Stallo (52 page)

The fear gave her no extra strength. Instead she felt paralysed, but she forced her legs to move. Time and again she altered her grip on the case, first holding it by the handle, then bringing it up into her arms again. It was easiest like that, anyway.

By now she was so close to the little island that she was running in the shadow of the trees.

Behind her she heard a howl. It was no human sound. Instinctively she tried to look over her shoulder without slowing down, but that made her lose her balance and she fell. She scrambled quickly up onto her feet again and staggered a few paces backwards to see what was going on behind her. Torbjörn had already made his way to the other side of the bay. He was doubled over, his hands on his knees. Behind him Gudrun ran in shorter steps, her coat flapping. They were small dots in the distance but it looked as if they were safe.

The troll had stopped some distance from the shore. It had picked up Mona’s partner and was holding him above its head on outstretched arms. A few metres away from them a dark, immobile bundle lay beside a patch of reeds. It was Mona. It did not look as if the man was struggling to get free. He was
hanging in mid-air and may have lost consciousness.

A moment later the troll slammed him hard onto the ice.

Susso turned round, took the last few strides to the shore and dropped to her knees. She was utterly drained. She gasped for air. The briefcase lay in front of her on the snow. She grimaced in pain as she pressed the locks open.

How long did she have?

Sixty seconds? Thirty?

She tore open the plastic bag and groped around for the small revolver. Her hands were shaking and her nose was running like a tap. When she wiped it she noticed a red streak along her finger. She located the lever, pressed it hard with her thumb and the six-holed cylinder swung out.

How far away was it?

Should she stop to check?

No, not yet. Load first.

She thrust her hand into the plastic bag and found a cold cartridge and with shaking fingers inserted it into one of the chambers. A drop of blood from her nose landed on her hand and another on her sleeve before she managed to snap the cylinder closed.

Kneeling and holding the revolver with both hands she quickly turned round.

The troll was less than twenty metres away. But curiously enough it had stopped.

It was standing on its hind legs, its arms dangling by its sides. The hair on its sagging chest and heavy stomach was sparse and its skin was mottled with grey and cracked. The small eyes were set deep between the coarse creases in its thick-skinned forehead and the bridge of its nose, which protruded like a massive joist in
its wrinkled, melancholy face. Its lower lip hung open and strings of saliva dangled in the wind.

The blood was streaming from Susso’s nostrils now and the strong taste of iron filled her mouth. She spat weakly, wiped her nose and chin with the palm of her hand and sniffed.

Why was it standing there?

Then she noticed that its eyes were directed at something in the snow.

Something small and grey. The squirrel.

The little animal had positioned itself between her and the troll. It was standing on all fours with its legs wide apart, and its upright tail was jerking spasmodically, as if it was trying to work itself free from the body.

She was aware of the headache, the flashing lights in her skull. That would explain the nosebleed.

The troll took a step to one side, perhaps in an attempt to walk around the squirrel. But the animal was having none of it. In a flash it followed the troll, its gaze like a rod holding the beast at a distance.

He’s protecting me, she thought. Protecting me.

And from nowhere a word came into her head:
beschermen
.

At a distance she saw Gudrun running over the ice towards her, with Torbjörn following behind. He was holding his phone in his outstretched hand.

Susso wanted to yell at them to stay where they were but she stopped herself, fearing the troll would spin round and turn on them instead.

At least for the moment she and the squirrel were keeping it at bay.

But for how long?

Had anyone seen what was happening out here on the ice?

Had Torbjörn or Gudrun phoned the police? It was possible, but how long would it take before help arrived? Too long.

Susso swallowed. When she lifted her right hand from the revolver to wipe her nose she found her skin had stuck to the barrel. She licked her lips, coughed and took a deep breath.

The squirrel was tense. She could see its hind legs trembling. Was it difficult for it to keep up the resistance? How long could it continue?

Should she just sit here?

She grabbed the bag and picked out a few cartridges. They were like ice in her hands. When she had filled the cylinder she slowly got to her feet and backed up a few steps. Her legs were shaking. The troll did not appear to notice. It was standing still, its head hanging, staring at the little animal.

Susso began walking around the squirrel in a semicircle, tentatively and with the revolver in both hands, thinking she could perhaps get past and continue towards land without the troll noticing.

But she must have overstepped some invisible barrier because all of a sudden the troll began to move, and its eyes were not directed at the squirrel. They were directed at her.

She panicked and began to run. It happened so fast she had no time to think. She should have taken cover behind the squirrel again, of course, but there was no protection there. Nothing she could see, at least.

So she ran. Straight towards Gudrun and Torbjörn.

The troll caught up with her in an instant. She did not see it coming. She only heard its wheezing breath at her side before she was knocked over. Daylight disappeared below the mighty body
and her face was covered in blood and snow and her eyes were blurred and she screamed. She screamed in fear but also with the rage that suddenly poured out of her. She swore. She saw one staring yellow eye and four fangs in the dark interior of the troll’s gaping jaws, and into that darkness she rammed the revolver.

When Seved carried the petrol can out of the barn and hurried towards the dog enclosure it was as if he was looking at himself from the outside and a screeching voice inside his head was demanding to know what he thought he was doing. The doubt assaulted him with such force that it paralysed him, and for a while he stood still with the can in one hand, staring at the house, while the dogs whined behind the chicken wire. It was impossible for him to work out if it was madness to set fire to Hybblet or madness not to. The motivation that had filled him on his return from Kiruna had evaporated. Although then, of course, he had only thought they would run away. Pile into a car one night and leave.

This was something else.

*

To make the fire spread fast enough he had to go inside the house, throw petrol on the walls and floor, and down the cellar staircase as well. Presumably he would be able to get in unnoticed but he had no idea how the little beings would react when they picked up the reek of petrol. It could make them agitated.

Perhaps it was better after all to set light to it from outside and hope for the best? No, the cement-fibre panels would probably not ignite.

He pulled a box of matches from his jacket pocket and clasped it in his hand.

Now.

You have got to do it now. It will only be worse if you wait.

He went up the veranda steps, opened the door and walked into the oppressive stench that coiled into his nostrils. He shut the door behind him, but changed his mind and left it open. It would let out some of the petrol fumes. Then he reached out for the handle and closed it anyway. The shapeshifters would probably feel the draught and wonder why it was open.

He stood still and listened. A washed-out grey light fell across the clawed wallpaper. The kitchen door stood ajar and from inside came a faint but unmistakable munching sound. Someone was in there, eating. Someone big. When he peered in the sound stopped immediately. In the shadows over by the sink, beside one of the plastic buckets of dry fodder, was a body, stooped and thin. It was one of the hareshifters, he could see that straight away from the outline of its ears. There was an oily shine in its staring eyes.

‘You can eat later,’ Seved said. ‘I’ve got to clean up now.’

They normally cleaned in the mornings and the hareshifter looked as if it was wondering what it had done wrong. It shrank to a ball behind the bucket and stayed like that for a while, as if hoping to be forgotten, but eventually it came out and thumped past Seved in a couple of awkward leaps.

Relieved, he listened to the thuds continue up the stairs to the upper landing. He had been afraid he would never be able to get rid of it. There was something about cleaning that fascinated the hares. They hopped cheerfully behind the vacuum cleaner as if they were taking part in the job, and sometimes they would bring him rubbish that they wanted to throw away. He let them do it and some days their helpfulness even made him smile.

He walked to the jumping room and took a hasty look under
the bed before unscrewing the stopper of the petrol can. He sprinkled some drops on the floor and on the old foam rubber mattress. He knew he had to be sure that the stairs down to the hide would burn properly, so he returned to the hall and slowly opened the heavy door. A muffled murmuring came from below. He altered his grip on the can and was about to pour when someone down below began to mumble and complain in a gruff voice.

He froze.

The big one was awake.

Someone must have seen him and told the others! Unless it was the foxshifter itself that had tricked him. He cursed himself for allowing a shapeshifter to plant thoughts in his head. Should he take the petrol can with him or leave it? Confused, he tried to replace the stopper, but the hoarse voice below was getting more and more excited. Not until a roar of sudden rage filled the house did he throw down the can and run.

A terrible howl rose up the staircase and the steps creaked under the feet of the big old-timer as he made his way up. The instant Seved raced out of Hybblet, the cellar door was flung open behind him.

The terror made everything a blur.

Börje came running across the yard, his legs awkward and heavy, his shirt unbuttoned. His eyes were staring and he was shouting something Seved could not hear, but it was not aimed at him. He was firing words in the Sami language at the hunchbacked old bear, which was standing on all fours in the snow, swaying its broad, greying head from side to side and roaring, saliva spraying from its sagging lips. Its open mouth exposed red gums with gristly ridges like a row of white arcs, and out of them jutted the fangs.

Holding out one hand Börje walked towards the wildly snorting
bear, talking constantly to it in a soft and gentle voice.

One after the other the little beings ventured out of Hybblet to see what was happening. All of them had taken refuge in animal shapes, petrified by the old-timer’s irate bear form. Among the mice and shrews and lemmings that had lined up in a row of tiny tufts of fur on the veranda railing an ermine stood out like a white porcelain cat, and in the doorway the hares were hiding, liquid-eyed, their ears like antennae.

The bear’s head was hanging so heavily that occasionally its shrivelled lower lip dipped into the snow. Air came in snorts from the enlarged nostrils.

‘
Vuordil
,’ said Börje gently. ‘
Vuordil
.’

Seved did not understand the word but even so he guessed its meaning.

It was meant to pacify.

And the bear seemed pacified. It rocked from side to side, managing only to pant.

But suddenly it lunged and its muscles quivered under the dingy brown fur. Snow flew up in an arc as it reared up. It was a warning to the man to back off, and Börje took a few steps backwards, flailing his arms to keep his balance.

A low but threatening growl came from Skabram’s throat.

He had no intention of remaining calm.

It was obvious from Börje’s back and his bent knees that he was terrified. He stood hunched and tense, ready to flee. Seved, who had stepped up onto the veranda, wondered if he should run in and get the air rifle, if only to persuade the bear to back off, but he decided against it because the sight of a rifle would likely provoke a new outburst of rage. One that could not be quelled with calming words.

Börje let out an astonished shout when the bear attacked again, and this time it was worse. Its solid frame rammed into Börje, who fell over and stayed on his back, silenced. Seved was sure the bear was going to bite him.

But the bear left Börje alone. After letting out a hideous roar it plodded off quickly behind the dog compound, its rump swaying, and disappeared among the pine trees.

When the troll threw itself at Susso, when it wrapped its long arms around her body and rolled her over and over on the ice, I screamed.