by Kepler, Lars
The older couple call out their thanks, put their coats on and leave the bar. Now there are just the three of them left in the room.
‘I should probably go,’ Erica says, slurring her words. ‘I’m not feeling too good …’
‘Would you like me to call a taxi?’ Nick asks amiably.
‘Thanks,’ she manages to say.
‘He’s only pretending to call,’ the Beaver says. ‘That’s his way of getting you to stay here until the bar’s empty.’
‘Drink up and leave,’ the bartender says.
‘When my sister died, I—’
‘Shut up,’ the bartender says, getting his phone out.
‘I want to hear,’ Erica says, and feels a fresh wave of tiredness wash over her.
‘I had a permanent stomach ache when I was a child,’ the Beaver says. ‘It felt swollen and heavy … and when I was thirteen it had got so big that I couldn’t hide it any more. They took me to see a doctor who concluded that it was a tumour … not an ordinary tumour, though, but my twin sister, a so-called “foetus in foetu”.’
He pulls up his knitted sweater and white vest to reveal a long, pale scar across the side of his fat, hairless stomach.
‘Bloody hell,’ Erica murmurs.
‘Behind my peritoneum was a sort of capsule of tissue, twenty-five centimetres long … that was where she was,’ he says. ‘I saw the pictures afterwards, when she was dead: thin arms and big hands, stomach, small, stick-like legs, her spine and a bit of her face … but no brain. My blood was the only thing keeping her alive.’
Erica feels nausea rising in her gullet, and stands up and tries to put her coat on, but one of the sleeves is inside out and she stumbles, and only just manages to grab the bar in time.
‘They also found parts of her in my brain,’ the Beaver goes on. ‘But they were too difficult to remove … so they’ll have to stay where they are as long as they don’t metastasise … I can feel her most of the time. You can’t exactly see it on an MRI, but I think I’ve got her tiny brain inside mine … that’s why I’ve got an extra sense.’
Erica drops her handbag on the floor, and her glasses case and eyeliner roll out and disappear under the barstool. She feels like she’s about to be sick, and wonders if she’s eaten something that’s disagreed with her.
‘God,’ she whispers, and feels that her back is wet with sweat.
She sinks to the floor to put her things back in her bag, but she’s so tired she has to lie on her side and rest for a moment before she can get back up again.
The floor feels cool against her cheek. She closes her eyes but starts at a sudden noise. It’s the bartender, shouting at the Beaver.
‘Get out!’ he roars.
Erica knows she has to get up, she has to go home. She forces her eyes open and sees the bartender backing away with a baseball bat in his hands.
‘Just fuck off!’ he shouts.
The large man who said he was known as the Beaver sweeps several bottles off the bar, then moves quickly towards Nick.
Erica hears thuds and deep sighs.
The bartender hits the floor hard and rolls over, sending two chairs flying before he crashes into the wall.
The Beaver follows him with long strides. He grabs the baseball bat from Nick and hits him over the legs three times, yelling something in a ragged voice before he smashes a table. He tosses the broken bat at Nick, then stamps on the remains of the table, kicking the pieces away.
Erica tries to sit up, and looks on as the Beaver drags Nick to his feet again before shoving him hard in the chest and screaming into his face.
‘OK, just calm down,’ Nick pants.
He can’t put any weight on his right leg, and there’s blood running down his face from a cut above one eyebrow. The Beaver grabs him by the neck with one hand and punches him in the face with the other. He pushes Nick down onto a table, knocking glasses and a candleholder to the floor, then shoves the table into the wall, knocking it over and sending Nick sprawling across the floor.
Erica has to lie down again, and watches as the Beaver stands astride the bartender, hitting him in the face.
Nick is trying to get away from the big man. Blood sprays from his mouth as he coughs and begs him to stop. The Beaver grabs him by one hand and breaks his arm at the elbow.
Nick lets out a shriek of desperation as the Beaver yanks at the arm and tries to break it again.
The Beaver is panting heavily as he takes hold of Nick’s neck with both hands, then squeezes so tightly that his face turns white, and he roars and thuds the bartender’s head against the floor, before suddenly letting go and stepping away from Nick, who splutters and tries to catch his breath.
The Beaver staggers backwards.
When he pulls something from his pocket, the little matchbook falls out and lands on the floor.
He flicks open a broad-bladed knife with a click, then walks forward again, yelling so hard that his uneven teeth glint in the glow of one of the wall lights.
‘I’m sorry I was rude to you, I didn’t mean it,’ Nick groans. ‘You don’t have to kill me, I promise …’
Erica feels heavy steps across the floor against her cheek.
The Beaver reaches Nick, holds his raised hand aside and stabs him with the knife.
The blade penetrates deep into his chest.
Blood sprays up into the Beaver’s face as he pulls the knife out.
He lets out a roar of rage and stabs again.
Nick has almost lost consciousness, and is merely whimpering weakly now.
The Beaver spins him round, grabs hold of his hair and sets about trying to scalp him. He cuts off a large chunk of skin and tosses it aside.
It’s as if he’s taken some sort of terrible drug.
The Beaver drops the knife, lets out a roar, then drags the lifeless body over towards the door by one leg.
Nick must surely be dead by now, but the Beaver goes on beating him and stamping on his stomach. He pulls a framed photograph of John Lennon off the wall, smashes it, sending pieces of glass flying in all directions, then tosses the remnants of the frame onto the bloody body.
He tips a table on top of Nick, then backs away gasping before turning round and looking at her.
‘I’m not involved in this,’ she says weakly.
He walks towards her and picks the flick knife up from the floor. A string of congealed blood is hanging from the blade.
‘Please …’
Erica doesn’t even have the energy to lift her head from the floor as he walks over to her and grabs her by the hair.
The pain really isn’t that overwhelming as the blade cuts through tissue, sinews and blood vessels. Far worse is the ice-cold storm wind in her face, combined with the feeling of being asphyxiated from within.
22
When Saga wakes up she can hear Randy moving about in the kitchen. He often spends the night at hers, and sometimes sleeps in the old photographic studio he rents. Randy comes in with a cup of coffee and a croissant with jam for her.
He’s five years younger than Saga, and has a shaved head, calm eyes and a sceptical smile. He’s a police inspector, and is part of a team investigating online hate crimes.
‘Whenever I go home to Örgryte, Mum brings me breakfast in bed,’ he says.
‘You’re spoiled,’ Saga smiles, and sips the coffee.
‘I know your mum was—’
‘I don’t want to talk about her,’ she interrupts.
‘OK, sorry,’ he says, lowering his eyes.
‘It doesn’t do me any good, which is why I’ve got this rule. It’s better to avoid the subject altogether, I’ve already said that.’
‘I know, but—’
‘This isn’t about you.’
‘But I’m here,’ he says quietly.
‘Thanks,’ she replies curtly.
When he’s gone she wonders if she might have sounded too dismissive. There’s no way Randy could know what she’s been through. She texts him to say sor
ry and thank him for breakfast.
After work Saga collects her half-sister from school and takes her to see her hearing consultant. On the way home she asks her about the clown girls.
‘Dad says they’re not real,’ Pellerina says.
‘That’s right, they’re not,’ Saga tells her.
‘I still don’t want them to find me.’
Their dad isn’t in when they get home. Saga hopes he’ll be back soon, she wants to talk to him about the present she couldn’t accept because it reminded her too much of her mum’s illness.
Now Pellerina is standing at the kitchen worktop wearing a polka-dot apron and whisking cake mixture while Saga greases the tin.
The doorbell rings and Pellerina squeals that it’s their dad.
Saga wipes her hands on some kitchen roll, then goes into the hall to answer the door.
It’s Joona Linna.
His face is serious, his grey eyes icy cold.
‘Come in,’ she says.
He looks over his shoulder, then walks into the hall and closes the door behind him.
‘Who else is in the house?’
‘Just me and Pellerina,’ she replies. ‘What’s happened?’
He looks over at the wooden staircase, then the door to the kitchen.
‘Joona, I realise that you really believe Jurek’s still alive,’ she says.
‘At first it was only a theoretical possibility … but now I’ve identified the pattern,’ he says, peering through the spyhole in the front door.
‘Wouldn’t you like to come in and have coffee?’ she asks.
‘I haven’t got time,’ he replies, looking back at her again.
‘I know recent events have stirred up loads of old memories,’ she says. ‘But I honestly don’t think Jurek’s behind this. Look at the level of violence; it’s aggressive in a way that Jurek never was … and yes, I know you’re going to say it was his accomplice. I hear what you’re saying, I know that so far as you’re concerned there’s a clear pattern, but I just can’t see it.’
‘Saga, I’m only here to say you need to go into hiding, you need to find a safe place for yourself and your family … but I’m starting to realise that you won’t be doing that.’
‘I’d never manage to get Dad and Pellerina to come with me … I’m not even going to try, I don’t want to frighten them.’
‘But—’
A door slams in the kitchen, and Joona’s hand reaches instinctively for the pistol under his jacket before he hears Pellerina laughing.
‘If Jurek’s alive, it’s my fault,’ Saga says in a low voice. ‘You know that, I was the one who let him out … so it’s my responsibility to stop him.’
‘It isn’t worth it,’ he says. ‘You’re like a sister to me, I don’t even want you to try to stop Jurek, I just want you to hide.’
‘Joona, you’re doing the right thing from your point of view, you’re convinced about all this and you need to protect Lumi,’ she says. ‘But for me, the right thing is staying and trying to find the person who’s behind these murders … and I’m not ruling anything out, not even Jurek Walter.’
‘Then work with Nathan … I’ve sent everything I’ve got to him.’
‘OK, I’ll talk to him.’
‘Saga!’ Pellerina calls from the kitchen.
‘I need to get back to her,’ she says.
‘Don’t think Jurek’s like everyone else,’ Joona goes on. ‘He didn’t treat you differently because you’re so beautiful …’
‘And there was I thinking you’d never even noticed,’ she smiles.
‘I’ve noticed, Saga,’ he says. ‘But Jurek doesn’t care about how you look, he’s interested in your mind, your soul … your darkness, what he likes to call your catacombs.’
‘You do know I’ve spoken to Jurek Walter, don’t you? More than you have, actually,’ she reminds him.
‘But back then you were merely a tool for him, a Trojan horse—’
‘OK, fine,’ she says, raising her hands to get him to stop.
‘Saga, listen to me … if you stay, you’re going to see him again.’
‘That’s just an idea you’ve got into your head,’ she says.
‘You don’t have to listen to me, but I can’t go without giving you three pieces of advice first.’
‘I’m listening.’
She leans against the doorframe and folds her arms over her chest.
‘One … don’t try to talk to him, don’t try to arrest him, don’t worry about any ethical considerations if there aren’t any witnesses – you need to kill him at once, and make sure he’s dead this time.’
‘He’s already dead.’
‘Two … remember that he isn’t on his own, and that—’
‘If your theory’s correct,’ she interrupts.
‘Jurek’s used to having a brother who would obey him like a dog … these murders mean he’s recruited an accomplice – and that means he can be in more than one place at the same time.’
‘Joona, that’s enough now,’ Saga says.
‘Three,’ Joona goes on. ‘If what can’t happen happens anyway, you need to remember that you can’t make any agreements with him, because they’ll never work in your favour … He won’t let go, and with each agreement you make with him, you’ll end up deeper in his trap … Jurek will take everything from you, but it’s you he wants to get at.’
‘I want you to leave now,’ she says, and looks him in the eye.
‘Maybe that would be just as well.’
23
As Joona pulls out onto the roundabout he can’t help thinking he stayed too long at Saga’s. He realised almost immediately that she wasn’t going to heed his advice, but perhaps she’ll remember some of what he said if she does encounter Jurek.
A dusty cement-lorry is parked in a cloud of exhaust fumes at the petrol station, and there’s a group of schoolchildren approaching over the footbridge.
As Joona turns onto Nynäsvägen he spots the white van for a second time.
It was parked outside the church down the street as he hurried along the pavement after his meeting with Saga.
The branches of the trees were reflected in the windscreen, but they weren’t just moving in time with the wind – sometimes they shuddered and lurched.
There was someone inside the van.
That doesn’t necessarily mean he was being watched, but under the current circumstances it’s a sensible assumption.
He can’t afford to dismiss anything odd as mere coincidence.
Joona changes lane and pulls out onto the Johanneshov Bridge, keeping pace with the fast traffic as the dark water sparkles far below.
Two police cars rush past in the opposite direction, sirens blaring.
There’s a shredded tyre lying in the middle of the road.
In the rear-view mirror he sees the van pull out onto the bridge. It’s several hundred metres behind him, but it hasn’t lost touch.
Joona would never take it for granted, but he imagines he’d win in close combat if he met Jurek face to face. The reason he’s running is that Jurek would never get into close combat with anyone he couldn’t beat.
It’s impossible to defeat Jurek, because he exploits the fact that human beings love each other.
Joona overtakes a battered delivery van on the inside, then pulls in front of it and increases his speed.
The windows let out a little sigh and all sound is muffled as the car heads into the entrance to the Söderleden Tunnel.
He has precisely 1,520 metres to come up with a solution.
The dirty grey walls and green emergency exits flash past, and the glare of the strip-lights pulses evenly through the car.
He speeds up and unfastens his seat belt as he passes the junction for Medborgarplatsen. The vehicles around him are making a monotonous roar.
Joona pulls into the right-hand lane and sees the signs for the exit to Nacka. He looks in the rear-view mirror and veers even further to the right, until h
e’s driving on top of the dotted line separating the two lanes.
The turning is approaching fast, and the vehicles around him are sounding their horns and keeping their distance.
The dotted line becomes a solid line as it disappears beneath the front of the car. If he doesn’t make a decision now he’ll drive straight into the wall dividing the two roads.
Joona glances quickly in the rear-view mirror and brakes so hard that the tyres skid across the tarmac and into the hard shoulder. The ridged lines on the road make the entire chassis rumble before the car comes to a stop centimetres from the low crash barrier that’s designed to cushion any impact with the wall separating the two tunnels.
Heavy vehicles thunder past on both sides.
Joona slips out of the car and runs several metres at a crouch down the tunnel leading to Nacka.
No sooner has he tucked himself away in the darkness behind the row of columns than he hears a vehicle brake and stop behind his.
It stops on the hatched area between the lanes.
A taxi heading for Nacka sounds its horn irritably.
Dust and rubbish swirl through the air.
Joona draws his Colt Combat from the holster under his right arm, feeds a bullet into the chamber, then stops and listens.
All he can hear is the rumble of the traffic in the tunnel, and the sound of the fans in the roof.
Lead-coloured dust covers the floor and the rubbish that’s collected in the space behind the pillars.
There’s a rustling sound from some old plastic bags behind him.
He’s put his pursuer in an impossible position by stopping right where the tunnel divides, like a snake’s tongue.
Whichever road they take could turn out to be the wrong one.
His pursuer has been forced either to give up or surrender any attempt at stealth.
Now he’s sitting there with the engine in neutral, unsure what to do.
It probably feels like a trap.
The pursuer doesn’t know if Joona’s hiding in the car, or if he’s continued on foot and possibly even left the tunnel through the emergency exit up ahead.
Joona creeps forward slowly between the pillars. As long as he stays out of reach of the lights in the roof, he’s invisible.
