Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel (2 page)

John

John awakes in a blizzard.

Slowly, he forces an eye open and looks around. He is naked, lying flat on his stomach while a strong wind tugs at his hair. Coating his body is a powdering of snow, so cold it burns like hot ash.

He tries to lift his arm, but it is too heavy, perhaps frozen to the ground. There are no other sensations; the rest of his body is lifeless, numbed by the freezing gale. He tries to move his head, but patches of frost have bolted his cheek to the ground.

John relaxes again. Moving leads to pain and effort; being still means only pain. Better to lie down and sink away. To let go, give in to the chill, and float down into the black well he senses underneath him. It is close, only a thought away.

“John.”

He blinks and wills his eyes to stay open.

A flickering, yellow light illuminates the patch he lies sprawled on, but he cannot see the source of the light. Farther away are dark cliffs rising into the murk and forming walls that curve around him. There are no openings or crevices where he can hide from the wind. The ground beneath him is icy to the touch, almost perfectly flat, and as unyielding as stone.

He is trapped at the bottom of a chasm filled with a glacial storm. The weak glow around him is the only light he sees. If there are any smells, they are sterilized by the icy gale. A faint notion of something important hangs in his mind, a thing forgotten or lost, but raw ache has dissolved the thought.

“John.”

There it is again, a shrill voice calling a name. He realises it is his name, although he has no memory of being called John before this moment.

Groaning, he tries to lift his head again, but his cheek could have been welded to the ground. No, not ground. The surface is too cool and smooth.

It is ice. A frozen lake covered by snow and surrounded by towering cliffs. Why he is here, or where he is, he does not know, and has no interest in finding out.

“John, come on.”

Someone is screaming his name close to his ear, but he cannot turn to see who it is. Once more, he closes his eyes and begins to drift towards that dim, welcoming depth.

As he fades away, the voice speaks again, a mutter in the glacial wind.

“
John.
Oh, for fuck’s sake–”

Something strikes John’s face hard. His head rings from the blow, but the pain also lifts him up from oblivion and forces him towards consciousness. With a groan, he rips his cheek from the ice and looks around.

Squatting on the ice close to his head is a woman in her early twenties, rocking on the balls of her feet and frowning. Her eyes are so green they are almost black. She is dressed in a gray woollen coat, large blue boots and pink knitted mittens with a matching hat pulled down low. A bag hangs from her shoulder on a thin strap.

On the ice next to her stands a robust old-fashioned lantern, the candle inside shielded from the storm by glass panes fitted in black metal frames.

“About time,” the woman cries over the wind. “You had me worried. Can you stand up?” She pushes the hat back from her eyes, sniffles and wipes her nose with a gloved hand.

Wincing with every movement, John tries to rise, and this time he succeeds. Forcing himself into a sitting position takes half a minute and leaves him wheezing. He shivers as he tries to focus on the woman by his side.

“Good,” she says and nods. “Now get on your feet. No? Hang on.” She holds the hoop of her lantern between her teeth, grabs John under his armpits, pulls him upright, and drags him backwards, towards the cliffs. “Here we go,” she calls in his ear. “Just a little farther.”

“Where are we going?” John hangs limp from her hands; even raising his voice is exhausting.

“Anywhere not here. Look at your feet, John.”

John looks down. The tracks left by his heels are quickly wiped out by the wind. His body feels like a dead weight anchored to his consciousness. The wind is no longer cold or hot; all he feels is the pressure of the gusts. This worries him. Snow is supposed to be cold, or at least uncomfortable.

“I’m naked,” John says, too disoriented to be embarrassed.

“Of course you’re naked,” the woman replies. “That’s not what I meant. Look at the
ice
, John.”

John shifts his focus to the dark surface where it is visible through the snow. Black fissures are shooting through the ice, cracking and snapping like shadow lightning bolts.

“The ice is breaking,” John says.

“It is indeed.” The woman pauses to swipe her forehead. “My maker, you’re heavy. Are you sure you can’t walk on your own?”

“I can’t feel my legs. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” The woman grunts and continues to drag him
towards the mountain wall. “I’ve carried heavier loads than this,” she says. “More often than I care to remember.”

“Where are you taking me?” John asks, hoping she can hear him above the wind.

Her laugh is strained. “I could ask you the same,” she says, “but getting you off the ice is a good start.”

John looks back at the ice, now a dense web of cracks and crevices. “I never learned how to swim,” he whispers.

“You can’t move,” the woman points out, “so how could you possibly swim anyway?” She shakes her head. “Besides, that’s not water under the ice.”

John tries to frown, but his forehead is too numb. “Then what is it?”

“Something much worse.”

They reach a short stretch of uneven stone between the ice and the base of the mountain. The woman stops, lowers John to the ground, puts down the lantern, then crouches close beside him. They have cleared the lake, but they have no cover.

The woman looks around. “We have to get out of this storm. Think, John. Don’t you want to hide?” she asks. “Somewhere cosy and safe, and maybe warm? If you can, a place with hot chocolate?”

John, naked and curled up on the frozen stone, twists his head a fraction to look up at her face. “Are you joking?” he stammers. “Of course I want to hide.”

A majestic shudder rocks the lake and the surrounding mountain walls, sending splinters of ice cascading over John and the woman. Sheets of snow land with dull crashes around them.

“In your own time,” she says with a pained grin. “But right now would be good.”

John moans and leans his head on the rock. Nothing makes sense.
He tries to think beyond the cold and the dark, but there is nothing but shadows where his memories used to reside, ghosts of scents and motion escaping his attempts to catch them. All he has is a name, a failing body, and the company of a woman who is talking in circles. No past, a painful present, and a short future.

The woman talked about a hideaway. Any form of cover would be a blessing, but
he sees
nothing around him that can help him. A frozen lake at the feet of forbidding rocks capped with night. And the ice is giving way to something underneath. He cannot picture anything worse than the cold, but the woman stares fixedly at the lake, her nostrils flaring in fear.

But one string of certainty holds John suspended upright: He is not dreaming. There is a sense of finality to the lake, a brutal and unyielding realness to the cold and the rock. The lake, though, is different, more a doorway than a pool. Up here, he can breathe and think, but he knows there will be no place or time for reflection if he falls through the ice.

His eyes dart around the lake, searching the cliff walls for a crack, a cleft, a ledge, anything to ward off the cold and to get away from whatever is ascending from the bottom of the lake. His thoughts race as he searches. A safe place, a warm pocket to hide from the chaos, the vicious cold, the–

“Perfect,” the woman shouts and points along the wall to their right.

A dozen steps away is a large rectangular shape, thigh-high and covered in snow. As the woman drags and pushes John closer, he sees that it is a table. A massive dinner table, with a thick slab of polished brown oak supported by stout, carved legs.

“Impossible,” John whispers, but he does not resist when the woman pulls him towards the table.

*

John runs down the road, pausing to ask people walking in the other direction if they have seen the man John follows. He keeps his description brief: male, dark hair, dark shoes, blue pants, red backpack.

Most people he asks hesitate, shake their heads, and frown at John’s socks. John says the man he is looking for is mentally ill but harmless. The man has stolen John’s shoes. This makes a few nod, in doubt or concern. A woman points down the street, towards the underground trains. John thanks her and runs on.

A minute later John sprints down a flight of stairs overshadowed by sixteen storeys of glass and concrete. When he enters Brommaplan’s open-air bus terminal, he stops and looks around.

Commuters mill around the area, moving between underground station, crowded grocery shops, fast-food franchises, a liquor store, and dozens of bus shelters. Some hurry towards the shops that encircle the nearby large roundabout. The weather mutes all sounds, but the hum of cars carries through the air like a murmur. Falling snow obscures everything outside the plaza.

In front of John, red local buses crawl along the streets as they make their way around trees bent by layers of snow. An underground train rattles past on a viaduct and slows down as it nears the station platform. People march past John without looking up, their faces turned to the ground to ward off the biting wind.

John walks towards the entrance of the underground station and stops outside the glass doors. Inside the hall, people fill the escalator that leads up to the platform. Everyone who enters the underground train passes through the manned ticket control or one of the turnstiles. Two security guards lounge near the ticket controller, chatting idly while their hands rest on their batons.

After a moment, John turns away and looks around the bus terminal. Facing the station is a hamburger franchise with an empty outdoor serving area. On warmer days, vendors in thick clothes offer vegetables and flowers from heated stalls right outside the station. Today the stalls are closed, snow piling up against the shutters.

Past the closed stalls, three men on a bench are laughing and gesturing. One of the men holds a wine bottle. They seem oblivious to the cold.

John walks over to the men and looks down at them. Their faces glow red in the snowfall. Grimy clothes, sluggish movements, broken blood vessels riddling their cheeks. A sour cloud of alcohol and lament.

“Evening,” one of the men says and looks up at John. He is severely underweight and sports a thin beard that reaches halfway down his worn alpine jacket. Suddenly aware of John’s presence, the other two men turn to John. Suspicion glazes their eyes.

“I’m looking for a man,” John says and describes how Molly’s murderer was dressed. “Have you seen him? He went too far, if you know what I mean. Took too many. I’m really worried; if he passes out, he’ll freeze to death.” The mental illness card won’t work with these men, John suspects, but perhaps another addict will spark some sympathy.

The men on the bench look at each other. One of them loses interest and turns back to nursing the bottle in his scarred hands. Another man shrugs and shakes his head, but the bearded man nods. “Yeah, I’ve seen him. He was here a minute ago. He’s your friend?”

“Sure,” John says and nods keenly.

The man shakes his head. “He should give the drink a break. Looks like a walking skeleton, you know? He’ll be dead inside a month.” He spits in the snow between his boots. “Seen it happen before.”

“Where are your shoes?” The man who had gone back to drinking is pointing at John’s feet. “Hey, I’ve got socks just like those. Aren’t you cold? You could lose your toes, you know.”

“You’re right,” John says, “but I need to find my friend quickly. Do you know where he went?”

The bearded man points to the underground station. “He took a train. About twenty minutes ago, something like that. Looked like he was in a hurry.”

John looks at the station. Rush hour. Trains in two directions every three minutes, security guards, cameras on the trains. He knows the man’s clothes but not his face. Finding the killer there will be difficult, if not impossible.

In the distance are sirens, coming closer.

John turns back to the men. “Have you seen him here at Brommaplan before?”

“Yeah, he’s a regular,” the bearded man says and shrugs. “I think he scores from–”

One of his friends, an obese man with a skin condition, elbows the man, who catches the hint and falls silent.

John does not need to hear the rest of the sentence. “Who does he score from, did you say?”

Now nervous, the men shake their heads and mumble that they have no idea. Inside the station hall, the guards are looking John’s way.

John runs again, this time north, away from the underground station. He jogs past banks, kiosks, and a post office. Cars swerve and drivers curse as he rushes across a large roundabout. He crosses the knee-high, untouched snow in its centre, runs over the lanes on the other side, and walks into the parking lot of a gas station. Behind rows of gas pumps is a small shop.

John walks in and inspects the shelves. Racks packed with magazines, oil cans, batteries, takeaway meals and soft drinks. Stacks of shovels, packs of ice scrapers, semi-obscured pornography and bundles of expensive firewood. Near the counter, glistening sausages roll on a grill under bright fluorescent lights. In a far corner is an open cardboard box brimming with discounted summer-season wares.

John walks over to the discount box. Cheap badminton rackets, inflatable bath toys, plastic jugs, sunglasses and water guns. And, underneath the bric-a-brac, cheap unbranded shoes.

He takes a pair of black canvas shoes and walks to the checkout, leaves the shoes on the counter, and goes back to the discount box for a pair of binoculars and three pairs of grey fleece socks. He returns to the counter and places the socks and the binoculars on top of the shoes, then adds a box of twenty chocolate bars and a disposable cigarette lighter.

The young woman behind the counter looks wide-eyed at John. She holds a pen close to her side.

“Is there a problem?” John asks.

“No,” the woman says quickly. “Of course not.” She flashes a smile and clears her throat. “It’s just, you know, we’re close to the liquor store. Sometimes we get strange people. And, well, you have no shoes.”

“I’m not one of those people,” John says and smiles. “My shoes just fell apart. Ripped them open on the gas pedal. One of those freak accidents.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman says. “I didn’t mean to stare. I’m just skittish. Ten minutes left on a long shift. But hey, then it’s the weekend.” Her fingers tremble as she punches the buttons on the till.

“I hope you’ll enjoy it,” John says and swipes his card in the credit card reader.

“Right,” she replies and nods. “I’m sure I will. You too.” She stuffs the wares into a plastic bag, gives it to John, and snatches her hand back.

John thanks her and leaves.

He pauses outside the door to put on the socks and the shoes. The rest of his purchases are tucked down into the black bag.

Then he runs again, towards the station, past the shops and the men on the bench and the station. His feet hurt, but they will have to carry him. When he spots a cash machine between a chemist and a bank, he slows down, walks past the queue, and inserts his card.

“Hey.” A man in a black leather jacket lowers his mobile phone and taps John’s shoulder. “I’m talking to you. There’s a line, you know? Your place is at the back.”

“I’m in a hurry.” John enters his code and waits for the machine to respond.

“Who isn’t?” the man says. “Will you move, or do I have to move you?”

John turns to face the man while the cash machine processes the withdrawal. Behind the man are five other people, all of them looking everywhere except at John and the man in front of him.

“Do you want me to break your teeth?” the man asks, his face growing red.

John studies the man’s eyes and says nothing.

“Come on, let’s go.” The man balls his fists at his sides and breathes hard, but he doesn’t move. Behind John, the cash machine churns and clicks. A child starts to cry at the back of the queue.

“Yes?” John asks, still holding the man’s eyes.

“I – oh, fuck this. Whatever.” The man walks away, pausing to look over his shoulder as if to make sure John is not following him.

John turns back to the cash machine, pockets the ejected notes, and leaves. After turning a corner, he runs under the viaduct, past the tower block and back up the hill, cutting across unfenced backyards and keeping away from sidewalks.

He has to go back to where it began. A few more stops and he will know the face of his enemy.

Then the true hunt will start.

*

Inside the petrol station, the woman behind the counter watches John vanish into the spiralling snow. She is still clutching the pen by her side. After a moment, she shivers, as if touched by the draught from an open door.

*