Burned

The one thing Henning hasn’t missed is meetings. He knows before it has even begun that this meeting is a total waste of time. He is supposed to cover crime; murders, filth, evil. So why does he need to know that a sports personality is making another comeback? Or that Bruce Springsteen is getting divorced? He can read about it in the paper — later — if he cares, and if the reporter in question writes something worth reading. The finance editor or the sports editor is often clueless about arts and vice versa, which ruins any chance of a productive meeting. And secondly, each editor is too preoccupied with their own area of interest to offer each other valuable ideas or suggestions. However, the paper’s management insists on such meetings, which is why Henning is now entering a meeting room with a table whose surface shines like a newly polished mirror. A stack of plastic cups and a jug of water are placed in the middle. He hazards a guess that the water is stale.

He sits down on a chair that isn’t designed for lengthy discussions and avoids making eye contact with the others who are taking their seats around the table. He doesn’t do small talk, especially when he believes everyone knows who he is anyway and isn’t entirely comfortable with his presence.

Why is he here?

He’s not an editor?

I heard he had a breakdown?

Kare Hjeltland is the last to arrive and he closes the door.

‘Okay, let’s get started,’ he shouts and sits down at the end of the table. He looks around.

‘We’re not expecting anyone else?’

No one replies.

‘Right, let’s kick off with foreign news. Knut. What have you got for us today?’

Knut Hammerstad, the foreign news editor, coughs and puts down his coffee cup.

‘There’s an upcoming election in Sweden. We’re putting together profiles of their potential new prime ministers, who they are, what they stand for. A plane crash-landed in Indonesia. Suspected terrorist attack. Crash investigators are looking for the black box. Four terror suspects have been arrested in London. They were planning to blow Parliament sky high, I heard.’

‘Great headline,’ Kare roars. ‘Sod the Swedish election. Don’t waste too much time on the plane crash. No one cares about it, unless any Norwegians were killed.’

‘We’re checking that, obviously.’

‘Good. Push the terror story. Get the details, planning, execution, how many potential deaths and so on and so forth.’

‘We’re on it.’

‘Great. What’s next?’

Rikke Ringheim sits next to Knut Hammerstad. Rikke edits the sex and gossip columns. The paper’s most important news desk.

Kare ploughs on.

‘Rikke, what have you got for us today?’

‘We’ll be talking to Carrie Olson.’

Rikke beams with pride and glee. Henning looks at her and wonders if she is aware his face is one big question mark.

‘Who the hell is Carrie Olson?’ Kare demands to know.

‘The author of How to Get 10 Orgasms a Day. A bestseller in the US, top of the sales charts in Germany and France. She’s in Norway right now.’

Kare claps his hands. The room reverberates.

‘Bloody brilliant!’

Rikke smiles smugly.

‘And she has Norwegian ancestors.’

‘Can it get much better? Anything else?’

‘We’ve started a survey. “How often do you have sex?” It’s already attracting plenty of hits.’

‘Another magnet. Sucks in the reader. He-he. Sucks, get it?’

‘And we have another web hit: a sexologist says we need to prioritise sex in relationships. Might run it a little later today.’

Kare nods.

‘Well done, Rikke.’

He carries on, full steam ahead.

‘Heidi?’

Henning hadn’t noticed Heidi Kjus until then, but he does now. She is still skinny, her cheekbones are gaunt, the makeup around her hollow eyes is far too gaudy and she wears a lip gloss whose colour reminds him of fireworks and cheap champagne on New Year’s Eve. She leans forward and coughs.

‘Not much doubt about our big story today: the murder at Ekeberg Common. I’ve been informed that it is murder. Quite a brutal one. Police are holding a press conference later. Iver is going straight there and will be working on the story for the rest of the day. I’ve already spoken to him.’

‘Great. Henning should probably join him at the press conference. Right, Henning?’

Henning jumps at the sound of his name and says ‘hm?’ The pitch of his voice rises. He sounds like a ninety-year-old in need of a hearing aid.

‘The murder at Ekeberg Common. Press conference later today. Would be a good start for you, wouldn’t it?’

From ninety to newbie in four seconds. He clears his throat.

‘Yes, sure.’

He hears a voice, but fails to recognise it as his own.

‘Super. You all know Henning Juul, I presume. He needs no further introduction. You know what he’s been through, so please give him a warm welcome. No one deserves it more than him.’

Silence. The inside of his face is burning. The number of people in the room seems to have doubled in the last ten seconds and they are all staring at him. He wants to run. But he can’t. So he looks up and concentrates on a point on the wall, above all of them, in the hope they might think he is looking at someone else.