Shaking my head, I fought back that swirling jumble of images in my mind. Fists clenched tightly, my knuckles pressed down firmly into the hard, tiled floor.

  Tears streamed down my cheeks. No! I couldn’t give up on her! There had to be something, some scrap that the police had missed, anything that might give me some sort of clue. All I needed to find was that one little thing.

  Shaking hands grabbed the back of one of the heavy oak chairs and I pulled myself unsteadily to my feet. The room lurched and tilted around me, and my feet stumbled.

  Muscles tensing, I forced my body rigid. I had to think!

  Scanning the grimy expanse, my eyes jumped from one filthy worktop to the next. From a pile of grease-stained pizza boxes to a heap of plastic takeaway containers stinking of stale spices and neglect.

  Then I saw the wall. The calendar, its pages still turned to May 1990.

  My lungs rattled like the wheels of the metro train inside my ribcage. Lars hadn’t touched it. He hadn’t even bothered to change the date since my life had crashed down around me nearly a year ago. Could there be something there? An appointment or a meeting, a missing piece of the puzzle hiding in plain sight?

  Ripping the calendar from the wall, my eyes blurred as I searched the page. There they were, the 14th to 29th, highlighted in vibrant fluorescent pink. ‘Silver Anniversary, Italy’ written in Mum’s neat hand.

  Fingers quivering, I flipped the page to June. There had to be something, a note, anything that wasn’t right, anything that seemed suspicious. But all I could see were shopping reminders and a dentist’s appointment for Dad.

  Frantically, I started ripping away the pages — June, July, August… birthdays, anniversaries… the months fluttered down like dead leaves, coming to rest, discarded on the paper-strewn floor.

  There had to be something…

  As December 1990 slipped from my hand, my eyes snagged on the dark wooden letter rack, tightly packed with envelopes of all sizes and colours.

  Lunging forward, I snatched at them with clawed fingers. Old bills, bank statements, pizza menus, meaningless letters from friends…

  My heart was a frantic rhythm, pounding against my eardrums. My skin prickled and tingled as I rifled through the envelopes.

  The sharp, warm taste of blood flooded my mouth as I bit down on the inside of my cheek; it was the only thing in this place that didn’t smell of dust and grime. The thick, heavy silence of the abandoned house pressed in on me, booming in my ears. The walls leant forward, closing in around me. The shadows, alive, reaching at me with their suffocating blackness. Outside, a sudden lashing of rain drummed against the windowpane.

  There was nothing here for me. I was as empty, neglected and jilted as the house.

  The hissing rasp rose in my ears once again. “Go, Heidi, leave this place, leave this life.”

  Hands closing around an old pizza box, slick with grease, I hurled it, sending it spinning through the air. The grime clung to my fingers for a moment while I watched the box crash into the far wall, leaving a smear of grime.

  I had come here expecting answers. I had come looking for the truth and I had found it. The facts were simple: Dad was dead. And Mum? Whether she was dead or alive, I didn’t know. It didn’t matter anyway; she was out of reach and there was nothing I could do for her.

  I was alone.

  My hands thrust into my pockets; they were empty. Worse than empty, the only scrap of money I had, I’d wasted last night. I’d had to dodge the conductors, jump the barriers and hide in the back seats of the metro to just get here.

  The fridge! My gaze shot to the other side of the kitchen, to the fridge and a red porcelain jar that sat atop it.

  Grabbing one of the heavy dining chairs, I dragged it over to the fridge; the legs screeching loudly on the floor and echoing through the empty house. Stepping up onto the chair, and with a shaking hand, I reached up and tipped the jar. A roll of coloured notes, bound together with a perished elastic band, tumbled out and fell to the floor with a muffled thud.

  Drawing a deep breath, I climbed down and picked up the money. There was enough there for two weeks’ worth of shopping. It was the money Mum had left for us when she had gone away. It was a miracle that it was still here, and Lars hadn’t already taken it. I didn’t want to think about how he had paid for all the pizzas and takeaways.

  The cash went straight into my pocket and then I turned and ran. Through the kitchen, my feet sliding on a discarded calendar page. My heavy footsteps thundered off the walls of the hallway, a frantic rhythmic pounding in my ears.

  Yanking on the handle, I threw open the front door and stumbled out into the gloomy light.

  My knees slammed into the wet, gritty ground as I toppled forward. The stinging, white-hot heat of pain scorched into them as my skin tore against the gravel. Moments later my palms landed heavily, the stones biting into the flesh like a hundred tiny razor blades.

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  My eyes screwed shut, my breath ragged as the pain washed over me like a tidal wave of ecstasy. For several moments, I was still, unflinching as the sharp stones pressed into me.

  Pulling myself back to my feet, I dusted off my hands, brushed down my knees and flicked away a short lock of vibrant pink hair that had fallen across my face.

  My knees burned. A warm, tacky droplet of blood traced a slow line down my shin. My hands stung and my palms throbbed. Unlike the creatures that lurked in the shadows or the things that whispered to me from inside my head, this blood was real. The pain was real. It wouldn’t leave me; it wouldn’t abandon me.

  There is something pure, untainted, and seductive about pain. Something that makes it dangerously addictive.

  A smile spread across my lips as I took my first steps back down the hill. Down towards Besserud Station.

  It was only a small station. The Oslo bound side was little more than a cracked slab of grey concrete and a wooden shed for a shelter. On the opposite side, built from red painted panelling, was the ticket office.

  Except for an elderly couple on the northbound platform, the station was deserted. I didn’t spare them a second glance; what could they offer me?

  ****

  The metro train rumbled through its tunnel beneath the streets of Oslo’s centre. The high-pitched whine of the train’s motor screamed above the constant rattling of the windows and juddering of the wheels as they clattered over the joints in the rails.

  Cold plastic seats felt hard underneath me. I shifted, trying to find some sort of comfort. Harsh, fluorescent strip lights lined the ceiling and cast the empty carriage in a cold, sterile light. The shadows around me twisted and writhed as the lights gave an occasional flicker. They reached out towards me like tangled and gnarled hands before retreating under the seats when the light snapped back to life.

  I fixed my eyes on the window. My reflection stared back at me from the blackness. My pink fringe stood out like a violent neon light, glowing in the unnatural glare of the carriage. Occasionally a dirty red utility cable or dull green signal light would flash past in a blur.

  My head twitched as the train’s intercom crackled. A tinny, almost incoherent voice announced the next station, Nationaltheatret.

  A high-pitched squeal from the brakes pierced my skull.

  The dark confines of the tunnel gave way to the blinding brightness of the platform. The harsh light stung my eyes. Billboards and garish advertising posters slid past the opposite window in a nauseating blur of colour. Slowing to an eventual halt with a bone shaking judder.

  Heaving the heavy, stiff doors open, I stepped out onto the bustle of the platform. A heavy gust of icy cold, ozone scented wind hit me as a train rumbled through the opposite platform. A man wearing a long, dark coat barged past me, his shoulder slamming into mine. Snarling, I struck back at him. A sharp elbow aimed at his ribs. He didn’t even spare me a glance as he hurried into the carriage I had just stepped out of. It was as if I didn’t even exist.

  The crashing tide of the crowd immediately swallowed me whole; its weight shoving and buffeting me left and right. My nose wrinkled; perfume, aftershave, body odour all mingled with the heavy underlying smell of damp clothing.

  Roughly I shoved aside a woman in a red hat and, ignoring her startled gasp, I wove my way towards the exit. Soon the mechanical hum and clatter of the escalators swallowed the low, muffled buzz of the crowded station.

  Stepping out onto the street, the bright white facades rose above me. Glass shop fronts surrounded me. The low titter of laughter drifted over to me from across the road, and the dull thump of music caught my ear from a nearby bar. People glanced at me as they passed by with painted on smiles that never reached their eyes.

  The corner of my lip twitched. This place was too perfect, too safe. It was a lie, and I needed something else. I needed somewhere honest.

  Turning my back on the theatres and museums, on the expensive restaurants and bars with their imported lagers. I walked east along Karl Johans gate. The pristine white facades fell away, replaced with the cold grey of concrete. The granite paved streets turned to cracked black tarmac. The air was thick with soot and the acrid tang of oil and diesel; the roar of the traffic was loud in my ears.

  Huddled beside a red brick wall, an old man looked up at me. His eyes were dark rimmed and sunken; a thin stubble covered his chin. Wrapped in grey blankets, he held out an old, chipped enamelled mug towards me. The handful of coins inside rattled thinly as he shook it.

  “Miss?” his voice was a weak rasp.

  The voices hissed in my ear again, like the rustle of dry leaves. “You don’t owe him a thing. You don’t owe anybody a thing.”

  Setting my eyes forward, I walked past him.

  A blue tram screeched past me on its steel rails, the overhead wires crackling and sparking. Packed not with polished tourists and businessmen in their well-pressed suits, but with real people. Faces of every nationality stared out at me: Norwegian, Pakistani, African, Turkish, Polish, Vietnamese… living shoulder to shoulder, this was the true beating heart of Oslo, not the sterilised version that the brochures wanted the world to see.

  The shadows of the buildings had grown long. The sky had turned a dark, leaden grey. Streetlights flickered to life around me, buzzing as they sucked all colour out of the world and cast everything in a sickly sodium orange hue.

  I passed groups of youths huddled on street corners. They would fall silent, their eyes following me hungrily as I walked by, my boots clicking loudly on the pavement.

  “Hey,” one shouted, “Are you looking for some men to keep you company tonight?”

  “If you see any men around here, let me know… All I see are little boys!” I spat my retort back at them, my stare locking onto theirs, daring them until they blinked and looked away.

  Stepping onto Jernbanetorget, it immediately assaulted my senses. A mass of grey, drab concrete spread out in front of me. The air rang with the high-pitched squeal of the trams and the low rumble of the buses. The acrid bite of diesel fumes scratched the back of my throat and stung my nostrils. Grimy steel tram shelters lined the road, and beyond them, dirty steps led up to the featureless mass of the Central Station.

  Commuters hurried from the station, their heads held low, eager to get away as quickly as possible. They avoided the small clusters of people who dotted the square and the occasional figure slumped on the ground. Two police officers stood at the entrance to the station, their eyes scanning over the square but doing nothing. Handfuls of clinking coins and crinkled, torn notes were openly passed from hand to hand in exchange for pills and small packets of powder. Others, their backs to the steps, started forward through dilated pupils, the occasional streetlight catching the glint of a needle in their hands.

  I walked through them, kicking aside an empty beer can with a clatter, watching them as I passed. But most didn’t see me; their bodies swayed, their eyes glazed and unfocused, colourless under the dim street-lighting.

  They were the city’s abandoned and forgotten souls.

  Was I really any better than they were?

  Walking towards the dark buildings on the far side of the square, I was drawn like a moth to the flickering neon lights of the dive bars.

  Stopping outside a scratched black wooden door, I glanced at a torn poster stuck to the cracked plaster wall, advertising a rock gig that had happened months ago. The manic thud of dance music could be heard pounding on the door from the other side.

  With one hand wrapped around the roll of money in my pocket, Mum’s money, and with the other on the door, I pushed it open and stepped inside.