The Andalucian Friend (23 page)

“Hello?”

His voice was clipped. He said he wanted to meet her, which surprised her. She asked where Hector was.

“That doesn’t matter,” he said.

She felt suddenly uneasy. He told her to wait outside the hospital when she’d finished for the day, and that he’d pick her up.

“I can’t,” she replied.

“Yes, you can,” Aron said, and ended the call.

He stayed behind
the wheel, didn’t meet her gaze as she opened the door and got into the passenger seat.

Aron pulled away from the turning circle and drove out onto the highway. But instead of turning toward Stockholm he drove down the other slip road, onto the lane leading to Norrtälje.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, so she asked again.

“We’re going to have a talk. … Stop asking questions.”

He let the car carry them along the highway. It felt never-ending.

“What is it, Aron?” she whispered.

Aron didn’t answer, didn’t seem to see or hear her. Fear was creeping up on her.

“Can’t you tell me where we’re going?” she pleaded.

He must have been able to hear how anxious she sounded, perhaps that was exactly what he wanted.

After a while he turned off the highway, sticking to the right-hand lane. A road sign flashed past and she managed to read Sjöflygvägen. He carried on toward the water, found a secluded spot, and switched off the engine. The silence that followed was worse than she could ever have imagined, so dense and almost evil. He was staring straight ahead through the windshield.

“You’ll soon start asking yourself questions about that evening. Those questions won’t have any obvious answers. And when you don’t find any answers, you’re going to want to share your questions with someone else.”

She didn’t answer.

“Don’t do that,” he said in a low voice.

Sophie looked down at her lap, then out through the window. The sun was shining as usual, and the water was glittering in the distance.

“Does Hector know about this?” she asked quietly.

“That doesn’t matter,” he said.

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest as the air inside the car seemed to get thinner.

“Are you threatening me, Aron?”

Now he turned toward her and looked at her. The fear she had felt suddenly took physical form in her tear ducts. Tears began trickling down her cheeks, fat and heavy. She cleared her throat, wiping away the tears on her sleeve.

“Am I supposed to take this seriously?”

She didn’t know why she asked that question, maybe because she wanted to see if there was an ounce of humanity in him.

“Yes,” he said in a measured tone.

She realized that her arms were trembling, just a little, almost imperceptibly, but the trembling was there. Her arms ached. A different pain rose in her neck and she fought against it, trying to swallow, all her anxiety seemed to have gathered in her throat. … She wanted to swallow, her entire body wanted her to. Sophie turned away from Aron and gulped.

“Can we go back?”

“If you say you understand what I’ve told you.”

Sophie stared out through the car window.

“I understand … ,” she said in a hollow voice.

Aron leaned forward, turned the key, the car started.

Hasse Berglund was standing
in line at a hamburger restaurant. They were running a Mexican theme. The idiots behind the counter had little plastic sombreros on their heads. He ordered an El Jefe — a triple burger with extra everything, including two helpings of fries. Hasse sat down, the feeding frenzy could begin. He took big mouthfuls, breathing through his nose.

A gang of immigrants was sitting a few tables away. Black hair, pale, with stupid little mustaches and black tracksuits. They were noisy, raging with hormones, sinewy, knew no bounds. Two of them started wrestling in their seats. They were yelling, far too loudly, far too intensely, spilling ice and cola on the floor.

Hasse looked at them, unable to understand how they could be so pale when they came from some Arab country. After all, it was sunny there.

He grimaced when it got too noisy. A milkshake got knocked over and spilled across the table. One of them started shouting when the liquid splashed his tracksuit. Another one started swearing crudely, a third started throwing ice cubes from his drink at his friends.

Hasse went on chewing his mouthful and watched the youths. They kept on wrestling. Roughly, hard, thoughtlessly … It turned violent, one of them was getting angry. He started shouting in a language Hasse didn’t recognize. Then the whole gang joined in, an infernal choir of breaking voices. Hasse closed his eyes.

Eighteen months earlier
Hasse Berglund and his colleagues in the armed response unit of the Stockholm Police had set about a young Lebanese man in Norra Bantorget. His colleagues knew when to stop, but Hasse didn’t. His colleagues had pulled him off. Hasse had calmed down, demonstrated that he was OK … that he was thinking again. His colleagues eased their grip, Hasse pulled loose, and got in that last, satisfying kick. The boy lay unconscious for three days. The doctors found broken ribs, internal bleeding, a dislocated jaw, and a broken collarbone. During the trial Hasse’s colleagues testified to his innocence. Two magistrates found no reason for their sleep to be troubled, and the prosecutor was friends with everyone in the room except the boy. A bearded doctor declared that it “wasn’t impossible” that the boy had caused his injuries himself, and the boy’s lawyer, who was in a hurry to get to another court case, asked stupid and ill-considered questions. Hasse walked free, and the boy was left with lifelong problems. But Hasse’s boss had had enough, and offered him a choice: leave the city force for the airport, or leave the city force for whatever-the-fuck-you-like.

Hasse was sent into exile to Arlanda Airport, where he had been stuck for an eternity, trying to pick up the illegal immigrants that so disgusted him.

Then out of the blue he got a phone call. A woman from the crime division, a Gunilla Strandberg, saying she wanted him to meet two of her colleagues. Hasse didn’t really understand. But anything was better than the airport.

The youths went
on yelling, Hasse finished his mouthful, swallowed, ran his tongue over his teeth, pulled out his police ID, and put it on the table. He took a few deep breaths, then picked up one of the cartons of fries and threw it hard at the young men. It hit one of the wrestlers on the cheek, and fries flew out and hit a couple of the others. They lost their flow and stood there silently staring at Hasse, who took a fresh bite, at the very limits of what his jaw could handle.

One of the young men stood up with a jerk and thumped his chest. He asked something that Hasse couldn’t be bothered to listen to. He was so sick of that immigrant Swedish. The young man was on his way over to him. Hasse Berglund shoveled more food into his mouth, chewed, held up his police badge, opened his jacket with the same hand to show the pistol in its shoulder holster, then gestured with his chin.

“Sit down …”

And the young man backed away and sat down. Hasse took aim and threw fries at each and every one of them. The young men put up with the humiliation in silence. Hasse showed neither anger nor joy, just a sure aim as his fries hit them on their backs, heads, arms, and acne-ridden faces.

Anders Ask and Erik Strandberg came into the restaurant, saw the tragedy being played out, and went over to his table.

“You must be Hasse Berglund,” Erik said.

Hasse looked at them, nodded, and went on throwing fries.

“I’m Erik, and this is Anders.”

Erik sat down with a sigh. He had a temperature that day, a cold sweat and permanent pressure over his forehead, and his mouth was dry.

Hasse threw another fry that landed on one young man’s hood.

“Having a fries war, I see?” Anders said.

“Yep,” Hasse said, firing off another one.

Anders joined in, grabbing a few fries and throwing them at the youths. He was also a good shot. The young men stared ahead of them, humiliated.

“You used to be in the city?” Erik asked, breathing heavily through his high blood pressure.

“Yep.”

“Then Arlanda?”

They ran out of fries.

“Shall we get some more?” Anders asked.

Erik shook his head and turned to the young men.

“Have a good day, boys. Look out for each other,” he said, gesturing for them to leave.

The youngsters got up and slouched out. Outside they started shouting and fighting again, then disappeared.

“Great lads!” Anders said.

“Sweden’s future,” Hasse said.

Erik coughed into his elbow. Hasse drank through a straw, looking at Erik and Anders. Anders settled down and began.

“You’ve already spoken to Gunilla, she’s told you about the project. We wanted to meet you.”

“I’ve heard about you, Erik, but not about any Anders,” Hasse said.

“Anders is a consultant … ,” Erik said.

“So what does a consultant do?”

“Consults,” Anders said.

Hasse found a fry between his legs on the chair and ate it.

“And Strandberg?” Hasse said. “You’ve got the same name. Is Gunilla your missus, or what?”

Erik looked hard at Hasse.

“No,” he replied.

Hasse Berglund waited for more, but nothing came.

“OK. Like I care, I’m just happy to be involved, because I’m guessing that’s what this is about, a job offer?”

“I think so. What do you say, Anders?”

Anders didn’t answer. Hasse looked from one to the other.

“Come on, I’m stuck in a fucking airport, I need to get out of there before I shoot someone. I’m very flexible, I told Gunilla.”

Erik tried to find a comfortable position on the fixed plastic chair, and let out a rattling cough.

“OK, it’s like this … We work as a team. We don’t question Gunilla’s decisions, she’s always right. If the results don’t come at the rate we might want them to, at least they come eventually. Gunilla knows that, and that’s why we do as she says. If you don’t understand your role in what we do, you don’t ask, you just carry on and keep your mouth shut. Are you with me?”

Hasse swallowed the last of his drink, the ice cubes rattling at the bottom of the cup.

“OK,” he said flatly as he let go of the straw.

“If you’ve got any complaints, if you think you’ve been unfairly treated, or if you’ve got any other whiny union questions, well, then you’re out on your ear.”

Erik leaned forward, took Hasse’s untouched apple pie and helped himself to a big bite. As usual, it was too hot and he chewed on it with his mouth open as he went on.

“We work with simple equations, we don’t like complicating things. If you do the job well, you’ll be rewarded.”

Erik finished Hasse’s apple pie. Hasse’s expression didn’t change. Erik took a napkin from the table and wiped the fevered sweat from his brow, then blew his nose noisily.

“You’ll be transferred to us shortly. Keep your mouth shut about this, don’t go yapping about it to any of your colleagues, just be goddamn grateful, OK?”

“Ten-four,” Hasse Berglund said in his best TV-cop voice, then gave them the thumbs-up and a crooked smile.

Erik stared intently at him.

“And none of that fucking shit with me.”

Erik stood up and walked out. Anders pulled an innocent face, shrugged his shoulders, and followed him.

He had been pretty shaken up after his meeting
with Gunilla and Anders. The pills weren’t working the way they should. Gunilla and Anders were in cahoots. They were on to something, something he wasn’t allowed to be part of. They were questioning him. They didn’t trust him.

His nerves were gnawing away at him. He had hurried home, picked up the prescriptions he had stolen from Rosie, and gone to the nearest pharmacy. There was a line, moving slowly, the old woman behind the counter was in no hurry. A knot of anxiety pressed at his stomach. The pharmacist started asking questions about one of the prescriptions. He answered tersely and monosyllabically, told her he was Rosie’s son, that he didn’t know, he was just supposed to pick them up. He kept scratching his cheek.

When he got back home he checked the online pharmaceutical directory. Lyrica was like a fucking Kinder Egg, three gifts in one: it prevented epileptic fits, neuropathological pain, and anxiety. Rosie took the pills for her nerves. It said 300 mg on the box, the strongest available,
bingo
. He took two, washing them down with some stale water from a glass on the desk. The second prescription was nasal spray, so he threw that in the bin. The third, the one that had looked different and that the pharmacist had asked about, was Ketogan. He looked it up in the directory. Addictive substance. The utmost care should be taken with prescriptions of this drug. He was already addicted, the school nurse had told him that. And inside Lars’s head a thought took shape: if that was the case, then these pills wouldn’t be dangerous for him.
What the hell could possibly go wrong?

He kept reading. Ketogan was morphine, used for very severe pain.
Very severe pain?

He tore open the box. Fuck. Suppositories. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Lars pulled down his trousers, squatted down, and shoved one of them up his backside, then another … and then another. He pulled up his trousers and went out into the living room. Life gradually changed into something soft, composed, and undemanding. He wandered aimlessly around the room, feeling a sudden and immense gratitude for everything in his life. Everything fell into place, all his feelings were where they should be, neatly partitioned, secure, incapable of making a fuss or throwing up any questions for him to get caught up in. He sat down in a corner. The wooden floor felt soft and Lars lay down, it was like a waterbed made of cotton-wool. He looked out across the horizon of the floor. Everything was so beautiful, so intricately beautiful, imagine that a floor could be so wonderful, so incredibly wonderful in all its flatness …

He lay there enjoying everything that he could understand yet not understand. When he slowly began to bottom out he took a few more of each drug. The world became interesting for a while. His fingers started talking to each other, started to explain the true nature of existence to him, the nature that lay three steps behind the laws of physics, two steps behind God’s creation … One step behind the creation of God … Then Lars fell asleep.

The alarm clock
sounded like an air-raid siren. Several hours had passed and the feeling of emptiness had expanded into a huge black hole that was swallowing all the light in Lars’s universe. He got on weak legs and topped up with a random mix of pills. The black hole withdrew and life became easy again.

He drove to Stocksund. All the radio stations were playing really good music and he bopped weirdly along to it.

He found a good hiding place for the car, put on the headphones, got himself comfortable in the car seat and listened to her. How she went around her house all alone, how she prepared food, how she talked to her friend Clara over the phone, how she laughed at something on television.

He felt like going in to see her, to share what she was doing, or just sit alongside and watch. Darkness came, the house was completely silent. Longing started to tug and pull at him.

At half past one at night Lars took off the headphones, put on a dark woolly hat, carefully opened the car door, and started walking toward her house.