“No.”
“Why was Mum so angry at you, then?”
Alf’s leather jacket heaves slightly.
“She was angry because she wasn’t there holding the hammer.”
Elsa’s shoulders sink; she wraps her arms around herself against the cold. Alf hangs his leather jacket over her. Elsa hunches up inside it.
“Sometimes I think I’d like someone to kill Sam.”
Alf doesn’t answer. Elsa looks at the hammer.
“I mean . . . sort of kill, anyway. I know one shouldn’t think people deserve to die. But sometimes I’m not sure people like him deserve to live. . . .”
Alf leans against the balcony railing.
“It’s human.”
“Is it human to want people to die?”
Alf shakes his head calmly.
“It’s human not to be sure.”
Elsa hunches up even more inside the jacket. Tries to feel brave.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
“Me too,” says Alf.
And they don’t say anything else about it.
They sneak out with the wurse when everyone has gone to sleep, but Elsa knows that her mum sees them go. She’s certain that Green-eyes also sees them. That she’s also keeping watch over them, somewhere in the dark, like Wolfheart would have done, if he were there. And Elsa tries not to feel reproachful toward Wolfheart, for not being there, for letting her down after he promised to always protect her. It doesn’t go very well.
She doesn’t talk to Alf. He doesn’t say anything either. It’s the night before Christmas Eve, but everything just feels odd.
As they’re making their way back up the stairs, Alf stops briefly outside Britt-Marie’s front door. Elsa sees the way he looks at it. Looks at it, as one does when there was once a first time, but never a second, and never anything more. Elsa looks at the Christmas decorations, which, for the first time ever, don’t smell of pizza.
“How old are Kent’s children?” she asks.
“They’re grown-ups,” says Alf bitterly.
“So why did Britt-Marie say they want comics and lollipops, then?”
“Britt-Marie invites them over for dinner every Christmas. They never come. The last time they came they were still children. They liked lollipops and comics then,” Alf answers emptily.
When he moves off up the stairs with his dragging footsteps and Elsa follows, the wurse stays where it is. Considering how smart she is, it takes Elsa an unaccountably long time before she realizes why.
The Princess of Miploris was so beloved of the two princes that they fought for her love, until they hated one another. The Princess of Miploris once had a treasure stolen by a witch, and now she lives in the kingdom of sorrow.
And the wurse is guarding the gates of her castle. Because that’s what wurses do.
28
POTATOES
Elsa wasn’t eavesdropping. She’s not the sort of person who eavesdrops. Especially on Christmas Eve morning.
She just happened to be standing there on the stairs early the next morning, and that’s when she heard Britt-Marie and Kent talking. It wasn’t on purpose—she was looking for the wurse and her Gryffindor scarf. And the door of Kent and Britt-Marie’s flat was open. After she’d stood there for a while listening she realized that if she walked past their door, now they’d spot her, and it would look as if maybe she’d been standing on the stairs eavesdropping deliberately. So she just stayed put.
“Britt-Marie!” hollered Kent from inside—judging by the echo he was in the bathroom, and judging by the volume of his shouting she was very far away.
“Yes?” answered Britt-Marie, sounding as if she was standing quite close to him.
“Where is my damn electric razor?” yelled Kent without apologizing for yelling. Elsa disliked him a lot for that. Because it’s “damned,” not “damn.”
“Second drawer,” answered Britt-Marie.
“Why did you put it there? It’s always in the first drawer!”
“It’s always been in the second drawer.”
A second drawer was opened; then came the sound of an electric razor. But not the slightest little sound of Kent saying “thanks.” Britt-Marie went into the flat’s foyer and leaned out the front door with Kent’s suit in her hand. Gently brushed invisible fluff from one arm. She didn’t see Elsa, or at least Elsa didn’t think she did. And because Elsa wasn’t quite sure, she realized that now she had to stay where she was and look as if she was supposed to be there. As if she was just out inspecting the quality of the railings, or something like that. Not at all as if she was eavesdropping. It got very complicated, the whole thing.
Britt-Marie disappeared back into the flat.
“Did you talk to David and Pernilla?” she asked pleasantly.
“Yes, yes.”
“So when are they coming?”
“Damned if I know.”
“But I have to plan the cooking, Kent. . . .”
“Let’s just eat when they come—six, or seven maybe,” Kent said dismissively.
“Well which, Kent?” asked Britt-Marie, sounding worried. “Six or seven?”
“Jesus Christ, Britt-Marie, it doesn’t make any damn difference.”
“If it doesn’t make any difference, then maybe half past six is about right?”
“Fine, whatever.”
“Did you tell them we normally eat at six?”
“We always eat at six.”
“But you did you say that to David and Pernilla?”
“We’ve been having dinner at six since the beginning of time; they’ve probably worked that out by now,” said Kent with a sigh.
“I see. Is there something wrong with that now, all of a sudden?”
“No, no. Let’s say six, then. If they’re not here, they’re not here,” said Kent, as if he was anyway quite sure they wouldn’t come. “I have to go now, I have a meeting with Germany,” he added, walking out of the bathroom.
“I’m only trying to arrange a nice Christmas for the whole family, Kent,” said Britt-Marie despondently.
“Can’t we just bloody heat up the food when they come?!”
“If I can just know when they are coming, I can make sure the food is hot when they arrive,” said Britt-Marie.
“Let’s just eat when everyone is here, if it’s so bloody important.”
“And when will everyone be here, then?”
“Damn, Britt-Marie! I don’t know! You know what they’re like—they could come at six or they could come at half past eight!”
Britt-Marie stood in silence for a few grim seconds. Then she took a deep breath and tried to stabilize her voice as you do when not wanting it to be obvious that you’re yelling inside.
“We can’t have Christmas dinner at half past eight, Kent.”
“I know that! So the kids will just have to eat when they damn well get here, won’t they!”
“There’s no need to get short,” said Britt-Marie, sounding a bit short.
“Where are my damn cuff links?” asked Kent, and started tottering around the flat with his half-knotted tie trailing behind him.
“In the second drawer in the chest,” Britt-Marie replied.
“Aren’t they usually in the first?”
“They’ve always been in the second. . . .”
Elsa just stands there. Not eavesdropping, obviously. But there’s a big mirror hanging in the foyer just inside the front door, and when Elsa stands on the stairs she can see Kent’s reflection in it. Britt-Marie is neatly turning down his shirt collar over the tie and gently brushing the lapel of his suit jacket.
“When are you coming home?” she asks in a low voice.
“I don’t bloody know, you know how the Germans are, don’t wait up for me,” Kent answers evasively, extricating himself and heading for the door.
“Put the shirt directly in the washing machine when you come in, please,” says Britt-Marie, and comes padding after him to brush something from his trouser
leg.
Kent looks at his watch the way men with very expensive watches do when they look at them. Elsa knows that because Kent told Elsa’s mum that his watch cost more than Kia.
“In the washing machine, please, Kent! Directly, as soon as you come home!” Britt-Marie calls out.
Kent steps onto the landing without answering. He catches sight of Elsa. He doesn’t seem to think she’s been eavesdropping at all, but on the other hand he doesn’t look very pleased to see her.
“Yo!” he says with a grin, in that way grown men say “yo” to children because they think that’s how children talk.
Elsa doesn’t answer. Because she doesn’t talk like that. Kent’s telephone rings. It’s a new telephone, Elsa notices. Kent looks as if he’d like to tell her what it cost.
“That’s Germany calling!” he says to Elsa, and looks as if he’s only just remembering that she was very much implicated in the cellar-stairs-related incident yesterday that resulted in his last phone being put out of action.
He looks as if he remembers the poison as well, and what it cost. Elsa shrugs, as if she’s challenging him to a fight. Kent starts yelling “Yez Klaus!” into his new phone as he disappears down the stairs.
Elsa takes a few steps towards the stairs, but stops in the doorway. In the hall mirror she sees the bathroom. Britt-Marie is standing in there, carefully rolling up the cord of Ken’s electric shaver before putting it in the third drawer.
She comes out into the hall. Catches sight of Elsa. Folds her hands over her stomach.
“Oh, I see, I see. . . .” she starts.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping!” says Elsa at once.
Britt-Marie straightens the coats on the hangers in the hall and carefully brushes the back of her hand over all of Kent’s overcoats and jackets. Elsa shoves the tips of her fingers into the pockets of her jeans and mumbles:
“Thanks.”
Britt-Marie turns around, surprised.
“Pardon me?”
Elsa groans like you do when you’re almost eight and have to say thanks twice.
“I said thanks. For not saying anything to the police about—” she says, stopping herself before she says “the wurse.”
Britt-Marie seems to understand.
“You should have informed me about that horrible creature, young lady.”
“It’s not a horrible creature.”
“Not until it bites someone.”
“It never will bite anyone! And it saved you from Sam!” growls Elsa.
Britt-Marie looks as if she’s about to say something. But she leaves it. Because she knows it’s true. And Elsa is going to say something, but she also leaves it. Because she knows that Britt-Marie actually returned the favor.
She looks into the flat through the mirror.
“Why did you put the razor in the wrong drawer?” she asks.
Britt-Marie brushes, brushes, brushes her skirt. Folds her hands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, even though Elsa very well sees that she does.
“Kent said it was always in the first drawer. But you said it was always in the second drawer. And then after he’d gone, you put it in the third drawer,” says Elsa.
And then Britt-Marie looks distracted for just a few moments. Then something else. Alone, perhaps. And then she mumbles:
“Yes, yes, maybe I did. Maybe I did.”
Elsa tilts her head.
“Why?”
And then there’s a silence for an eternity of fairy-tale silences. And then Britt-Marie whispers, as if she’s forgotten that Elsa is standing there in front of her:
“Because I like it when he shouts my name.”
And then Britt-Marie closes the door.
And Elsa stands outside and tries to dislike her. It doesn’t go all that well.
29
SWISS MERINGUES
You have to believe. Granny always said that. You have to believe in something in order to understand the tales. “It’s not important what exactly you believe in, but there’s got to be something, or you may as well forget the whole damned thing.”
And maybe in the end that’s what everything, all of this, is about.
Elsa finds her Gryffindor scarf in the snow outside the house, where she dropped it when she charged at Sam the night before. The green-eyed policewoman is standing a few yards away. The sun has hardly risen. The snow sounds like popcorn popping as she walks over it.
“Hello,” offers Elsa.
Green-eyes nods, silently.
“You’re not much of a talker, are you?”
Green-eyes smiles. Elsa wraps the scarf around herself.
“Did you know my granny?”
The policewoman scans along the house wall and over the little street.
“Everyone knew your grandmother.”
“And my mum?” Green-eyes nods again. Elsa squints at her. “Alf says you were best friends.” She nods again. Elsa wonders how that would feel. To have a best friend who’s your own age. Then she stands in silence beside the policewoman and watches the sun come up. It’s going to be a beautiful Christmas Eve, despite everything that’s happened. She clears her throat and heads back to the front entrance, stopping with her hand on the door handle.
“Have you been on guard here all night?”
She nods again.
“Will you kill Sam if he comes back?”
“I hope not.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not my job to kill.”
“What is your job, then?”
“To protect.”
“Him or us?” Elsa asks reproachfully.
“Both.”
“He’s the one who’s dangerous. Not us.”
Green-eyes smiles without looking happy.
“When I was small your grandmother used to say that if you become a police officer, you can’t choose who to protect. You have to try to protect everyone.”
“Did she know you wanted to become a policewoman?” asks Elsa.
“She’s the one who made me want to become one.”
“Why?”
Green-eyes starts smiling. Genuinely, this time.
“Because I was afraid of everything when I was small. And she told me I should do what I was most afraid of. I should laugh at my fears.”
Elsa nods, as if this confirms what she already knew.
“It was you and Mum, wasn’t it—the golden knights who saved the Telling Mountain from the Noween and the fears. And built Miaudacas. It was you and Mum.”
The policewoman raises her eyebrows imperceptibly.
“We were many things in your grandmother’s fairy tales, I think.”
Elsa opens the door, puts her foot in the opening, and stops there.
“Did you know my mum first or my granny?”
“Your grandmother.”
“You’re one of the children on her bedroom ceiling, aren’t you?”
Green-eyes looks directly at her. She smiles again in the real way.
“You’re smart. She always said you were the smartest girl she ever met.”
Elsa nods. The door closes behind her. And it ends up being a beautiful Christmas Eve. Despite everything.
She looks for the wurse in the cellar storage unit and in Renault, but they are both empty. She knows the wardrobe in Granny’s flat is also empty, and the wurse is definitely not in Mum and George’s flat because no healthy being can stand being there on a Christmas morning. Mum is even more efficient than usual at Christmas.
She normally starts her Christmas shopping in May each year. She says it’s because she’s “organized,” but Granny used to disagree and say it was actually because she was “anal,” and then Elsa used to have to wear her headphones for quite a long time. But this year Mum decided to be a bit free-spirited and crazy, so she waited until the first of August before asking what Elsa wanted for Christmas. She was very angry when Elsa refused to tell her, even though Elsa expressly asked if she underst
ood how much someone changes as a person in half a year when they’re almost eight. So Mum did what Mum always does: she went and bought a present on her own initiative. And it went as it usually went: to hell. Elsa knew that because she knew where Mum hid her presents. What do you expect when you buy an almost-eight-year-old her present five months early?
So this year, Elsa is getting three books that are about different themes in some way or other touched upon by various characters in the Harry Potter books. They’re wrapped in a paper that Elsa likes very much. Elsa knows that because Mum’s first present was utterly useless and when Elsa informed her of that in October they argued for about a month and then Elsa’s mum gave up and gave Elsa money instead, so she could go and buy “what you want, then!” And then she wrapped them in a paper she liked very much. And put the parcel in Mum’s not-so-secret place and praised Mum for again being so considerate and sensitive that she knew exactly what Elsa wanted this year. And then Mum called Elsa a “Grinch.”
Elsa has become very attached to this tradition.
She rings Alf’s bell half a dozen times before he opens. He’s got his dressing gown on, his irritated expression, and his Juventus coffee cup.
“What’s the matter?” he barks.
“Merry Christmas!” says Elsa without answering the question.
“I’m sleeping,” he grunts.
“It’s Christmas Eve morning,” Elsa informs him.
“I do know that,” he says.
“Why are you sleeping, then?”
“I was up late last night.”
“Doing what?”
Alf takes a sip of his coffee.
“What are you doing here?”
“I asked first,” Elsa insists.
“I’m not the one standing at your door in the middle of the night!”
“It’s not the middle of the night. And it’s Christmas!”
He drinks some more coffee. She kicks his doormat irritably.
“I can’t find the wurse.”
“I know that as well.” Alf nods casually.
“How?”
“Because it’s here.”
Elsa’s eyebrows shoot up as if they just sat down in wet paint.
“The wurse is here?”
“Yes.”
The Fredrik Backman Box Set Page 55
