Thorleif wakes up with a start. He looks around, but doesn’t recognise his surroundings.
Then he remembers where he is.
He quickly flips back the duvet and sits up, heaving his legs over the edge of the bed so his feet touch the dark-brown wooden floor. There is a yellow bedside table next to the bed underneath a small window where white curtains make an unsuccessful attempt at keeping out the light. Thorleif runs his hands up and down his face, looks around for his mobile and sighs when he remembers that he put it on the Eidsvoll train. He has no idea what time it is except that it must be morning. At home he would have shuffled to the bathroom and woken himself up under the shower.
Home.
He wonders what Elisabeth and the children are doing. Perhaps Julie is playing and having fun at nursery. Perhaps Pal is tumbling about in PE as he always does on Friday mornings. Elisabeth is unlikely to have gone to work. If he knows her well, she will be too upset. But if that’s the case then he can’t contact her, and he is afraid to call her at home.
Thorleif goes to the living room where he carefully opens one of the curtains and looks out of the window. The cabin lies halfway up the slope, with breathtaking views across Ustaoset and Ustetind at the end of the lake and over the open terrain. It feels good to rest his eyes on the horizon. He sees a tiny aeroplane. Flocks of birds. A car drives down the grey snake of tarmac. Someone is walking from the petrol station to the hotel.
Even though Thorleif isn’t hungry he knows that he has to eat something. He won’t be very much use to himself if his head and body aren’t working. He potters sleepily to the larder and checks his supplies. Nothing very appetising. A few tins of lamb casserole. Peas and ham. Tinned pineapple. He can see he has food for a couple of days, but there are no dried foods, cold meats or beverages. He will have to go shopping.
It occurs to him that the weekend is about to start. People who have finished their summer holidays might already be contemplating getting their cabins ready for the winter season. Many love the vivid autumn colours that have started to emerge. There is bound to be considerably more traffic over the weekend, Thorleif thinks. Consequently, he should buy enough food to last him at least two days. If not longer.
Soon he is leaving the cabin the same way he came in, through the kitchen, the larder and the woodshed. The fresh mountain air feels good on his face. He walks at a steady pace down to the main road and into what he, with a little generosity, can call the centre of Ustaoset. He climbs the grey concrete steps and enters the shop, which he quickly sees is a cross between a Clas Ohlson home store and an Ica supermarket. On entry he is met by a display of all sorts of handy tools. Spades, mops, boiler suits, wellies, snowshoes — even though the snow is a couple of months away.
The first thing Thorleif does is check the newspapers. Tore Pulli’s death is on the front page of both VG and Dagbladet. Aftenposten, too, features Pulli’s death. As does Bergens Tidende. The local newspaper, Hallingdolen, leads with the unusual rise in break-ins in cabins in Ustaoset recently and how the Ustaoset-Haugastol area has been particularly badly affected. Thorleif’s stomach lurches, but he tries to shake it off by wandering around the aisles with the shopping basket. He fills it with a loaf of sliced bread, a tub of cream cheese, two cartons of juice and a large block of milk chocolate. He also picks up both tabloid newspapers on his way out and says a quick thank you to the man behind the till when he gets his receipt.
Thorleif is about to leave, but turns around. ‘Excuse me, do you happen to know if there is a public telephone nearby?’
The man laughs. ‘No, we don’t have those in Ustaoset.’
‘I thought they were everywhere.’
‘Not any more.’
‘Oh, right, no, I don’t suppose they are. I forgot my mobile, you see. Is there anywhere around here you can make calls if you need to.. if you haven’t got one?’
‘You could try the hotel and see if they can help you,’ the man says without the smile leaving his lips.
‘Thank you.’
Thorleif leaves the shop and makes his way to the main entrance of the hotel, but when he gets there the door is locked. He tries it again without success. He presses his face against the glass in the door but sees no movement inside.
‘Damn,’ he says and looks around while he decides what to do next. How on earth can a hotel be shut in the middle of the day? Feeling despondent and even guiltier towards Elisabeth he wanders back to the cabin. There he spreads a few slices of bread with cream cheese and reads the papers without finding anything to suggest that Tore Pulli’s death is being treated as suspicious. But much could have happened since the tabloids went to print. If I’m to know what is going on, Thorleif thinks, I’m going to have to try something else.