The Consorts of Death

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A phone call from the past. ‘Cecilie speaking,’ she said, and when I didn’t react, she added: ‘Cecilie Strand.’

‘Cecilie! Been a long time. How are you?’

‘Could be worse.’

‘Are you still in social services?’

‘Some of us are still hanging in there, yes.’

‘Must be at least ten years since we last saw each other, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I crossed the mountains. Went to Oslo five years ago. Summer of 1990.’

‘You’re not ringing from Oslo now then?’

‘No, I’m in Bergen. Visiting my old mum in Munkebotn. Don’t know if you remember her?’

‘No, I…’

‘Well, that’s not so strange, but… I’ve got something important I need to talk to you about.’

‘OK.’

‘If you’ve got time.’

‘Time is what I have most of, as I usually say.’

‘Could we meet?’

‘Of course. Any suggestions where?’

‘What about in Fjellveien?’

I looked out of the window. The rain this morning had not exactly been a foretaste of autumn. Now the September sun was drifting like liquid honey over the town. Mount Floien looked green and inviting, with Fjellveien as the equator and not a storm warning in sight. ‘Whereabouts?’

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