The light that seeps through the windows of Solvang Church casts a cold, blue sheen across the floor. It matches the covers on the chairs, Henning thinks, as he stands at the entrance looking down the rectangular room. In the middle of the floor, in front of the pulpit, Tore Pulli’s coffin sits, white and beautifully decorated with flowers. Long white ribbons with golden letters express grief and final messages.
Henning knows that he ought to go inside to get a proper look, but he can’t bear being present during the actual ceremony. Afterwards, however, he mixes with the mourners at the graveside. Partly because he wants to see how Pulli’s friends will behave, but also because Heidi Kjus asked him to document the event with his camera. So he takes some close-ups, as discreetly as he can, without becoming intrusive. He wants to get some poignant pictures of big, hulking men struggling to keep their tears at bay. Petter Holte runs a hand over his shaven head and breathes heavily. The clothes he wears look as if they might burst at any moment. Geir Gronningen lets his long hair hang freely over his eyes. For once, his heavy torso has been defeated by gravity. The eyes of Kent Harry Hansen are also shiny. The sunlight makes his white, stubbly hair glow like a torch.
Henning shoots some group photos as more mourners arrive. A man Henning thinks he recognises from somewhere approaches the others. His muscles are tightly packed under his black suit jacket, and he moves lightly across the gravel, looking over his shoulder as if ready to lash out at any moment.
Suddenly there is movement in the crowd as Petter Holte pushes his way to the front and walks right up to the new arrival, who takes a step back. Holte jabs an agitated index finger against the man’s chest. Henning lifts his camera and lets it shoot.
‘You’ve got a bloody nerve showing your face here today,’ Holte hisses.
‘Tore was my mate too, you tosser,’ the man says.
Geir Gronningen and Kent Harry Hansen intervene. Gronningen locks his arms firmly around Holte, who resists.
‘Not here,’ Gronningen tells him. ‘Not at Tore’s funeral. Show some respect.’
Hansen deals with the newcomer, whose mood has also turned ugly. The man adjusts his jacket without taking his eyes off Holte. Eventually Holte backs away.
It takes several minutes before the crowd calms down again. Henning tries, unsuccessfully, to find the face of the man Holte took offence at, but the crowd closes up. The incident is over, but Henning is incapable of paying attention during the committal. Gronningen stands close to Holte, towering over him by a head at least. Nearby, Veronica Nansen clings to an older man with the same eyes and mouth as her. The butch girl from Fighting Fit is there too. Everyone seems to be here. At last Henning spots the man who incurred Holte’s anger, further back amongst the sea of people. His head is bowed. Where have I seen him before? Henning racks his brains.
Soon the first handful of earth falls on Pulli’s coffin. Henning hides behind the camera and takes some more pictures. He sees Holte reach up towards Gronningen’s ear and whisper something before clenching his fist as if he is ready to punch someone.
After the earth has been thrown, a line of people forms in front of Veronica Nansen. She shakes hands with everyone who has come to pay their respects. Henning joins the back of the queue and sees how Nansen grows more and more exhausted the closer he gets. But she carries on, smiling bravely. When it is Henning’s turn, he stops right in front of her.
‘My condolences,’ he says, holding out his hand. Nansen takes it and pulls him closer, almost as if she is on autopilot.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she says.
‘How are you?’ he asks as they glide away from each other.
Nansen shrugs her shoulders. ‘It’s strange,’ she sniffs. ‘It feels as if I’ve lost a huge piece of myself.’ She speaks slowly without looking at him. ‘A part of me has gone, and yet — somehow — that part still hurts. Do you know what I mean?’
Henning looks at her with eyes that are starting to well up too. He would never have thought that a woman like Veronica Nansen could articulate a feeling he has lived with for almost two years.
‘Phantom pains,’ he says quietly.
‘What?’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘Yes, of course you do,’ she says and shakes her head. ‘Sorry.’
The man he presumes to be Nansen’s father comes over to them and nods to Henning.
‘There is a get-together afterwards for Tore’s friends,’ she says as they start to walk. ‘It would be nice if you could join us.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Veronica, but I don’t know if I can call myself a friend of Tore’s. Or if my presence there would be wildly popular. It didn’t look as if everybody was equally welcome.’
‘No,’ Nansen says, and looks down. ‘Petter, he is… ’ She shakes her head in resignation.
‘Who was the other man?’ Henning asks as they reach the car park.
‘That was Robert,’ she replies. ‘Robert van Derksen.’