Kristiane had been inconsolable.

'Sulamit was a wonderful cat,' she said now. 'Can I have another cat, Mum?'

'But we've got Jack,' said Johanne. 'He's not all that keen on cats, as you well know.'

'I am the invisible child,' said Kristiane.

Johanne's fingers hovered like b.u.t.terflies over the thin skin on her back.

'Sometimes no one can see me.'

'When?' whispered Johanne.

'Sulamit, sulamat, sulatullamit on the mat.'

'Was it at Marie's wedding that no one could see you?'

'More. Tickle more, Mum.'

'Did you see anyone? Even if they couldn't see you?'

Johanne was desperately trying to remember what Kristiane had actually said that night at the hotel, when she herself had been terrified, furious and in no state to take in anything at all.

'A lady was murdered there,' said Kristiane, suddenly sitting up next to her mother. 'Marianne Kleive. Nursery school teacher. Married to the noted award-winning doc.u.mentary film-maker Synnve Hessel! Women can marry each other in Norway. So can men.'

Her voice had suddenly reverted to a monotonous chant.

'You read too many newspapers,' smiled Johanne, putting her arm around her daughter and drawing her close.

'Dearly loved, sadly missed.'

'Have you started reading the death notices?'

'A cross means the dead person was a Christian. A Star of David means the deceased was Jewish. What does the bird mean, Mum?'

At last Kristiane's eyes met her mother's gaze for a fleeting moment.

'That you hope the dead person will rest in peace,' Johanne whispered.

'I want a bird in my death notice.'

'You're not going to die.'

'I'm going to die one day.'

'We're all going to die one day.'

'You too, Mum.'

'Yes, me too. But not for a long time.'

'You can't know that.'

Silence. They were only whispering, sitting close together on the sofa, Johanne with her arm around the slender fourteen-year-old like a safety belt as the daylight poured in across the living-room floor, almost dazzling them. She could feel the budding b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the unavoidable signs that Kristiane, too, would become an adult, even if p.u.b.erty had come late.

'No,' Johanne said eventually. 'I can't know that. But I don't think it will happen for a long time. I'm healthy, Kristiane, and not so very old. Have you ever seen a dead person?'

'You'll die before me, Mum.'

'I hope I do. No parent wants their child to die before them.'

'Who will look after me when you die?'

Johanne had been asking herself that same question, over and over again, ever since Kristiane was just a few hours old, and Johanne was the only one who realized there was something wrong with her child.

'You'll be an adult by then, sweetheart. You'll be able to look after yourself.'

'I'll never be able to look after myself. I'm not like other children. I go to a special school. I'm autistic.'

'You're not autistic, you're ...'

Johanne quickly sat up straight and placed her hand beneath Kristiane's chin.

'You're not like other children. That's quite true. You are just yourself. And I love you so much, just for being you. And you know what, Kristiane?'

Kristiane responded to her smile, her eyes focusing on Johanne.

'I'm not exactly like other people either. Actually, I think we all feel that way. None of us feels exactly like other people. And there will always be someone to look after you. Ragnhild, for example. And Amund, too. He's your nephew, after all!'

Kristiane's laughter was brittle and as clear as a bell.

'They're younger than me!'

'Yes, but by the time I die they'll be grown up. And then they can look after you.'

'I've seen a dead person. The soul weighs twenty-one grams. But you can't see it leaving.'

Johanne said nothing. She still had her hand under Kristiane's chin, but her daughter's gaze was turned inward again, focused on a place no one else could reach, and her voice was expressionless and mechanical once more as she went on: 'Marianne Kleive, forty-two years old, died 19 December 2008. Bishop Eva Karin Lysgaard, dearly loved, sadly missed, unexpectedly taken from us on Christmas Eve 2008. Funeral arrangements to be notified at a later date. The cross means she was a Christian.'

'Stop,' Johanne whispered, quickly drawing the girl close. 'Stop now.'

It was exactly twelve o'clock, and a cloud drifted across the unforgiving January sun. A pleasant darkness filled the living room. Johanne closed her eyes as she held her daughter tightly, rocking her from side to side.

'I am the invisible child,' Kristiane whispered.

Fear.

Perhaps he should never have had children.

The very thought made the acid in his stomach eat away at his duodenum. He drew up his knees and placed both hands on the spot where in his younger days he had been able to feel the end of his ribs and the beginning of his stomach. Now it was all just one soft ma.s.s, in spite of the fact that he was lying on his back: a flabby belly that was far too big, with a stabbing pain deep inside a layer of fat.

Marcus Koll's entire life revolved around his son.

His work, his company, his extended family it was all meaningless without little Marcus. When Rolf came into their lives they were already a twosome, but the three of them soon became a family, and Marcus would do anything to protect that family. But the boy remained the very hub of Marcus Koll's family wheel.

Little Marcus quickly accepted Rolf, and the love was mutual. After a while Rolf had tentatively raised the question of whether he might adopt his stepson.

As time went by, he dropped the subject.

Marcus had never told anyone about the dreams he used to have when he was young.

He wanted children.

He had been a strong boy; breaking with his father had taken real courage. It had cost him surprisingly little to come out as what and who he was. As a teenager his wilfulness could sometimes make him appear stubborn, but as an adult he became cleverer and more skilful. His obstinacy turned into purposefulness. Arrogance turned into pride. He took the sting out of his unconventional inclination with self-irony, and had never felt the need to seek out the gay haunts he knew existed in both Bergen, where he attended business college, and in Oslo when he returned home after completing his studies. On the contrary, he had always regarded seduction as a challenge. Until he met Rolf, he had seduced only heteros.e.xual men. He was quietly proud of the fact that before him they had slept only with women. He wasn't quite so thrilled when they then returned to their straight lives.

Marcus Koll Junior hadn't exactly been a typical gay man of his time.

In addition, he wanted a child more than anything. His only sorrow when, aged sixteen or seventeen, he had decided to stop pretending to be something he was not was that the future would not bring him any offspring. He had never shared this sorrow with anyone, although his mother had been aware of it in the way that mothers can sometimes read their child better than the child himself. But they had never talked about that little empty s.p.a.ce in Marcus's heart: the lack of a child of his own to love.

However, for many years Marcus Koll had been a contented young man anyway.

Things went well for him, and he never felt that his s.e.xuality was being used against him, neither professionally nor among friends and colleagues. For a long time he served as their politically correct alibi. During the late eighties and early nineties, open h.o.m.os.e.xuality was not at all common, and his presence in the lives of other people somehow gave them something to show off about.

He was so happy with his life that he didn't even notice he was starting to burn out. He became so popular that he didn't realize he was putting too much energy into dealing with his status as an outsider. In the entirely heteros.e.xual life he was leading with the minor difference that he went to bed with men without lying about it his soul slowly crumbled until he collapsed with exhaustion; he hadn't even seen it coming.

Then his friends started to have children.

Marcus Koll wanted children, too.

He had always wanted children.

He made the decision.

When he travelled to California to sign a contract with a surrogate mother and egg donor, he had recently taken over the running of his father's old company. The future lay before him. He had been blessed with money, and was able to explain away his frequent visits to America over the following year as essential business trips.

One evening in late January 2001 he had simply turned up at his mother's apartment with the boy in his arms. As soon as she opened the door she understood everything, and burst into tears. Gently, she took her new grandchild, held him close to her breast and carried him into the s.p.a.cious apartment which her children had bought her when they suddenly became wealthy. She had never quite got used to the apartment, but when Marcus arrived with the child she sat down right in the middle of the sumptuous sofa that no one had ever used. With her nose against the boy's cheek she whispered almost inaudibly: 'Grandma's home, little one. Grandma's home at last. And you're at home with Grandma.'

'His name is Marcus,' Marcus said, and his mother had wept and wept. 'Not after me, after Grandfather.'

The idea of losing little Marcus was unthinkable.

Perhaps he should never have had him.

'Are you awake?' Rolf murmured, turning over in bed. 'What time is it?'

'Go back to sleep,' Marcus whispered.

'But why aren't you sleeping?' He turned on his side, resting his head on his hand. 'You lie awake almost every night,' said Rolf with a big yawn.

'No I don't. Go back to sleep.'

Only the glow from the digital alarm clock made it possible to see anything in the room. Marcus stared at his own hands. They looked green in the darkness. He tried to smile.

The fear had arrived with his son. The fact that he was different; the incontrovertible fact that he wasn't like everybody else and never could be became much clearer. He had always believed it was easy to protect himself. When his son came into his life, he realized how helpless he sometimes felt when he encountered prejudices that he would have ignored in the past and dismissed as the att.i.tudes of a bygone age. He had always thought the world was moving forwards, but when little Marcus arrived he sometimes had the feeling that the development of society was actually describing an unpredictable, asymmetric curve, and that it was difficult to keep up. The joy and love he felt for his son were all-encompa.s.sing. The fear of not being able to protect him from the evils and prejudices of the world tore him apart. Then Rolf came along, and many things became much better. Never perfect. Marcus still felt like a marked man in every sense. But Rolf brought strength and happiness, and little Marcus had a fantastic life. That was the most important thing, and as time went by Marcus chose to keep the periods of helplessness and depression to himself. They became more and more infrequent.

Until Georg Koll, his own deceased, accursed father, had played one last trick on him.

'What is it?' said Rolf, more fully awake now.

The duvet had partly slipped off his body. He was naked, still lying on his side with one knee drawn up and the other leg stretched out. Even in the faint light the contours of his stomach muscles were clearly visible.

'Nothing.'

'Come on, I can tell there's something wrong!'

The duvet rustled as Rolf impatiently pulled it over his athletic body.

'Surely you can tell me! You just haven't been yourself recently. If it's to do with work, if it's something you can't talk about, then at least tell me that's what it is! We can't-'

'There's really nothing wrong,' said Marcus, turning over. 'Let's get back to sleep.'

He could hear that Rolf wasn't moving, and he could feel Rolf's eyes burning into his back.

He should have talked to Rolf as soon as the problem arose. Now, so many months and so many worries later, it struck him that he hadn't even considered the possibility of sharing his troubles with his husband. That frightened him. Rolf was one of the most sensible people he knew. Rolf would surely have found a way out. Rolf would have calmly a.n.a.lysed the situation and talked things over until he came up with a solution. Rolf was a positive person, an optimist with an indomitable belief that everything even the darkest tragedy has a silver lining if you just take the time to find it.

Of course he should have talked to Rolf.

That was the first thing he should have done.

Together they could cope with anything.

Rolf was still lying there in silence. Marcus kept his eyes fixed firmly on the clock. He blinked when the numbers changed from 3.07 to 3.08. Suddenly, he took a quick breath and searched for the words that could support the weight of the painful story they should have shared long ago.

Before he could find the words, Rolf turned over.

They were lying back to back.

Just a few minutes later, Rolf's breathing was once again heavy and even.

Suddenly, Marcus realized why it was too late to say anything to Rolf: he would never forgive him.

Never.