerup is leaning against one of the tree trunks. The photograph is surrounded by flowers, handwritten cards and messages. Tea lights flicker in the gentle wind which has found its way here. There are photographs of her with her fellow students, with friends, at parties, on location, behind a camera. It’s grief. It’s condensed grief, but it’s still fake. A textbook example, no doubt about it.

He looks up from the camera and concludes that Henriette Hagerup was a strikingly attractive woman. Or perhaps a mere child. There was something innocent about her: blonde curly hair, not too long, a brilliant broad smile and fair skin. He sees charm. And something more important, something better. Intelligence. He sees that Henriette Hagerup was an intelligent young woman.

Who could have hated you so much?

He reads some of the cards: We will never forget you, Henriette Rest in peace Johanne, Turid and Susanne. Missing you, Henry. Missing you loads. Tore.

There are between ten and twenty cards or notes about absence and grief, and all the messages have similar wording. He is scanning them absent-mindedly, when his mobile starts to vibrate in his pocket. He takes it out, but doesn’t recognise the caller’s number. He is supposed to be working, but decides to answer it nevertheless.

‘Hello?’

He moves away from the crowd.

‘Hi, Henning, it’s Iver. Iver Gundersen.’

Before he has time to say anything, a blast of jealousy hits him right in the solar plexus. Mister Super Fucking Corduroy. He manages a flustered ‘hi’.

‘Where are you?’ Gundersen asks.

Henning clears his throat: ‘At the victim’s college.’

‘Okay. I’m calling to let you know the police have already made an arrest.’

For a moment, he forgets that he is having a conversation with his ex-wife’s new lover. He actually detects a flicker of curiosity.

‘That was quick. Who is it?’

‘According to my sources, it’s the boyfriend. I don’t know his name yet. But perhaps one of her friends could tell you?’

Henning can hear Iver’s voice, but he barely registers what is being said. Among the myriad notes, candles and red eyes, he has spotted a message which stands out.

‘You still there?’

‘Eh, yeah. Her friends. Great.’

‘It’s a home run, I reckon.’

‘They have evidence?’

‘I think so. I’ll start work on the story and expand on it later as more info becomes available.’

‘Okay.’