Savage Spring (19 page)

Malin steps through the door.

His name is Stigman, he’s about thirty years old, and he’s wearing a snazzy suit, and Malin recognises him from outside Sofia Karlsson’s flat. He’s sitting with an older, worn-out-looking man called Brantevik behind a conference table where two iPhones have been nonchalantly tossed on a thin bundle of papers.

Malin and Zeke are standing opposite them, both of them annoyed, irritated, and frustrated in the way you get when you realise you’re in a situation beyond your control.

Stigman, the little idiot, has just told them that there are now six Security Police officers on site in Linköping, but that many more are working on the case, and that their work has now reached a very sensitive stage in which all information must remain entirely within the Security Police’s own ranks. So he’s sorry, but they can’t see the recording from the security camera from the Sidewalk Café. Nor does he have any other information he can share with them.

‘I have to say, it was very clever of you to find your way to that information so quickly. I wasn’t expecting that.’

And Malin feels like telling the little idiot to go to hell, shout at him that that was quite enough cloak and dagger crap, that another bomb might go off at any moment, and that they might be able to stop it if they are given a copy of that fucking video.

Zeke sighs loudly, rubs his shaved head, then turns and walks out of the room.

Malin is left alone with the Security Police officers. They’re looking at her as if they are looking at a prostitute in a window in Amsterdam’s red-light district.

‘Surely I can see the video? Here and now?’

Stigman shakes his head.

‘Sorry, it’s in Stockholm, I don’t have a copy here, and even if I did, you wouldn’t be allowed to see it.’

‘You little bastard,’ Malin says, unable to hold back any longer. ‘You’re obstructing my investigation. Do you fancy reading about that in
Aftonbladet
tomorrow? Or see it on the news? How the Security Police are impeding our investigation?’

‘Do what you like,’ Stigman says. ‘But I think you’re smarter than that. It doesn’t look very good to leak stories about divisions within the force to the media. But perhaps you don’t care about your career?’

Threats and counter-threats.

A pointless circular game.

‘I know who you are,’ Malin says, ‘and one day I’ll do the same thing to you.’

Stigman grins at her again.

‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ he says, and Malin realises he’s right. Stigman didn’t take the decision about the video, someone else did, someone who believes themselves to be omniscient.

As Malin leaves the room, Brantevik calls after her: ‘Listen, girl. Let the big boys take care of this. Go and have a coffee, it’s nice weather outside.’

And that’s what they do.

They go down to Gyllentorget, and sit down at the Gyllenfiket café there, and each drink a double espresso. The strong coffee tastes good, and there are hardly any other people moving about today, and they’re the only people sitting on the outside terrace.

No mums with prams. No unemployed. No students. And the absence of people makes the empty shop windows around the square even more obvious, and the gaping holes of small shops that surely all hide private financial tragedies become a story of our times, of all the dashed hopes and broken dreams, which for many, so many people, are the consequences of the financial crisis.

The few people who do walk past look at them.

Suspicious glances.

Hurried movements, as if they want to get away from the open space as quickly as possible. An elderly man sits by the entrance to the new shopping centre, begging. Slavic appearance. ‘Hungry’, his sign says. Presumably he’s got some connection with the gangs of beggars from the Balkans. Unless he really is desperate? He’s not actually allowed to be there, but we have other things to worry about, Malin thinks.

‘What a day!’ Zeke says. ‘It’s a shame people don’t dare to come out.’

‘That’s not so strange.’

‘Not as strange as you.’

‘Shut up, you randy old goat.’

‘Randy old goat. What do you mean by that?’

‘You know perfectly bloody well what I mean.’

Zeke grunts. Sips his coffee.

After a while a waitress removes their cups.

‘Not many people about,’ Zeke says.

‘No one dares to come into the city centre,’ the girl says. ‘Everyone’s terrified. The only thing anyone seems to talk about is when the next bomb is going to go off.’

‘What about you?’ Malin asks. ‘Aren’t you scared?’

‘No, to be honest I’m not. I don’t think there’s any danger. But I’d happily wring the neck of that bloke on the video, the one who left the bomb outside the bank.’

Malin starts at her choice of words. Wring the neck of . . .

She’s only a year or two older than Tove, and quite pretty, but she’s got an ugly scar on her chin. She seems pretty tough, knows what she wants.

Then the waitress stops by their table with her tray in her hands.

‘Anyway, even if I was scared, I can’t let any stupid terrorists rule my life, because then they’ve won, haven’t they?’

The coffee makes her body twitch with a thin veil of energy as they walk back towards the car, parked up by the Hamlet bar.

When was it they were going to be having the memorial ceremony in the main square? Lunchtime? Malin wonders. If so, it’s almost time, maybe we ought to go, see who shows up, how much of a crowd there is.

Her thoughts are interrupted by Zeke.

‘That espresso did the trick,’ he says, and Malin nods, then feels her mobile vibrating in her jacket pocket.

‘Sven, that was absolutely hopeless,’ she says when she answers. ‘They’re refusing to let us have the video.’

‘I’ve done it the formal way as well,’ Sven says. ‘I sent a request to the head of the Security Police himself. That might get us the video.’

‘Was there anything else?’

‘Yes,’ Sven says. ‘I’ve just had a call from the University Hospital. Hanna Vigerö’s doctor. He says she’s awake, that we can have a very quick chat with her, as long as it’s very short and very careful.’

Without thinking about it Malin starts to run, eager to move towards what she imagines is the truth, and Zeke follows, close on her heels.

‘We’ll be there in five, maximum ten minutes,’ Malin says.

‘Ask for Peter Hamse,’ Sven says.

An idiot doctor, Malin thinks. Lots of idiots today.

She can feel the adrenalin mixing with the caffeine in her blood, making her feel high, a bit like the only time she ever tried cocaine, at a party that got out of hand, while she was up at Police Academy in Stockholm.

20

She’s on her way now, Mummy, to talk to you.

And in the main square, where the bomb went off, loads of people are gathering.

Really loads.

They’re holding each others’ hands, feeling the spring sunshine on their cheeks, the pure, clear air in their lungs, and lots of them are crying. Mummy, say they’re crying for us, they are, aren’t they, unless they’re also crying for their own sakes?

You’ve got something to tell Malin, Mummy, but the question is whether you can find the words, if you can understand what it is that she needs to hear.

We hope so, but most of all we want to have you here with us, and maybe we will soon, don’t you think?

The evil is moving like lizards with no legs.

Their black tongues licking the air.

The real horror is on the move, and it’s getting closer to you, Mummy, but you can’t run.

And we don’t want to save you, because we want to have you here with us, and then perhaps Daddy will come too.

But, still, Mummy . . .

Tell her what you know, what you can. Try to get it to work, glue and tape and stick all the images, memories and thoughts together, and move your tongue, move it, let it say the words that will make us a family again.

You’re breathing on your own now. The tubes in your nose are gone and the light is quivering in your hospital room, but not the beautiful spring light that’s everywhere out here, but a rotten light.

Keep them away, Mummy, keep them at a distance.

Come to us instead.

Come to us who love you, then we’ll rescue the other children together.

I am someone who breathes.

I know that.

The air fills my lungs and I can see something metal under a ceiling. But my body doesn’t exist, where’s my body, and is that you I can see, children, are you there, girls? And what was it that happened, what was that powerful white light that came and wiped out the sunlight?

I must have eyes.

But have I got arms, legs? And does it really matter? Because what do I want with arms and legs, hands, when I can no longer touch, caress, chase, play with you, girls? Because I know you’re gone, even though you’re here, and I know I don’t want to live without you.

I hear you calling in this dream, which I know isn’t a dream. I want to be with you, but I can’t.

I’m in a hospital, aren’t I? This is a hospital room, and I’m sick. But how am I sick? There’s no physical pain. I should be happy about that.

Tell her, you say. Lead her onwards. But what should I tell her?

I try to say something. But my tongue doesn’t want to move.

Unless . . . yes, it’s moving. But it’s not saying the words that need saying, is it?

The doctor.

He’s standing in front of Malin.

But what’s he saying?

He’s extremely good-looking.

Zeke is standing beside her in the hospital corridor outside Hanna Vigerö’s private room.

Her doctor, Peter, Peter Hamse, is wearing a white coat, and he’s whispering to them, but Malin can’t concentrate on what he’s saying.

You have to, Fors. Pull yourself together.

Is he the one I want?

He’s the same age as her, has no ring on his finger, and they noticed each other over in the office just now, Malin saw that, and she’s still having trouble concentrating on what he’s saying, looking instead at the little dimple in his chin, his sharp nose, his almost perfectly shaped cheekbones.

What’s this spring doing to me?

Have to listen to what he’s saying.

But instead she feels that she wants to drag this Dr Peter Hamse into the nearest toilet, the nearest nurses’ office, the nearest shower room, and just let things happen.

Then she tears her eyes from Peter Hamse and looks along the corridor, and the yellow linoleum floor seems to melt like a layer of piss-stained snow, and the two girls’ faces appear in the window at the far end.

She shuts her eyes.

Suppresses the tingling in her body.

Fends off her lust.

The girls.

What do you want here? You want your mum with you, don’t you?

Then she looks at Zeke, and then at Peter Hamse, who is staring at her now, with interest and warmth, and Zeke grins, shakes his head, then Peter Hamse says: ‘Five minutes. And nice and gentle. Call if there’s any deterioration in her condition.’

Then he turns and walks down the corridor, across the bubbling floor towards the waiting faces of the blown-up girls.

A machine with a flashing green light, bleeping every ten seconds.

A strangely pale yet still intense light, a woman’s heavy breathing, and an aggressive smell of chemicals.

Malin absorbs Hanna Vigerö’s room.

There are tubes attached to her body, the bed is flat, yellow hospital blankets are covering her battered legs, legs she will probably never be able to move again.

Are you here, girls?

You’re here, aren’t you?

Malin can feel them, doesn’t have to see them, isn’t scared of them, wants their help.

Zeke goes around the bed and stops so that he’s shading Hanna Vigerö’s face from the light, and her bruised features are clear, she looks nice, warm and good, what you’d call a decent person, whose life has been shattered into pieces, and who is now lying alone in a hospital room with her head swathed in bandages and a body that would probably really want to stop working.

Malin strokes her cheek, says her name, who they are, tells her what happened without mentioning the girls, and Hanna Vigerö opens her eyes, stares into space with a look of anxiety.

Don’t be scared, Mummy.

She wants to be nice to you.

Don’t be scared of what’s happened.

Soon you’ll be with us.

Pretend it’s our little hands stroking your cheek.

Pretend it’s our warm skin you can feel.

Try to tell her.

You know, you do know.

What are you saying?

Is there someone there? Who’s there? What did you just say? I know what happened to my girls, why you’re here, and I’m trying to tell you something, it’s like I know what I’m supposed to say, but I can’t gather the thoughts, the words, into any sort of order.

The hand, the warmth against my cheek is nice.

Don’t stop, please. Whoever you are. Or is there more than one hand? Yes, it’s your hands, girls, so maybe you do exist outside my dream?

What I saw?

I saw the girls, and the light.

But that’s not what I say.

If I know anything significant? If anyone could have been trying to hurt me, us?

I saw the girls running towards the cashpoint, then I saw a brighter light than I’ve ever seen before. Now I see a face I don’t recognise, and it’s the face of a young woman, not a girl’s face, and she’s looking at me, a friendly, kind look. Her hair is cut in a bob and her mouth is moving and I wish I could hear what she’s saying but I can’t hear anything, and I know my tongue is moving but I don’t know what I’m saying, or what unconscious thoughts precede the words.

It doesn’t make sense.

I don’t make sense.

And I want to come to you, girls, to your daddy.

But I don’t know how to do that.

Tell me, how do you go about dying?