"… and they steered their course toward parts where Martin had never been, far past Tyska Botten and Blackeberg-and there ran the border for the known world."
– Hjalmar Soderberg, Martin Bircks Ungdom
"But he, whose heart a skogsra steals it never will recover His soul will long for moonlight dreams and no mere mortal lover…"
– Viktor Rydberg, "Skogsraet"
'translator's note: a beautiful but sinister forest spirit.
On Sunday the papers published a more detailed account of the Vallingby murder. The headline read:
"Victim of Ritual Murder?"
Pictures of the boy, the hollow in the forest. The tree.
The Vallingby murderer was at this point no longer the topic on everyone's lips. The flowers brought to the hollow had wilted, the candles burned down. The candy cane striped police tape had been removed, all evidence to be found there had long since been secured.
The Sunday paper article revived people's interest. The epithet "ritual murder" suggested it was going to happen a second time, didn't it? A ritual is something that is repeated.
Everyone who had ever taken that path, or been anywhere near it, had something to tell. How creepy that part of the forest was. Or how beautiful and calm it was around there, and how you could never have guessed.
Everyone who had known the boy, no matter how superficially, said what a fine young man he was and what an evil person the murderer must be. People liked to use the murder as an example of a crime where the death penalty would be justified, even if you were against that sort of thing in principle.
Only one thing was missing. A photograph of the killer. People stared at the insignificant hollow, at the boy's smiling face. In the absence of a likeness of the perpetrator this had all simply… happened.
It was not satisfying, satisfactory.
Monday the twenty-sixth of October police announced through radio and morning papers that they had made the largest drug seizure ever recorded in Sweden. They had arrested five Lebanese men.
Lebanese.
Now that was something you could get your head around. Five kilos of heroin. And five men. One kilo per Lebanese.
The Lebanese men had also-on top of everything else-taken advantage of the extensive Swedish social welfare system during the time they were smuggling heroin. There were no photos of the Lebanese men, but none were needed. You knew what they looked like. Arabs. Say no more.
There were speculations that the ritual murderer was also a foreigner. It seemed plausible enough; weren't blood rituals common in those Arab countries? Muslims. Sent their kids off with plastic crosses or whatever it was they wore around their necks. Small children working as mine removers. You heard about that. Brutal people. Iran, Iraq. The Lebanese.
But on Monday the police released a composite sketch of the suspect, and it was published in the evening papers. A young girl had seen him. The police had taken their time, taken every precaution in constructing the image.
A normal Swede. With a ghost-like appearance, a vacant gaze. Everyone was in agreement about that: yes, this is what a murderer looked like. No problems imagining this mask-like face creeping up on you in the hollow and…
Every man in the western suburbs who resembled the phantom picture was subjected to long, scrutinizing looks. These men went home and looked at themselves in the mirror, saw no resemblance whatsoever. In the evening, in bed, they wondered if they should change something about their appearance in the morning or would that seem suspicious?
It would turn out they didn't need to bother. People would soon have something else to think about. Sweden would become a changed nation. A violated nation. That was the word that was continually used: violated.
While those resembling the police sketch lie in their beds weighing the benefits of a new hairstyle, a Soviet submarine has just run aground outside of Karlskrona. Its engine roars and echoes across the archipelago as it tries to free itself. No one goes out to investigate.
It will be discovered by accident on Wednesday morning.
Wednesday
28 October
The school was buzzing with rumors. Some teacher had listened to the radio during recess, had subsequently told his class about it, and by lunchtime everyone knew.
The Russians were here.
The biggest topic of conversation among the children over the past week had been the Vallingby murderer. Many had seen him, so they said, some even claimed to have been attacked by him.
The children had seen the murderer in every sketchy-looking character who walked past the school. When an older man in ratty clothing had taken a short cut across the school grounds the children had run for cover-screaming-to the nearest building. Some of the tougher guys had armed themselves with hockey sticks and prepared themselves to knock him down. Luckily someone had finally identified the man as one of the local alcoholics from the main square. They let him go.
But now the Russians were here. They didn't know much about the Russians. There once was a German, a Russian, and a Bellman-or so the joke went. The Russians were best in the world at hockey. They were called the Soviet Union. They and the Americans were the ones who flew in outer space. The Americans had made a neutron bomb to protect themselves against the Russians.
Oskar talked it over with Johan during the lunch break.
"Do you think the Russians have it too-the Bomb?"
Johan shrugged. "Sure. Maybe they've even got one on that submarine."
"I thought you had to have an airplane to drop it?"
"Nah. They put them in rockets that can be fired from wherever."
Oskar looked up at the sky. "And a submarine can have those?"
"That's what I said. They can put them anywhere."
"The people die but the houses are left standing."
"Exactly."
"Wonder what happens to the animals."
Johan pondered this for a moment.
"They must die too. At least the big ones."
They sat down on a corner of the sandbox, where none of the smaller kids were playing. Johan picked up a large rock and threw it so the sand whirled up around it. "Pow! Everyone dead!"
Oskar picked up a smaller rock.
"No! One person survived. Pshiuuuu! Missile in the back!"
They threw rocks and gravel, exterminating all the cities of the world, until they heard a voice behind them.
"What the hell are you doing?"
They turned around. Jonny and Micke. Jonny was the one who had spoken. Johan tossed the rock he had in his hand.'
"Uh-we were just…"
"I wasn't talking to you. Piggy? What were you doing?"
"Throwing rocks."
"Why were you doing that?"
Johan drew back a few steps, was busy retying his shoes.
"Just-no reason."
Jonny looked at the sandbox and then thrust his arm out so suddenly that Oskar flinched.
"The little kids are supposed to play here. Don't you get it? You're wrecking the sandbox."
Micke shook his head sadly. "They could trip and hurt themselves on the rocks."
"You're going to have to clean this up, Piggy."
Johan was still busy with his shoes.
"Did you hear me? You're going to have to clean this up"
Oskar stood still, unable to decide what to do. Of course Jonny didn't care about the sandbox. It was just the usual. It would take at least ten minutes to clear away all of the rocks that they had thrown and Johan wouldn't help. The bell was going to go off at any moment.
No.
The word came to him like divine inspiration. Like when someone says the word "god" for the first time and really means… God.
An image of himself picking up rocks after the others had gone back to class, only because Jonny had told him to do so, had flickered past inside his head. But something else had too. In the sandbox there was a jungle gym like the one in Oskar's courtyard.
Oskar shook his head.
"What's this?"
"No."
"What do you mean 'no'? You seem to be a little slow today. I'm telling you to pick this up and that means you do it?
"NO."
The bell rang. Jonny stood there looking at Oskar.
"You know what this means, don't you? Micke."
"Yes."
"We'll have to get him after school."
Micke nodded.
"See you, Piggy."
Jonny and Micke went in. Johan got up, finished with his shoes.
"That was pretty dumb."
"I know."
"What the hell did you do that for?"
"Because…" Oskar looked at the jungle gym. "Because I did, that's all."
"Idiot."
"Yes."
Oskar lingered at his desk after school was over. Took out two blank pieces of paper, got the encyclopedia from the back of the room, started turning the pages.
Mammoth… Medici… Mongol… Morpheus… Morse
Yes. Here it was. The dots and dashes of the Morse alphabet took up a fourth of a page. He started to copy down the code in large, legible letters on the first piece of paper.
A=.
B= -…
C= -.-.
and so on. When he was done he wrote it out again on the second sheet of paper. Wasn't satisfied. Threw the piece of paper away and started over, making the symbols and letters even neater.
Of course it was only important that one of the pages came out well: the one for Eli. But he liked the work and it gave him a reason to stay there.
Eli and he had been meeting every evening for a week now. Yesterday Oskar had tried knocking on the wall before he went out and Eli had answered. Then they went out at the same time. That was when Oskar had the idea of developing this communication through some kind of system, and since the Morse alphabet already existed…
He scrutinized the finished pages. Nice. Eli would like it. Just like him she liked puzzles, systems. He folded the pages, put them in his school bag, rested his arms on the bench. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach. The clock on the classroom wall showed twenty past three. He took out the book he had in his desk, Firestarter, and read it until four.
They couldn't have waited for him for two hours, could they?
If he had just picked up the rocks like Jonny had said, he would have been home by now. Been OK. Picking up rocks was certainly not the worst he had been asked to do, and done. He regretted it.
And if I do it now?
Maybe the punishment tomorrow would be milder if he told them he stayed after school and…
Yes, that's what he would do.
He gathered up his things and went out to the sandbox. It would only take him ten minutes to fix this. When he told them about it tomorrow Jonny would laugh, pat him on the head and say "good little Piggy" or something like that. But that was better, all things considered.
He glanced at the play structure, put his bag down next to the sandbox, and started to pick up the rocks. The big ones first. London, Paris. While he was picking them up he imagined that he was now saving the world. Cleaning up after those terrible neutron bombs. When the stones were lifted the survivors crawled out from their ruined houses like ants out of an anthill. But weren't the bombs supposed to not hurt the houses? Oh well, there were probably some atom bombs too.
When he walked to the edge of the sandbox in order to dump out a load of rocks, they were just standing there. He hadn't heard them coming, had been too busy with his game. Jonny, Micke. And Tomas. They held three long thin hazel branches. Whips. Jonny used his whip to point at a rock.
"There's one."
Oskar dropped the rocks he was holding and picked up the rock Jonny was pointing at. Jonny nodded. "Good. We waited for you, Piggy. We waited a long time."
"And then Tomas came along and said you were here," Micke said.
Tomas' eyes remained without expression. In elementary school Oskar and Tomas had been friends, played a lot in his yard, but after the summer between fourth and fifth grade Tomas had changed. He had started to talk differently, more grown up. Oskar knew that the teachers thought Tomas was one of the most intelligent boys in the class. You could tell from the way they talked to him. He had a computer. Wanted to be a doctor.
Oskar wanted to throw the rock he was holding straight into Tomas' face. Into the mouth that now opened and talked.
"Aren't you going to run? Get going now. Run."
There was a whistling sound as Jonny whipped the branch through the air. Oskar squeezed the rock harder.
Why don't I run.
He could already feel the stinging pain on his legs when the whip hit its mark. If he could only make it out to the park road where there would maybe be grown-ups around, they wouldn't dare to beat him up.
Why don't I run.
Because he didn't have a chance. They would have him on the ground before he had taken five steps. Let me go.
Jonny turned his head, pretended like he hadn't heard.
"What did you say, Piggy?" Let me go.
Jonny turned toward Micke.
"He thinks we should let him go."
Micke shook his head.
"But we've made such nice-looking…" He waved his whip in the air.
"What do you think, Tomas?"
Tomas looked at Oskar as if he were a rat, still alive, writhing in his trap.
"I think Piggy needs a whipping."
There were three of them. They had whips. It was a maximally unfair situation. He could throw the rock in Tomas' face. Or hit him with it if he came close. There would be a talk with the principal and so on. But they would understand. There had been three of them, armed.
Iwas… desperate.
He wasn't desperate at all. In fact he felt a streak of calm through the fear, now that he had made up his mind. They could whip him as long as it gave him the opportunity to smash the rock in Tomas' disgusting face.
Jonny and Micke stepped up. Jonny whipped Oskar across one thigh so he doubled over in pain. Micke went up behind him and locked his arms by his side.
No.
Now he couldn't throw it. Jonny whipped his legs, spun around once like Robin Hood in that movie, hit again.
Oskar's legs burned from the lashes. He writhed in Micke's hold but couldn't get free. Tears welled up in his eyes. He screamed. Jonny gave Oskar one last hard lash that grazed Micke's legs so that he yelled "watch it, will you" but without releasing his hold.
A tear ran down Oskar's cheek. It wasn't fair. He had picked up all the rocks, he had bent over backwards, so why did they have to hurt him?
The rock that he had been holding onto so hard fell out of his hand and he started to cry for real.
Jonny said with a pitying voice, "Piggy's crying."
Jonny seemed satisfied. His work was done. He gestured to Micke to let him go. Oskar's whole body was shaking, wracked with sobs, and from the pain in his legs. His eyes were filled with tears when he lifted his face to them and heard Tomas' voice.
"What about me?"
Micke grabbed Oskar's arms again and through the fog of tears over his eyes he saw Tomas walk closer. He snivelled,
"Please don't."
Tomas raised his whip and struck. One single blow. Oskar's face exploded and he jerked to the side so violently that Micke either lost or let go of his grip and said,
"What the hell, Tomas. That was…"
Jonny sounded angry.
"Now you can talk to his mom."
Oskar didn't hear what Tomas answered, if he said anything.
Their voices disappeared into the distance; they left him with his face in the sand. His left cheek burned. The sand was cold, soothed the heat in his legs. He wanted to put his cheek in the sand as well, but realized it wasn't a good idea.
He lay there so long he started to get cold. Then he sat up and carefully felt his cheek. Blood came off onto his fingers.
He walked over to the outside toilets and looked in the mirror. The cheek was swollen and covered in half-congealed blood. Tomas must have struck him as hard as he could. Oskar washed his cheek and looked in the mirror again. The wound had stopped bleeding and it wasn't deep. But it ran right across almost his entire cheek.
Mom. What do I tell her?
The truth. He needed comforting. In an hour mom would be home and then he would tell her what they had done to him and she would be completely distraught and hug him and hug him and he would sink into her arms, into her tears, and they would cry together.
Then she would call Tomas' mom.
Then she would call Tomas' mom and they would argue and then Mom would cry about how mean Tomas' mom was and then…
Woodshop.
He had had an accident in woodshop. No, then maybe she would call the teacher.
Oskar studied his wound in the mirror. How did you get something like this? He had fallen off the play structure. It didn't really work but Mom would want to believe it. She would still feel sorry for him and comfort him, but without all that other stuff. The play structure.
His pants felt cold. Oskar unbuttoned them and checked. His underpants were soaked. He took out the Pissball and rinsed it out. He was about to put it back but stopped and looked in the mirror.
Oskar. That's… Oskar.
He took the rinsed Pissball and put it on his nose. Like a clown nose. The yellow ball and the red wound on his cheek. Oskar. He opened his eyes wide and tried to look crazy. Yes. Creepy. He talked to the clown in the mirror.
"It's over now, it's enough. Understand? This is it."
The clown didn't answer.
"I'm not standing for this. Not even one more time, understand?"
Oskar's voice echoed in the empty bathroom.
"What should I do? What should I do, do you think?"
He twisted his face into a grimace until it hurt, distorted his voice by making it as raspy and low as he could. The clown spoke.
"… kill them… kill them… kill them."
Oskar shivered. This was a little creepy for real. It really sounded like someone else's voice, and the face in the mirror wasn't his own. He took the Pissball from his nose, put it back in his pants.
The tree.
Not because he really believed in this and all… but he would go stab the tree. Maybe, just maybe. If he really concentrated, then…
Maybe.
Oskar picked up his bag and hurried home, filling his head with lovely images.
Tomas is sitting at his computer when he feels the first stab. Doesn't understand where it is coming from. Staggers out into the kitchen with the blood gushing from his stomach. "Mom, Mom, someone is stabbing me."
Tomas' mom would just stand there. Tomas' mom who always took his side no matter what he had done. She would just stand there. Terror stricken. While the stabs continued to puncture Tomas' body.
He falls to the kitchen floor in a pool of blood, "Mom… Mom while the invisible knife cuts open his stomach so his intestines spill out onto the linoleum.
Not that it really worked that way.
But still.
The apartment reeked of cat piss.
Giselle lay on his lap, purring. Bibi and Beatrice were wrestling on the floor. Manfred sat in the window like usual, his nose pushed up against the windowpane, and Gustaf was trying to get Manfred's attention by buffeting his side with his head.
Mans and Tufs and Cleopatra were relaxing in the armchair, Tufs pawing at a few loose threads. Karl-Oskar tried to jump up onto the windowsill but missed and fell backwards onto the floor. He was blind in one eye.
Lurvis was out in the hall keeping an eye on the mail slot, ready to jump if any advertising was pushed in. Vendela was resting on the hat shelf keeping an eye on Lurvis. Her deformed right front paw hung down between the wooden slats and flinched from time to time.
A couple more cats were out in the kitchen, eating or lazing around on tables and chairs. Five were sleeping on the bed in the bedroom. A few more had their favorite hideaways in closets or cupboards they had learned how to get into on their own.
After Gosta had stopped letting them out-relenting to pressure from his neighbors-no more fresh genetic material had come in. Most of the kittens born were either dead or so deformed they died a few days after birth. About half of the twenty-eight cats that lived in Gosta's apartment had some kind of congenital defect. They were blind or deaf or were missing teeth or had motor damage.
He loved them all.
Gosta scratched Giselle behind the ear.
"Yes… my little darling… what are we going to do? You don't know? No, neither do I. But we have to do something, don't we? You can't get away with something like this. It was Jocke. I knew him. And now he's
dead. But no one else knows. Because they didn't see what I saw. Did you see it too?"
Gosta lowered his head, whispered,
"It was a child. I saw it coming down the path. It waited for Jocke. In the underpass. He went in… and never came out. Then in the morning he was gone. But he's dead. I know he is.
"What's that?
"No, I can't go to the police. They're going to ask questions. There will be a lot of people and then they will ask… why I didn't say anything. Shine one of those lights in my face.
"It was three days ago. Or four. I don't know. What day is it today? They're going to ask. I can't do it.
"But we have to do something.
"I just don't know what."
Giselle looked up at him. Started to lick his hand.
When Oskar came home from the forest, the knife was smeared with splinters of rotten wood. He washed it under the kitchen tap, drying it off with a dishcloth that he then rinsed clean and held against his cheek.
His mom would soon be home. He had to go out again, needed a little more time-tears were still clumped in his throat, his legs ached. He took the key from the kitchen cupboard, wrote a note: Back soon, Oskar. Then he put the knife back and walked down to the basement. Unlocked the heavy door, slipped in.
The underground smell. He liked it. A reassuring blend of wood, old things, and locked-in-ness. A little light filtered in through a window at ground level and in the dim light the basement promised secrets, hidden treasure.
To his left there was an oblong section divided into four storage compartments. The walls and doors were made of wood, the doors secured with various-sized locks. One of the doors had a reinforced lock; a person who had been robbed.
On the wooden wall at the very end of the area someone had written kiss with a marker. The "S"s were formed like elongated, backward "Z"s.
But the most interesting area was to be found at the end opposite all this. The room for recycling and oversized trash. Oskar had once found a still-intact globe that now stood in his room, as well as several issues of the series The Hulk, and some other stuff.
But today there was almost nothing. It must have been emptied recently. A few newspapers, some folders with the labels "English" and "Swedish." But Oskar had enough folders. He had scavenged a whole bunch from the container outside the printing shop a few year ago.
He walked through the basement room and out to the next stairwell in the building, Tommy's stairwell. Continued on to that basement door, unlocked it, and walked in. This basement had a different smell: a trace of paint, or thinning solution. This basement also contained the safety shelter for the whole complex. He had only been in once, three years ago, when some of the older guys had had a boxing club there. He had been allowed to go with Tommy and watch, one afternoon. The guys had gone after each other with boxing gloves on their hands and Oskar had been a little scared. The groaning and sweating, the tense, concentrated bodies, the sound of the blows muffled by the thick concrete walls. Then someone had gotten hurt, or something like that, and the wheels that you turned in order to pull away the fastening mechanism on the door had been blocked with chains and lock. The end of the boxing.
Oskar turned on the light and walked over to the shelter room. If the Russians were coming it would have to be unlocked.
If they hadn't lost the key.
Oskar stood in front of the massive iron door and a thought appeared. That someone… someone was locked in here. That that's what the chains and lock were for. To restrain a monster.
He listened. There were distant sounds from the street, from people's movements in the apartments above. He really liked the basement. It was like being in another world, while knowing that the other world was still there outside, above you, if you needed it. But down here it was quiet, and no one came and said anything, did anything to you. Nothing you had to do.
Across from the safety room was the clubhouse. Forbidden territory.
Of course, they didn't have a lock, but that didn't mean just anyone was allowed in. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
There wasn't much in this storage unit. Just a badly sagging couch, and an equally sagging armchair. A rug on the floor. A chest of drawers with peeling paint. A clandestine lighting arrangement had been rigged up consisting of a cord feeding from the light in the corridor connected to a single naked bulb suspended from the ceiling. It was turned off.
He had been down here a few times before and knew that all he had to do to turn it on was twist the bulb. But he didn't dare. Enough light filtered in through the gaps between the planks to see. His heart beat faster. If they found him here they would…
What? I don't know. That's what's so horrible. Not beat me up, but…
He kneeled on the rug and lifted a sofa cushion. A few tubes of glue and a roll of plastic bags, a container of lighter fluid. In the other corner of the sofa, under the seat cushion, there were porno magazines. A few well-thumbed issues of Lektyr and Fib Aktuellt.
He took one of the Lektyr and shifted closer to the door where there was more light. Still kneeling he laid the magazine out on the floor in front of him, flipped the pages. His mouth was dry. The woman in the picture lay in a deck chair wearing only a pair of high-heeled shoes. She was pushing her breasts together and pouting. Her legs were spread and in the middle of the bushy hair between her thighs there was a strip of pink flesh with a groove down the middle.
How do you get in there?
He knew the words from talk he had heard, graffiti he had read. Cunt. Hole. Labia. But it wasn't a hole. Only that groove. They had had sex education at school and he knew there was supposed to be a… tunnel leading in from the vulva. But in what direction? Straight up or in or… you couldn't tell.
He kept turning the pages. The readers' own stories. At the swimming pool. A stall in the girls' changing rooms. Her nipples stiffened under her bathing suit. My dick was thumping like a hammer in my swimming trunks. She gripped the clothes pegs, turned her little ass toward me, and moaned, "Take me, take me now."
Did this kind of thing go on all the time, behind closed doors, in places where you couldn't see?
He had started a new story, about a family reunion that took an unexpected turn, when he heard the basement door being opened. He shut the magazine, put it back under the sofa cushion and didn't know what to do with himself. His throat contracted; he didn't dare to breathe. Footsteps in the corridor.
Please God let it not be them. Let it not be them.
He squeezed his knee caps with his hands, clenched his teeth so hard he hurt his jaw. The door opened. Tommy was standing there, blinking.
"What the hell?"
Oskar wanted to say something, but his jaws were locked shut. He simply stayed where he was, kneeling on the rug of light that rolled out from the door, breathing through his nose.
"What the hell are you doing here? And what have you been up to?"
Almost without moving his jaws Oskar managed to press out a "… nothing."
Tommy took a step into the storage area, towering over him.
"With your cheek, I mean? How did you get that?"
"I… it's nothing."
Tommy shook his head, screwed the light bulb so it turned on, and closed the door. Oskar got to his feet, standing in the middle of the room with his hands by his side, unsure of what he should do. He took a step toward the door. Tommy sank down in the armchair and pointed to the couch.
"Sit down."
Oskar sat down on the middle cushion, the one that didn't have anything stashed underneath it. Tommy sat quietly for a few moments, looking at him. Then he said: "Alright, let's hear it."
"What?"
"What happened to your cheek."
"…I… I just…"
"Someone beat you up. Right?"… yeah…
"How come?"
"I don't know."
"What? They beat you up with no reason?"
"Yes."
Tommy nodded, picked at a few loose threads that hung from the armchair. Took out a wad of chewing tobacco and tucked it into his lip, held out the jar to Oskar.
"Want some?"
Oskar shook his head. Tommy put it back, adjusted the wad of tobacco with his tongue, and then leaned back in the armchair, with his hands folded on his stomach.
"I see. And what were you doing down here?"
"Urn, I was just going to…"
"Check out some of the babes, right? Because you aren't into sniffing yet, are you? Come over here."
Oskar got up, walked over to Tommy.
"Come closer. Breathe on me."
Oskar did as he was told and Tommy nodded, pointed at the couch, and told Oskar to sit down again.
"You stay away from that shit, you understand?"
"I haven't…"
"No, you haven't. But you stay the hell away, you understand? It's no good. Tobacco is good. You can try that." He paused. "OK, are you planning to sit there gawking at me all night?" He gestured to the cushion next to Oskar. "Want to read more?"
Oskar shook his head.
"OK, then get lost. The others are coming soon and they won't be too pleased to see you here. Go home, go on now."
Oskar got up.
"And Oskar…" Tommy looked at him, shook his head, sighed. "No, forget it. Go on home. And one more thing. Don't come down here anymore."
Oskar nodded, opened the door. He stopped in the doorway. Sorry.
"It's OK. Just don't come here anymore. Oh-you got the money yet?" tomorrow.
"Great. I made a tape for you with Destroyer and Unmasked. Come by and pick it up later."
Oskar nodded. He felt a lump growing in his throat. If he stayed here he would start to cry. So he whispered "thanks" and left.
Tommy stayed in his armchair, sucked on the wad of tobacco, and stared at the dust bunnies that had collected under the couch.
Hopeless.
They would keep beating on Oskar until he finished ninth grade. He was the type. Tommy would have liked to do something but once it got started there was nothing you could do. No stopping it.
He dug a lighter out of his pocket, put it in his mouth, and let out the gas. When it started to feel cold inside his mouth he took the lighter away, lit it, and breathed out.
A burst of fire in front of his face. But he felt no happier. He was restless, got up, and walked around. The dust whirled up around his feet.
What the hell can you do?
He paced around the small space, thinking it was a prison cell. You can't get away. Have to make the best of it, bla bla. Blackeberg. He was going to get away from here, he was going to be… a sailor or something. Anything.
Swab the deck, go to Cuba, heave ho.
A broom that was almost never used was leaning up against the wall. He took it and started to sweep. Dust flew up his nose. When he had been sweeping for a while he realized he had no dustpan. He swept the dust pile under the couch.
Better to have a little shit in the corners than a clean hell.
He flipped through the pages of a porno, put it back. Wound his scarf around his neck and pulled it tight until his head felt like it was about to explode, released it. Got up and took a few steps on the rug. Sank to his knees, prayed to God.
Robban and Lasse came around half past five. When they walked in Tommy was relaxing in the armchair and looked like he didn't have a care in the world. Lasse was sucking on his lips, seemed nervous. Robban grinned and thumped Lasse on the back.
"Lasse needs another tape."
Tommy raised his eyebrows.
"Why?"
"Tell him, Lasse."
Lasse snorted, didn't dare look Tommy in the eyes.
"Uh… there's a guy at work…"
"Who wants to buy?"
"Mmm."
Tommy shrugged, got up from his chair, and picked the key to the safety room out of the stuffing. Robban looked disappointed. He must have been expecting some kind of amusing scene but Tommy didn't care. Lasse could shout out "Stolen goods for sale" from the rooftops at his job for all he cared. It didn't matter.
Tommy pushed Robban aside and walked out into the corridor, turned the key in the lock, pulled the heavy chain out of the wheels and threw it over to Robban. The chain fell through his hands, rattling to the floor.
"What's your problem? Are you high or what?"
Tommy shook his head, turned the wheel mechanism, and pushed the door open. The fluorescent lighting inside was broken, but there was enough light from the corridor to see the boxes piled up along one wall. Tommy picked up a carton of cassette tapes and gave it to Lasse.
"Have fun."
Lasse looked uncertainly at Robban, as if to get help interpreting Tommy's behavior. Robban made a face that could have meant anything, then turned to Tommy, who was locking up.
"Heard anything more from Staffan?"
"Nope." Tommy clicked the lock together, sighed. "I'm going over there for dinner tomorrow. We'll see." "Dinner?" "Yes-why?"
"No, nothing. Just thought cops ran on… gas or something." Lasse laughed out loud, glad the tension was broken.
Gas…
He had lied to his mother. And been believed. Now he was stretched out on his bed, feeling sick to his stomach.
Oskar. That guy in the mirror. Who is he? A lot of things happened to him. Bad things. Good things. Strange things. But who is he? Jonny looks at him and sees Piggy whom he wants to beat up. Mom looks at him and sees her Little Darling whom she doesn't want anything bad to happen to.
Eli looks at me and sees… what?
Oskar turned to the wall, to Eli. The two faces peeked out from between the trees in the wallpaper. His cheek was still swollen and tender, a crust had started to form on top of the wound. What would he tell Eli, if Eli came out tonight?
It was all connected. What he would tell her depended on what he was to her. Eli was new to him and therefore he had the opportunity to be someone else, say something different from what he said to other people.
What do you do anyway? To make people like you?
The clock on his desk read a quarter past seven. He looked into the leaves, tried to find new shapes, had found a little gnome with a pointy hat and an upside-down troll when he heard a knock on the wall.
Tap-tap-tap.
A careful sound. He tapped back.
Tap-tap-tap.
Waited. After a few seconds a new tap.
Tap-taptaptap-tap.
He filled in the two missing ones: tap-tap.
Waited. No further tapping.
He took down the paper with the Morse code, pulled on his jacket, said good-bye to his mom, and walked down to the playground. He had only taken a few steps when the door to Eli's building opened and she came out. She was wearing tennis shoes, blue jeans, and a black sweatshirt with Star Wars written across it in silver letters.
At first he thought it was his own shirt; he had one just like it that he had been wearing a couple of days ago. It was in the laundry basket now. Had she gone out and bought one just like it to match his?
"Hey there."
Oskar opened his mouth to say the "Hi" he had had prepared, closed his mouth. Opened it again to say "Hey there" and said "Hi" anyway.
Eli frowned.
"What happened to your cheek?"
"Phhh… I… fell."
Oskar kept going toward the playground. Eli followed. He walked past the jungle gym, sat down in a swing. Eli sat in the swing next to it. They swung back and forth in silence for a while.
"Someone did that to you, didn't they?"
Oskar kept swinging.
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Some… friends."
"Friends?"
"Some kids in my class."
Oskar got the swing moving fast, picked up the rhythm.
"Where do you go to school anyway?
"Oskar."
"Yes?"
"Slow down a little."
He slowed himself down with his feet, looked at the ground in front of him.
"Yes, what is it?"
"You know what?"
She reached her hand out and grabbed his and he stopped completely, looked at her. Eli's face was almost completely blacked out against the lighted windows behind her. Of course it was just his imagination but he thought her eyes were glowing. At any rate, they were the only thing he could see clearly in her face.
With her other hand she touched his wound and that strange thing happened. Someone else, someone much older, harder, became visible under her skin. A cold shiver ran down Oskar's back, as if he had bitten into a Popsicle.
"Oskar. Don't let them do it. Do you hear me? Don't let them."
… no.
"You have to strike back. You've never done that, have you?"
"No."
"So start now. Hit them back. Hard."
"There's three of them."
"Then you have to hit harder. Use a weapon."
"Yes."
"Stones, sticks. Hit them more than you really dare. Then they'll stop."
"And if they keep hitting back?"
"You have a knife."
Oskar swallowed. At this moment, with Eli's hand in his, with her face in front of him, everything seemed simple. But if they started doing worse things if he put up resistance, if they…
"Yes, but what if they…"
"Then I'll help you."
"You? But you are…"
"I can do it, Oskar. That… is something I can do."
Eli squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, nodded. But Eli's grip hardened, so hard it hurt a little.
How strong she is.
Eli loosened her grip and Oskar took out the page of code he had written down for her at school, smoothed out the folds, and gave it to her. She wrinkled her forehead.
"What's this?"
"Let's go over to the light."
"No, I can see fine. But what is it?"
"The Morse code."
"Oh, right. I see. Awesome!'
Oskar giggled. She said it in such a-what was it called?-artificial way. The word somehow didn't fit in her mouth.
"I thought… we could like… talk through the wall to each other."
Eli nodded. Looked like she was thinking of something to say. Then she said:
"That will be amusing."
"You mean fun?"
"Yes. Fun. Fun."
"You're a little strange, you know that?"
"Am I?"
"Yes, but it's OK."
"You'll have to show me what to do, in that case. Not to be strange."
"Sure. Want to see something?"
Eli nodded.
Oskar showed her his special trick. He sat on the swing like before, kicked off. With each pump of his legs, with every arc a notch higher, something grew in his chest: freedom.
The illuminated apartment windows went past like multicolored, glowing strands and he swung higher and higher. He didn't always manage to do this trick, but now he was going to do it, because he was as light as a feather and could almost fly.
When the swing got so high that the chains loosened and started to jerk on the back swing he tensed his whole body. The swing went back one more time and then at the top of the next forward swing he let go of the chains, and pushed his legs forward, as high as they would go. The legs went around half a turn and he landed on his feet, bending over as far as he could so the swing wouldn't hit him in the head, and when it had gone past he stood up and stretched out his arms. Perfect.
Eli applauded, shouted: "Bravo!"
Oskar caught the swing, put it back in its normal position, and sat down. Yet again, he was grateful for the dark that hid a triumphant smile he couldn't suppress, even though it pulled at his wound. Eli stopped clapping, but his smile was still there.
Things were going to be different from now on. Of course you couldn't kill people by hacking up trees. He knew that.
29 October
Hakan sat on the floor in the narrow corridor and listened to the splashing from the bathroom. His knees were pulled up so his heels touched his buttocks; his chin rested on his knees. Jealousy was a fat, chalk-white snake in his chest. It writhed slowly, as pure as innocence and childishly plain.
Replaceable. He was… replaceable.
Last night he had been lying in his bed with the window cracked. Listened to Eli saying good-bye to that Oskar. Their high voices, laughter. A… lightness he could never achieve. His was the leaden seriousness, the demands, the desire.
He had thought his beloved was like him. He had looked into Eli's eyes and seen an ancient person's knowledge and indifference. At first it had frightened him: Samuel Beckett's eyes in Audrey Hepburn's face. Then it had reassurred him.
It was the best of all possible worlds. The young, lithe body that gave beauty to his life, while at the same time responsibility was lifted from him. He was not the one in charge. And he did not have to feel guilt for his desire; his beloved was older than he. No longer a child. At least he had thought so.
But since all this with Oskar had started something had changed. A… regression. Eli had started to behave more and more like the child her appearance gave her out to be; had started to move her body in a loose-limbed and careless way, use childish expressions, words. Wanted to play. Hide the Key. A few nights ago they had played Hide the Key. Eli had become angry when Hakan had not showed the necessary enthusiasm for the game, then tried to tickle him to get him to laugh. He had relished Eli's touch.
It was attractive, naturally. This joy, this… life. But also frightening, since it was something so foreign to him. He was both hornier and more scared than he had ever been since meeting her.
Last night his beloved had gone into Hakan's bedroom and locked the door and proceeded to lie there for half an hour tapping on the wall. When Hakan once again was allowed in he saw a piece of paper taped to the wall above his bed. The Morse code.
Later, when he was lying there and trying to fall asleep, he had been tempted to tap his own message to Oskar, something about what Eli was. Instead he had copied the code onto a scrap of paper so he could decode what they said to each other in the future.
Hakan bent his head, rested his forehead on his knees. The splashing from the bathroom had stopped. He couldn't go on like this. He was about to explode. From desire, from jealousy.
The bathroom lock turned and the door opened. Eli was standing in front of him. Completely naked. Pure.
"Oh-you're sitting out here."
"Yes. You're beautiful."
"Thank you."
"Will you turn around for me?"
"Why?"
"Because… I want you to."
"No; why don't you get up and move?"
"Maybe I'll say something… if you do this for me."
Eli looked quizzically at Hakan. Then turned 180 degrees.
Saliva spurted into his mouth, he swallowed. Looked. A physical sensation of how his eyes devoured what was in front of them. The most beautiful thing there was in the world. An arm's length away. An endless distance.
"Are you… hungry?"
Eli turned around again.
"Yes."
"I'll do it for you. But I want something in return."
"What is it?"
"One night. All I want is one night."
"OK."
"I can have that?"
"Yes."
"Lie next to you? Touch you?"
"Yes."
"Can I…"
"No. Nothing more. But that. Yes."
"Then I'll do it. Tonight."
Eli crouched down next to him. Hakan's palms burned. Wanted to caress. Couldn't. But tonight. Eli looked up and said,
"Thanks. But what if someone… that picture in the paper… there are people who know you live here."
"I've thought of that."
"If someone comes here during the day when… I'm resting."
"I've thought of that, I said."
"How?"
Hakan took Eli's hand, got up and went out into the kitchen, opened the pantry, and took out an old jam jar with a twist-on glass lid. The jar was half-filled with a clear liquid. He explained what he had planned to do. Eli objected vehemently.
"You can't."
"I can. Do you understand now how much… I care about you?"
When Hakan was ready to leave he put the jam jar into the bag with the rest of his equipment. During that time Eli had gotten dressed. She was waiting in the hall when Hakan came out. Eli leaned over and lightly planted a kiss on his cheek. Hakan blinked and looked at Eli's face for a long time.
I'm lost.
Then he went to work.
Morgan was slurping his way through Four Small Dishes, one by one, mostly ignoring the small bowl of rice by his side. Lacke leaned forward and said in a low voice:
"Mind if I take the rice?"
"Hell, no. Want some sauce?"
"No, I just want a little soy."
Larry looked up over his copy of Expressen, made a face when Lacke took the bowl of rice and poured soy sauce over it with a glug-glug-glug and started to eat as if he had never seen food before. Larry motioned at the deep-fried shrimp that were heaped on Morgan's plate.
"You could offer to share, you know."
"Oh, sure. Sorry. You want a shrimp or something?"
"No, my stomach can't take it. But Lacke."
"You want a shrimp, Lacke?"
Lacke nodded and held out his bowl of rice. Morgan put two fried shrimp in the bowl with a grandiose flourish. Offered a little more. Lacke thanked him and dug in.
Morgan grunted and shook his head. Lacke had not been himself since Jocke disappeared. He had been hard up before but now he was drinking more and didn't have a cent left over for food. It was strange, this whole business with Jocke, but there was no reason for despair. Jocke had been missing for four days now and who really knew? He could have met a chick and gone to Tahiti, anything. He would turn up eventually.
Larry put down the paper, pushed his glasses up onto his head, rubbed his eyes and said: "Do you know where the nearest nuclear shelter is?"
Morgan guffawed. "What, are you planning to hibernate or something?"
"No, but this submarine. Hypothetically speaking, what if there was a full-scale invasion-"
"You're welcome to come over and use ours. I was down there a few years ago and checked it out when a guy from some defense something
was there to run an inventory-check. Gas masks, canned food, Ping-Pong table, the whole deal. It's all there."
"Ping-Pong table?"
"Sure, you know. When the Russians land we just say 'Stop and take cover boys, put down your Kalashnikov-ies, we're going to determine this thing with a Ping-Pong match instead.' Then the generals go after each other by serving screwballs."
"Do the Russians even know how to play table tennis?"
"Nope. So we got this thing all sewn up. Maybe we'll even regain control of the Baltic territories."
Lacke wiped his mouth with exaggerated care on his napkin and said,
"Anyway, it's all pretty strange."
Morgan lit up a John Silver. "What is?"
"This thing with Jocke. He would always tell us when he was going somewhere. You know. Even if he was just going to go see his brother on Vaddo Island it was like a big event. Started talking about it a week before-what he was planning to bring, what they were going to do."
Larry put a hand on Lacke's shoulder.
"You're talking about him in the past tense."
"What? Oh, yeah. Anyway, I really think something's happened to him. I really think so."
Morgan downed a big mouthful of beer, burped.
"You think he's dead."
Lacke shrugged, looked beseechingly at Larry, who was studying the pattern printed on the paper napkins. Morgan shook his head.
"No way. We would have heard something. The cops said they would call you if they heard anything. Not that I trust cops but… you'd think we'd hear something."
"He should have called by now."
"Good grief, are you two married or something? Don't worry. He'll turn up soon. With roses and chocolates and promises neeeeeever to do anything like this again."
Lacke nodded despondently, sipping the beer Larry had bought him with the assurance that Lacke would return the favor when things looked up. Two more days, maximum. Then he would start looking himself. Call all the hospitals and morgues and whatever else you did. You didn't let own your best friend. If he was sick or dead or whatever. You didn't let him down.
It was half past seven and Hakan was starting to worry. He had wandered aimlessly around the Nya Elementar's Gymnasium and the Vallingby mall where the young people hung out. Various sport training sessions were underway, and the pool was open late, so there was no lack of potential victims. The problem was that most of them moved in groups. He had overheard a comment from one of three girls that her mother was "still completely psycho over this thing with the murderer."
He could of course have chosen to go further afield, to an area where his earlier act had less impact, but then he ran the risk of the blood going bad on the way home. And if he was going to go to the trouble of doing this again he wanted to give his beloved the best. The fresher it was, the closer to home, the better. That's what he had been told.
Last night the weather had turned and it had become very cold, the temperature falling below freezing. That meant the ski mask he was wearing, with holes for the eyes and mouth, did not attract undue attention.
But he couldn't sneak around here forever. Eventually someone would get suspicious.
What if he didn't manage to find anyone? If he came home without anything? His beloved wouldn't die, he was sure of that. A difference from the first time. But now there was another aspect, a wonderful one. A whole night. A whole night with the beloved body next to his. The tender, soft limbs, the smooth stomach to caress with his hand. A lighted candle in the bedroom whose light would flicker over silken skin, his for a night. He rubbed his hand over his member that throbbed and cried out with longing.
Have to stay calm, have to…
He knew what he would do. It was insane but he would do it. Go into the Vallingby Pool and find his victim there. It was probably fairly deserted at this time and now that he had decided he knew exactly what to do. Dangerous, of course. But possible.
If things went wrong he had his last resort. But nothing would go wrong. He saw the whole thing in detail now that he was walking briskly toward the entrance. He felt intoxicated. The cloth of the ski mask in front of his nose became wet with condensation as he panted.
This would be something to tell his beloved about tonight, something to tell while he caressed the firm, curved buttocks with his trembling hand, imprinting everything in his memory for all eternity.
He walked in the main entrance and felt the familiar mild chlorine smell. All the hours he had spent at the pool. With the others, or alone. The young bodies that glistened with sweat or water, at an arm's length, but unreachable. Only images that he could preserve and call forth when he lay in his bed with toilet paper in one hand. The smell of chlorine was comforting, home-like. He walked up to the cashier.
"One, please."
The woman at the cash register looked up from her magazine. Her eyes widened a little. He gestured to his head, to the mask.
"It's cold."
She nodded, uncertainly. Should he remove the mask? No. He didn't know how to do so without raising suspicion.
"Do you want a locker?"
"A private changing cabin, please."
She stretched out the key to him and he paid. He removed the mask as he moved away from her. Now she had seen him take it off, but without seeing his face. It was brilliant. He walked over to the changing area at a rapid clip, looking down at the floor in case he encountered anyone.
Welcome to my humble abode. Come in."
Tommy walked past Staffan into the hallway; behind him he heard a clicking sound when his mom and Staffan kissed. Staffan said in a low voice "Have you?…"
"No, I thought…"
"Mmm, we'll have to…"
The clicking sound again. Tommy looked around the apartment. He had never been in a cop's home before and was, a little against his will, curious. What were they like?
But even out in the hall he realized Staffan could hardly be a satisfactory representative of the whole police corps. He had imagined something… yes, something like in detective novels. A little run-down and barren. A place where you came to sleep when you weren't out chasing bad guys.
Guys like me.
Nope. Staffan's apartment was… frilly. The hall entrance looked like it had been decorated by someone who bought everything from those little catalogues that came in the mail.
Here a velvet painting of a sunset, there a little alpine cottage with an old woman on a stick leaning out of the door. Here a lace doily on the telephone table, next to the telephone a ceramic figurine with a dog and a child. On the base a pithy inscription: don't you know how to talk?
Staffan lifted the figurine.
"Nifty little thing, isn't it? It changes color depending on the weather."
Tommy nodded. Either Staffan had borrowed the apartment from his old mother, for the purposes of this visit, or else he was genuinely sick in the head. Staffan put the figurine back with care.
"I collect these kind of things, you see. Objects that tell you about the weather. This one, for example."
He poked the old woman peeking out of the alpine cottage. She swung back into the cottage and an old man came out instead.
"When the old lady looks out that means bad weather, and when the old man looks out-"
"It'll be even worse."
Staffan laughed, sounding slightly forced.
"It doesn't work so well."
Tommy looked back at his mom and was almost scared by what he saw. She stood there with her coat still on, her hands gripped tightly together, and a smile on her face that could have sent a horse bolting. Panic-stricken. Tommy decided to make an effort.
"Kind of like a barometer, you mean."
"Yes, exactly. That was what I started with, actually. Barometers. Collecting, I mean."
Tommy pointed to a little wooden cross with a silver Jesus hanging on the wall.
"Is that also a barometer?"
Staffan looked at Tommy, at the cross, then back at Tommy. Was suddenly serious.
"No, it's not. It's Christ."
"The one in the Bible."
"Yes, that's right."
Tommy pushed his hands into his pockets and walked into the living room. Yes, the barometers were in here. About twenty, in various shapes and sizes, hanging on the wall that ran the long length of the room, behind a gray leather couch with a glass coffee table in front of it.
They were not particularly consistent in their readings. Many of the hands were pointing to different numbers; it looked like a wall of clocks where each showed the time in a different part of the world. He knocked on the glass of one of the instruments and the needle jumped a little. He didn't know what it meant, but for some reason people always tapped barometers.
In a corner cabinet with glass doors there were a whole lot of small trophies. Four larger trophies were arranged along the top of a piano next to the cabinet. On the wall over the piano there was a large painting of the Virgin Mary with the baby Jesus in her arms. She nursed him with a vacant expression in her eyes that seemed to say, "What have I done to deserve this?"
Staffan cleared his throat when he came into the room.
"Well, Tommy. Is there anything you'd like to ask me about?"
Tommy understood full well what he was expected to ask.
"What trophies are these?"
Staffan gestured with an arm toward the goblets on top of the piano.
"These, you mean?"
No, you dumb bastard. The trophies down at the clubhouse by the soccer field, of course.
"Yes."
Staffan pointed to a silver-colored statue, some twenty centimeters tall, on a stone base, positioned between two trophies on the piano. Tommy had thought it was just a sculpture, but no, it was actually a prize. The human figure was standing wide-legged, arms straight, taking aim with a revolver.
"Pistol shooting. This is for first prize in the district championships, that one third prize at the national level in forty-five caliber, standing… and so on."
Tommy's mom came in and joined them.
"Staffan is one of Sweden's top five pistol shooters."
"Does it come in handy?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know, for when you shoot people."
Staffan ran his finger along the base of one of the trophies and then looked at it.
"The whole point of police work is to avoid shooting at people."
"Have you ever had to?"
"No."
"But you'd like to, wouldn't you?"
Staffan pointedly drew a deep breath, exhaled in a long sigh.
"I'm going to go… check on the food."
The gasoline… see if it's on fire.
He walked out to the kitchen. Tommy's mom grabbed him by the elbow and whispered,
"Why do you say things like that?"
"I was just wondering."
"He's a good person, Tommy."
"Yes, he must be. I mean, with prizes for pistol shooting and the Virgin Mary. Could it get any better?"
Hakan didn't bump into a single person on his way through the building. As he had thought, there were not very many people still here at this time. Two men his own age were putting their clothes on in the changing room. Overweight, shapeless bodies. Shriveled genitals under hanging bellies. The embodiment of ugliness.
He found his private changing cabin and locked the door behind him. Good. The initial preparations were completed. He put his ski mask back on, just in case, took off the halothane canister, hung his coat up on a hook. Opened his bag and took out his tools: knife, rope, funnel, container. He had forgotten to bring the raincoat. Damn. He would have to remove his clothes instead. The risk of getting splashed with blood was great but then he could conceal the stains under his clothes when he was done. Yes. And this was a pool, after all. Nothing strange about not having any clothes on in here.
He tested the strength of the other hook by grabbing it with both hands and lifting both feet from the floor. It held. It would easily hold a body most likely thirty kilos lighter than his own. Height might be a problem. The head was not likely to hang freely over the floor. He might have to fix the ropes by the knees. There was enough wall space between the hook and the top of the cabin wall to make sure the feet wouldn't stick up over it. That would attract suspicion.
The two men seemed about to leave. He heard their voices.
"And work?"
"The usual. No openings for someone from Malmberget."
"Did you hear this one: The question is not was it the Finns' oil but whether the oil was Finn's?"
"Yeah, that's a good one."
"Finn's a slippery guy."
Hakan giggled; something in his head was accelerating. He was too excited, was breathing too rapidly. His body consisted of butterflies that wanted to fly off in different directions at once.
Easy, easy.
He took deep breaths until he started to feel dizzy and then he undressed. Folded his clothes and put them into his bag. The two men left the changing area. Silence fell. He climbed onto the bench in order to peek over the top. Yes, his eyes just managed to clear the edge. Three boys around thirteen, fourteen years old came in. One used his towel to snap the rear end of the other one.
"Stop that, damn it!"
Hakan bent his head. Further down he felt his erection push into the corner of the booth as if between two hard, wide-opened buttocks.
Easy does it.
He peeked over the edge again. Two of the boys had taken off their Speedos and were bending forward into their lockers to take out their clothes. His groin area contracted in a single cramplike movement and
the sperm shot out into the corner, spilling onto the bench he was standing on.
Calm down now.
Yes, he felt better. But the sperm was bad. A trace.
He took his socks out of his bag, wiped the corner and the bench clean, as best he could. Put the socks back in the bag, and adjusted the ski mask while he listened to the boys' conversation.
"… new Atari. Enduro. Want to come over and try it out?"
"No, I have some stuff I have to…"
"How about you?"
"OK, do you have two joysticks?"
"No, but…"
"We can go home and get mine on the way. Then we can both play."
"OK. See you, Mattias."
"See you."
Two of the boys appeared to be on their way out. Perfect. One would be left behind without the others waiting around for him. He risked peeking out over the edge again. Two of the boys were leaving. The last one was putting on his socks. Hakan ducked down, remembering he still had the ski mask on. Lucky they hadn't seen him.
He picked up the halothane canister, put his finger on the trigger. Should he keep the mask on? If the kid got away, if someone came into the changing room. If…
Damn, it had been a mistake to take off all his clothes. If he needed to make a quick getaway. There was no time to think. He heard the boy close his locker and start toward the exit. In five seconds he would pass by the cabin door. No time to reconsider.
In the gap between the door and the wall he saw an approaching shadow. He blocked out all thoughts, unlocked the door, threw it open, and lunged.
Mattias turned around and saw a large, white naked body with a ski
mask over its head come bearing down on him. Only one thought, one
single word had time to flash through his consciousness before his body
instinctively pulled back.
Death.
He was recoiling before Death, who wanted to take him. In one hand Death was holding something black. This black object flew up toward his face and the boy drew in breath to scream.
But before the scream had time to escape, the black thing was over him, over his mouth, his nose. One hand gripped the back of his head, pressing his face into the black softness. The scream turned into a choked whimper and while he howled his mutilated scream he heard a hissing sound as if from a smoke machine.
He tried to scream again but when he drew in breath something happened with his body. A numbness spread to all his limbs and his next scream was just a squeak. He breathed again and his legs gave way, many-colored veils fluttering in front of his eyes.
He didn't want to scream anymore. Didn't have the energy. The veils now covered his entire field of vision. He didn't have a body any longer. The colors danced. He melted into the rainbow.
Oskar held the piece of paper with the Morse code in one hand and tapped letters into the wall with the other. Tapping his knuckles for a dot, slapping the wall with the flat of his hand for a dash, like they had agreed.
Knuckle. Pause. Knuckle, palm, knuckle, knuckle. Pause. Knuckle, knuckle. (E.L.I)
G.O.I.N.G. O.U.T.
The answer came after a few seconds.
I. M. C.O.M.I.N.G.
They met outside the entrance to her building. In one day she had… changed. About a month ago a Jewish woman had come to his school, talked to them about the Holocaust and shown them slides. Eli was looking a little bit like the people in those pictures.
The sharp light from the fixture above the door cast dark shadows on her face, as if the bones were threatening to protrude through the skin, as if the skin had become thinner. And…
"What have you done with your hair?"
He had thought it was the light that made it look like that, but when he came closer he saw that a few thick white strands ran through her
hand. Like on an old person. Eli ran a hand over her head. Smiled at him. "It'll go away. What should we do?" Oskar made the few coins in his pocket jangle. "Tjorren?" "What?"
"The kiosk. The newspaper stand."
"OK. Last one there is a rotten egg."
An image flickered to life in Oskar's head.
Black-and-white kids.
Then Eli took off and Oskar tried to catch her. Even though she looked so sick she was much faster than him, flew gazelle-like over the stones on the path, had crossed the street in a couple of strides. Oskar ran as well as he could, distracted by the thought.
Black-and-white kids?
Of course. He was running down the hill past the Gummy Bear factory when he got it. Those old movies that were shown at Sunday matinees. Like Anderssonskans Kalle. Last one there is a rotten egg. That was the kind of thing they said in those films.
Eli was waiting for him down by the road, twenty meters from the kiosk. Oskar jogged over to her, tried not to pant. He had never been down to the kiosk with Eli before. Should he tell her that thing? Yes.
"Do you know it's called The Lover's Kiosk?"
"Why?"
"Because… that is, I heard it at a parents meeting… there was someone who said-not to me of course, but-I heard it. He said that the one who has it, that he…"
Now he was sorry he had brought it up. It was stupid. Embarrassing. Eli waved her arms around.
"What?"
"Uh, the guy who has it… that he invites ladies into the kiosk. You know, when he… when it's closed."
"Is it true?" Eli looked at the kiosk. "Do they have enough room in there?"
"Disgusting, isn't it?"
"Yes."
Oskar walked down toward the kiosk. Eli took a few quick steps to pull up alongside him, whispered "They must be skinny!"
Both of them giggled. They stepped into the circle of light from the kiosk. Eli rolled her eyes meaningfully at the kiosk owner, who was inside the kiosk watching a little TV.
"Is that him?" Oskar nodded. "He looks like a monkey."
Oskar cupped a hand around Eli's ear, whispered, "He escaped from the zoo five years ago. They're still looking for him."
Eli giggled and cupped her hand around Oskar's ear. Her warm breath flowed into his head.
"No they're not. They locked him up here instead!"
They both looked up at the kiosk owner and burst out laughing, imagining the stern kiosk owner as a monkey in a cage surrounded by candy. At the sound of their laughter the owner turned to them and frowned with his enormous eyebrows so that he looked even more like a gorilla. Oskar and Eli laughed so hard they almost fell over, pressed their hands over their mouths and tried to regain seriousness.
The owner leaned through the window.
"What do you want?"
Eli quickly became serious, removed her hand from her mouth, walked over to the window, and said, "I'd like a banana, please."
Oskar chuckled and pressed his hand harder against his mouth. Eli turned around with her index finger in front of her lips and shushed him with feigned severity. The owner was still looking out of the window.
"I don't have any bananas."
Eli pretended disbelief.
"No banaaaanas?"
"No. Anything else?"
Oskar's jaws were cramping because of his repressed laughter. He teetered away from the kiosk, ran a few steps toward the mailbox, leaned on it, and let it out, convulsing with laughter. Eli came up to him, shaking her head.
"No bananas."
Oskar managed to get out: "He must have… eaten them… all himself."
Then he pulled himself together and forced his mouth shut. He took out his four kronor and went up to the window.
"A bag of mixed candy, please."
The owner gave him a disapproving look but started picking out an assortment of candy with long tongs from the plastic bins, dropping them one by one into a small paper bag. Oskar glanced to the side to make sure Eli heard him, then said "Don't forget the bananas."
The owner stopped short.
"I don't have any bananas."
Oskar pointed to one of the plastic containers.
"I mean the candy foam bananas."
He heard Eli giggle, and put his finger to his lips just like she had done earlier and shushed her. The owner snorted, put a few candy foam bananas in the bag, and handed it to Oskar.
They walked back. Before Oskar had even had any himself he held the bag out to Eli. She shook her head.
"No thanks."
"Don't you eat candy?"
"I can't."
"No candy?"
"Nope."
"What a drag."
"Yes, no. I don't know what it tastes like."
"You haven't even tasted it."
"No."
"Then how do you know that…"
"I just know, that's all."
This happened sometimes. They would be talking about something, Oskar would ask her a question, and it would end with a "that's just the way it is" or "I just know, that's all." No further explanation. That was one of the things that was a little strange about Eli.
It was too bad he couldn't offer her any candy. That was what he had been planning. To be generous, offer her as much as she wanted. And then it turned out she didn't even eat candy. He popped a candy banana in his mouth and snuck a peek at her.
She really didn't look healthy. And those white strands in her hair… In some story Oskar had read, a person's hair went white after he had a big scare. Is that what had happened to Eli?
She glanced to the side, folded her arms around her body, and looked really little. Oskar wanted to put his arm around her but didn't dare.
In the covered entrance leading to the courtyard Eli stopped and looked at her window. It was dark. She stopped with her arms wrapped around her body and stared at the ground.
"Oskar?…"
He did it. Her whole body was asking for it and from somewhere he got the courage to do it. He hugged her. For a terrifying second he thought he had done the wrong thing, her body was stiff, locked. He was about to let go when she relaxed into his embrace. The knot loosened and she coaxed her arms out, put them around his back and leaned trembling against him.
She leaned her head against his shoulder and they stood like that. Her breath against his shoulder. They held each other without saying anything. Oskar closed his eyes and knew: this was big. Light from the outside lamp filtered in through his closed eyelids and created a red membrane in front of his eyes. The biggest.
Eli nuzzled her head in closer toward his neck. The heat from her breath grew more intense. Muscles in her body that had been relaxed grew tense again. Her lips nudged his throat and a shiver ran through his body.
Suddenly she shuddered and broke away, took a step back. Oskar let his arms fall. Eli shook her head as if to free herself from a nightmare, turned, and started walking to her door. Oskar stayed put. When she opened the front door he called out to her.
"Eli?" She turned. "Where's your dad?"
"He was going to… bring me food."
She doesn't get enough to eat. That's what it is.
"You can have dinner with us if you like."
Eli let go of the door and walked back over to him. Oskar quickly started to plan things out. He did not want his mom to meet Eli. Not the other way around either. Maybe he could make a few sandwiches and take them back to her place. Yes, that would be best.
Eli stopped in front of him, looking at him earnestly.
"Oskar, do you like me?"
"Yes. A lot."
"If I turned out not to be a girl… would you still like me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. Would you still like me even if I wasn't a girl?"
"Yes… I guess so."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
Someone was struggling with a stuck window, then it opened. Over the top of Eli's head Oskar could see his mom poke her head out of his bedroom window.
"Ooooskar!"
Eli quickly drew in toward the wall. Oskar balled his hands into fists and ran up the hill, stopping underneath his window. Like a little kid.
"What is it?"
"Oh! Are you down there? I thought-"
"What is it?"
"It's about to start."
"I know."
His mother was about to add something, but shut her mouth and just looked at him standing there under the window with his hands still held in tight fists, his body tense.
"What are you doing?"
"I'll be right there."
"It's just…"
His eyes were starting to get watery from rage and he hissed "Go back in! Close the window. Go back!"
His mother stared at him for another second, then something changed in her face and she slammed the window shut, walked away. Oskar would have wanted… not to shout for her to come back… but to send her a thought. To explain quietly and calmly how it was. That she wasn't allowed to do that, because he…
He ran back down the hill.
"Eli?"
She wasn't there. She couldn't have gone inside because he would have noticed her. She must have left to take the subway to that aunt she had in the city where she went after school. That seemed likely.
Oskar went and stood in the dark corner where she had ducked in when his mom opened the window. Turned with his face toward the wall. Stood there for a while. Then he went inside.
Hakan dragged the boy inside the changing room and locked the door behind him. The boy had hardly made a noise. The only thing that could alert someone's attention now was the hissing noise from the gas bottle. He would have to work quickly.
It would have been so much easier to be able to attack directly with a knife. But no. The blood had to come from a living body. Another aspect that he had had explained to him. Blood from the dead was worthless, harmful even.
Well, the boy was alive. His chest rose and sank as he inhaled the stupifying gas.
He tightened the rope around the boy's legs, right above his knees, slung both ends above the hook, and started to pull. The boy's legs were lifted from the ground.
A door opened, voices rang out.
He held the rope in place with one hand and turned off the gas with the other, removing the mask from the boy's face. The anesthetic would hold for a few minutes. He would have to keep working, as silently as he could, regardless of the fact that there were people in the room.
There were several men out there. Two, three, four? They were talking about Sweden and Denmark. Some tournament. Handball. While they talked Hakan raised the boy's body. The hook squeaked, the weight fell differently than when he had tested it. The men stopped talking. Had they heard anything? He froze, hardly breathing. Held the body still, suspended with the head barely off the ground.
No, just a lull in the conversation. They continued.
Keep talking, keep talking.
"Sjogren's penalty was completely…"
"What you don't have in your arms you'd better have in your head."
"He's pretty good at getting them in, you have to give him that."
"That spin. Don't know how he does it."
The boy's head cleared the floor by a few decimeters. Now…
How could he secure the ends of the rope? The spaces between the planks were too narrow for the rope to fit through. And he couldn't very well work with one hand while the other was holding onto the rope. Wouldn't have the strength. He stood with the rope in his tightly knit hands, sweating. The ski mask was hot; he should take it off.
Later. When I'm done.
The other hook. Just had to make a loop first. Sweat ran into his eyes as he lowered the boy's body in order to create slack in the rope to allow him to form a loop. Pulled the boy back up and tried to get the loop on the hook. Too short. He lowered the boy again. The men stopped talking.
Leave! Just leave!
In the silence he made another hook further along the rope, waited. They started to talk again. Bowling. The Swedish women's successes in New York. Strikes and blocks, and the sweat stung his eyes.
Warm. Why does it have to be so warm.
He managed to get the loop onto the hook and exhaled. Couldn't they just leave?
The boy's body was suspended in the right position and now all he had to do was get to work before he woke up-and couldn't they just leave? But they went on sharing bowling memories and how people used to play in the olden days and someone who got his thumb stuck in the bowling ball and had to be taken to the hospital to get it out.
It couldn't be helped. Hakan put the funnel in the plastic jug and placed it next to the boy's neck. Took out the knife. When he turned around to start bleeding the boy the conversation out there had died down again. And the boy's eyes were open. Wide open. The pupils were wandering around as he hung there, upside down, trying to find a mental foothold, comprehension. They fixed on Hakan as he stood there, naked, with the knife in his hand. For a short moment, they gazed at each other.
Then the boy opened his mouth and screamed.
Hakan staggered back, hitting the changing room wall with a moist smack. His sweaty back slipped along the wall and he almost lost his bal-
ance. The boy screamed and screamed. The sound echoed in the dressing area, bouncing off the walls, was strengthened so that Hakan was deafened. His hand hardened around the knife handle and the only thought in his head was that he had to find a way to stop the boy's screams. Cut off his head so it stopped screaming. He bent over toward the boy.
Someone banged on the door.
"Hey! Open up!"
Hakan dropped the knife. The clang as the metal hit the floor was barely noticeable between the banging on the door and all the screaming. The door was rattling in its hinges from the blows.
"Open up, I said, or I'll knock the door down!"
Over. It was all over. There was only one thing left. The noises around him disappeared, his field of vision narrowed to a tunnel as he turned back to his bag. Through the tunnel he saw his hand reach down into the bag and take out the jam jar.
He sat down hard on his backside with the jar in his hand, unscrewed the lid.
When they got the door open. Before they managed to pull his hood off. His face.
Through all the screaming and blows to the door he thought about his beloved. The time they had had together. He conjured up the image of his beloved as an angel. A boy angel flying down from heaven, spreading his wings, who was going to pick him up. Carry him off. Take him to a place where they would always be together. For ever.
The door flew open and banged into the wall. The boy continued to scream. There were three men standing outside, more or less dressed. They stared uncomprehendingly at the scene in front of them.
Hakan nodded slowly, accepting it.
Then he shouted:
"Eli! Eli!"
and poured the concentrated acid over his face.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Rejoice in your Lord and God!
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Honor your King and God!"
Staffan accompanied himself and Tommy's mom on the piano. From time to time they looked at each other, smiled and sparkled. Tommy sat in the leather sofa and suffered. He had found a little hole in one of the armrests and while Staffan and his mom sang he worked at making it bigger. His index finger dug around in the stuffing and he wondered if Staffan and his mom had ever done it on this sofa. Under the barometers.
The dinner had been OK, some kind of marinated chicken with rice. After dinner Staffan had showed Tommy the safe where he kept his pistols. He stored it under the bed and Tommy had wondered the same thing in there. Had they slept with each other in this bed? Did his mom think about Dad when Staffan was touching her? Did Staffan get turned on by the thought of the guns he kept under the bed? Did she?
Staffan played the final chord, allowed the sound to die away. Tommy pulled his finger out of the by-now substantial hole in the sofa. His mom nodded to Staffan, took his hand, and sat down on the piano bench next to him. From where Tommy was sitting it looked like the picture of the Virgin Mary was positioned exactly above their heads, almost as if they had rehearsed it in advance.
His mom looked at Staffan, smiled, and turned to Tommy.
"Tommy. There's something we'd like to share with you."
"Are you getting married?"
His mom hesitated. If they had rehearsed this with staging and all, then clearly this line had not been included.
"Yes. What do you think?"
Tommy shrugged.
"OK. Go ahead."
"We were thinking… maybe next summer."
His mom looked at him as if to see if he had a better suggestion.
"Yeah, whatever. Sure."
He put his finger in the hole again, let it stay there. Staffan leaned forward.
"I know that I can't… replace your dad. In any way. But I hope that you and I can… get to know each other and, well, become buddies."
"Where are you going to live?"
His mom suddenly looked sad.
"We, Tommy. This is about you too, you know. We don't know yet. But we were thinking of getting a house in Angby. If we can."
"Angby."
"Yes. What do you think?"
Tommy looked at the glass table in which his mom and Staffan were reflected, half-transparent, like ghosts. He squirmed his finger around in the hole, managed to pull off some foam.
"Expensive.
"What is?"
"A house in Angby. It's expensive. Costs a lot of money. Do you have a lot of money?"
Staffan was about to answer when the phone rang. He stroked Tommy's mother on the cheek and walked out to the phone in the hall. His mom sat down next to Tommy on the sofa and asked, "Don't you like it?"
"I love it."
Staffan's voice came from the hall. He sounded agitated.
"That's… yes, I'll be there on the double. Should we… no, I'll go straight there. OK."
He came back out into the living room.
"The killer is at the Vallingby swimming pool. They don't have enough people down at the station so I have to…"
He disappeared into the bedroom and Tommy could hear the safe being opened and closed. Staffan changed in there and after a while he emerged in full police regalia. His eyes looked slightly crazed. He kissed Tommy's mother on the mouth and slapped Tommy's knee.
"Have to go right away. Don't know when I'll be back. We'll talk more later."
He hurried out into the hall and Tommy's mom followed after him.
Tommy heard something about "be careful" and "I love you" and "staying?" while he went up to the piano and, without knowing exactly why, stretched out his arm and picked up the shooting trophy. It was heavy, at least two kilos. While his mom and Staffan were saying goodbye to each other-they're getting off on this. The man heading into battle. The woman who pines for him-he walked out onto the balcony. He sucked
the cold night air into his lungs and he felt like he could breathe for the first time in hours.
He leaned over the balcony railing, saw that thick bushes were growing underneath. He held the trophy out over the railing, let it go. It fell into the bushes with a rustling sound.
His mom came out on the balcony and stood next to him. After a few seconds the door to the building opened below them and Staffan came out, half-running to the parking lot. His mom waved, but Staffan didn't look up. Tommy giggled as he jogged past the balcony.
"What is it?" his mom asked.
"Nothing."
Just a little kid with a gun hiding in the bushes and taking aim at Staffan. That's all.
Tommy felt pretty good, all things considered.
They had strengthened the gang with Karlsson, the only one among them with a "real" job, as he himself put it. Larry had taken early retirement, Morgan worked off and on at an auto scrap yard, and Lacke you didn't know exactly what he did for a living. Sometimes he turned up with a few bucks.
Karlsson had a full-time job at the toy store in Vallingby. Had owned it once upon a time but been forced to sell due to "financial difficulties." The new owner had eventually employed him because-as Karlsson put it-one couldn't deny the fact that "after thirty years in the business you get a certain amount of experience."
Morgan leaned back in his chair, let his legs flop to either side, and knit his hands together behind his head, his gaze fixed on Karlsson. Lacke and Larry exchanged a look. Now came the usual.
"So, Karlsson. What's new in the toy business? Thought of new ways of cheating kids out of their allowance?"
Karlsson snorted.
"You don't know what you're talking about. If anyone is being cheated it's me. You can't imagine the pervasiveness of the shoplifting. The kids…"
"Yes, yes, yes. But all you've got to do is buy some plastic doodad from Korea for two kronor and sell it for a hundred and you've covered your loss."
"We don't carry those kind of items."
"Sure you don't. What did I see in the store window the other day? Something with Smurfs? What was that? A quality product made in Bengtfors-?"
"I think this is remarkable coming from a man who sells cars that only run if you strap them to a horse."
And so on. Larry and Lacke listened, laughed from time to time, made a few comments. If Virginia had been here the stakes would have been raised a notch and Morgan would not have backed down until Karlsson was thoroughly pissed off.
But Virginia wasn't here and neither was Jocke. The evening didn't have the right feeling and it had already started to wind down when the door opened slowly at half past eight.
Larry looked up and saw a person he never thought would set foot here: Gosta. The Stinkbomb, as Morgan called him. Larry had sat on the bench outside the apartment buildings and talked to him before but he had never seen him in here.
Gosta looked shaken. He walked as if he was made of different pieces that were only poorly glued together and that could fall apart if he made the wrong move. He squinted and shook his head from side to side. He was either drunk out of his mind, or sick.
Larry waved to him. "Gosta! Come sit down!"
Morgan turned his head, checked him out, and said, "Oh, shit."
Gosta maneuvered himself over to their table as if traversing a minefield. Larry pulled out the chair next to him, made an inviting gesture.
"Welcome to the club."
Gosta didn't seem to hear him, but shuffled over to the chair. He was dressed in a worn suit with a waistcoat and bow tie, his hair combed flat with water. And he stank. Piss and piss and more piss. Even when you sat with him outside you could smell it, but it was bearable. Inside in the warmth, the stench of old urine was so overpowering you had to breathe through your mouth to stand it.
All of the guys, even Morgan, made an effort not to show on their
faces what they felt. The waiter approached their table, stopped short when he caught a whiff of Gosta, and said:
"Can I… get you anything?"
Gosta shook his head, but without looking at the waiter. The waiter frowned and Larry signaled, "It's OK, we'll take care of it." The waiter left and Larry put his hand on Gosta's shoulder.
"So to what do we owe this honor?"
Gosta cleared his throat and with his gaze directed at the floor he said, "Jocke."
"What about him?"
"He's dead."
Larry heard Lacke catch his breath. He kept his hand on Gosta's shoulder, encouraging. Felt it was needed.
"How do you know?"
"I saw it. When it happened. When he was killed."
"When?"
"Last Saturday. Night."
Larry removed his hand. "Last Saturday? But… have you talked to the cops?"
Gosta shook his head.
"I haven't been able to make myself. And I… didn't exactly see it. But I know."
Lacke had his hands over his face, whispering, "I knew it. I knew it."
Gosta told his story. The child who had taken out the streetlight nearest the underpass by throwing a rock at it, then hidden inside and waited. Jocke, who had gone in and never come out again. The faint imprint of a body in the dead leaves the following morning.
When he was done, the waiter had for some time been making angry gestures at Larry, pointing at Gosta and then at the door. Larry put his hand on Gosta's arm.
"What do you say. Shall we go have a look?"
Gosta nodded and they stood up. Morgan downed the last of his beer, grinning at Karlsson, who took the newspaper, folded it, and slid it into his coat pocket like he always did, the cheap bastard.
Only Lacke was still sitting at the table, fiddling with some broken toothpicks. Larry bent down.
"Coming?"
"I knew it. I felt it."
"Yes. Aren't you going to come along?"
"Yes, of course. You go ahead. I'm coming."
Gosta calmed down when they were out in the cool evening air. He started walking so quickly that Larry had to ask him to slow down, his heart couldn't take it. Karlsson and Morgan walked side by side behind them, Morgan waiting for Karlsson to say something stupid that he could jump all over. That would feel good. But even Karlsson seemed absorbed by his thoughts.
The broken streetlight had been replaced and it was surprisingly light in the underpass. They stood grouped around Gosta, who pointed to the piles of dead leaves and talked. They stamped their feet to stay warm. Bad circulation. It echoed under the bridge like a marching army. When Gosta had finished Karlsson said:
"But you have no proof of any kind, do you?"
This was the kind of thing Morgan had been waiting for.
"You heard what he said, man, do you think he's making it all up?"
"No," Karlsson said, as if talking to a child, "but I don't think the police are going to be as prepared to believe his story as much as we do if there's no evidence to back it up."
"He's a witness for godssake."
"You think that's enough?"
Larry waved his hand at the piles of leaves.
"The question is where his body is now, if we assume it happened like this."
Lacke came walking along the footpath, walked up to Gosta, and pointed to the ground.
"There?"
Gosta nodded. Lacke pushed his hands into his pockets and stood there for a long time staring at the irregular arrangement of leaves as if it were all a gigantic puzzle he had to solve. His jaw clenched, relaxed, then clenched again.
"Well, what do you say?"
Larry took a few steps toward him.
"I'm sorry, Lacke."
Lacke waved his hand defensively, kept Larry at a distance.
"What do you say? Are we gonna get the guy who did this or not?"
The others looked anywhere but at Lacke. Larry was about to say something, that it was going to be difficult, probably impossible, but stopped himself. Finally Morgan cleared his throat, went over to Lacke, and put an arm around his shoulders.
"We'll get him, Lacke. Of course we will."
Tommy looked out over the railing, thought he caught a glimpse of shiny metal down there. Looked like one of those things Huey, Dewey, and Louie came home with after their competitions.
"What are you thinking about?" his mom asked.
"Donald Duck."
"You don't like Staffan so much, do you?"
"It's OK, Mom."
"Is it?"
Tommy looked out toward the center of town. Saw the large red V in the neon sign that slowly rotated high above everything. Vallingby. Victory.
"Has he shown you his pistols?" he asked.
"Why do you want to know something like that?"
"Just wondering. Has he?"
"I don't understand."
"It's not that hard, Mom. Has he opened the safe, taken out the guns, and shown them to you?"
"Yes. Why?"
"When did he do it?"
His mom brushed something from her blouse, then rubbed her arms.
"I'm cold," she said.
"Do you think about Dad?"
"Yes, of course I do. All the time."
"All the time?"
His mom sighed, bending over a little to be able to look him in the eye.
"What are you implying?"
"What are you implying?"
Tommy's hand was on the railing; she put hers on top. "Will you come with me to see Dad tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow?"
"Yeah, it's All Saints or something."
"That's the day after. And yes, I will."
"Tommy."
She peeled his hands from the railing, turned him toward her. Hugged him. He stood there stiffly for a moment, then freed himself and walked back in.
While he was putting his coat on he realized he needed his mom to come back inside if he was going to be able to go look for the statuette. He called out to her and she quickly came back in, hungry for words.
"Yeah,… uh, give my regards to Staffan."
She lit up.
"I will. You're not staying?"
"No, I… it could take all night."
"Yes, I'm a little worried."
"You shouldn't be. He knows how to shoot. Bye."
"Good-bye…"
The front door slammed shut.
"… honey."
There was a muffled bang from deep inside the Volvo as Staffan drove it up over the curb at high speed. His upper and lower teeth slammed together with such force it almost sounded like a bell rang out in his head. He went blind for a second and almost ran over an older man who was about to join the group of onlookers that had gathered around the police car by the main entrance.
Larsson, a new police recruit, was in the patrol car talking on the radio. Probably calling for backup or an ambulance. Staffan drove up behind the patrol car in order to leave clearance for any other vehicles that might be on their way, jumped out and locked his car. He always locked his car, even if he was only going to be gone for a minute. Not because he was afraid it would get stolen but in order to keep the habit alive, so he would never forget to lock a patrol car for godssake.
He walked up the steps to the main entrance and made an effort to walk with authority in front of his onlookers; he knew he had an appearance that inspired confidence, at least with most people. Many of the people who were gathered probably saw him and thought: "Aha, here comes the guy who's going to clear up this whole thing."
Shortly inside the front doors there were four men in swimming trunks with towels wrapped around their shoulders. Staffan walked past them, toward the changing rooms, but one of the men called out, "Hello, excuse me," and ran over to him in bare feet.
"Yes, sorry, but… our clothes."
"What about them?"
"When can we get them?"
"Your clothes?"
"Yes, they're still in the changing rooms and we're not allowed in there."
Staffan opened his mouth and was about to say something sharp about the fact that their clothes were hardly the highest priority right now, but just then a woman in a white T-shirt came walking toward the men with a bunch of white robes in her arms. Staffan gestured to her and then continued on his way.
In the corridor he met another woman in a white T-shirt walking a boy of twelve or thirteen toward the entrance. The boy's face was a deep red against the white robe he was wrapped in; his eyes were devoid of expression. The woman turned to Staffan with a look that was almost accusatory.
"His mother's coming to pick him up."
Staffan nodded. Was this boy… the victim? He had wanted to ask this, but in his haste couldn't think of a reasonable way to put the question. Had to assume Holmberg had taken the boy's name and other information, judged it best to let his mother come in and take over, accompanying him to the ambulance, crisis intervention, therapy.
Protect these Thy smallest.
Staffan kept going down the corridor, ran up the steps while inside his head he recited a prayer of thanks for the Lord's mercy and for strength to meet the challenges ahead.
Was the murderer really still in the building?
Outside the changing rooms, under a sign with the single word men, there were, appropriately enough, three men talking to constable Holmberg. Only one of the three was fully dressed. The other two both lacked some item of clothing: one had no pants, the other had no shirt.
"I'm glad you got down here so fast," Holmberg said.
"Is he still here?"
Holmberg pointed at the changing room door.
"In there."
Staffan gestured at the three men.
"Are they?…"
Before Holmberg had time to say anything, the man without pants on took a half step forward and said-not without some pride-"We're witnesses."
Staffan nodded and looked inquiringly at Holmberg.
"Shouldn't they?…"
"Yes, but I thought I'd wait until you got down here. Apparently he's not violent." Holmberg turned kindly to the men and said, "We'll be in touch. The best thing you can do now is go home. Oh, and one more thing. I understand this may not be easy but try not to discuss this among yourselves."
The man without pants on half-smiled, nodding in agreement.
"Someone could overhear us, you mean."
"No, but you could start to imagine that you have seen something that you didn't really see, only because someone else did."
"Not me. I saw what I saw and it was the most hellish…"
"Believe me. It happens to the best of us. And now you'll have to excuse us. Thank you for you help."
The men walked off down the corridor, mumbling. Holmberg was good at this kind of thing. Talking to people. That was what he did most. Went around in schools and talked drugs and police work. Wasn't pulled into this kind of thing very often nowadays.
A metallic noise, as if a sheet of metal had fallen to the ground, came from inside the changing room. Staffan flinched and listened intently.
"Not violent, you said?"
"Badly injured, apparently. Poured some kind of acid onto his face."
"Why did he do that?"
Holmberg's face became blank; he turned to the door.
"I guess we'll have to go in and ask."
"Armed?"
"Probably not."
Holmberg pointed to a large kitchen knife with a wooden handle on a nearby window ledge.
"I didn't have a bag on me. And anyway the guy without pants had managed to stand there handling it for a while before I came. We'll have to deal with it later."
"Are we just going to let it stay there?"
"Got a better idea?"
Staffan shook his head and in the ensuing silence he perceived two different things. A soft, irregular blowing sound coming from inside the changing room. Wind whistling through a chimney. A cracked flue. That, and a smell. Something that he had at first assumed to be a part of the ubiquitous chlorine scent that permeated the whole building. But this was different. A sharp, stinging smell in his nostrils. Staffan wrinkled his nose.
"Should we?…"
Holmberg nodded but didn't make a move. Married, with children. Sure. Staffan pulled his gun from the holster, let his other hand rest on the door handle. It was the third time in his twelve years of service that he was entering a room with his weapon drawn. Didn't know if he was doing the right thing but no one would be likely to criticize him. A child killer. Cornered, perhaps desperate, no matter how injured.
He gave Holmberg a sign and opened the door.
The fumes overwhelmed him.
They stung so much his eyes started to water. He coughed. Took a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it over his nose and mouth. A few times when he had been assisting the fire department at a fire he had experienced something similar. But here there was no smoke, only a light mist suspended in the air.
Good God, what is this?
The repetitive, hacking sound could still be heard from the other side of the row of changing lockers in front of them. Staffan signalled for Holmberg to go around the lockers from the other side so they would be approaching from two directions. Staffan went up to the edge of the locker row and peeked around the corner with his gun held down along his side.
He saw a metal trash can kicked over on its side and next to it a prone, naked body.
Holmberg appeared on the other side, signalled to Staffan to take it easy, there didn't appear to be any immediate danger. Staffan felt a twinge of irritation that Holmberg was trying to take over command of the situation now that it didn't appear dangerous any longer. He breathed in through his handkerchief, took it away from his mouth, and said loudly,
"This is the police. Can you hear me?"
The man on the floor gave no sign of comprehension, just kept on making that repeptitive noise with his face turned down into the ground. Staffan took a few steps forward.
"Put your hands where I can see them."
The man didn't move. But now that Staffan was closer he could see that the body was twitching all over. That part about the hands was unnecessary. One arm lay curled over the trash can, the other sprawled over the floor. The palms were swollen and cracked.
Acid… what does he look like…
Staffan held the handkerchief in front of his mouth again and walked up to the man while putting his gun back in his holster, trusting the fact that Holmberg would cover him if something happened.
The body twitched spasmodically and produced a soft smacking sound every time bare skin pulled free from the tile and then reattached itself. The hand lying on the floor flopped around like a flounder on a rock. And all the time this sound issued from the mouth, directed into the floor,
"… eeiiieeeeiii…"
Staffan indicated to Holmberg to keep his distance, and crouched down next to the body.
"Can you hear me?"
The man stopped making noise. Suddenly the whole body writhed spasmodically and rolled over.
His face.
Staffan jumped back, lost his balance, and landed on his tailbone. He clenched his teeth not to cry out when the pain fanned out into his lower back. He squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them again.
He has no face.
Staffan had once seen a drug addict who, during a hallucination, had repeatedly smashed his face against a wall. He had seen a man who had welded near a gas tank without emptying it first. It had exploded into his face.
But nothing approached this.
The man's nose had completely burned away leaving only two holes in his head. The mouth had melted together, the lips sealed with the exception of a small opening in one corner. One eye had melted down over what had been his cheek, but the other… the other was wide open.
Staffan stared into that eye, the only thing that was still recognizeably human in this unshapely mass. The eye was red and when it tried to blink there was only a thread of skin that fluttered down and up again.
Where the rest of the face should have been there were only pieces of cartilage and bone sticking out between irregular shreds of flesh and blackened slivers of fabric. The naked, glistening muscles contracted and relaxed, contorting as if the head had been replaced by a mass of freshly killed and butchered eels.
The whole face, what had been the face, had its own life.
Staffan felt a retching in his throat and would probably have thrown up if his own body had not been so preoccupied with pumping pain into his lower back. Slowly he pulled his legs back in under him, stood up, leaning on the lockers for support. The red eye stared at him the whole time.
"What the…"
Holmberg stood with hanging arms and stared at the deformed body on the floor. It wasn't just the face. The acid had also run down onto the chest. The skin over the collarbone on one side was gone and a piece of the bone stuck out, glowing white like a piece of chalk in a meat stew.
Holmberg shook his head, raised and lowered one hand halfway up and down, up and down. Coughed.
"What the…"
It was eleven o'clock and Oskar lay in his bed. Slowly tapped out the letters against the wall.
E…L…I…
E…L…I…
No answer.
30 October
The boys in 6B stood lined up outside the school and waited for their gym teacher, Mr. Avila, to give them the go-head. Everyone had some kind of gym bag in his hands because God save you if you forgot your gym clothes or didn't have an acceptable reason to sit out gym class.
They stood at arm's length from each other like the teacher had told them on the first day in fourth grade when he had taken over the responsibility of their physical education from their home room teacher.
"A straight line! Arm's length distance!"
Mr. Avila had been a fighter pilot in the war. He had entertained the boys a few times with stories about airborne skirmishes and emergency landings in fields of wheat. They were impressed. They had respect for him.
A class that was considered difficult and unruly now stood lined up in a neat row an arm's length from each other even though the teacher was out of sight. If the line didn't meet his expectations he made them stand there an extra ten minutes or canceled a promised volleyball game in favor of pull-ups and sit-ups.
Like the rest of them, Oskar had a healthy respect for his gym teacher. With his stubbly gray hair, eagle nose, a still-impressive physique, and
iron grip, Mr.Avila was hardly predisposed to love or sympathize with a meek, somewhat chubby, and bullied boy. But order ruled during his class period. Neither Jonny, Micke, nor Tomas dared to do anything while Mr. Avila was around.
Now Johan stepped out of line, threw a quick glance up at the school building, then gave a heil Hitler salute, and said with a feigned Spanish accent:
"Straight lines! Today fire drill! With ropes!"
Some pupils laughed nervously. Mr. Avila had a fondness for fire drills. Once every semester he had his students practice lowering themselves out of the windows with ropes while he timed the whole procedure with a stopwatch. If they managed to beat the previous best time they would be allowed to play The Whole Sea is Raging in their next lesson. If they deserved to.
Johan quickly got back in line. He was lucky because, a few seconds later, Mr. Avila came out of the front entrance and walked briskly to the gym. He was looking straight ahead without giving the class so much as a look. When he was halfway across the school yard he made a follow me! gesture with one hand without breaking his stride, without a backward glance.
The line started moving, all the while trying to retain the arm's length distance between people. Tomas, who was behind Oskar, stepped on Os-kar's heel so the shoe slid off in the back. Oskar kept on walking.
Since the incident with the whips the day before yesterday they had left him alone. Not that they had gone so far as to apologize or anything, but the wound on his cheek was very visible and they probably felt it was enough. For now.
Eli.
Oskar bunched his toes up inside his shoe in order to keep it on, marching toward the gym. Where was Eli? Oskar had kept a lookout from his window last night to see if Eli's dad made it home. Instead he had seen Eli slip out around ten o'clock. Then he had had hot cocoa and rolls with his mom and maybe he had missed seeing her come home. But she had not answered any of the messages he tapped into the wall.
The class lumbered into the changing room and the line dissolved. Mr. Avila stood waiting for them with crossed arms.
"Well, well. Today physical training, with bar, pommel horse and jump rope."
Groans. Mr. Avila nodded.
"If it is good, if you work hard, next time we can play spock-ball. But today: physical training. Get a move on!"
No room for discussion. You had to make do with the promise of ghost-ball, and the class hurried up and changed. As usual Oskar made sure he had his back turned to the others as he changed his pants. The Pissball made his underpants look a little strange.
Up in the gym hall the others were busy putting out the pommel horses and lowering the bars. Johan and Oskar carried out mats. When everything was arranged to his liking Mr. Avila blew his whistle. There were five stations, so he divided them into five groups of two.
Oskar and Staffe were grouped together, which was good since Staffe was the only kid in the class who was worse at gym than Oskar. He had raw strength but was clumsy. Chubbier than Oskar. Even so, no one teased him. There was something about the way Staffe carried himself that told you if you messed with him something bad would happen to you.
Mr. Avila blew his whistle again and everyone set to work.
Pull-ups on the bar. Chin over the bar, then down, then up again. Oskar managed two. Staffe did five, then gave up. Whistle. Sit-ups. Staffe just lay on the mat and stared at the ceiling. Oskar did cheater sit-ups until the next whistle. Jump rope. Oskar was good at this. He kept jumping while Staffe got tangled up in his rope. Then regular push-ups. Staffe could do these till the cows came home. Then the pommel horse, the damned pommel horse.
It was a relief to be paired with Staffe. Oskar snuck a peek at Micke and Jonny and Olof, how they flew over the horse via the springboard. Staffe geared up, ran, bounced so hard off the springboard that it creaked and still he didn't make it up onto the horse. He turned to walk back. Mr. Avila came up to him.
"Up on pommel."
"Can't do it."
"Then you do over."
"What?"
"Do over. Do over. Go jump! Jump!"
Staffan grabbed the pommel horse, heaved himself up onto it and slid like a slug down the other side. Mr. Avila waved go! and Oskar ran.
Somewhere during his run up to the pommel he made up his mind.
He would try.
Once, Mr. Avila had told him not to be afraid of the pommel horse, that everything hung on his attitude. Normally he didn't jump from the springboard with full force, afraid of losing his balance or of hitting something. But now he was going to go all out, pretend as if he could do it. Mr. Avila was watching and Oskar ran with full force toward the springboard.
He hardly thought of the jump off the springboard, so focused was he on the aim of clearing the pommel horse. For the first time, he pushed his feet into the springboard with full force, without braking, and his body took off by itself, his hands stretched out to steady himself and steer his body on. He flew over the horse with such force that he lost his balance and tumbled headfirst when he landed on the other side. But he had cleared it!
He turned and looked at his teacher, who was definitely not smiling, but who nodded encouragingly.
"Good, Oskar, but more balance."
Then Mr. Avila blew his whistle and they were allowed to rest for a minute before trying again. This time Oskar managed both to clear the pommel horse and keep his balance when he landed.
Mr. Avila ended the lesson and went to his office while they put the equipment away. Oskar folded out the wheels under the pommel horse and wheeled it into the storage room, patting it like a good horse that had finally allowed itself to be tamed. He put it up against the wall and then walked to the changing room. There was something he wanted to talk to Mr. Avila about.
He was stopped halfway to the door. A noose made from a jump rope went over his head and landed around his stomach. Someone held him in place. Behind him he heard Jonny's voice saying, "Giddy up, Piggy!"
Oskar turned so that the loop slid over his stomach and lay against his back. Jonny was standing in front of him with the ends of the jump rope in his hands. He waved them up and down.
"Giddy up, giddy up."
Oskar grabbed the rope with both hands and pulled the ends out of Jonny's grip. The jump rope clattered onto the floor behind Oskar. Jonny pointed to the rope.
"Now you have to pick it up."
Oskar picked up the jump rope in the middle and started to swing it above his head so the handles rattled against each other, yelled, "here it comes" and let go. The jump rope flew off and Jonny instinctively put his hands up to shield his face. The jump rope fluttered over his head and smacked against the wall bars behind him.
Oskar walked out of the gymnasium and ran down the stairs, the sound of his heart hammering in his ears. It had begun. He took the stairs three at a time, landing with both feet on the landings, walked through the changing rooms and into the teacher's office.
Mr. Avila was sitting there in his gym clothes, talking on the phone in a foreign language, probably Spanish. The only word Oskar could make out was "perro," which he knew meant "dog." Mr. Avila made a sign for him to sit down in the chair opposite his desk. Mr. Avila kept talking, repeating "perro" a few more times. Oskar heard Jonny walk into the changing room and start talking in a loud voice.
The changing room had emptied out before Mr. Avila was done talking about his dog. He turned to Oskar.
"So, Oskar. What do you want?"
"Yes, well, I… about these training sessions on Thursday."
"Yes?"
"Can I go to them?"
"You mean the strength training class at the swimming pool?"
"Yes, those. Do I have to sign up or…"
"No need to sign up. Just come. Thursdays at seven o'clock. You want to do it?"
"Yes, I… Yes."
"That is good. You train. Then you can do pull-up bar… fifty times."
Mr. Avila mimed pulling up on a bar in the air. Oskar shook his head.
"No. But… yes, I'll be there."
"Then I see you Thursday. Good."
Oskar nodded, about to leave, then he said:
"How is your dog?"
"Dog?"
"Yes, I heard you say'perro' on the phone just now. Doesn't that mean dog?"
Mr. Avila thought for a moment.
"Ah. Not 'perro.' Pero. That means 'but' in Spanish. As in 'but not me.' That is pero no yo. Understand? You want to join the Spanish class too?"
Oskar smiled and shook his head. Said the strength training would do for now.
The changing room was empty except for Oskar's clothes. Oskar pulled off his gym clothes and stopped short. His pants were gone. Of course. That he hadn't thought of this in advance. He checked everywhere in the changing room, in the toilets. No pants.
The chill nipped his legs as he walked home in his gym shorts. It had started to snow during gym class. The snowflakes fell and melted on his legs. In his yard he stopped under Eli's window. The blinds were drawn. No movement inside. Large snowflakes carressed his upturned face. He caught some on his tongue. They tasted good.
Look at Ragnar."
Holmberg pointed in the direction of Vallingby plaza, where the falling snow was covering the cobblestones in gossamer. One of their regular alcoholics sat on a bench in the square without moving, wrapped in a large coat, while the snow slowly made him into a poorly proportioned snowman. Holmberg sighed.
"We'll have to go take a look if he doesn't move soon. How are you doing?" So so.
Staffan had put an extra cushion on his chair in order to assuage the pain in his lower back. He would rather be standing, or most of all, lying in his bed, but the report of last night's events had to be entered into the homicide register before the weekend.
Holmberg looked down at his pad and tapped his pen on it.
"Those three who were in the changing room. They said that the guy, the killer, before he poured the acid over his face, that he had shouted 'Eli, Eli,' and now I'm wondering…"
Staffan's heart leaped in his chest and he leaned across the desk.
"He said that?"
"Yes, do you know what…"
"Yes."
Staffan sat back suddenly and the pain shot up like an arrow all the way to the root of his hair. He grabbed the edge of the desk, straightened up, and put his hands over his face. Holmberg looked closely at him.
"Damn, have you seen a doctor?"
"No, it's just… it'll be fine in a minute. Eli, Eli."
"Is that a name?"
Staffan nodded slowly. "Yes… it means… God."
"I see, he was calling out to God. Do you think he was heard?"
"What?"
"God. Do you think God heard him? When you consider the circumstances it seems a little… unlikely. But you're the expert. Hm."
"They are the final words that Christ uttered on the cross. My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me? Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?"
Holmberg blinked and looked down at his notes.
"Yes, that's right."
"According to the gospels of Matthew and Mark."
Holmberg nodded and sucked on the end of his pen.
"Should we include this in the report?"
When Oskar got home from school he put on a pair of new pants and went down to the Lover's kiosk to get himself a newspaper. There had been talk of the killer getting caught and he wanted to know everything. Clip articles for his scrapbook.
There was something that felt slightly different when he went down to the kiosk, something that wasn't how it normally was, even if you overlooked the snow.
On his way home with the newspaper he suddenly thought of it. He wasn't keeping a lookout. He just walked. He had walked all the way down to the kiosk without keeping an eye out for someone who would be able to hurt him.
He started to run. Ran home all the way with the paper in his hand while the snowflakes licked his face. Locked the front door from the inside. Went to his bed, lay down on his stomach, tapped on the wall. No reply. He would have wanted to talk to Eli, tell her.
He opened the newspaper. The Vallingby Pool. Police cars. Ambulance. Attempted murder. The man's injuries had made identification difficult. A picture of Danderyd where the man had been hospitalized. A run-down on the first murder. No comments.
Then submarine, submarine, submarine. The military on high alert.
The door bell rang.
Oskar jumped off his bed, walked quickly into the hall.
Eli, Eli, Eli.
He hesitated with his hand on the door handle. What if it was Jonny and the others? No, they would never come to his house like this. He opened. Johan was outside.
"Hey there."
"Yeah… hey there."
"Want to do something?"
"Sure… like what?"
"I don't know. Something."
"OK."
Oskar put on his shoes and coat while Johan waited for him on the stairs.
"What Jonny did back there was pretty shitty. In the gym."
"He took my pants, right?"
"Yeah, I know where they are."
"Where?"
"Back there. Behind the pool. I'll show you."
Oskar thought-but didn't say out loud-that in that case Johan could have made the effort to bring him the pants when he came over. But Jo-han's generosity did not extend that far. Oskar nodded and said, "Great."
They walked over to the pool and got the pants, which were hanging
on a bush. Then they walked around and checked things out. Made snowballs and tried to hit a specific target on a tree. In a container they found some old electric cables that they could cut and use as slingshots. Talked about the murderer, about the submarine, and about Jonny, Micke, and Tomas who Johan thought were dumb.
"Completely retarded."
"But they don't do anything to you."
"No, but still."
They walked to the hotdog stand by the subway station and bought two luffare each. One krona apiece; a grilled hot dog bun with only mustard, ketchup, hamburger dressing, and raw onion inside. It was starting to get dark. Johan talked to the girl in the hot dog stand and Oskar looked at the subway trains that came and went, thinking about the electric wires that ran above the tracks.
They started walking toward the school where they would go their separate ways, their mouths reeking of onion. Oskar said:
"Do you think people kill themselves by jumping onto those wires above the tracks?"
"Don't know. I guess so. My brother knows someone who went down there and pissed on a live track."
"What happened?"
"He died. The current went up through the piss into his body."
"No way. So he wanted to die?"
"Nah. He was drunk. Shit. Think about it…"
Johan mimed taking out his dick, peeing, and then starting to convulse. Oskar laughed.
Down by the school they said good-bye, waved. Oskar walked homeward with his newly recovered pants tied around his waist, whistling the signature melody to Dallas. It had stopped snowing but a white film covered everything. The large frosted windows of the swimming pool were brightly lit. He would go there Thursday evening. Start training. Get strong.
Friday evening at the Chinese restaurant. The round, steel-rimmed clock on one wall looks completely out of place among the rice paper lamps
and golden dragons. It says five to nine. The guys are leaning over their beers, losing themselves in the landscapes depicted on the placemats. The snow continues to fall outside.
Virginia stirs her San Francisco a little and sucks on the end of the stirrer, which has a little Johnnie Walker figure on the end.
Who was Johnnie Walker? Where was he walking with such determination?
She taps her glass with the stirrer and Morgan looks up.
"Giving a toast?"
"Someone should."
They had told her about it, everything that Gosta had said about Jocke, the underpass, the child. Then they had sunk into silence. Virginia let the ice cubes in her glass clink, looked at how the dimmed ceiling lights reflected in the half-melted cubes.
"There's one thing I don't get. If all this that Gosta says really happened, where is he? Jocke, I mean."
Karlsson brightened, as if this was an opportunity he had been waiting for.
"Exactly what I have been trying to say. Where is the body? If you're going…"
Morgan held up a finger in front of Karlsson.
"You do not refer to Jocke as 'the body,' understood?"
"Well, what do I call him? The deceased?"
"You don't call him anything, not until we know for sure."
"That's exactly what I've been trying to say. As long as we don't have a
b-… as long as they haven't… found him, we can't." "Who's 'they'?" "Who do you think? The helicopter division in Berga? The police, of course."
Larry rubbed one eye, making a low clucking sound. "That's a problem. As long as they haven't found him they aren't in-terested and as long as they aren't interested they won't find him."
Virginia shook her head. "You have to go to the police and tell them what you know."
"Oh yeah, and what exactly do you think we should tell them?" Morgan chuckled. "Hey, lay off all this shit with the child murderer, the submarine,
and everything, because we're three merry alcoholics and one of our drinking buddies has disappeared and now another of our drinking buds tells us that one night when he was really high he saw… does that sound good?"
"But what about Gosta? He was the one who saw it. He's the one who…"
"Sure. But he's so damned unstable/insecure. Shake a uniform at him and he'll collapse, ready to be admitted to Beckis. He can't take it. Interrogations and shit." Morgan shrugged. "No chance there."
"But do we really do nothing7."
"Well, what the hell do you suggest?"
Lacke, who had had time to down his beer while the conversation was going on, said something too low for them to hear what it was. Virginia leaned toward him and put her head on his shoulder.
"What did you say?"
Lacke stared into the foggy ink-drawn landscape on his placemat and whispered: "You said that we would get him."
Morgan thumped the table with his hand so the beer glasses jumped. Held out his hand like a claw.
"And we will. But we need something to go on first."
Lacke nodded like a somnabulist and started to get up.
"Just have to…"
His legs gave way and he fell headfirst across the table. The loud crash of falling glass made all eight restaurant patrons turn and stare. Virginia grabbed hold of Lacke's shoulders and helped him up in the chair again. Lacke's eyes were far away.
"Sorry, I…"
The waiter hurried over to their table while frenetically rubbing his hands on his apron. He bent down to Lacke and Virginia and whispered furiously: "This is a restaurant not a pig sty!"
Virginia gave him the widest smile she could muster while she helped Lacke get to his feet.
"Come on, Lacke. We're going to my place."
With an accusing look at the other men, the waiter quickly walked around Lacke and Virginia, and supported Lacke on the other side in order to show his patrons he was just as concerned as they that this disturbing element be removed.
Virginia helped Lacke put on his heavy overcoat, elegant in an old-fashioned way-which he inherited from his father who had died a few years earlier-and ferried him to the door.
Behind her she heard a few meaningful whistles from Morgan and Karlsson. With Lacke's arm over her shoulder she turned to them and made a face. Then she pulled open the front door and walked out.
The snow was falling in large, slow flakes, creating a space of cold and silence for the two of them. Virginia's cheeks turned pink as she led Lacke down the park path. It was better like this.
Hi. I was going to meet my dad, but he didn't show up… may I come in and use the phone?"
"Of course."
"May I come in?"
"The telephone is over there."
The woman pointed further into the hallway; a gray telephone stood on a little table. Eli remained where she was outside the door; she hadn't yet been invited in. Right next to the door there was a cast iron hedgehog shoe wiper with prickles made of piassava fibers. Eli wiped off her shoes in order to cover her inability to enter.
"Are you sure it's alright?"
"Of course. Come in, come in!'
The woman made a tired gesture; Eli was invited. The woman seemed to have lost interest and walked into the living room, where Eli could hear the static whining of a TV. A long yellow silk ribbon tied around the woman's graying hair ran down her back like a pet snake.
Eli walked into the hall, took off her shoes and jacket, lifted the telephone receiver. Dialed a number at random. Pretended to talk to someone. Put the receiver down.
Drew air in through her nose. Cooking smells, cleaning agents, earth, shoe polish, winter apples, damp cloth, electricity, dust, sweat, wallpaper glue, and… cat urine.
Yes. A soot-black cat stood in the doorway to the kitchen, growling,
the ears pulled back, fur standing on end, back arched. It had a red band around its neck with a little metal cylinder on it, probably containing a slip of paper with the owner's name and address.
Eli took a step toward the cat and it bared its teeth, hissing. The body was tensed for attack. One more step.
The cat retreated, pulling itself backward while continuing to hiss, maintaining eye contact. The hate pulsating through its body caused the metal cylinder to tremble. They took measure of each other. Eli moved slowly forward, forcing the cat back until it was in the kitchen, and then she closed the door.
The cat continued to growl and mew angrily on the other side. Eli walked into the living room.
The woman was sitting in a leather couch so well-polished the light from the TV was reflected in it. She sat bolt upright, staring unstintingly at the blue flickering screen. She had a yellow bow on one side of her head. On the other side the bow had pulled loose into a hanging length of ribbon. On the coffee table in front of her there was a bowl of crackers and a cutting board with three cheeses. An unopened bottle of wine and two glasses.
The woman did not seem to note Eli's presence; she was completely absorbed by what she saw on the screen. A nature program. Penguins at the South Pole.
"The male carries the egg on his feet so it will not come in contact with the ice."
A caravan of penguins swaying from side to side moved across an ice desert. Eli sat down on the sofa, next to the woman. She sat stiffly, as if the TV was a disapproving teacher who was telling her off.
"When the female returns after three months the male's layer of fat has been all but used up."
Two penguins rubbed their beaks together, greeting each other.
"Are you expecting someone?"
The woman flinched and stared without comprehension into Eli's eyes for a few seconds. The yellow bow accentuated how ravaged her face looked. She shook her head quickly.
"No, help yourself."
Eli didn't move. The picture on the TV screen changed to a panorama of the southern parts of Soviet Georgia, set to music. In the kitchen the tone of the cat's meows had turned into something… beseeching. There was a chemical smell in the room. The woman was exuding a hospital smell.
"Is anyone going to come over?"
Again the woman flinched as if she had been woken up, turned to Eli. This time she looked irritated, with a sharp furrow between her eyebrows.
"No. No one's coming. Eat if you like." She pointed with a stiff finger at the cheeses. "Camembert, Gorgonzola, and Roquefort. Eat. Eat."
She looked sternly at Eli, and Eli helped herself to a cracker, put it in her mouth, and started to chew slowly. The woman nodded and turned her gaze back to the screen. Eli spit the chewy mass of crackers into her hand and dropped it onto the floor behind the armrest.
"When are you leaving?" the woman asked. Soon.
"Stay as long as you like. It's all the same to me."
Eli moved a little closer, as if to be able to see the TV better, until their arms touched. Something happened to the woman. She trembled and sank together, softened like a punctured coffee packet. Now when she looked over at Eli it was with a mild, dreamy gaze.
"Who are you?"
Eli's eyes were only a few decimeters from hers. The hospital smell wafted from the woman's mouth.
"I don't know."
The woman nodded, reached for the remote control on the coffee table, and turned off the sound.
"In the spring, southern Georgia blooms with a barren beauty…"
The cat's beseeching meows could now be heard very clearly, but the woman didn't seem to care. She pointed to Eli's lap. "May I…"
"Of course."
Eli shifted slightly away from the woman, who pulled up her legs and rested her head on Eli's lap. Eli slowly stroked her hair. They sat like that for a while. The shimmering backs of whales broke the surface of the water, spurted out a fountain, disappeared.
"Tell me a story," said the woman.
"What do you want to hear?"
"Something beautiful."
Eli tucked a tendril of hair behind the woman's ear. She breathed slowly now and her body was completely relaxed. Eli spoke in a low voice.
"Once upon a time… a long, long time ago, there was a poor farmer and his wife. They had three children. A boy and a girl both old enough to work together with the adults. And then a little boy, only eleven years old. Everyone who saw him said he was the most beautiful child they had ever seen.
"The father was in villeinage to the lord who owned the land, and had to work many days for him. Therefore, it often fell to the mother and her two oldest to look after the house and garden. The youngest boy wasn't good for much.
"One day the lord announced a competition that all of the families who worked his land had to enter. Everyone who had a boy between the ages of eight and twelve. No reward was promised, no prize. Even so, it was called a competition.
"On the day of the competition the mother took her youngest to the lord's castle. They were not alone. Seven other children accompanied by one or both parents had gathered in the courtyard of the castle. Three more came. Poor families, the children dressed in the best clothes they had.
"They waited all day in the courtyard. When it was starting to get dark a man came out of the castle and told them they could come in."
Eli listened to the woman's breathing, deep and regular. She slept. Her breath was warm against Eli's knee. Right below her ear Eli could discern the pulse ticking under loose, wrinkled skin.
The cat was quiet.
The credits for the nature program rolled on the TV. Eli put a finger on the woman's throat artery. It felt like a beating bird heart under her fingertip.
Eli braced herself against the back of the couch and carefully pushed the woman's head forward so it leaned on Eli's knees. The sharp smell of Roquefort cheese drowned out the other smells. Eli pulled out a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over the cheeses.
A soft squeaky sound, the woman's breathing. Eli leaned over and held her nose close to the woman's artery. Soap, sweat, the smell of old
skin… and that hospital smell… something else that was the woman's own smell. And beneath all this: the blood.
The woman moaned when Eli's nose brushed against her throat, started to turn her head, but Eli gripped the woman's arms and chest with one hand, held the other one firmly around her head. Opened her mouth as much as she could, brought it down to the woman's throat until her tongue pressed against the artery and bit down. Locked her jaws.
The woman jerked as if she had received an electric shock. Her limbs flung out and her feet hit the armrest with such force that the woman pushed away and Eli ended up with her back across her knees.
The blood spurted rhythmically out of the open artery and splashed against the brown leather of the couch. The woman screamed and waved her hands in the air, pulling the blanket down from the table. A waft of blue cheese filled Eli's nostrils as she threw herself over the woman, pushing her mouth against her throat and drinking deeply. The woman's screams pierced her ears and Eli let go with one arm in order to be able to place a hand over her mouth.
The screams were muffled but the woman's free hand went out to the coffee table, grabbed the remote control, and banged it into Eli's head. The sound of plastic breaking as the sound of the TV came on again.
The signature melody of Dallas floated out into the room and Eli tore her head away from the woman's throat.
The blood tasted like medication. Morphine.
The woman stared up at Eli with wide eyes. Now Eli perceived yet another flavor. A rotten taste that combined with the smell of the blue cheese.
Cancer. The woman had cancer.
Her stomach turned with revulsion. She had to sit up and let go of the woman in order not to vomit.
The camera flew over Southfork while the music approached its crescendo. The woman wasn't screaming anymore, just lay still on her back while the blood pumped out of her in weaker and weaker spurts, streaming down behind the sofa cushions. Her eyes were damp and remote as she met Eli's gaze and said, "please… please…"
Eli held back her impulse to be sick, leaned forward over the woman.
"Excuse me?"
"Please…"
"Yes, what is it you want?"
"… please… please."
After a while the woman's eyes changed, stiffened. Became unseeing. Eli closed them. They opened again. Eli took the blanket from the floor and covered her face with it, sat up straight in the couch.
The blood was palatable even though it tasted bad, but the morphine…
There was a skyscraper of mirrors on the TV. A man dressed in a suit and a cowboy hat got out of his car, walked toward the skyscraper. Eli tried to get up out of the couch. She couldn't. The skyscraper started to lean, to turn. The mirrors reflected clouds that floated across the sky in slow motion, taking on the shape of animals, plants.
Eli burst out laughing when the man in the cowboy hat sat down behind a desk and started to speak in English. Eli understood what he was saying, but it was meaningless. Eli looked around. The whole room had started to lean in such a funny way it was strange the TV hadn't started to roll away. The cowboy-man's words echoed in her head. Eli looked for the remote control but it lay in pieces strewn across the table and floor.
Have to get the cowboy-man to stop talking.
Eli slid to the floor, crawling on all fours over to the TV with the morphine rushing through her body, laughing at the figures that dissolved into colors, colors. Didn't have the energy. Sank onto her stomach in front of the TV with the colors dancing in front of her eyes.
A few children were still sliding on their Snow Racers down the hill between Bjornsonsgatan and the little field next to the park road. Death Hill, it was called for some reason. Three shadows started out at the same time from the top and some loud swearing was heard, when one of the shadows was forced off course into the forest, as well as laughter from the other two as they continued down the slope, flew up from the dip at the bottom, and came to rest with a muffled clatter.
Lacke stopped, looked down into the ground. Virginia tried carefully to shove him onward with her. "Come on, Lacke."
"It's just so damned hard."
"I can't carry you, you know."
A snort that was probably a laugh, that became a cough. Lacke dropped his arm from her shoulders, stood there with arms hanging, and turned his head toward the sledding hill.
"Damn it, here there are kids sledding, and there…" He gestured vaguely in the direction of the underpass that started at the far end of the hill that the slope was on."… that's where Jocke was murdered."
"Don't think about that anymore."
"How can I stop? Maybe it was one of those kids who did it?"
"I don't think so."
She took his arm in order to put it around her neck again, but Lacke pulled away. "No, I can walk on my own."
Lacke started gingerly down the path. The snow crunched under his feet. Virginia stood still and watched him. There he was, the man she loved and whom she could never live with.
She had tried.
It was during a time eight years ago when Virginia's daughter had just moved away from home. Lacke had moved in. Then as now Virginia worked at a local grocery store, ICA, on Arvid Mornes Road above China Park. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment about three minutes' walk from the store.
During the four months that they lived together Virginia never managed to figure out what Lacke actually did. He knew something about electrical wiring and put in a dimmer on the lamp in the living room. He knew something about cooking: surprised her several times with well-made fish-based creations. But what did he do?
He sat in the apartment, went for walks, talked to people, read a lot of books and newspapers. That was all. For Virginia, who had worked since she left school, it was an incomprehensible way to live. She had asked him:
"So Lacke, I don't mean this… but what is it you dol Where do you get your money?"
"I don't have any."
"But you do have a little money."
"This is Sweden. Carry out a chair and put it on the sidewalk. Sit there in that chair and wait. If you wait long enough someone will come out and give you money. Or take care of you somehow."
"Is that how you see me?"
"Virginia. When you say 'Lacke, please leave.' Then I'll leave."
It had taken a month before she said it. Then he had stuffed his clothes into a bag, his books into another. And left. She hadn't seen him for six months. During that time she had started to drink more, alone.
When she saw Lacke again he had changed. More sad. During those six months he had lived with his father, who was wasting away with cancer somewhere in a house in Smaland. When his father died Lacke and his sister had inherited the house, sold it, and split the money. Lacke's share had been enough to get him a small condo with a low monthly fee in Blackeberg and now he was back for good.
In the years that followed they met more and more frequently at the Chinese restaurant, where Virginia had started to go more often in the evenings. Sometimes they left together, made love in a subdued way and-by silent agreement-Lacke made sure he was gone by the time Virginia came home from work the following day. They were a couple in the loosest sense of the word-sometimes a few months went by without them sharing their bed and this arrangement suited them.
They walked past the ICA store with its advertisement about cheap ground beef and its exhortation to "Live, drink, and be happy." Lacke stopped, waited for her. When she reached him he held an arm out to her. Virginia put her arm through his. Lacke nodded at the store.
"Good old work, huh?"
"The usual," Virginia said. "I did that one."
It was a sign that said crushed tomatoes, three cans, 5 kronor.
"Nice job."
"Do you really think so?"
"Sure I do. Gives you a real craving for crushed tomatoes."
She jabbed him in the side, carefully. Felt her elbow make contact with a rib. "You don't even remember what real food tastes like."
"You certainly don't need to…"
"I know, but I'm going to anyway."
Eeeeli… Eeeeliii…"
The voice coming from the TV was familiar. Eli tried to back away from it, but her body wouldn't obey her. Only her hands moved around on the floor, in slow motion, searching for something to hold onto. Found a cord. Squeezed it hard with one hand as if it were a lifeline out of the tunnel that ended in the TV that was talking to Eli.
"Eli… where are you?"
Her head felt too heavy to lift from the floor; the only action Eli managed was to raise her eyes to the screen and of course it was… Him.
The blond tendrils from his wig made of human hair fanned out over the silk robe and made the effeminate face look even smaller than it was. The thin lips were pressed together, drawn into a lipsticked smile that looked like a knife gash in the pale powdered face.
Eli managed to raise her head slightly and saw His whole face. Blue, childishly large eyes, and above his eyes… the air came out of Eli's lungs in ragged spurts, and her head fell heavily to the ground, causing a crunching noise in her nose. Funny. He was wearing a cowboy hat on His head.
"Eeeliii…"
Other voices. Children's voices. Eli raised her head again, trembling like a baby. Drops of the sick blood ran from Eli's nose down to her mouth. The man had opened his arms in a gesture of welcome, revealing the red lining of his robe. The lining billowed out; it was swarming, made up of lips. Hundreds of children's lips that writhed painfully, whispering their story, Eli's story.
"Eli… come home…"
Eli sobbed, shut her eyes. Waited for the cold grip around the neck. Nothing happened. Opened her eyes again. The picture had changed. Now you could see a long line of children in poor clothes wandering over a snowy landscape, waddling in the direction of a castle of ice on the horizon.
This isn't happening.
Eli spit blood out of her mouth, toward the TV. Red dots punctured the white snow, ran down over the ice castle.
It isn't real.
Eli pulled on the lifeline, tried to pull herself out of the tunnel. A clicking was heard as the plug was pulled from the socket, and the TV turned off. Viscous strands of blood-tinged saliva ran down the darkened screen, dropping down onto the floor. Eli rested her head against her hands, disappearing into a dark red whirlpool.
Virginia put on a quick pot of stew beef, onions, and crushed tomatoes while Lacke was showering. He was taking a long time. When the food was ready she went into the bathroom. He was sitting in the tub, his head between his knees, the detachable shower head resting against one shoulder, his vertebrae a string of Ping-Pong balls under the skin.
"Lacke? The food is ready."
"Great, that's great. Have I been in here long?"
"Not really. But the water company just called and said their wells are going dry."
"What?"
"Come on, up you go." She lifted her bathrobe up off its hook and held it out to him. He stood up by steadying himself with one hand on each side of the tub. Virginia winced as she noticed his emaciated body. Lacke saw her reaction and said: "Thus he rose from his bath, like a god, beautiful to behold."
Then they had dinner, splitting a bottle of wine. Lacke did not manage to get much down, but at least he was eating. They split another bottle of wine in the living room, then went to bed. Lay for a while next to each other, looking into each other's eyes.
"I've stopped taking the Pill."
"I see. We don't have to…"
"I didn't mean it like that. It's just I don't need them anymore. Menopause."
Lacke nodded. Thought about it. Stroked her cheek.
"Does that make you sad?"
Virginia smiled.
"You must be the only man I know who would think of asking me that. Yes, a little bit actually. It's as if… the part that makes me a woman. It doesn't apply to me anymore."
"Mmmm. Good enough for me, though."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Come here."
He did as he was told.
Gunnar Holmberg was dragging his feet in the snow in order not to leave any footprints behind that would make things harder for the forensic technicians. He stopped and looked back at the traces that led away from the house. Light from the fire made the snow glow orange and the heat was intense enough that beads of sweat had formed along his hairline.
Holmberg had been teased many times for his naive belief in the basic goodness of young people. That was what he tried to support through his frequent school visits, through his many and long conversations with youngsters who had made bad choices, and that was one reason why he was so affected by what he now saw in front of him.
The footprints in the snow had been made by small shoes. Not even what you would call a "young person," no, these tracks had been made by a child. Small, neat imprints spaced at a remarkable distance from each other. Someone had run here. Fast.
In the corner of his eye he saw Larsson, an officer-in-training, approaching.
"Drag your feet, for heaven's sake."
"Oh, sorry."
Larsson started wading through the snow, stopping next to Holmberg. Larsson had large bulging eyes with a constant expression of amazement that was now directed at the tracks in the snow.
"Damn."
"Couldn't have said it better myself. Made by a child."
"But… they are so…" Larsson followed the tracks for a while with his gaze. "Like a triple jump."
"Spaced widely, yes."
"More than 'widely,' it's… it's unbelievable. It's so far."
"What do you mean?"
"I run a lot and I wouldn't be able to run like this. More than for… two steps at least. And this goes on the whole way."
Staffan came jogging along past the houses, made his way through the group of curious onlookers who had gathered around the property, and walked up to the little group in the middle, which was just overseeing some paramedics who were maneuvering a covered female corpse on a stretcher into an ambulance.
"How did it go?" Holmberg asked.
"Uh… went out onto… Ballstavagen and then… can't follow them… any further… all the cars… we'll have to… put the dogs on it……
Holmberg nodded, half his attention claimed by a conversation nearby. A neighbor who was witness to part of the events was being questioned.
"At first I thought it was some kind of fireworks or something, you know. Then I saw the hands. Her hands were waving in the air. And then she came out like this… through the window… she came out."
"So the window was open?"
"Yes, it was open. And she came out of it… and then the house burned down. Of course. I saw it then. That it was all burning up behind her… and she came out… oh, shit. She was on fire, her whole body. And then she walked away from the house-"
"Excuse me. Walked? She wasn't running?"
"No, that's what was so damned… she was walking. Waved her arms around like this in order to… I don't know. And then she stopped. Follow me? She stopped. Her whole body on fire. Stopped like this. And looked around. As if… calmly. And then she started walking again. And then it was as if… as if it ended, you know? No sign of panic or anything, she… uh, damn… she wasn't screaming. Not a sound. She just collapsed like this. Fell to her knees. And then… boom. Down on the snow.
"And then it was as if… I don't know… it was so damned strange, all of it. That was when I… when I ran in and got a blanket, two blankets, and then I ran back out and… put it out. Shit, you know… when she was lying there, it was… no, shit."
The man put two sooty hands up to his face, sobbing. The police officer put a hand on his shoulder.
"We can maybe put together a more official version of this tomorrow. But you didn't see anybody else leaving the house?"
The man shook his head and the officer scribbled something on his pad.
"As I said, I'll be in touch with you tomorrow. Do you want me to ask a medic to give you something, to help you sleep, before they leave?"
The man rubbed the tears from his eyes. His hands left damp streaks of soot in his face.
"No, that's… I have something if I need it."
Gunnar Holmberg looked again at the burning house. The firefighters had been effective and now you could hardly see any flames. Only a giant pillar of smoke that rose into the night sky.
While Virginia was opening her arms to Lacke, while the crime technicians were making imprints of the tracks in the snow, Oskar stood by his window and looked out. The snow had blanketed the bushes under the window and made a white surface so thick you would have thought you could slide down it.
Eli hadn't come by this evening.
Oskar had stood, walked, waited, swung, and frozen down there on the playground between half past seven and nine o'clock. No Eli. At nine he had seen his mom standing in the window and he had gone inside, filled with anxiety. Dallas and hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls and his mom asking questions and he almost spilled the beans, but didn't.
Now it was a little after midnight and he stood next to his window with a hole in his gut. He cracked the window, breathing in the cold night air. Was it really for her sake that he had decided to fight back? Wasn't this really about him?
Yes.
But for her sake.
Unfortunately. That's how it was. If they went after him on Monday
he wouldn't have the energy, the desire to stand up to them. He knew it. Wouldn't show up for the training session on Thursday. No reason.
He left the window cracked with the vague hope that she would come back in the night. Call his name. If she could go out in the middle of the night she could come back in the middle of the night.
Oskar undressed and went to bed. Tapped on the wall. No answer. He pulled the blankets over his head and kneeled in the bed. He intertwined his hands and pressed his forehead to them, whispering:
"Please, dear God. Let her come back. You can have whatever you like. All my magazines, all my books, my things. Whatever you want. But just make it so she comes back. To me. Please, please God."
He lay there curled up under the blankets until he was so hot he was sweating. Then he poked his head out again and rested it on the pillow. Assumed the fetal position. Closed his eyes. Images of Eli, of Jonny and Micke, Tomas. Mom, Dad. He lay there for a long time conjuring up the images he wanted to see, then they started to take on a life of their own as he slid off into sleep.
Eli and he were sitting in a swing that was going higher and higher until it loosened from its chains and flew up into the sky. They were holding on tight to the edge of the swing, their knees pressed against each other, and Eli whispered,
"Oskar. Oskar…"
He opened his eyes. The light inside the globe was turned off and the moonlight made everything blue. Gene Simmons looked at him from the wall across from the bed, sticking out his long tongue. He curled up, shut his eyes. Then he heard the whisper again.
"Oskar…"
It was coming from the window. He opened his eyes, looked over. He saw the contour of a little head on the other side of the glass. He pulled off the covers but before he managed to get out of bed Eli whispered,
"Wait there. Stay in bed. Can I come in?"
Oskar whispered: "Yes…"
"Say that I can come in."
"You can come in."
"Close your eyes."
Oskar shut his eyes tightly. The window opened and a cold draft blew into the room. The window was carefully closed. He heard how Eli breathed, whispered: "Can I look now?"
"Wait."
The sofa bed in the other room creaked. His mom had gotten up. Oskar was still keeping his eyes shut as the blanket was pulled off and a cold, naked body crept in beside him, pulled the covers back over them both, and curled up into a ball behind his back.
The door to his room opened.
"Oskar?"
"Mmm."
"Is that you talking?"
"No."
His mom stayed in the doorway, listening. Eli lay completely still behind his back, pushing her forehead in between his shoulder blades. Her breath ran warmly down the small of his back.
His mom shook her head.
"It must be those neighbors." She listened for another moment, then said, "Good night, sweetheart," and closed the door.
Oskar was alone with Eli. He heard a whisper behind his back.
"Those neighbors?"
"Shhhh."
There was a creaking sound as his mom got back into the sofa bed. He looked up at the window. It was closed.
A cold hand crept over his stomach and found its way to his chest, over his heart. He put both his hands over it, warming her hand. Eli's other hand worked its way under his armpit then up over his chest and in between his hands. Eli turned her head and laid her cheek between his shoulder blades.
A new smell had entered the room. The faint smell of his dad's moped when it was fully tanked. Gasoline. Oskar bent his head down and smelled her hands. Yes, the smell was coming from her hands.
They lay like that for a long time. When Oskar could tell from his mom's breathing that she had fallen asleep again, when the lump of their hands was warmed through and starting to get sweaty, he whispered:
"Where have you been?"
"Getting some food."
Her lips tickled his shoulder. She loosened her hands from his, rolled over on her back. Oskar stayed in the same position for a moment and looked into Gene Simmons' eyes. Then he turned onto his stomach. Behind her head he imagined the tiny figures in the wallpaper eyeing her with curiosity. Her eyes were wide open, blue-black in the moonlight. Oskar got goosepimples on his arms.
"What about your dad?"
"Gone."
"Gone?" Oskar couldn't help raising his voice.
"Shhh. It doesn't matter."
"But… what… is he-?"
"It. Doesn't. Matter."
Oskar nodded, signaling that he wasn't going to ask her any more questions, and Eli put both her hands under her head, staring up at the ceiling.
"I was feeling lonely. So I came here. Was that OK?"
"Yes. But… you don't have any clothes on."
"I'm sorry. Is that disgusting?"
"No. But aren't you freezing?"
"No, no."
The white strands in her hair were gone. Yes, she looked altogether healthier than when they met yesterday. Her cheeks were rounder, the dimples more pronounced, when Oskar joked and asked:
"You didn't happen to walk past the Lover's kiosk or anything?"
Eli laughed, then made her voice very serious and said with a ghostly voice:
"Yes, I did and you know what? He poked his head out and said: 'Coooome… coooom… I have candy and… banaaaanas.
Oskar buried his face in the pillow. Eli turned her head toward his and whispered in his ear: "Cooome… jelly beans…"
Oskar shouted: "No, no!" into the pillow. They kept doing this for a while. Then Eli looked at the books in his bookcase and Oskar gave a synopsis of his favorite: The Fog by James Herbert. Eli's back glowed
white like a sheet of paper in the dark as she lay there on her stomach in bed and studied the bookcase.
He held his hand so close to her skin that he could feel the warmth from it. Then he contracted his fingers and walked them down her back whispering, "Bulleribulleri bock. How many horns are sticking… up?"
"Mmm. Eight?"
"Eight you say and eight there are, bulleribulleribock."
Then Eli did the same to him but he was not at all as good at telling how many fingers there were as she was. On the other hand, he was much better at rock, paper, scissors. Seven to three. Then they played again. He won nine to one. Eli started to get a little irritated.
"Do you know what I am going to pick?" Yes.
"How?"
"I just know, that's all. It happens all the time. I get a picture in my head."
"One more time. I won't think this time, just choose."
"You can try."
They played again. Oskar won easily with eight-two. Eli pretended to be enraged, turned to the wall.
"I'm not playing with you. You cheat."
Oskar looked at her white back. Did he dare? Yes, now that she wasn't looking at her he could do it.
"Eli. Will you go out with me?"
She turned around, pulled the covers up to her chin.
"What does that mean?"
Oskar stared at the spines of the books in front of him, shrugged.
"That… you would want to be together with me."
"What do you mean 'together'?"
Her voice sounded suspicious, hard. Oskar hurriedly said: "Maybe you already have a guy at your school."
"No, I don't… but Oskar, I can't. I'm not a girl."
Oskar snorted. "What do you mean? You're a guy?"
"No, no."
"Then what are you?"
"Nothing."
"What do you mean, 'nothing'?"
"I'm nothing. Not a child. Not old. Not a boy. Not a girl. Nothing."
Oskar pulled his finger down the spine of The Rats, pinched his lips together and shook his head. "Will you go out with me or not?"
"Oskar I'd really like to but… can't we just be together like we already are?"… yes.
"Are you sad? We can kiss, if you like."
"No!"
"You don't want to?"
"No, I don't!"
Eli frowned.
"Do you do anything in particular with someone you're going out with?"
"No."
"It's just like normal?"
"Yes."
Eli looked suddenly happy, folded her arms over her stomach, and gazed at Oskar.
"Then we can go out. We can be together."
"We can?"
"Yes."
"Good."
With a quiet happiness in his belly, Oskar kept studying the titles of the books. Eli lay still, waiting. After a while she said:
"Is there anything else?"
"No."
"Can't we lie down together again like we did before?"
Oskar rolled around so his back was against her. She put her arms around him and he took her hands. They lay like that until Oskar started to get sleepy. His eyes felt sandy; it was hard to keep them open. Before he slid off into sleep he said:
"Eli?"
"Mmm?"
"I'm glad you came over."
"Yes."
"Why… do you smell like gasoline?"
Eli's hands gripped more tightly around his hands, against his heart. Hugged. The room grew larger all around Oskar, the walls and ceiling softened, the floor fell away, and when he felt the whole bed floating in the air he knew he was asleep.
31 October
"Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die."
William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, III:5-
Gray. Everything was gray. His eyes wouldn't focus; it was like lying inside a rain cloud. Lying? Yes, he was lying down. There was pressure against his back, buttocks, heels. A hissing sound on his left side. The gas. The gas was on. No. It was turned off. Turned on. Something happened to his chest in time to the hissing sound. It filled and emptied in time to that sound.
Was he still at the pool? Was he hooked up to the gas? How could he, in that case, be awake? Was he even awake?
Hakan tried to blink. Nothing happened, almost nothing. Something jerked in front of his one eye, murkying his sight further. His other eye wasn't there. He tried to open his mouth. His mouth wasn't there. He conjured up an image of his mouth, as he had seen it in mirrors, tried… but it wasn't there. Nothing responded to his commands. Like trying to inject consciousness into a rock in order to get it to move. No contact.
A sensation of strong heat over his whole face. A dart of fear shooting into his stomach. His face was plastered with something warm, stiffening. Paraffin wax. A machine was doing his breathing because his whole face was covered in wax.
His thoughts stretched out toward his right hand. Yes. There it was.
He opened it, made a fist, felt the tops of his fingers against his palm. Touch. He sighed with relief, imagined a sigh of relief, since his chest didn't move according to his wishes.
He lifted his hand, slowly. A tightening sensation over his chest and shoulder. The hand entered his field of vision, a fuzzy lump. He moved it toward his face, stopped. There was a low beeping by his side. He carefully turned his head in its direction, felt something hard scrap against his chin. He moved his hand toward it.
A metal socket was implanted in his throat. A plastic tube fed into the metal socket. He followed the plastic tubing as far as he could, as far as a grooved metallic piece where the tube ended. He understood. This was what he should pull out when he wanted to die. They had set it up like this for him. He rested his fingers against the end of the tube.
Eli. The pool. The boy. Acid.
His memory stopped at the part where he unscrewed the lid. He must have poured it over himself, all according to the plan. The only miscalculation was that he was still alive. He had seen pictures. Women who had gotten acid thrown into their faces by jealous boyfriends. He didn't want to feel his face, even less see it.
His hold on the tube tightened. It didn't give way. Screwed in. He tried to turn the metal end and, as he had suspected, it turned. He kept unscrewing it. He searched for his left hand, but only sensed a prickling ball of pain where that hand should have been. With the tops of the fingers on his living hand he now felt a light, fluttering pressure. Air was starting to escape from around the seal. The hissing sound had changed slightly, become thinner.
The gray light around him was infiltrated by something blinking red. He tried to close his one eye. Thought about Socrates and the jar of poison. Because he had seduced the youth of Athens. Don't forget to offer a rooster to… what was he called? Archimandros? No…
A sucking sound as a door was pushed open and a white figure moved toward him. He felt fingers prying open his fingers, prying them from the metal end. A woman's voice.
"What are you doing?"
Asclepius. Offer a cock to Asclepius.
"Let go!"
A cock. To Asclepius. The god of healing.
A hissing sound when his fingers gave way and the tube was screwed back in place.
"We'll have to guard you from now on." Offer it to him, do not forget.
Eli was gone when Oskar woke up. He lay with his face toward the wall. His back got cold. He drew himself up on one elbow and looked around the room. The window was open a crack. She must have let herself out that way.
Naked.
He rolled over in his bed, pressed his face against the place where she had slept, sniffed. Nothing. He moved his nose back and forth across the sheet trying to discern the tiniest glimmer of her presence, but nothing. Not even that smell of gasoline.
Had it really happened? He lay down on his stomach, thought about it.
Yes.
It was real. Her fingers on his back. The memory of her fingers on his back. Bulleribock. His mom had played it with him when he was little. But this was now. Not long ago. The hairs on his arms and on his neck stood up.
He got out of bed and started to pull his clothes on. When he had his pants on he walked up to the window. No snowfall. Four degrees below zero. Good. If the snow had started to melt it would be too slushy to set the bags of advertising down outside. He thought about crawling naked out of a window when it was four degrees below zero outside, down into snow-covered bushes, down into…
No.
He leaned forward, blinked.
The snow on the bushes was completely undisturbed.
Last night when he had stood there he had looked out onto a clean sweep of snow that ran down to the path. It looked exactly the same now. He opened the window a little more, stuck his head out. The bushes reached all the way up to the wall below his window, the snow cover as well. And it was undisturbed.
Oskar looked to the left, along the rough surface of the outside wall. Her window was three meters away.
Cold air swept over Oskar's naked chest. It must have snowed last night after she went back to her room. That was the only explanation. But anyway… now that he thought about it: how had she made it up to the window? Had she climbed up the bushes?
But then the snow couldn't look like this. And it hadn't been snowing when he went to bed. Neither her body nor her hair had been damp, so it couldn't have been snowing then. When did she go?
Some time between the time that she left and when she was here it must have snowed enough to cover the tracks of…
Oskar shut the window, continued to dress. It was unbelievable. He started thinking it was all a dream again. Then he saw the note. Folded and left under the clock on his desk. He took it out and unfolded it.
THEN WINDOW, LET DAY IN AND LET LIFE OUT.
A heart, and then:
SEE YOU TONIGHT, ELI.
He read the note five times. Then he thought about her, standing here by the desk as she wrote it. Gene Simmons' face on the wall, half a meter behind her, his tongue sticking out.
He leaned over the desk and took the poster down from the wall, crinkled it into a ball, and threw it into the trash.
Then he read the short note three more times, folded it, and put it in his pocket. Put on the last of his clothes. Today there could be five papers in each advertising packet as far as he was concerned. It would still be as easy as pie.
The room smelled of smoke and the dust particles danced in the rays of sunlight that filtered in through the blinds. Lacke had just woken up, was lying on his back in bed, coughing. Dust particles were doing a funny dance in front of his eyes. A smoker's cough. He turned, managed to get a hold of the lighter and cigarette packet that was on the nightstand next to an overflowing ashtray.
He helped himself to a cigarette-Camel lights, Virginia was starting
to get health conscious in her old age-lit it, rolled over onto his back again with one arm behind his head, and reflected on the situation.
Virginia had left for work a few hours earlier, probably fairly tired. They had stayed awake for a long time after making love, talked and smoked. It was close to two in the morning when Virginia put out the last cigarette and said it was time to sleep. Lacke had slipped out of bed after a while, had drained the dregs of the bottle of wine, and smoked a few more cigarettes before he went back to bed. Maybe mostly because he liked this: crawling into bed next to a warm sleeping body.
Too bad he hadn't managed to arrange his life so he always had someone next to him. If there could have been someone, it would have been Virginia. Anyway… damn it, he had heard from others how things were for her. Rollercoaster times. Times when she drank too much in city pubs, dragged home any old guy. She didn't want to talk about that, but she had aged more than she needed to these past few years.
If he and Virginia could have… yes, what? Sell everything, buy a house in the country, grow their own potatoes. Sure, but it wouldn't last. After a month they would be getting on each others' nerves, and she had her mom here, her job, and he had… well, his stamps.
No one knew about that, not even his sister, and he had kind of a guilty conscience about that.
His dad's stamp collection, which had not been drawn up in the estate, was worth a small fortune as it turned out. He had raided it, a few stamps at a time, when he needed the cash.
Right now the market was at a low, and he didn't have many stamps left. But soon he would have to sell them anyway. Maybe sell those special ones, Norway number one, and buy a round of beer in return for all the beers he had gotten people to buy him the last while. That's what he should do.
Two houses in the country. Cottages. Close to each other. Cottages cost almost nothing. Then there was Virginia's mother. Three cottages. And then her daughter, Lena. Four. Sure. Buy a whole village while you're at it.
Virginia was only happy when she was with Lacke; she had said so herself. Lacke wasn't sure he had the capacity to be happy, but Virginia was the only person he liked being with. Why shouldn't they be able to make things work out somehow?
Lacke set the ashtray on his stomach, flicked the ash from the tip, put the cigarette in his mouth, and inhaled deeply.
The only person he liked being with these days. Since Jocke had… disappeared. Jocke had been good. The only one among all his acquaintances he counted as a friend. This thing about his body being missing was fucked up. It wasn't natural. There should be a funeral at least. A corpse that you can look at, that prompts you to say: yes, there you are, my friend. And you are dead.
Lacke's eyes teared up.
People always had so many damned friends, tossed the word around so lightly. He had had one, only one, and he happened to be the one who was taken from him by a cold-blooded mugger. Why the hell did that kid have to kill Jocke?
Somehow he knew that Gosta wasn't lying or making it up, and Jocke was gone, but it seemed so damned meaningless. The only reasonable explanation was that drugs were involved. Jocke must have been involved in some drug shit and double-crossed the wrong person. But why hadn't he said anything?
Before he left the apartment he emptied the ashtray, stowed the empty wine bottle on the floor of the pantry. Had to put it in upside down so it would fit with all the other bottles.
Yes, damn it. Two cottages. A potato patch. Earth on your knees and lark song in springtime. And so on. Some day.
He put on his coat and went out. When he walked past the ICA store he threw a kiss to Virginia, who was sitting at a register. She smiled and pouted at him.
On his way back to Ibsengatan he saw a young boy laden with two large paper bags. Someone who lived in his complex, but Lacke didn't know his name. Lacke nodded at him.
"Looks heavy, what you've got there."
"It's OK."
Lacke gazed after the boy struggling on with his bags in the direction of some nearby apartment buildings. Looked so damned happy. That's how you should be. Accept your burden and carry it, with joy.
That's how you should be.
Inside the courtyard he hung around hoping to bump into the guy
who had bought him the whisky drinks. The man was sometimes up and walking around at this time. Walked in circles around the courtyard. But he hadn't seen him the last couple of days. Lacke peeked up at the covered windows to the apartment where he thought the man lived.
Probably in there drinking, of course. Could go ring the doorbell.
Maybe another day.
When it was starting to get dark Tommy and his mother went down to the graveyard. His dad's grave was just inside the dike that bordered Racksta Lake. His mom was quiet until they reached Kanaanvagen, and Tommy had thought it was because she was grieving but when they walked onto the little road that ran parallel to the lake his mom coughed and said, "So you know, Tommy."
"What."
"Staffan says that something has gone missing from his apartment. Since we were there last." I see.
"Do you know anything about it?"
Tommy scooped up some snow with his hand, shaped it into a ball, and threw it at a tree. Bull's eye.
"Yeah. It's lying under his balcony."
"It's quite important to him because…"
"It's in the bushes under his balcony, I said."
"How did it end up there?"
A section of the snow-covered wall around the graveyard came into view. A soft red light illuminated the pine trees from below. The grave lantern that Tommy's mom was carrying made a clinking sound. Tommy asked: "Do you have a light?"
"Light? Oh yes. I have a lighter. How did it-"
"I dropped it."
Once he was inside the gate to the graveyard Tommy stopped and looked at the map; the different sections were marked with different letters. His dad was in section D.
If you thought about it, it was actually pretty sick. To do this. Burn
people up, save the ashes, bury them in the ground, and then call the spot "Grave 104, section D."
Almost three years ago. Tommy had fuzzy memories of the funeral, or whatever it should be called. That thing with the coffin and a lot of people who alternated between crying and singing.
He remembered he had been wearing shoes that were too big for him, Daddy's shoes, that his feet had slipped around in them on the way home. That he had been afraid of the coffin, sat staring at it the whole time, sure his dad was going to get up out of it and come alive again, but…changed.
Two weeks after the funeral he had gone around with a total fear of zombies. Especially when it was dark, he looked in the shadows and thought he could make out the shrivelled being in the hospital bed, who was no longer his dad, coming at him with arms held out stiffly, like in those movies.
The terror had stopped after they interred the urn. It had only been him, Mom, a gravedigger, and a minister. The gravedigger had carried the urn and walked with a dignified stride while the minister comforted his mom. The whole thing was so fucking ridiculous. The little wooden box with a lid that a guy in carpenter overalls carried in front of him as he walked; that this had anything whatsoever to do with his dad. It was one big joke.
But the terror had lifted and Tommy's relationship to the grave had changed over time. Now he sometimes came here alone, sat a while by the gravestone, and ran his fingers across the carved letters that formed his father's name. That was what he came for. Not the box in the ground, but the name.
The distorted person in the hospital bed, the ashes in the box, none of that was Dad, but the name referred to the person he could remember and therefore he sometimes sat there and rubbed his finger over the depressions in the stone that formed the name martin samuelsson.
"How beautiful it is," his mom said.
Tommy looked out over the graveyard.
Small candles were lit all over. A city viewed from an airplane. Here and there dark figures moved among the gravestones. Mom walked in the direction of Dad's grave, the lantern dangling from her hand. Tommy
looked at her thin back and was suddenly sad. Not for his sake, or his mom's sake, no: for everyone. For all the people walking here with their flickering lights in the snow. Themselves only shadows that sat next to the headstones, looked at the inscription, touching it. It was just so… stupid.
Dead is dead. Gone.
Even so, Tommy walked over to his mom and crouched down next to his dad's grave while she lit the lantern. Didn't want to touch the letters in his name when she was there.
They sat like that for a while and watched the weak flicker make the shading in the marble block crawl and move. Tommy didn't feel anything except a certain embarrassment. To think he went along with this pretend play. After a minute he got up and started to head home.
His mom followed. A little too soon, in his opinion. As far as he was concerned, she could cry her eyes out, sit there all night. She caught up with him and carefully put her arm through his. He let her. They walked side by side and looked out over Racksta Lake, where ice had started to form. If this cold snap kept up you'd be able to skate on it in a few days.
One thought kept going through his head like a stubborn guitar riff.
Dead is dead. Dead is dead. Dead is dead.
His mom shivered, pressed up against him.
"It's awful."
"You think?"
"Yes, Staffan told me such an awful thing."
Staffan. Couldn't she keep herself from mentioning him, here of all… I see.
"Did you hear about that house that burned down in Angby? The woman who…"
"Yes."
"Staffan told me that they did the autopsy on her. I think that kind of stuff is so awful. That they do those things."
"Yes. Sure."
A duck was walking on the thin ice toward the open water that had formed near a drain that let out into the lake. The small fishes you could catch in the summer smelled like sewage.
"Where does that drain lead from?" Tommy asked. "Does it come from the crematorium?"
"Don't know. Don't you want to hear about it? Do you think it's too awful?"
"No, no."
And then she told him while they were walking home through the woods. After a while Tommy got interested, started asking questions his mom couldn't answer; she just knew what Staffan had told her. In fact Tommy asked so much, became so interested, that his mom regretted having brought it up in the first place.
Later that evening Tommy perched on a crate in the shelter, turning the small likeness of a man firing a pistol this way and that. He placed the statuette on top of three boxes containing cassette tapes, like a trophy. The cherry on top.
Stolen from a… policeman!
He carefully locked the shelter back up with the chain and padlock, put the key back in its hiding place, sat down in the clubhouse, and kept thinking about what his mother had told him. After a while he heard tentative steps walking down the corridor. A voice that whispered, "Tommy?…"
He got up out of the armchair, walked up to the door, and quickly opened it. Oskar was standing on the other side, looking nervous. He held out a bill.
"Here's your money."
Tommy took the fifty and stuffed it into his pocket, smiled at Oskar.
"You going to become a regular here? Come in."
"No, I have to…"
"Come in, I said. There's something I want to ask you."
Oskar sat down in the couch, hands clasped. Tommy flopped down in the armchair, looked at him.
"Oskar. You're a smart guy."
Oskar shrugged modestly.
"You know that house that burned down in Angby? The granny who ran out into the garden in flames?"
"Yes, I've read about it."
"Thought you would. Have they written anything about the autopsy?"
"Not that I know of."
"No. Well, they've done one. An autopsy. And you know what? They didn't find any smoke in her lungs. Know what that means?"
Oskar thought about it.
"That she wasn't breathing."
"Right. And when do you stop breathing? When you're dead, right?"
"Yes," Oskar said eagerly. "I've read about that kind of stuff. That's why they always do an autopsy when there's been a fire. To make sure that there isn't… that no one started the fire to cover up the fact that they murdered the person who's in there. In the fire. I read about it in… well, Hemmets Journal, actually, about a guy from England who killed his wife and who knew about this so he had… before he started the fire he stuck a tube down her throat and…"
"OK, OK, so you know. Great. But in this case there wasn't any smoke in her lungs and even so the granny managed to get herself out into the garden and run around out there for a while before she died. How can that be?"
"She must have been holding her breath. No, of course not. You can't do that. I've read about that somewhere. That's why people always…"
"OK, OK. Explain this to me."
Oskar leaned his head in his hands, thought hard. Then he said: "Either they made a mistake or else she was running around like that even though she was dead."
Tommy nodded. "Exactly. And you know what? I don't think these dudes make those kind of mistakes. Do you?"
"No, but…"
"Dead is dead."
"Yes."
Tommy pulled a thread out of the armchair, rolled it up into a ball between his fingers, and then flicked it away.
"Yes. At least that's what we like to think."