The Silver Road

by Stina Jackson

  When he dared to raise his eyes he saw they had started giving out the T-shirts, the same as the one Renlund had in his car, with Lina on the front and thick black letters under her name saying: Have you seen me? The grey, faceless mass of people reached out for the T-shirts and soon Lina was smiling at him from all directions. Hundreds of Lina-faces surrounded him and were reflected in the scratched glass of the bus shelter. His heart was thumping in his throat, choking him. Lelle looked down again, at the hundreds of pairs of shoes around him. Sensible walking shoes, boots, neon-coloured trainers. Lelle wondered what kind of shoes Lina would have worn if she had been here.

  The hordes of people alternately sang and wept. There were voices everywhere. Anette’s face was wet with tears, but glowing at the same time with a kind of joy at all the people who had gathered, the sense of community. Lelle saw it and it left a bad taste in his mouth. A feeling that they were wasting time. It was the same feeling he had when he clicked through the Facebook posts and read all the empty comments that didn’t lead anywhere. Finally, he waved the torch above his head to draw everyone’s attention.

  ‘It’s good there are so many of us who want Lina back,’ he said and cleared his throat. ‘But I believe it’s important that we don’t sit at home grieving, but get out and actively look for her. Ask questions. Find answers. Lift every stone and have a good look underneath. Put pressure on the police when they’re not doing their job properly.’

  He looked sideways at Åke Ståål and then back at the crowd that had fallen quiet. The evening sun burned brightly beyond the trees and he was squinting so hard his eyes were almost shut.

  ‘Someone out there knows something. It’s time for them to come out in the open. Anette and I have waited long enough. We want Lina back. And to those of you who don’t know anything, I’ve only got one thing to say: stop mourning and start looking.’

  He dipped the torch in a puddle and it went out with an angry hiss. Then he turned his back on them and left.

  Meja stood up and pedalled as fast as she could to get away from the forest. It had stopped raining, but black puddles glittered in the cracked asphalt and the water splashed her jeans. Spruce saplings and brushwood grew up from the ditches and reached after her in the slipstream. She kept her mouth shut because of the mosquitoes, thankful for the rush of air that prevented them settling on her.

  It felt like an eternity before she caught sight of any kind of habitation, but eventually there were farmsteads, boxy, red-painted houses with generous lawns and the forest behind them. Dogs barked at her from their pens and in lush paddocks stocky horses flicked their tails to keep away the flies. The smell of manure and vegetation lay like a film over everything. She dared to slow down now that there were signs of life, but the unease stayed with her. They had lived in many places through the years, she and Silje, but nothing had felt as alien as this place.

  She came to a wider road that took her past a church and its graveyard. Gravestones nestled in the shade of huge weeping birches. An elderly, bald man was raking the grass and raised a hand as she cycled past. Other than that she saw no one. The scattered houses appeared to slumber in the sunlight. Not a single car had passed. Glimmersträsk was beginning to feel more and more like a ghost town.

  Then she heard the voices, a growing sound of voices and of feet scraping against the road surface. Meja pulled the bicycle in among the trees when she saw them coming. It looked like a demonstration of some kind. A group of people were marching with burning torches in their hands. Black smoke and a strong smell of fire rose into the light sky and she could feel the heat as they passed. She stood rigid and motionless under the trees, not wanting to be seen. They were young and old, men and women, and they gave off an aura of solemnity. It was certainly no party atmosphere, quite the reverse. Some of them were crying openly and leaning on each other for support. Meja held her breath.

  ‘You’d think she was a fucking rock star the way they carry on.’

  The voice made her jump and she let go of the bicycle. It landed softly in the moss. Meja turned her head and saw a figure submerged in the lingonberry bushes, her back against a large rock. It was a girl of about her own age, with pink hair and huge wooden ear studs. She was smoking a skinny roll-up and stared at Meja through heavily painted eyes.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lina Gustafsson. That’s who they’re walking for.’

  Meja glanced back at the procession and then reached for her bicycle.

  ‘Is she dead, or what?’

  ‘Presumably. No one knows for sure.’

  The girl spat into the moss and regarded Meja sleepily.

  ‘All you have to do to become a saint in this dump is vanish into thin air. Then everyone competes to say how much they love you.’

  Meja brushed pine needles off the saddle. She looked at the crowd of people. They were moving like a burning snake up the hill. She wondered where they were heading.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the girl asked, with her lungs full of smoke.

  ‘Meja. You?’

  ‘I’m called Crow.’

  ‘Crow?’

  ‘Yep.’

  A smile flickered on her lips, but didn’t stay. Crow held out the roll-up to Meja.

  ‘Want some?’

  ‘I’ve given up.’

  Crow put her head on one side. Her eyes shone blue like the sky.

  ‘You’re from down south, right?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘What are you doing in Glimmersträsk?’

  ‘Mum and I have just moved here.’

  ‘Why?’

  Meja hesitated and felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

  ‘Her bloke lives here.’

  ‘So what’s this bloke’s name?’

  ‘Torbjörn. Torbjörn Fors.’

  Crow gave a raucous laugh, revealing a hidden brace.

  ‘You can’t be serious. Your mum’s got it together with old Pornbjörn?’

  ‘Pornbjörn?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s called that because he’s the owner of Norrland’s largest collection of porn. That’s all he fucking does. Every teenage guy in this village stands outside his window, gagging for a look.’

  Meja gripped the handlebars so tight her hands hurt. She felt the humiliation rise like a lump in her throat. Crow smiled triumphantly.

  ‘You sure you don’t want a smoke? Looks like you could do with one.’

  Meja shuddered and her hair fell over her cheeks. She could hear Crow clicking a lighter. When it wouldn’t work she gave up and threw it into the trees. She let out a stream of profanities that sounded comical in the silence. Meja swallowed the lump of shame.

  ‘Why aren’t you taking part in that procession?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I’m not a fucking hypocrite. I won’t pretend to miss someone I didn’t even like. I wasn’t keen on her before she disappeared, so why should I pretend now?’

  ‘Why didn’t you like her?’

  Crow stared down at her nails. They were cut short and painted black, and between the knuckles were tattoos. Meja was standing too far away to make out what they said.

  ‘Lina didn’t give a toss about taking what didn’t belong to her. Make what you like of that.’

  Meja nodded as if she understood and started to push the bicycle through the birches and back to the road. The torchlight procession had disappeared over the brow of the hill and only the voices and smell of fire hung on the wind.

  ‘I’ll get going now. Nice to meet you.’

  Crow saluted, sucked in her cheeks and pouted with her red-painted lips.

  ‘Say hello to Pornbjörn!’ she called, as Meja cycled off.

  The worst part was not being able to remember everything. The time immediately after Lina’s disappearance was fragmented: the police officer in the hall who wouldn’t take off his jacket; Anette’s fingers clawing at him; the half-open window in her room. All the blank faces staring after him wherever he went.

  He had set off almost straight aw
ay, possibly even that same night. Driven along the Silver Road until the tank was empty, all the way up to Arjeplog, where twenty-three youngsters were getting ready to plant trees at dawn. They were standing in a circle holding spruce saplings and planting tubes, and he had walked right up to the group, stood in the middle of the circle and looked at each of them in turn to make sure she wasn’t among them.

  I’m looking for my daughter. She should be here with you, planting trees.

  They smelled of mosquito repellent and wet forest and he couldn’t remember what anyone said, only that he was made to sit in a black jeep with a coffee thermos in his hand. The guy who was overseeing the planting insisted on him taking a rest. He spoke a Finland-Swedish dialect and let Lelle smoke in the vehicle.

  You mustn’t scare the kids. They won’t come and work here otherwise.

  He had promised to get in touch as soon as she turned up. If she turned up.

  It was chaos, that first summer. Their muddy shoes in the hall, post that went unopened. Upstairs Anette slept next to her blister packs, so deeply she couldn’t be woken. He was grateful for that; at least he didn’t have to hear the accusations and the weeping. But it frightened him to see her so detached. The tablets took care of the weeping. All he did was drink. He was given a direct number for the police that he used repeatedly, and heard his own tremulous voice on local radio when he asked the public for tips-offs. Information had poured in from all directions, people who said they had seen Lina in cars and on roadsides, on board a ferry to Denmark and on a beach in Phuket. They had seen her all over the place, but still she was nowhere.

  Lelle took a short cut through the forest on his way home, holding the torch close to his body. His feet were unsteady on the moss. The ground leaked water under him, trying to suck him down. He felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket, but ignored it. He couldn’t bear to hear Anette’s disappointment. His own was bad enough. The thirst was eating away at his throat and he thought of the Laphroaig and promised himself two mouthfuls, two decent mouthfuls, so he could put the bloody procession behind him and start again. He could still feel the villagers’ eyes boring into the back of his neck as he strode through the bushes, still feel their silent recrimination driving him on.

  He didn’t bother taking off his shoes, but strode straight into the sitting room, leaving muddy footprints on the wooden floor. He grabbed the whisky bottle and took a long gulp, which immediately made him gag. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and fought against the nausea. It felt as if his throat was on fire, as if he was burning up from the inside. He put the bottle down and swore loudly into the silence. Now he didn’t even have the alcohol.

  A thud from the floor above caught him by surprise. He looked up at the cracked ceiling, held his breath and listened so intently his muscles ached. There it was again, the dull thud of human footsteps above his head. It sounded as if it was coming from Lina’s room.

  He was up the stairs in three strides, tripping on the landing and just stopping himself from crashing into the wall. He felt the taste of blood in his mouth, but staggered to Lina’s room and pushed the door with his elbow. Inside the window was wide open and the wind was whipping the curtains, making Lina’s posters flap eerily. For a few seconds he was rooted in the doorway in a state of shock. The window in Lina’s room hadn’t been opened for three years. He had made it a thing never to air the room. To keep her there.

  He raced to the window and looked down at the terrace. It was possible to slide down the drainpipe and from there it was an easy drop to the lilac bushes. He had caught Lina in the act on more than one occasion when she had tried to get out at night. He scanned the garden: the apple tree with its trunk half-obscured by the neglected lawn, the hedge that kept the neighbours away, and the tangle of undergrowth by the trees that marked the boundary of their plot. The wind tore at the plants, giving the impression that everything was moving, and perhaps that was why he saw it. A motionless heap hidden between the lilacs. Without thinking, Lelle hoisted one leg over the windowsill, then the other, and slid clumsily over the tiles until his feet found the guttering. After a momentary hesitation, he plunged over the edge, hanging on to the guttering for a few heart-stopping seconds before dropping to the ground. There was a worrying sound of crushing and snapping as he landed, but he felt no damage to his feet as he headed for the lilacs.

  The shape had got up and was starting to run, spiky dark hair against the grey sky and long spindly legs hobbling through the tall grass.

  Lelle’s heart hammered like a pumping fist against his ribs as he chased after the figure.

  ‘It’s no good running! I’ve already seen you!’

  The young man was injured and only got as far as the forest before he fell down and lay still. Seconds later Lelle was on top of him. He gripped the sweat-soaked hair and yanked the pale face up to his own.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  Mikael Varg groaned, dirty streaks on his contorted face.

  ‘Let me go,’ he begged. ‘Please.’

  When Meja returned to the house she saw Silje had set up her easel facing the forest. She was stark naked and standing in full view of the kitchen window. Her pallid buttocks caught the sunlight and Meja could see the dark lines of sweat on Torbjörn’s forehead.

  ‘Your mum looks like one of those Greek statues.’

  Meja hid her face behind her hands. She blew on the coffee Torbjörn had given her and pretended Silje didn’t exist.

  ‘I cycled to the village this morning.’

  ‘Did you now?’

  ‘There were hundreds of people in a march with torches, for some girl who went missing.’

  Torbjörn took a can of beer from the fridge and held it against his hot cheeks and neck. ‘Well, now you know the great village mystery. It was a while ago, but folk can’t seem to get over it. No one’s forgotten.’

  ‘What do you think happened to her?’

  ‘Lord knows.’ Torbjörn pulled the tab of his beer, turned away and looked for something to pour it into. Dirty dishes were stacked up on the counter. Silje’s lipstick smiled from the wine glasses. She had already given up the housewife charade and Torbjörn wouldn’t complain, not while she walked around naked. He gave up and drank from the can quickly, as if it was water, and didn’t try to smother a belch.

  ‘They said she was going to get the bus that morning, that she disappeared while she was waiting. But that’s not true.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I was there! I had a crap Volvo in those days that kept giving me trouble, so I got the bus every morning. Bloody nuisance. And the police wouldn’t leave me alone, asking questions, turning the house and yard upside down, even though I never even saw the poor girl. The bus driver didn’t see her, either. I don’t think she was ever there.’

  He finished his beer, crushed the can and dropped it.

  Meja shuddered, despite the heat. ‘So they suspected you?’

  ‘They suspected the whole village! I was no exception. And the longer it goes without her turning up, the worse it gets.’

  Silje had started singing outside, demanding attention. Through the flimsy curtain Meja watched as she bent over seductively to pick up the bottle of wine hidden in the grass. She filled her glass to the brim and rested the paintbrush on her shoulder as she drank.

  Torbjörn’s eyes glazed over. Meja thought of the photographs in the shed and wondered if he had taken them.

  ‘Do you think she ran away?’ she asked. ‘Or that someone’s hurt her?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if that father of hers was behind it. Everyone knows about Lelle Gustafsson’s fiery temper. He was barred by the hunting team because he was always starting a fight. Maybe he got angry with the girl. Couldn’t stop himself and then tried to cover it up when he came to his senses. That’s what I think.’

  Torbjörn took off his grimy string vest and wiped himself under the arms with it. ‘Now it’s about time we
went out into the sunshine and saw your mother. No point standing here brooding about it.’

  Mikael Varg sat perspiring in Lelle’s kitchen. His injured foot was propped up on a chair opposite him and his ashen face twitched constantly. Lelle couldn’t decide whether the boy had been drinking or taken drugs, but the words tumbled out and the pupils of his eyes were constricted and predatory.

  ‘Why did you break into my house?’

  ‘I didn’t break in anywhere. It wasn’t locked.’

  ‘What were you doing in Lina’s room?’

  Varg chewed his cuticles and his eyes darted around the room.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  Lelle banged his hand hard on the table, making the crockery jump. ‘You might as well start talking, because I don’t intend to let you go until I’ve got some answers.’

  Varg grimaced.

  ‘My foot’s killing me.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about that. If you want to get out of here alive you’d better start talking. What were you doing in Lina’s room?’

  ‘I just wanted to get close to her.’

  ‘You wanted to get close to her, so you broke into my house?’

  Silent tears began to trickle down his dirty cheeks. Varg didn’t bother wiping them away.

  ‘You’re not the only one who misses her, you know. There’s not a minute when I don’t think about Lina. I knew you’d be on that fucking march, so I thought this was my chance to get close to her again. I only wanted to see her room. See her things. Smell her clothes.’

  Lelle raised his hand. ‘Let me see if I’ve got this right. A torchlight procession is arranged for your missing girlfriend and you choose not to take part?’

  ‘It’s not easy taking part when the whole village is staring at you.’