Stallo (13 page)

The water that flowed through the heating system in Susso’s flat kept it at a constant if only mildly warm temperature, although the radiator in the bathroom was usually freezing cold, and that was yet another reason why she put off having a shower. With a pair of thick socks on her feet she went into the kitchen and put on the coffee machine. When the coffee was ready she sat down in front of the computer and wondered how to formulate her words.

It was not exactly straightforward.

It would be best to wait until she saw the photographs from the wildlife camera. At least then she could account for the measures she had taken, if nothing else, and compare the results with what Edit had told her. That would have to be enough.

She had poured too much milk into her coffee, so she returned to the kitchen and put the cup in the microwave, which was a robust appliance, almost as old as she was. It resembled an old-fashioned television.

She took out her cup, sat down again at the computer, opened a new file and wrote:

Edit Mickelsson, living in Vaikijaur in the municipality of Jokkmokk, states that on Wednesday 16 November at approximately three in the afternoon she observed an unknown and abnormally short male person outside her house …

She then erased Edit’s name and took a mouthful of coffee, which was now far too hot. She drummed her thumb on the edge of the keyboard and glanced at the clock. It was almost ten forty. She went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth and put in her contact lenses, relieved at not having to write anything.

It had taken Seved just over an hour to drive to Arvidsjaur and now he sat in the car, waiting for two o’clock.

Using his index finger he pushed back the cuff of his jacket to look at the scratched face of his watch. It was now one fifty. There was a car park to the rear of the pizzeria but there was no sign of the motorhome or the Merc. He breathed in deeply and then exhaled white air through his nose. The temperature in the car had dropped fast. The seal on one of the Isuzu’s doors had fallen off, so it was always perishing inside. The clothes he had put on were not warm enough and he had not bothered with a hat or gloves.

He climbed out of the car, crossed the street and walked into the restaurant. Furthest in, where the chilled drinks cabinet hummed, an overweight man in a cap and knitted jumper sat staring into his coffee cup, but otherwise the tables were empty.

Seved sat down in a corner close to the exit. Lennart would only have to step through the door to catch sight of him.

There was a reflective sheet of glass over the tablecloth and on it stood salt and pepper mills and a bundle of toothpicks in a glass jar. He took one of the toothpicks to give his fingers something to do. When he had broken it into small pieces he took another and immediately began shredding it in the same way.

He didn’t know what Lennart wanted to talk to him about but
he had his suspicions. He was going to get a bollocking. A proper bollocking. Because if anyone was responsible for Ejvor’s death it was him, and now he was going to get it.

And what did he have to say in his defence?

That he couldn’t? That in his eyes Signe was a child? A sister?

Two years had passed since Signe had first been given her instructions, as Ejvor had put it. In a low voice and sort of in passing she had told him about it. Confused and embarrassed, he had quickly walked away.

What did
that
have to do with him?

The information had actually disgusted him.

Then he had understood.

Small hints. You and Signe. When we’re away and you and Signe …

They wanted them to have a child together. It had not been hard for him to work out that it was for the sake of the old-timers – he could remember how they had forced him to play in Hybblet when he was a little boy. But he had always thought that it was just for their amusement, so he had not attached much importance to Ejvor’s instructions, and you could hardly say she or Börje had nagged him about it.

How could he have known it was so important?

That things would turn dangerous if there was no child for them to look at?

If anyone was to blame, then it was Ejvor and Börje, because they must have always known what could happen. This is all our fault, Börje had said. But perhaps he was referring only to himself and Ejvor, and not Seved and Signe?

He had just started breaking a third toothpick into pieces when he caught sight of Lennart outside the window. Stooping
and with his arms hanging heavily at his sides he came puffing through the door. He took a look around the restaurant and then turned his dark glasses in Seved’s direction. His lips were parted, revealing yellow teeth crowded together in his protruding lower jaw. He asked Seved if he was hungry.

Despite the fact that Seved had not eaten all day he shook his head – he didn’t know why, it was a reflex action and he regretted it immediately.

Lennart shuffled over to the till and ordered some food. Seved heard him clear his throat and speak in a low voice. When he returned to the table he had two bottles of lager with him. A bottle opener rattled against the table. Seved picked it up and opened both bottles.

He had never before reflected on why Lennart was unable to do certain things. Simple things. Ejvor had said that the skin on his left hand had rotted away with some rare and incurable skin disease. The sores wept continuously and without explanation. He wore the bag so his hand would not make a mess or become infected. And to stop people staring, presumably.

He sat himself down, resting his trapper hat on the table. He had a rugged, deeply lined face with drooping cheeks. His hair shone white and looked soft. He downed a mouthful of beer and looked out through the window. Two marker poles were sticking out of the ploughed-up ridge of snow on the opposite side of the street. One of them was leaning contemplatively. It was like a barrier that was in the process of being lowered. Someone had probably driven into it. Why had no one put it upright?

‘Börje said it was calm last night.’

‘Yes. Well, at least they didn’t come out.’

Lennart was silent for a moment before he said:

‘It’s going to get worse and worse.’

‘But why? What’s the reason?’

‘I’m sure you know.’

The gaze that could just about be made out behind the tinted glasses did not shift from his face.

‘Yes. I think it’s a child they’re after.’

A whiff of sweat hit him as Lennart shifted slightly in his seat.

‘Ten, twenty years can pass – you never really know. Up in Årrenjarka there’s no danger yet, even though Torsten’s kids are pretty big by now. But where you live, well, it’s already gone too far.’

‘I don’t know. Me and Signe …’

‘There’s no time left now for that kind of thing.’

That came as a relief. He even nodded. In that case he was prepared to do anything to put things right.

‘There’s only one thing we can do,’ Lennart said.

What did he mean? Seved looked up but couldn’t raise his eyes higher than the front pockets on Lennart’s shirt, with their small white plastic buttons.

The waiter arrived with two steaming pizzas that he set down on the table. They had been cut into sharp triangles containing pieces of pork, banana slices, peanuts and pools of buttery-yellow Béarnaise sauce. Pearls of fat bubbled up through the red-flecked mass of cheese. Had Lennart known he had been lying about not being hungry, or was he going to shovel down two pizzas all on his own?

‘Eat up,’ said the large man.

Seved grabbed hold of his knife and fork, bent over his pizza and cut off a piece, which he ate with his mouth open. It burned him but he didn’t care.

Lennart was in no hurry. He picked up a strip of pizza, which
he folded in half, and when it had stopped dripping he crammed it into his gaping mouth.

‘We’ve got to take a child,’ he said as he chewed.

Seved nodded, even though he did not understand.

‘And we want you to do it.’

By now Seved’s expression was completely blank, and Lennart watched him for a moment before leaning forwards and explaining in a low voice:

‘It’s nothing special. A kind of transplanting, that’s all. Children of that age forget so quickly. Just look at Signe. She’s doing okay.’

‘But we can’t just take a child …’

Lennart leaned back in his chair, wiping the corners of his mouth.

‘I’m sure there’s a way.’

‘But the police. They’ll come looking.’

‘Yes, we’ll have to be prepared for that.’

‘It’s kidnapping,’ said Seved quietly. ‘I … I could end up in prison.’

That’s when the bag struck. It slammed down on Seved’s half-clenched hands with such force that it made the cutlery on the plates rattle. One hand escaped but the other was caught beneath the light-blue lump, which slowly and relentlessly pressed downwards and was so close to Seved’s bowed, contorted face that he could see clearly the weave of the stained nylon fabric.

It felt as if his fingers were being crushed like twigs. Lennart waited, and when he was certain there was no feeling left in Seved’s trapped hand he said:

‘And what do you think will happen if we don’t find a kid soon? Have you thought of that? Perhaps you’d like to ask Ejvor about it? I’m sure she’s got an idea.’

Seved panted. He’ll let go soon, he thought. He has to let go soon.

‘But I might as well tell you what will happen,’ Lennart continued, staring directly into Seved’s face. ‘One fine day they’ll come and visit you. And then you’ll wish you were in prison, believe me. They’ll open up your stomach and pull out your intestines, metre by metre. To see how long they are.’

‘It hurts.’

‘Yes, it’ll hurt a lot.’

‘My hand. Please …’

‘Do you want to know how long they are?’

Seved’s neck was so tense and his jaw muscles so tightly clenched that small vibrations were running through his head.

‘Let go,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to let go.’

‘Answer my question.’

‘Which question?’

‘Do you want to know how long your intestines are?’

Seved shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t.’

Then finally Lennart released his grip. At least, he allowed Seved to pull his hand back slightly. But the weight did not disappear, or the pain.

‘You’ll be paid, of course,’ Lennart grunted, immediately bringing out his wallet and opening it. He grabbed a bundle of unfolded thousand-kronor notes, which he slapped onto the table beside the plate.

‘Here’s fifty thousand,’ he said. ‘You’ll get a hundred more if all goes to plan.’

Seved stared at the money. There was something unreal about it and he felt a resistance building in the pit of his stomach, but
it didn’t get any further. It sat like a stopper in his chest.

He had never had any money of his own and naturally Lennart knew that, so that is where he could apply the pressure. And he did, cunningly. Slowly he pulled the money away, emphasising how hard it was to snatch a child. That there was an art to doing it properly. The old-timers were not interested in crying children. Crying children made them sad, and that could actually make things worse.

‘Children’s tears are corrosive,’ said Lennart.

‘Right,’ said Seved with a mouth that had turned dry. ‘Okay.’

‘Taking a child with violence is no problem. An animal can do that. But to take a child so it doesn’t realise – that’s a completely different thing. You’ve got to be fast and wary, but not too fast and not too wary. It’s a bit like plucking squirrels from a tree. Do you know how to do that?’

Seved shook his head.

‘The squirrel has to be sitting on a suitable branch,’ said Lennart. ‘The branch must be thin enough for you to shake. A small tree is fine. When you shake the branch the squirrel clings on tight. That’s how it protects itself when the wind blows. An innate defence, so it can’t stop itself. And while you’re shaking – not too hard or the squirrel will lose its grip, and not too gently or it will run away – you reach out and pluck it like a pine cone.’

The comparison left Seved none the wiser, and Lennart saw that.

‘You attract the kid to you with a shapeshifter,’ he said. ‘Children that age can’t resist them. Make sure it’s wearing clothes, that’s a good trick, and that it hasn’t shifted into an animal. A little hat is enough. The child will never have seen anything like it before, at least not in real life. They become hypnotised, and then all you have to do is open the car door. Sooner or later the child will want to go home. That’s unavoidable. And that’s when you
have to shake the branch, so to speak. It’s best to get the shifter to do something amusing. But you know what they’re like. They can never be trusted, so you have to be imaginative. Entertain the child constantly. Tell them something interesting. Sing, maybe. Persuade them with a present.’