When the Devil Holds the Candle Read Free Page B

want to hit him, or stick out your leg to see him lose his balance. If that was even possible. Furthermore, Zipp knew where Andreas lived and worked. He had been up to his room and visited his workplace, the Cash & Carry. He worked among racks of paint tins, bread knives, and Teflon frying pans. It was a place for old ladies. Andreas was the only guy who worked there.
    Andreas knew that Zipp's father had died years ago, but he couldn't remember what his name was or how he had died. He also knew that Zipp was unemployed and was always bumming money from him. He liked having company and he owned a car. The car had belonged to his father, of course. Zipp's mother didn't know how to drive, but she did pay for the gas. She did shift work at some kind of home. Andreas rarely saw her—almost always, she was either at work or asleep. In the basement he and Zipp had a little room, a place where they could hang out when they were broke. It was pleasant to stick with the familiar. Zipp was predictable, and Andreas liked that. And last, but not least, being friends with Zipp felt safe.
    They didn't have much to offer one another, yet they still spent time together. Anything was better than solitude. If Zipp ever suggested including a third or a fourth person, Andreas would talk him out of it, saying that it would just complicate things. Besides, they didn't have room for women in the car, which was a good argument. They'd quarreled a few times, but their spats never ever developed into fights. They agreed on most things; when they didn't, Andreas usually managed to turn the conflict to his own advantage, so effortlessly that Zipp never even noticed. They had crossed a few boundaries. Insignificant things: once where they had stolen money and some cartons of cigarettes from a kiosk; another time, when the Golf's battery died, and the idea of trudging through the streets like a couple of schoolboys didn't appeal to them, they had stolen a car. But they hadn't driven far. At bottom, they were quite cowardly. They never resorted to violence, and they had never owned a gun between them, although Andreas had a knife; it had been given to him as a confirmation present. Occasionally it hung from his belt, hidden under his shirt. The knife made Zipp uncomfortable. Sometimes they drank too much, and then the knife would swing like a pendulum on Andreas's narrow hips, readily accessible. Not that Andreas set out to provoke anyone, or let himself be provoked by others. Usually he had just the opposite effect on people. They felt good in his company; they would relax and sit staring into his pale blue eyes. But when Andreas drank, he changed. A restlessness would come over him, and the lazy boy would develop an almost feverish agitation. Then his thin fingers couldn't keep still; they'd be in constant motion, plucking at everything. Zipp was always amazed by this: he himself became dull and sleepy when he drank too much.
    Andreas was actually quite remarkable. He was more like a mood than an actual presence. He didn't belch, even when he got drunk. He didn't cough and he didn't hiccup. Everything around him was quiet. And he didn't have any particular kind of smell. Zipp used Hugo Boss aftershave when he could afford
to buy it, or when he felt confident enough to steal a bottle from the Cash & Carry. Andreas never used aftershave. He always looked the same. His hair never got greasy; he was always clean, but not too clean. If Zipp happened to wake him up on a Sunday morning, and he appeared in the doorway wearing his bathrobe, he never looked tired. His eyes were wide open. His hair was always the same length. His shoes never looked worn out. It was strange.
    Right now Andreas was waiting for his paycheck. Between them they were worth the princely total of sixty kroner. Not even enough for two beers.
    "What are you thinking about?" Andreas said, out of the blue.
    Zipp grimaced. "I'm thinking about Anita."
    "Shit, is she really worth thinking