The Father: Made in Sweden Part I (8 page)

‘
Turn around! On stomach! And stay!
’

Vincent guided a rubber boat across calm water. Drevviken. One more wide turn, his hand on the steering rod of the two-cycle engine, and to his left he saw the light beyond the forest’s edge – Farsta – and the darkness straight ahead of Sköndal Beach. He turned off the engine, gliding towards the jetty and the beach. He got out, and pulled the boat into the reeds. He’d thought for the last two kilometres he was running late.

Right then he realised why Leo had chosen this place. The bay was sheltered, and beside the beach was a swimming pool that was long since closed for the winter. Their mother had once worked there with disabled children of his age, some with and some without wheelchairs.

He stood on the long wooden jetty, rocking slowly. Not far away lay a second jetty, shorter and much older, and he was reminded of the summer Leo taught him to swim. He had called it the Dock, and Vincent would
earn the invented swimming badge (of which only one copy existed) when he was able to swim the ten metres that separated the old wooden jetty from the new one. He’d thrashed his arms and drummed his legs, and one evening after the others had gone home he’d managed to make it the whole way without putting his feet down. Leo had applauded and given him the badge – a large piece of wood with words carved into it.

He was being rocked up, down, by a plank that sagged just a little too much – even the new jetty was getting old. The very plank he’d held onto after that last stroke, as he’d gripped Leo’s hand to keep from sinking into the cold. Leo’s voice was always there, telling him to concentrate on the next stroke, and only that, not on what he felt or saw, just straight ahead to the next stroke.

They should be here already.
He
should have been
there
. Anything but this – the not knowing.

He smelled bad. Vincent could feel it oozing out of his pores, a scent he’d never smelled before, strong, acrid, stifling – more fear than he could hold inside.

He leaned down on his knees towards the glassy surface of the ice-cold water and rinsed his face.

The gun pressed against his back and he readjusted it. Leo had handed it to him in the hallway before they parted,
always keep the barrel pointed down until you’re ready to use it
, Leo had emphasised as he showed him,
safety off, safety on, safety off
, grabbed his shoulders tightly,
just remember, Vincent, that you decide, not the weapon.

18.11.

They should have been here by now.

Felix ran down the hill, through the woods and community gardens, towards the car. Down the narrow gravel road and then onto the slightly wider asphalt road, until he found himself at the flyover. His heart was just beginning to beat a little more regularly, his breathing starting to even out – when he heard the sirens.

When he saw the rotating blue light.

‘Vincent, where are you?’

‘I’m still here. At the jetty. Waiting.’

The phone he was only supposed to use for emergencies.

‘They’re not here yet,’ said Vincent, his voice weak.

This was an emergency.

‘Fuck …
Fuck
.’

‘Felix?’

‘Fuck!’

‘Felix, what’s—’

‘The fucking police just drove by now! In a few minutes they’ll be there, where you are!’

Vincent was holding the phone and Felix’s voice in his hand. The fear poured out of him stronger than before.

It was at that moment that he saw it, heard it.

The car stopped and its headlights streamed onto the windows of the changing rooms at the beach.

And then – the voices. Talking loudly. Screaming.

Leo looked at his watch.

18.12.

No one was behind them at the checkpoint. They still had time to force open the locked door that separated them from another nine million kronor. He was just climbing out when Jasper dragged out the guard. Both pushed beyond their limits.

‘
Open! Or I shoot!
’

‘I … can’t. I can’t!’

Jasper stood up and shoved his automatic weapon into the guard’s mouth.

‘
I shoot!
’

The watchman kneeled down, weeping and trying to speak.

‘Please! Please please please please!’

Jasper cocked the gun and raised his weapon. His black boot sank into the grass as he leaned forward, pressing the butt firmly against his shoulder. His finger on the trigger, his eyes unreachable.

Vincent heard shots.

Not one. Not five. Twenty, maybe thirty.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to be seen. There were only supposed to
be two robbers. The only ones the security guards would see and report later.

But Felix had called. The cops were close. He had no choice.

Pain cut into Jasper’s right shoulder: it felt good. His breath was ragged. But despite emptying his magazine into the locked door, there was not a scratch. He fished a new magazine out of his vest.

Then he heard footsteps in the darkness, getting closer.

He turned in their direction, his weapon in front of his body, ready to shoot.

Vincent had to warn them. He ran across the fine-grained sand and over the grass they used to lay their towels on, ran until he saw the outline of the van, and beside it, Leo and Jasper.

Jasper pointed his weapon in the direction of the approaching steps.

A face. He was sure of it. Out in the dark.

He fired the first shot.