He dropped it back onto the man’s chest, then pulled out his hipflask and took three big swallows. The vodka shot down his throat in fiery flames, licking his stomach. The leaves crunched under his rear end as he sat down on the cold stones and looked at the dead man.
There was something wrong with his head.
He dug around in his bag, found his torch. Checked that no one was coming along the path, then turned the light on and directed it towards the man. His face was a pale yellow-white in the beam, the mouth hung half-open as if he was about to say something.
Håkan swallowed. The thought that this man had been allowed closer to his beloved than he ever had revolted him. His hand fumbled for his flask, wanted to burn away his anguish, but he stopped himself.
The neck.
There was a wide red mark running around it, like a necklace. Håkan leaned over him and saw the wound Eli had opened in order to get at the blood.
Lips against his skin.
But that didn’t explain the neck…lace…
Håkan turned the torch off, drew a deep breath and involuntarily leaned back in the tight space so that the cement walls scraped the bald spot on the back of his head. He clenched his teeth together in response to the stinging pain.
The skin on the man’s neck had split because…because the head had been rotated 360 degrees. One full rotation. The spine had snapped.
Håkan closed his eyes, breathed slowly in and out to calm himself and to stop the impulse to get up and run far, far away from all this. The cement wall pressed against his head, the stones underneath him. To the left and right a path where people who would call the police could come walking along. And in front of him…
It is only a dead body.
Yes. But…the head.
He didn’t like knowing that the head was loose. It could come off if he lifted the body. He curled up and rested his brow on his knees. His beloved had done this. With bare hands.
He felt a tickle of nausea in the back of his throat when he imagined the sound it had made. The creaking when the head was twisted around. He didn’t want to touch this body again. He would sit here. Like Belaqua at the foot of the Mountain of Purgatory, waiting for dawn, waiting for…
A few people came walking from the direction of the subway. Håkan lay down in the leaves, close to the dead man, pressed his forehead against the ice cold stone.
Why? Why do this…with the head?
The risk of infection. You could not allow it to reach the nervous system. The body had to be turned off. That was all he had been told. He had not understood it then, but he did now.
The steps grew quicker, the voices more distant. They were taking the stairs. Håkan sat up again, glancing at the contours of the dead, gaping face. Did that mean this body would have sat up and brushed the leaves off itself if it hadn’t been turned off?
A shrill giggle escaped him, fluttering like birdsong in the underpass. He slapped his hand over his mouth so hard it hurt. The image. Of the corpse rising out of the leaves and sleepily brushing dead leaves from its jacket.
What was he going to do with the body?
Maybe eighty kilos of muscles, fat, bone that had to be disposed of. Ground up. Hacked up. Buried. Burned.
The crematorium.
Of course. Carry the body over there, break in and do a little burning on the sly. Or just leave it outside the gate like a foundling and hope that their enthusiasm for burning was so great they would pop it in without bothering to call the police.
No. There was only one way. On his right the path continued on through the forest, towards the hospital and down to the water.
He stuffed the bloody top under the man’s coat, slung his bag over his shoulder and pushed his hands under the back and knees of the corpse. Got to his feet, staggered a little, regained his balance. Just as he had expected, the head fell back at an unnatural angle and the jaws shut with an audible click.
How far was it to the water? A few hundred metres maybe. And if someone came by? Nothing to do about that. Then it would be all over. And in a way it would be a relief.
But no one came by and once he was safely down by the shore he crept—his skin steaming with sweat—out along the trunk of a weeping willow that grew almost horizontally over the water. With some rope, he had secured two large stones from the shore around the feet of the corpse.
With a slightly longer rope wound in a noose around the chest of the corpse he dragged it out as far as he could, then untied it.
He stayed there on the tree trunk for a while, his feet dangling slightly above the water, staring down into the black mirror, now less and less frequently disturbed by bubbles.
He had done it.
Despite the cold, drops of sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes. His whole body ached from the strain but he had done it. The corpse lay right under his feet, hidden from the world. Did not exist. The bubbles had stopped rising to the surface and there was nothing…nothing to show that there was a dead body down there.
A few stars twinkled in the water.
PART
two
The Humiliation
‘… and they steered their course towards
parts where Martin had never been, far past
Tyska Botten and Blackeberg—and there
ran the border for the known world.’
HJALMAR SÖDERBERG, MARTIN BIRCKS UNGDOM
But he, whose heart a skogsrå steals
it never will recover
His soul will long for moonlight dreams
and no mere mortal lover…
VIKTOR RYDBERG, ‘SKOGSRÅET’
(A SKOGSRÅ IS A BEAUTIFUL BUT SINISTER FOREST SPIRIT.)
On Sunday the papers published a more detailed account of the Vällingby murder. The headline read: VICTIM OF RITUAL MURDER?
Pictures of the boy, the hollow in the forest. The tree.
The Vällingby murderer was at this point no longer the topic on everyone’s lips. The flowers brought to the hollow had wilted, the candles burned down. The candy cane striped police tape had been removed, all evidence to be found there had long since been secured.
The Sunday paper article revived people’s interest. The epigraph ‘ritual murder’ suggested it was going to happen a second time, didn’t it? A ritual is something that is repeated.
Everyone who had ever taken that path, or been anywhere near it, had something to tell. How creepy that part of the forest was. Or how beautiful and calm it was around there, and how you could never have guessed.
Everyone who had known the boy, no matter how superficially, said what a fine young man he was and what an evil person the murderer must be. People liked to use the murder as an example of a crime where the death penalty would be justified, even if you were against that sort of thing in principle.
Only one thing was missing. A photograph of the killer. People stared at the insignificant hollow, at the boy’s smiling face. In the absence of a likeness of the perpetrator this had all simply…happened.
It was not satisfying, satisfactory.
On Monday the 26th of October police announced that they had made the largest drug seizure ever recorded in Sweden. They had arrested five Lebanese men.
Lebanese.
Now that was something you could get your head around. Five kilos of heroin. And five men. One kilo per Lebanese.
The Lebanese men had also—on top of everything else—taken advantage of the extensive Swedish social welfare system during the time they were smuggling heroin. There were no photos of the Lebanese men, but none was needed. You knew what they looked like. Arabs. Say no more.
There were speculations that the ritual murderer was also a foreigner. It seemed plausible enough, weren’t blood rituals common in those Arab countries? Muslims. Sent their kids off with plastic crosses or whatever it was they wore around their necks. Small children working as mine removers. You heard about that. Brutal people. Iran, Iraq. The Lebanese.
But on Monday the
police released a composite sketch of the suspect, and it was published in the evening papers. A young girl had seen him. The police had taken their time, taken every precaution in constructing the image.
A normal Swede. With a ghost-like appearance, a vacant gaze. Everyone was in agreement about that, yes, this is what a murderer looked like. No problems imagining this mask-like face creeping up on you in the hollow and…
Every man in the western suburbs who resembled the phantom picture was subjected to long, scrutinising looks. These men went home and looked at themselves in the mirror, saw no resemblance whatsoever. In the evening, in bed, they wondered if they should change something about their appearance in the morning or would that seem suspicious?
It would turn out they didn’t need to bother. People would soon have something else to think about. Sweden would become a changed nation. A violated nation. That was the word that was continually used: violated.
While those resembling the police sketch lie in their beds weighing the benefits of a new hairstyle, a Soviet submarine runs aground outside of Karlskrona. Its engine roars and echoes across the archipelago as it tries to free itself. No one investigates.
It is discovered by accident on Wednesday morning.
Wednesday
28 October
The school was buzzing with rumours. Some teacher had listened to the radio during recess, had subsequently told his class about it and by lunchtime everyone knew.
The Russians were here.
The biggest topic of conversation among the children over the past week had been the Vällingby murderer. Many had seen him, so they said, some even claimed to have been attacked by him.
The children had seen the murderer in every sketchy-looking character who walked past the school. When an older man in ratty clothing had taken a short cut across the school grounds the children had run for cover—screaming—to the nearest building. Some of the tougher guys had armed themselves with hockey sticks and prepared to knock him down. Luckily, someone had finally identified the man as one of the local alcoholics from the main square. They let him go.
But now the Russians were here. They didn’t know much about the Russians. There once was a German, a Russian and a Bellman— or so the joke went. The Russians were best in the world at hockey. They were called the Soviet Union. They and the Americans were the ones who flew in outer space. The Americans had made a neutron bomb to protect themselves against the Russians.
Oskar talked it over with Johan during the lunchbreak.
‘Do you think the Russians have it too—the Bomb?’
Johan shrugged. ‘Sure. Maybe they’ve even got one on that submarine.’
‘I thought you had to have an aeroplane to drop it?’
‘Nah. They put them in rockets that can be fired from wherever.’
Oskar looked up at the sky. ‘And a submarine can have those?’
‘That’s what I said. They can put them anywhere.’
‘The people die but the houses are left standing.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Wonder what happens to the animals.’
Johan pondered this for a moment.
‘They must die too. At least the big ones.’
They sat down on a corner of the sandpit, where none of the smaller kids was playing. Johan picked up a large rock and threw it so the sand whirled up around it. ‘Pow! Everyone dead!’
Oskar picked up a smaller rock.
‘No! One person survived. Pshiuuuu! Missile in the back!’
They threw rocks and gravel, exterminating all the cities of the world, until they heard a voice behind them.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
They turned around. Jonny and Micke. Jonny was the one who had spoken. Johan tossed the rock he had in his hand.
‘Uh—we were just…’
‘I wasn’t talking to you. Piggy? What were you doing?’
‘Throwing rocks.’
‘Why were you doing that?’
Johan drew back a few steps, was busy retying his shoelaces.
‘Just—no reason.’
Jonny looked at the sandpit and then thrust his arm out so suddenly that Oskar flinched.
‘The little kids are supposed to play here. Don’t you get it? You’re wrecking the sandpit.’
Micke shook his head sadly. ‘They could trip and hurt themselves on the rocks.’
‘You’re going to have to clean this up, Piggy.’
Johan was still busy with his shoes.
‘Did you hear me? You’re going to have to clean this up.’
Oskar stood still, unable to decide what to do. Of course Jonny didn’t care about the sandpit. It was just the usual. It would take at least ten minutes to clear away all of the rocks that they had thrown and Johan wouldn’t help. The bell was going to go at any moment.
No.
The word came to him like divine inspiration. Like when someone says the word ‘god’ for the first time and really means… God.
An image of himself picking up rocks after the others had gone back to class, only because Jonny had told him to do so, had flickered past inside his head. But something else had too. In the sandpit there was a jungle gym like the one in Oskar’s courtyard.
Oskar shook his head.
‘What’s this?’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean “No”? You seem to be a little slow today. I’m telling you to pick this up and that means you do it.’
‘No.’
The bell rang. Jonny stood there looking at Oskar.
‘You know what this means, don’t you? Micke.’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll have to get him after school.’
Micke nodded.
‘See you, Piggy.’
Jonny and Micke went in. Johan got up, finished with his shoes.
‘That was pretty dumb.’
‘I know.’
‘What the hell did you do that for?’
‘Because…’ Oskar looked at the jungle gym. ‘Because I did, that’s all.’
‘Idiot.’
‘Yes.’
Oskar lingered at his desk after school. Took out two blank pieces of paper, got the encyclopedia from the back of the room, started turning the pages.
Mammoth…Medici…Mongol…Morfeus…Morse
Yes. Here it was. The dots and dashes of the Morse alphabet took up a quarter of a page. He started to copy down the code in large, legible letters on the first piece of paper:
and so on. When he was done he wrote it out again on the second sheet of paper. Wasn’t satisfied. Threw the piece of paper away and started over, making the symbols and letters even neater.
Of course it was only important that one of the pages came out well: the one for Eli. But he liked the work and it gave him a reason to stay there.
Eli and he had been meeting every evening for a week now. Yesterday Oskar had tried knocking on the wall before he went out and Eli had answered. Then they went out at the same time. That was when Oskar had the idea of developing this communication through a system, and since the Morse alphabet already existed…
He scrutinised the finished pages. Nice. Eli would like it. Just like him she liked puzzles, systems. He folded the pages, put them in his schoolbag, rested his arms on the bench. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach. The clock on the classroom wall showed twenty past three. He took out the book he had in his desk, Firestarter, and read it until four.
They couldn’t have waited for him for two hours, could they?
If he had just picked up the rocks like Jonny had said, he would be home by now. Be OK. Picking up rocks was certainly not the worst he had been asked to do, and done. He regretted it.
And if I do it now?
Maybe the punishment tomorrow would be milder if he told them he stayed after school and…
Yes, that’s what he would do.
He gathered up his things and went out to the sandpit. It would only take ten minutes to fix thi
s. When he told them about it tomorrow Jonny would laugh, pat him on the head and say ‘good little Piggy’ or something like that. But that was better, all things considered.
He put his bag down next to the sandpit and started to pick up the rocks. The big ones first. London, Paris. While he was picking them up he imagined that he was now saving the world. Cleaning up after those terrible neutron bombs. When the stones were lifted the survivors crawled out from their ruined houses like ants out of an anthill. But weren’t the bombs supposed not to hurt the houses? Oh well, there were probably some atom bombs too.
When he walked to the edge of the sandpit to dump out a load of rocks they were just standing there. He hadn’t heard them coming, had been too busy with his game. Jonny, Micke. And Tomas. They held three long thin hazel branches. Whips. Jonny used his whip to point at a rock.
‘There’s one.’
Oskar dropped the rocks he was holding and picked up the rock Jonny was pointing at. Jonny nodded. ‘Good. We waited for you, Piggy. We waited a long time.’
‘And then Tomas came along and said you were here,’ Micke said.
Tomas’ eyes remained without expression. In elementary school Oskar and Tomas had been friends, played a lot in his yard, but after the summer between fourth and fifth grade Tomas had changed. He had started to talk differently, more grown up. Oskar knew that the teachers thought Tomas was one of the most intelligent boys in the class. You could tell from the way they talked to him. He had a computer. Wanted to be a doctor.
Oskar wanted to throw the rock he was holding straight into Tomas’ face. Into the mouth that now opened and talked.
‘Aren’t you going to run? Get going now. Run.’
There was a whistling sound as Jonny whipped the branch through the air. Oskar squeezed the rock harder.
Why don’t I run?
He could already feel the stinging pain on his legs when the whip hit its mark. If he could only make it out to the park road where there might be grown-ups around, they wouldn’t dare to beat him up.
Let the Right One In Page 9
