Orjan Mjones feels cold even though he is sweating. He puts one hand on the tiled wall in Durim’s bathroom for support and stares at his face in the mirror. It’s white. His arm dangles limply by his side. It’s as if a heavy lump is trying to force its way out from the inside of his shoulder and paralyse him totally.
Mjones blinks hard and watches as the damp creases in his face fill with sweat trickling from his forehead and eyes. I’m burning up, he thinks, and splashes himself with cold water. It helps. For now.
The night on Durim’s sofa was one of the worst that he can recall. At one point the ceiling transformed into an ocean where a gigantic wave came crashing towards him. When he blinked, everything returned to normal. Then he started seeing colours, yellow and purple, pink and blue — all mixed up. In a lucid moment he realised that he must be hallucinating. Early the next morning he called the Doctor. A man whose name Mjones doesn’t know, a man who makes house calls at short notice to provide medical assistance to people who prefer to avoid hospitals. It’s an expensive service, but the combination of life-saving first aid and discretion is usually worth the money.
Durim opens the door when the bell rings. A few minutes later the Doctor enters. Mjones stands up on trembling legs. A chill washes over him. The Doctor comes towards him. Tall, well-groomed, newly shaven, hair neatly combed.
‘And here’s the patient,’ the Doctor says, and smiles.
He carries a small suitcase in his hand. He stops in front of Mjones, puts down the suitcase on the floor and inspects the bandage on Mjones’s shoulder. The Doctor starts to ease off the makeshift dressing, slowly persuading the fabric fibres to release their hold on the scab. Mjones cries out in pain when the sticky skin finally lets go. A crust has formed at the edge of the wound, but the cut itself is still open and weeping. Mjones estimates that the cut is between four and five centimetres deep and sees that the area around it has grown redder and even more swollen overnight. Judging from the colour of the bandage the wound has become infected. The skin around it is hot.
‘We need more sterile surroundings,’ the Doctor mutters. ‘We should really cut around the wound and then rinse it with a saline solution.’
‘Can’t you do that here?’
‘No. That would only make it worse. You need to go to an operating theatre.’
‘I don’t have time for that.’
‘You could become very ill, do you realise that? The infection you’ve acquired could spread to the bones in your shoulder, and your blood might become infected with bacteria. That could lead to septicaemia. Worst-case scenario you could die.’
‘Just do the best you can, would you? And spare me the melodrama.’
‘There isn’t very much I can do. I presume the cut is more than eight hours old?’
Mjones nods reluctantly.
‘Then I can’t stitch it. All I can do is clean the wound and keep it open so the pus can drain out. And I’ll give you a course of antibiotics.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
The Doctor puts his suitcase flat on the floor and opens it. Mjones sways.
‘What about travelling with this thing?’ he says, pointing to his shoulder.
‘I wouldn’t recommend it for a couple of days, at least not until you have the infection under control.’
The thought of running away, of leaving Norway behind, makes him remember the safe in his flat where the ampoule is stored. You have to collect it first, he tells himself. Get rid of it and anything else that links you to the murder of Tore Pulli.
But first you have to get better.