Free Yours Until Death by Gunnar Staalesen

Slowly. Past a stream of red arrows.

13
    I stood in the road for a while. Now what should I do? Was there anything more I could do about any of this? I looked down at my watch. Looked up at the high-rise where Wenche Andresen lived, at the ninth-floor balcony, at Roar’s window, at the kitchen window and at her front door. A light was on in the kitchen.
    I walked up to Wenche’s building, went in, and over to the lift.
    While I waited, a woman came and stood by me. I said hello cautiously – and she looked at me as if I’d made an obscene gesture. Perhaps people out here didn’t say hello while they waited for lifts. Perhaps they never said hello. It was a different world out here and I’d better not forget it. Then she got hold of her fear and smiled: a quick broad smile.
    She looked good. She had been beautiful. Ten years ago. But she was over fifty and those first five decades had left plough furrows on her face. Somebody had sowed and somebody had reaped, but God only knew who’d made a profit out of the crop.
    Her hair had been black but now it was striped with grey. Decorative. If you like zebras. Brown eyes but bloodshot, and her mouth was bitter – as if she’d just drunk one too many Camparis.
    She wasn’t very tall. I couldn’t tell whether she was thin or plump. She was wearing a billowy dark brown fur coat. It toohad seen better days but it could still warm a frozen soul in a frozen body. Lovely legs. She must have replaced them somewhere along the way. They belonged to a thirty-year-old.
    When the lift arrived, I held the door for her. She didn’t smile. She’d already used up her quota.
    The lift was long and narrow. Like a coffin. It looked as if it had been designed to haul pianos and beds and sofas up twelve storeys. She walked all the way in and I stood by the door.
    ‘Which floor do you want?’ I said.
    ‘Seven.’ Hers was a whisky voice. Too many drinks and not enough sleep. There were bags under her eyes.
    The lift stopped between the fourth and fifth floors. The light in the ceiling blinked twice and then settled down. Just like the lift.
    The woman took a deep breath. ‘Oh dear God. Not again!’ She looked at me as if it were my fault. ‘It’s stuck.’
    ‘That’s what I thought,’ I said.
    I could see ten or fifteen centimetres of the fifth-floor door. The rest was concrete wall.
    Being stuck in a lift is a totally special experience reserved for people who live in so-called civilised countries. In countries where they build houses higher than five storeys. The world stops when you’re stuck in a lift. It doesn’t matter much if you’re fifty or fifteen. You feel old. Very old.
    There could be a war going on out there. The Russians or the Americans or the Chinese could have landed. There could be a power failure or an earthquake or a hurricane. People could be running around naked in the streets, carving hunks out of each other. Or a thousand tons of unicorns could be chasing virgins. None of it has anything to do with you. You are stuck.
    Claustrophobia isn’t one of my phobias but just the same Icould feel my forehead and back getting a little sweaty. Nobody likes being stuck in a lift. You get stuck? You want to get out. As simple as that.
    And we were stuck.
    The woman I was stuck with didn’t look as if she were enjoying it either. Her face had sort of expanded: eyes, nostrils, mouth. And she was breathing heavily. Her knees seemed to wobble. She braced herself against the wall with a limp white hand and held the other to her forehead.
    ‘Maybe we should introduce ourselves. My name’s Veum,’ I said.
    She looked as if she didn’t believe it. ‘I … We’re stuck. Stuck!’ Her voice sounded hysterical.
    ‘I’ve heard that when claustrophobes get into situations like this they sometimes strip. Don’t. I’m too young. I couldn’t take it,’ I said.
    She took a step back. ‘What in the world are you babbling about? Get us out of here. Out. I’ve got to get