by Stefan Spjut
‘Badjan, Stuora Skabram.’
The bear’s eyes were closed, the slits invisible.
‘I’m here. I’m here with you.’
*
Ingvill started in fear when she heard someone coming out of the mountain. She quickly stood up and stared at the crevice. Once his upper body was through, he turned around and slid down on his bottom. The sunlight was strong; he was squinting.
‘Was he there?’
He put his sunglasses on and nodded.
‘The little one didn’t come out.’
She scooped the mouse out of her jacket pocket.
‘It came out a long time ago.’
Lennart prodded it with his index finger.
‘You can’t just run off like that.’
*
Grete was eating. Tuna with pasta spirals in an old plastic container. She put her cutlery down and swallowed.
‘That was quick.’
‘There’s a human in there, did you know that?’
‘A human?’
He held her gaze until she understood what he meant.
She waved her hand dismissively.
Lennart sat down and stared at her.
‘What are you saying we should have done? We had to find a way to cheer him up.’
‘There are better ways.’
‘We felt it was worth a shot.’
‘He has retreated very far into himself. It’s as if he can’t find his way out. He might not even be aware that he can turn.’
‘You can help him, I know you can.’
Lennart sat in silence for a moment.
‘If we could get that human,’ he said. ‘The one with the website. What was her name, Myrén? If we give him her and we can get him to understand who she is and what she’s done, I think that might do him good.’
‘That’s easier said than done,’ Grete retorted.
‘Just go get her.’
‘She’s protected,’ Ingvill said.
‘Is it that bastard fox?’
‘A squirrel,’ Grete replied.
‘A squirrel?’
She nodded.
‘What fucking squirrel?’
‘We don’t know.’
He stared at the plastic container she was eating out of. A winged child with golden curls holding an ice cream cone in each hand was depicted on it.
‘Have you seen it?’
‘Abraham has,’ Grete said softly. ‘When he went down there, when was it, a year ago? And he took it hard. That’s why he looks the way he does.’ She ran her fingers along her cheek. ‘Food sticks in the corner of his mouth. And he’s almost blind in one eye.’
‘What’s the situation at Torsten’s?’
‘Well now,’ Grete said and dabbed her lips with a sheet of kitchen roll. ‘Last time we were there, he threatened us with a gun. Elna has moved out, the children too, I think. There’s nothing for us there.’
‘What about Carola? Carola Fjellborg?’
‘All the lemmings are gone. Since the fire at Öbrells’.’
‘Isn’t that just something she’s saying?’
‘She’s shaken, there’s no doubt about it; she just sits at home, smoking cigarettes. Besides, I don’t think the lemmings are equal to the task anyway.’
‘They’re not to be trifled with.’
‘We need something bigger.’
‘What about the hare?’
‘That one?’ She snorted out a laugh. ‘He’s blind. And not always to be trusted either.’
Lennart quietly turned the problem over in his mind for a while.
‘Remember Frans?’ he said. ‘Frans Fagervall. We were there after the war, after Urho died? His, what would that be, nephew, Rune – we could ask him. He’s a bit tricky, but it might be worth asking. Because he has a wolf.’
‘A wolf?’ Ingvill said.
Lennart nodded.
‘I thought all the wolves were with Erasmus and Stava,’ she said with an inquiring glance at Grete, who had started rubbing and scratching the fingers of her gloved hand.
‘Sure, because that’s what Rune wants you to think. He wants nothing to do with Erasmus and Stava.’
‘Does it turn?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If it doesn’t turn—’
‘It does. Last time I was there it was wearing clothes.’
‘Clothes? That’s promising.’
The old lady took off her headscarf and patted down her
‘And do you think he would help us?’
‘Rune? Well, what choice does he have? If Erasmus finds out about his wolf, he’s going to claim it. So I guess we’re going to have to threaten him, between the lines. It’s in his interest, too, to have Skabram turn.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘In Dorotea.’
‘Then let’s make for Dorotea.’
When I walked out onto the square, I spotted Roland at one of the long tables lined up outside the beer tent. He was all alone.
‘Fancy finding you here,’ I said and sat down across from him.
‘They’ve raised a flag,’ he said and nodded to the flagpoles outside the Cultural Centre. ‘The rainbow flag.’
‘This won’t do,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘We can’t have you sitting here. Outside.’
‘I’m crashing the festival,’ he said and tilted his plastic cup of beer as if to examine the viscosity of the liquid.
‘Honestly, it feels more like the festival’s crashing us.’
He laughed and I seized the opportunity to go on the offensive.
‘I ran into Susso’s childhood friend the other day. Diana. She’s a doctor at the hospital. And I asked her to go visit Susso. Because I’m afraid to. That’s the truth.’
Roland took a small sip from his cup and then sat staring at the stage as though someone were performing on it.
‘And now I feel guilty.’
‘Why?’
‘What if something happens to her?’
‘You’re thinking about the cult leader?’
I shook my head. Then I changed my mind.
‘Well, yes, of course I am. But not just him. You know it’s not actually Susso I’m afraid of. There’s a reason why she turned out the way she did.’
I glared at him until he caught my meaning. Then he grinned at me, as much as he dared to. He had shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and was moving his sandals about restlessly under the table.
We had never made it past this point. The reluctance to take this conversation further was so intense I was breaking out in a cold sweat. My fingertips went numb and I was overcome with a powerful urge to change the subject. Just then, they turned on music: clattering rock started streaming out of the speakers and when I raised my voice to make myself heard, I somehow seemed to break through the barriers that stymied me whenever we tried to talk about the trolls.
‘You’ve seen it for yourself,’ I shouted. ‘She’s had it for ten years. And Barbro had it for twenty-five before that. Would you say that’s normal?’
‘But we don’t know if that’s true.’
He looked away with a cocksure, indifferent expression; I leaned across the table.
‘Why can’t you just believe me? You know as well as I do what it’s done to her. She’s completely changed. And Cecilia too. That’s proof, isn’t it?’
‘Proof of what?’
‘That they’re real. That they’re actually real.’
He picked up his plastic cup and downed its contents, ran his index finger over his lips and then sat there rubbing his thumb against the part of the finger that had got wet.
‘She was damaged by the things that happened, that’s obvious and hardly all that surprising, given what you went through and what the papers wrote. But to say it’s because of the …’
He broke off abruptly.
‘I don’t want to talk about this,’ he said.
‘You know what? I don’t either.’<
br />
‘Then why are we?’
‘Because we have to, Roland. Don’t ask me how it works, but we’re somehow prevented from talking about these things. Can’t you sense it, the resistance, the almost physical aversion? I’ve been thinking it must be part of their cover. It’s like some kind of mental block.’
Roland had crossed his arms and was studying me; he was clearly waiting for a chance to speak.
‘Would you like a pint, I’m going to go buy a pint.’
The door to his office was locked; it was so unexpected Anders pushed the handle down over and over again and even yanked it hard. Then he took a step back. Why was the bloody door locked?
While he stood there just staring at the closed door, something happened inside him. It was like a shifting, inside his head. He waited for things to clear. They didn’t. The feeling lingered, but when he tried to grasp it, it retreated inward like a cat under a sofa.
Nothing remained of the good humour that had had him whistling on his way to the laboratory building. Now he felt almost sick. He grabbed the clutch of keys hanging by his stomach. The key slid into the lock but he couldn’t turn it.
Why couldn’t he get in? He looked at the sign to the right of the door. The tag with his name was gone. Puzzled, he looked around. The sign on the next door over said ‘Per Ahlqvist’. So he hadn’t gone to the wrong room.
He ran his hand over his head and felt himself losing his footing. Lost and scared, he walked down the hall to the rotunda that housed the department’s library. It contained a display case with a collection of craniums that were reflected in the glass. The skulls were of different sizes, but they all looked alike. As though they had been created by someone who wanted to practise doing different scale models. Hollow-eyed capsules in various shades of yellowy white. The smaller animal craniums were so tiny they looked like something you’d collect at a beach.
The sensation that had just eluded him slithered by once more in the ever-shrinking nook of awareness he had access to, and this time it left something in its wake. A feeling that he had committed some sort of crime. But what had he done?
Powerlessness swelled within him. He sank into a squat and grunted and pressed his hands to his head. Then he jumped up and gave the display case a shove. The craniums responded by executing a hastily coordinated relocation. He grabbed the edge, rocked the case up against his chest and hurled it away. It tipped over, so slowly he had time to see the skulls gather in a grinning heap that tumbled around and around before the display case smashed against the floor. The glass shattered with a loud, symphonic crash and before he knew it, he was running down the hallway like a hunted madman.
*
Johanna was in the kitchen when he came home. He waited in the hallway for a while, watching her, before he could work up the courage to enter. He tried to touch her, but she pulled her arm away and looked at him like he had groped her.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I don’t work there any more.’
‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘No, what could it be? Seven? Half seven?’
‘It’s four, Anders. Quarter past four. That’s when you get back.’
His eyes veered to the digital numbers on the microwave.
‘Yes, well, I did think work seemed a bit deserted.’
He met her eyes and leaned forward with his head in his hands, supporting his elbows on the table.
‘I think there’s something in my head,’ he mumbled.
‘There’s no tapeworm in your head,’ she said. ‘We already checked.’
‘I mean something else. Something worse. It’s like there’s someone in here.’ He screwed his index finger against his temple. ‘Another person. I don’t know how to explain. It’s kind of cramped. It’s really scary.’
‘I’m going to bed,’ she said and stood up.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I think I’m going to sit here for a while.’
Just before she shut the bedroom door, he called out:
‘Are you hungry? I could make something to eat.’
*
He walked through the woods aimlessly. But then there it was. A red construction trailer wedged among the spruce trees. Its chimney like a periscope. Black, empty windows.
He got out the key that hung on a nail under the wooden deck, climbed the steel mesh stairs, entered and shut the door behind him.
Everything seemed familiar yet strange. The ear protectors that had been hooked onto a pair of rugged, brown ram’s horns that cast long, pointed shadows on the wall. The glasses and plates in the washing-up bucket. The white bell shade and motionless glass prisms of the kerosene lamp. A silly miniature gold hat neatly folded from a flattened beer can.
There was an open sleeping bag on the mattress on the lower bunk and a toiletry bag next to the bed. He looked under the bed. There was a suitcase there. When he noticed the clothes in it, he was suddenly terrified. He even walked over to the door, ready to leave. But he stayed.
The whisky bottle was mounted upside down on a stripped wooden log and had a tap. He poured a slug into a coffee cup and sat down at the table. A few maps were scattered on it. A cube of writing notes. He looked at the top one and was relieved to see it wasn’t his handwriting. A shopping list, scribbled in ink. Kerosene. Coffee filter holder. Paper plates. Terminal clamps.
He tore off the note. Picked up the pen but put it back down. Sat there with a smile on his lips. Without drinking, almost without moving. Hours passed. Flies were crawling on the window, but he saw nothing.
Then he suddenly stood up, opened the door and said:
‘Come in.’
It was early morning when they arrived in Dorotea. They parked a few hundred yards from Rune’s house, which they could glimpse at the edge of the forest on the other side of a meadow where a listing maypole stood. A percent sign in the pale light of dawn. Lennart walked down toward the house alone. A brick bungalow with a black concrete tile roof. Two cars were parked in front of the attached garage. A van and an old Saab. A rose inside a cone of transparent plastic wrapping could be seen through the Saab’s rear window. It had been there so long it had withered into a black horror flower. There was a car seat in the back; Lennart stood staring at that for a good while before climbing the front step and knocking on the door. Music was coming from inside. Through the years, we all will be together. He peered in through the textured glass sidelight. The only thing moving in the disorienting sea of refractions was his own face. Hang a shining star upon the highest bough, and have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
The door opened a crack, revealing a topless human. A youth. The beard around his mouth split into two ginger feelers.
‘Where’s Rune?’
‘He’s not here.’
Lennart grabbed the handle and tore the door open. The young man backed away. His arms were covered in tattoos that looked homemade. He was holding a boxcutter.
‘You’re not allowed here,’ he said.
Lennart glanced into the kitchen. A brown refrigerator door reflected the fluorescent ceiling lights. There was post on the table, a fan of white envelopes. He pushed past the young man and followed the music into the living room.
He was sitting on the sofa. The wrinkled face that had been Rune’s was streaked with brown discolouration and a yellow eye was staring out through one of the roughly cut holes where Rune’s eyes had once been; looking into that eye was like meeting the gaze of a lunatic through a keyhole.
A skinny girl was sitting pressed up against this horrifying figure. Her head was shaved and her arms verdant with meandering tattoo tendrils. She was clasping the old man’s hand, which was hidden inside a work glove, between her own.
For a second or two, Lennart stood motionless, staring at them. Then he turned without a word and walked briskly back to the hallway and out through the front door.
*
Grete was sitting outside the motorhome and saw him lumbering back up the road. When he drew near, she grabbed her cr
utch, an aluminium pipe with a cuff of solid plastic, and stood up.
‘Wasn’t he home?’
Lennart sat down, panting.
‘Both yes and no,’ he said.
The narrow strip of forehead that was visible between her sunglasses and headscarf furrowed.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Rune’s dead. And the wolf has used his face to make a mask. He’s pulled the skin from his skull and made a mask, with hair and all the rest.’
The motorhome door opened and Ingvill came out and sat down on the steps. She was wearing a men’s shirt and knitted hat.
‘You can’t do things like that with claws,’ the old lady said. ‘He must have had help.’
Lennart nodded.
‘A boy and a girl in their twenties. They have a little one too.’
‘A child,’ Grete said thoughtfully and dug the crutch’s rubber tip into the gravel while she studied the house on the other side of the meadow with newfound interest.
Then she turned to him with a smile.
‘Are you telling me you’ve never seen it before? A mask.’
He shook his head.
‘Not that kind. Made from a human.’
‘No,’ she said, nodding agreement, ‘it’s likely a wolf thing. Were you scared?’
‘I don’t know about scared. But it wasn’t exactly what I had expected, put it that way. The question is what we do now.’
‘But what did he say?’
‘There didn’t seem much point in talking to him. Given what he’s done to Rune.’
‘But we don’t know that he killed him. He could have died of natural causes. The mask could be an expression of grief and loss. No?’
‘So you think I should go back?’
‘I’ll go with you.’
*
The girl opened the door. She was holding a toddler in her arms. A boy who was breathing through his mouth. Sweaty curls were plastered to his big head. There was a plaster on his cheek and a sock had been put over his right hand and taped in place around the oedemic arm.
She looked at them for a second before stepping aside and letting them into the hallway. The wolf man was still sitting where Lennart had left him on the sofa and the same Christmas song was playing. When Lennart and Grete stepped into the living room, he turned his head to them. Then he tilted it back a little, so he could see out with both eyes. Sliced by the blinds, the light from outside drew a ladder across his face, on which Rune’s features appeared in a twisted, helpless expression.
