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  But I do have breathing difficulties from time to time. And sometimes a pain like a kind of cramp stabs through the small of my back. That kind of thing. No more than bagatelles, really, but I had allowed myself to be persuaded. This American was supposed to be brilliant, after all.

  So seven of the eight doctors from the train were specialists in a type of injury from which none of us was suffering. The eighth, a woman in her sixties, was a gynaecologist. Like an unexpected gift from the gods, all the doctors had got off very lightly in the accident. And even if they were in fact experts in skin and women’s reproductive organs, they were still working their way blithely through cuts and broken bones.

  I myself was taken care of by the dwarf.

  He couldn’t have been more than 140 centimetres tall. As if to compensate for this, he was exactly the same width. His head was far too big for his body, and his arms were even shorter, comparatively speaking, than those I had seen in persons of restricted growth before. I tried not to stare.

  I stay at home most of the time. There are several reasons for this, including the fact that I can’t cope with people staring at me. Bearing in mind that I am a middle-aged woman of normal appearance in a wheelchair, and therefore should not really be of particular interest to anyone, I could only imagine what it was like for this man. I saw it immediately, as he walked towards me. Someone had placed a cushion beneath my head. I was no longer compelled to gaze up at the reindeer’s muzzle, where the fur had worn away and rough seams revealed the taxidermist’s appalling work. As the little doctor moved through the room with an odd, rolling gait, the crowd parted before him like Moses parting the Red Sea. Every conversation died away; even the complaints and cries of pain stopped as he passed by.

  They just stared. I closed my eyes.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said, kneeling down beside me. ‘And what have we here?’

  His voice was surprisingly deep. I had expected some kind of helium voice, as if he were an entertainer at a children’s party. As it would be extremely impolite not to look at the doctor when he was speaking to me, and my closed eyes might suggest that I felt worse than I actually did, I opened them.

  ‘Magnus Streng,’ he said, taking my reluctant right hand in a thick, stubby paw.

  I mumbled my name and couldn’t help thinking that the doctor’s parents must have had a very particular sense of humour. Magnus. The Great One.

  He peered at me for a moment, and raised his index finger. Then his face broke into a huge smile. ‘The policewoman,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘You were the one who got shot in Nordmarka a few years ago, weren’t you?’ Once again his face acquired an expression of exaggerated thoughtfulness. This time he placed his finger against his temple before smiling even more broadly. ‘By that corrupt chief of police, isn’t that right? It was —’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ I interrupted him. ‘You have a good memory.’

  He toned down the smile and concentrated on my leg. Only now did I notice that the omnipresent Geir Rugholmen had sat down next to the doctor. The snowmobile suit was gone. His woolly jumper must have dated back to the war. His bare elbows protruded through holes in both sleeves. His knee breeches had presumably been blue once upon a time, but had faded to an indefinable dark-greyish shade. The man smelled of wood smoke.

  ‘Where’s my chair?’ I asked.

  ‘The pole just slipped out,’ Geir Rugholmen said to the doctor, adjusting his plug of snuff with his tongue. ‘We weren’t going to pull it out, but we had to break it off outside the wound before we brought her here. And it ... it just slipped out. But she’s not bleeding so much any more.’

  ‘Where’s my chair?’

  ‘I know we should have left the pole in,’ said Rugholmen.

  ‘Where’s her chair?’ asked Dr Streng, without taking his eyes off the wound; he had ripped open my trouser leg, and I had the feeling that his hands were quick and precise in spite of their size and shape.

  ‘Her chair? Her wheelchair? It’s on the train.’

  ‘I want my chair,’ I said.

  ‘Bloody hell, we can’t go back and ...’

  The doctor looked up. He fished a pair of enormous horn-rimmed spectacles out of his breast pocket, put them on, and said quietly: ‘I would very much appreciate it if someone could fetch this lady’s wheelchair. As soon as humanly possible.’

  ‘Have you any idea what the weather’s like out there? Are you aware —’

  The index finger, no longer quite so comical, pushed the spectacles up the doctor’s nose before he fixed his gaze on Rugholmen.

  ‘Fetch the chair. Now. I imagine you would find it quite unpleasant if your legs were left behind on a train while you yourself were helplessly carted off. Having seen you and your excellent colleagues working out in the storm, I presume it’s a relatively simple matter to go and fetch something that is so important to our friend here.’

  Once again, that big smile. I got the feeling that the man consciously made use of his handicap. As soon as you began to overlook the circus-like appearance, he made sure he resembled a clown once again. His mouth didn’t even need the traditional red paint, his lips were thick enough as they were. The whole thing was very confusing. Which must have been the intention. At any rate, Geir Rugholmen got reluctantly to his feet, mumbled something and headed for the porch, where he had left his outdoor clothes.

  ‘A man of the mountains,’ said Dr Streng contentedly before taking his eyes off him. ‘And this wound looks fantastic. You’ve been lucky. A good dose of antibiotics just to be on the safe side, and you’ll be fine.’

  I sat up. It took him only a few seconds to bandage my thigh.

  ‘We really have been lucky,’ he said, tucking his spectacles back in his pocket. ‘This could have gone very badly indeed.’

  I wasn’t sure whether he meant my injury, or the accident itself. He brushed the palms of his hands against each other as if I had been covered in dust. Then he waddled off to the next patient, a terrified eight-year-old boy with his arm in a temporary sling. As I tried to haul myself over to the reception desk in order to find some support for my back, a man positioned himself in the middle of the floor in the big room, his legs spread wide apart. He hesitated for a moment, then used a chair to help him jump up on top of the five- or six-metre-long rough table that was standing by the windows facing south-west. Since he was several kilos overweight, he almost fell off. When he had regained his balance, I realized who he was. Around his neck he was wearing a red and white Brann football club scarf.

  ‘My dear friends,’ he said in a voice that suggested he was used to speaking to large groups of people, ‘we have all suffered an extremely traumatic experience!’

  He sounded absolutely delighted.

  ‘Needless to say, our thoughts go out to Einar Holter’s family, first and foremost. Einar was driving our train today. I didn’t know him, but I have already been told that he was a family man, a much loved —’

  ‘His family hasn’t yet been informed about the accident,’ a woman’s voice interrupted loudly from the other side of the room.

  I couldn’t see her from where I was sitting, but I liked her immediately.

  ‘It’s not exactly appropriate to hold a eulogy under the circumstances,’ she went on. ‘Besides which, I think —’

  ‘Of course,’ said the man on the table, holding the palms of his hands up to the congregation in a gesture of resignation. ‘I merely thought it was the right moment, now that we know we are all safe and no one has been seriously injured, to remind ourselves that in our mutual rejoicing at —’

  ‘Brann are a crap team,’ someone yelled, and I immediately recognized the tough kid from my carriage.

  The man on the table smiled and opened his mouth to say something.

  ‘Brann are crap,’ the boy repeated, and burst into song. ‘Vålerengaaa, you are my religion, you’re one in a million, a proud old tradition!’

  ‘Great,’ said the man with the Brann scarf, smiling c
ontentedly. ‘It’s good to see that young people today are committed to something. And it really does seem as if things are beginning to sort themselves out, both in here and out there as well.’

  He pointed vaguely towards the entrance. I had no idea what was going on over there.

  ‘I merely wanted to point out ...’

  I almost felt sorry for the bloke. People were sniggering. A few were booing quietly as if they didn’t want to give themselves away, but did want to vent their contempt. This might have had some effect on the man. At any rate he had abandoned the joyous hallelujah tone when he tried to complete the sentence.

  ‘... that for anyone who is interested, I will be holding a prayer meeting in the hobby room in quarter of an hour. If anyone needs help with the stairs, please let me know. I am surely not alone in —’

  ‘Shut your gob!’

  The boy wasn’t giving up. He was on his feet now. He was standing only a couple of metres from where I was sitting, and had formed a megaphone with his hands.

  ‘You!’ I said sharply. ‘Yes, you!’

  The boy turned to face me. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.

  His gaze was searingly familiar.

  Perhaps they know it. Perhaps that’s why they always try to hide their eyes, darting to and fro, behind their hair or beneath half-closed eyelids. This boy had pulled his cap down way too low over his forehead.

  ‘Yes, you,’ I said, waving him over. ‘Come here. Shut up and come over here.’

  He didn’t move.

  ‘Do you want me to tell everybody why you’re here, or would you like to come a little bit closer? So that we can maintain a certain level of ... discretion?’

  Hesitantly he took a step towards me. Stopped.

  ‘Come here,’ I said, in a slightly more friendly tone of voice.

  Another step. And another.

  ‘Sit down.’

  The boy leaned back against the reception desk and slid slowly down onto his bottom. He wrapped his arms around his knees, not looking at me.

  ‘You’re on the run,’ I stated quietly, not bothering to ask. ‘You live in a care home for young people. You’ve had several foster homes, but it all goes pear-shaped every single time.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I’m not really interested in having a discussion about it. A fourteen-year-old like you, travelling alone ... Or perhaps you’re part of a fairytale family who just decided to take a trip, as the weather was so nice? Can you show me who you’re travelling with?’

  ‘I’m not fourteen.’

  ‘Thirteen, then.’

  ‘I’m fifteen, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘In a year or two, maybe.’

  ‘In January! A month ago! Do you want proof, or something?’

  Furiously he pulled his wallet out of a pair of jeans that were way too big for him. It was made of nylon in a camouflage pattern, and was fastened to his belt by a chain. As he pulled out a credit card I noticed that his cuticles were so badly bitten they were bloody.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, without looking at him. ‘Credit cards, no less. All grown up. We’ll say fifteen, then. And now you’re going to listen to me. What’s your name?’

  He was just as interested in making winter friends as I was.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I repeated sharply, catching a glimpse of the name on the card before he pushed it back in his wallet.

  He glared silently and absently from beneath the peak of his cap. There was a stale smell all around the boy, as if someone had washed his clothes and not bothered to air them properly before putting them away.

  ‘Adrian,’ I said wearily. ‘Right, now I’m going to tell you something.’

  The boy gave a start, ran his hand over his cap and stared at me for three long seconds.

  Adrian was fifteen years old. I knew nothing about him, and yet I knew everything. He was hardly in any condition to fight, he probably didn’t weigh any more than fifty kilos under those oversized clothes. He was foul-mouthed. A thief, without a shadow of doubt, and I was convinced that he was already well on the way into a destructive cycle of substance abuse. A petty criminal, a little shit who hadn’t yet learned to hide his expression.

  ‘Are you psychic, or something? How do you know —’

  ‘Yes, I am psychic. Now just shut up. Are you hurt?’

  He moved his head a fraction. I interpreted this as a no.

  ‘Your chair!’

  Geir Rugholmen brought with him a cold draught from outside. Only now did I realize that the large lobby was gradually emptying.

  ‘We need to find a room for you as well,’ he said, putting together my wheelchair with surprising expertise. ‘Most people have already got a bed here at the hotel. We’ve used the private apartments as well.’

  He waved vaguely in the direction of the stairs before attaching the last wheel.

  ‘Fortunately the hotel was more or less empty. It’s not exactly high season. It will soon be the winter break; things would have been much more difficult then. We’ve moved most of the youngest and fittest adults over to the buildings around the station. So now we need to find a room for ...’

  He broke off and squinted at Adrian.

  ‘Are you two together?’ he asked sceptically.

  ‘In a way,’ I said. ‘For the time being.’

  ‘I think we’ve got space for you in one of the closest rooms. There are already two people in there, but with a mattress on the floor your pal here will also be able to —’

  ‘Let’s make a start then,’ shouted the man wearing the Brann scarf, beckoning to a group of youngsters who were sitting at the table eating what I thought was stew, but which I later found out was hot soup. ‘We’re gathering down here, everybody! We’ve organized coffee and biscuits too!’

  The response obviously hadn’t matched up to his expectations. The priest eagerly grabbed the arm of a woman passing by, but let go immediately when what he presumably thought was a proper mountain ski hood turned out to be a hijab.

  The teenagers continued eating in silence. They were in no hurry. Quite the reverse, in fact; without even looking at the man, they casually helped themselves to more soup. Somebody started humming an incredibly irritating nursery rhyme. One of the girls giggled and blushed.

  ‘Can’t somebody put a bullet in that fucking priest’s head,’ mumbled Adrian, before raising his voice: ‘And I’m not fucking sleeping in the same room as other people. I’m just not.’

  He ambled over to the table and threw himself down on a chair as far from the others as possible.

  Geir Rugholmen scratched the dense, blue-black stubble on his chin. ‘Quite the little hard man, your pal.’

  He moved to help me up.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can manage. He’s not my pal.’

  ‘Good job.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. Wouldn’t you like me to —’

  ‘No!’

  My tone was sharper than necessary. As it often is. As it almost always is, if I’m perfectly honest.

  ‘OK, OK! Take it easy! God. I only wanted to —’

  ‘And I don’t need a bed either,’ I said, adjusting my position. ‘I’d rather just stay here.’

  ‘Tonight? You’re going to sit in that chair all night? Here?’

  ‘When are you expecting help to arrive?’

  Geir Rugholmen straightened up. He placed his hands on his hips and looked down his nose at me. That look from those who are standing up, the tall ones, the ones whose bodies work perfectly.

  Strictly speaking, I think it’s perfectly OK to have mobility problems. I want to be immobile, that’s the way I’ve chosen to live. The chair doesn’t really hamper me significantly in my everyday life. It can be weeks between the occasions on which I leave my apartment. The problems arise when I am forced to go out. People are just desperate to help me all the time. Lifting, pushing, carrying.

  That’s why I chose the train.
Flying is a complete nightmare, I have to say. The train is simpler. Less touching. Fewer strange hands. The train offers at least some degree of independence.

  Except when it’s derailed and crashes.

  And I really don’t like those looks, up and down, from those who are healthy and mobile. That’s why I didn’t meet his gaze. Instead I closed my eyes and pretended I was settling down for a sleep.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve really grasped the situation,’ said Geir Rugholmen.

  ‘We’re snowed in on the mountain.’

  ‘You could put it that way. We certainly are snowed in. At the moment a full storm is raging out there, with gusts of hurricane force. A hurricane on Finse! It’s not exactly an everyday occurrence. We’re in the lee of —’

  ‘I’m really only interested in one thing: when can we expect someone to come and get us?’

  There was complete silence. But I knew he was still there. The smell of wood smoke and old wool was equally strong.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ I said quietly, keeping my eyes closed. ‘If you can’t answer, that’s fine, of course. Personally I was thinking of having a little nap.’

  ‘You’re like an ostrich.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You think nobody can see you if you shut your eyes.’

  ‘The ostrich buries its head in the sand, as far as I know. And in any case, that’s supposed to be a myth.’