The sky was beginning to darken, turning a deep, wounded purple as Lela swung the Volkswagen onto Møllergata. Towering, brutal grey concrete buildings loomed overhead, pressing into the narrow street.
A red brick church, its windows catching the colour of the fading light, drifted past. The car jolted, its suspension groaning as it bumped up onto the kerb. We stopped outside a single-story, drab brick building. The windows were dark, and the main door was firmly locked. But just a few metres from that lifeless entrance, a steep set of cobbled steps descended from the pavement into shadows below.
“Good evening, Lela,” a deep voice rumbled from one of two hulking, black-suited bouncers flanking the top of the steps. “I can’t believe what happened to Asmund. A few of the lads have got an idea who might have attacked him.”
“Hi, Jakob,” Lela replied with a nod, pausing momentarily. “Just leave it to the police. You don’t need to go getting yourself into any trouble over it. You’ve got the little one due any day now.”
Jakob muttered something that I didn’t quite catch before we began our descent towards the heavy double doors below.
A stark, black sign was nailed to one of the doors, its jagged lettering spelling out ‘Kjelleren’. Across from it, a handwritten poster announced in strong, bold strokes, ‘Tonight, Arctic Howl’.
My hand closed around Lela’s, her skin felt soft and warm against my thin, bony grip.
“Let’s do this,” I said, pushing open the door.
Stepping inside, we were hit with a wall of sound. Nine Inch Nails pounded out from the overhead speakers, reverberating off the dark brick walls. The wooden floor, sticky with spilt beer, vibrated beneath our feet as we stepped across it. The air was heavy. The haze of cigarette smoke drifted like a low, ghostly mist, illuminated by the flickering bulbs that hung from the nicotine-yellowed ceiling.
It was still reasonably early, but already the bar was a bustle of activity. Groups clustered around the tables, their heads together deep in conversation.
Lela squeezed my hand before leading me through the thin crowd and towards the bar.
“Hey, Gunnar!” Lela called over the dull thud of the music, waving to a balding man in his mid-fifties.
“Lela!” Gunnar said, turning to face us with a warm, crinkled smile. “I heard about what happened to Asmund. God, I’m so sorry. I hadn’t expected you to still be playing tonight.”
“I thought about cancelling, but Heidi, here…” I wrapped an arm around Lela’s waist, my head coming to rest on her shoulder as she spoke. “…she convinced me to play solo. A bit of a tribute to Asmund. If that’s ok with you?”
“It’s completely fine by me. The Arctic Howl are one of my biggest draws,” Gunnar said, leaning across the bar. “We can’t have Thursday Night at the Kjelleren without at least one half of the duo.” The barman then turned his gaze to me, his eyes curious. “Hi, I’m not sure we’ve met. I’m Gunnar.”
“Heidi,” I replied, shaking him by the hand. “I’m an old friend of Lela’s.”
“Best friend, babe,” Lela corrected me playfully, her elbow nudging me in the ribs. “Gunnar, I don’t suppose you could give me a hand bringing my gear down? Asmund usually does it, but…”
“Don’t you worry about it. You and Heidi grab something to drink,” he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I’ll get a couple of the guys to see to it.”
Once all her equipment had been lugged down into the bar, Lela set to work on the low stage in the corner. She moved with practiced grace, plugging in boxes and pedals and connecting cables that snaked across the floor.
Climbing onto a rickety stool, I hung our banner behind her. I smoothed the heavy black fabric against the cracked plasterwork, the white wolf’s head staring out into the room.
Once done, I returned to the bar to admire my work.
“She’s got herself a new banner,” I heard Gunnar’s voice beside me.
Glancing over toward him, I took a slow, deliberate sip of beer before speaking. The bitter, ice-cold liquid scraped the back of my throat. “We finished painting it yesterday.”
“It looks great,” he said, resting his elbows on the bar. “You say that you two are old friends?”
“We used to be inseparable,” I said, my voice dropping a tone while watching his expression closely. “I’ve been away for a bit, but now…” I flashed a small, sharp smile. “We’re picking up exactly where we left off.”
My eyes returned to the slim, leather-clad figure who was now crouched beside the humming amp. A soft, resonant twang reverberated around the smoky bar as, with one hand, she gently plucked a string while the other fine-tuned the small knobs on the shining black box. Occasionally I would see her gaze sweep across towards the heavy wooden doors. Her eyes searching for a face that I knew wouldn’t appear.
“Have you seen Ingrid?” Lela said, stepping up beside me once she’d finished her soundcheck. “I’m going to start in a few minutes.”
“No, she’s not here yet,” I replied in a soft voice.
A low, hollow sigh escaped her lips, her shoulders slumping slightly. Curling my arm around her waist, I stepped into her space, my face coming close to her cheek.
Just a comforting gesture, nothing more.
With a quick glance in Gunnar’s direction, I whispered to her. “Oh, I’m sure she’ll be here. She said she was looking forward to it. I expect she’s just got caught up.”
Lela’s chest rose slowly before falling.
“You’re probably right,” she breathed, trying to force a smile. “Come on, I’ve got a couple of seats saved at the front for my favourite ladies.”
Together we walked, arm in arm, our footsteps in perfect unison as we threaded our way through the crowd. Gunnar’s eyes burned into my back. Perhaps he was just curious about the new face in the Kjelleren. Or perhaps he was sensing a change in the air.
I leant into Lela, just a tiny fraction closer.
The front row table was worn and scratched. Sticky rings, the lingering telltale of beer glasses, covered its surface. Lela sat beside me, her knee bouncing with frantic, nervous energy. Her eyes darting to the door at every creak and groan of its old iron hinges.
“I’m sure she’ll be here,” I said again, unable to keep the slight twist of a smile from my lips.
“I’m going to have to get started, babe,” Lela said softly, her eyes wide. “I can’t leave it any longer.”
I let my hand linger on her knee for just a moment longer before she stood. Slowly she made her way onto the stage. As she slung the guitar over her shoulder, the house lights died, plunging the room into thick darkness as a heavy silence descended, broken only by an occasional dry cough from the table behind me.
Suddenly the stage back-light flared to life. It was a pure, blinding white glare that silhouetted Lela’s form. The guitar, its chrome gleaming, in one hand, her other resting on the mic. She stood there for a long moment, just looking out at the sea of faces which now looked back at her expectantly. Her gaze swept the room one last time, searching for a face that was never going to arrive.
“Good evening, Kjelleren!” Her pure, beautiful voice sprang from the speakers. It resonated off the bare masonry, echoed off the ceiling and vibrated through my body. All around me, a spine-tingling roar erupted from the crowd.
“You’ve probably noticed that I’m up here on my own tonight,” she continued, her voice clear as she leaned into the mic. “A lot of you will have heard about what happened to Asmund… he’s fighting, he’s doing well… but tonight this one’s for him!”
Another cheer erupted. The crowd began to chant a rhythmic, thundering pulse, “Asmund! Asmund!”
Lela glanced down towards me, a small smile playing on her lips before her eyes drifted once again to the empty chair beside me. Her smile dissolved, and for a heartbeat she seemed to shrink on the stage, her form fading into the glaring back-light.
But then her back straightened. Her hand swept across the strings, and the first chord sprang forth, vibrating the floorboards beneath my feet. It was a low, guttural growl that rattled the glass on my table, a sound that shook the old walls of the Kjelleren.
It was the first time that I had ever seen Lela play anything other than in a handful of small pubs. She slammed her pick across the strings with a sharp, aggressive twang. Then her voice erupted, beautiful and pure. It crackled with a bright, radiant energy. Her long dark hair swung from side to side, whipping across her face as she moved. A thin sheen of moisture glistened on her forehead under the hot stage lights. She belted out her own brand of rock music. Lyrics into which she had poured her soul. Most of those tracks were new to my ears, but every one of them struck me instantly.
Just like the woman who had written them, they were perfection.
Lela stepped back from the mic just as the final chord of the night faded into the smoke-filled air. A wave of cheers and frantic applause swept over the room. Offering the crowd one last, breathless wave, she propped her guitar up against the speaker cabinet. Giving the door one final, slow glance before she climbed down the steps of the stage to join me.
“She hasn’t come, has she?”
All the energy that had only moments ago been surging through her, lighting her up, seemed to just drain away in a single, ragged breath. With her shoulders slumping, she sank into the chair beside me, looking suddenly small and fragile.
“You were amazing up there,” I said. “I’ve never seen you play like that before.”
Lela simply shrugged, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, “I really thought she was going to come this time.”
“I don’t know, Lela. I thought she was too.” I said, leaning forward and wrapping my arms around her. “Why don’t I get you a drink and we’ll have a dance? I’m sure that’ll make you feel better.”
“I don’t know, babe,” she mumbled against my shoulder. “I think I just want to go home.”
“One drink and I’m not taking no for an answer,” I said, my tone playful but firm.
Standing up, I squeezed my way through the crowd and towards the bar.
“Just a vodka and orange for Lela, please, Gunnar?” I said to the barman, leaning against the damp wood.
“She really killed it up there tonight,” he said, reaching for a frosted, blue-labelled bottle of Viking Fjord and a carton of orange juice.
“She was fantastic,” I said, glancing up at Gunnar. “I think she quite enjoyed having me here for her. Her last girlfriend… well, she never really supported her music.”
“Ingrid?” he said, a look of genuine surprise crossing his face. “Have they…”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.” I cut him off, my eyes widening. I snatched up the glass from the bar before he could press it any further. “Forget that I mentioned it. It’s not my place.”
Gunnar nodded his head slowly, his thick, grey eyebrows drawing low, “That one’s on the house.”
I waited until I was concealed in the middle of the crowd, bodies pressing in on all sides, buffeting me. Under the cover of the jostling throng, I dipped my hand into my pocket. My fingers closed around the small plastic packet, its edges sharp against my skin, its contents feeling gritty between my fingers.
I wouldn’t need much, not yet. Just a pinch. Just enough to ease the tension in her shoulders, just enough to make the world outside of our table fade away.