by Stefan Spjut
‘I’m going to gouge your eye out! Stop staring at me!’
When he plunged the knife in, she kicked her feet and growled furiously behind the tape covering her mouth. Then she lay curled up with her face against the asphalt, emitting a strange, humming sound. Abraham stood up and put the knife back in its sheath and picked up the weasel, which craned its long neck and squirmed around so as not to lose sight of the suffering woman.
‘She shouldn’t have stared at me,’ he panted.
Ingvill squatted down, put a hand on Susso’s arm and tried to make her turn around. After having a look at her blood-streaked face, she rummaged around the boot of the Audi. She found a small piece of clothing, a girl’s denim skirt, which she folded up and put over the damaged eye.
‘Hold this,’ she said.
Abraham reluctantly sank into a squat and held the skirt in place while Ingvill pulled off a piece of tape that she wrapped around Susso’s head. Then she continued wrapping her head in tape.
‘She shouldn’t have stared at me.’
Lennart walked away, climbed back into the van and sat there staring at the empty car park until Fanny came out with the little boy on her arm.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘so he’s fed and happy now?’
Anders had asked if he should bring anything and she had said valuables, but when he lugged the TV over, with its power cord dangling like a tail, she had giggled at him.
‘Valuables, Anders. Cash and jewellery.’
As he moved to carry the TV back, she told him to just throw it on the floor. He hesitated at first. Then he did it. She laughed hoarsely at him and praised him. He was left wondering if he had dropped the TV.
There was a heart-shaped jewellery box on the dresser in the bedroom; he was gazing into it dreamily when she entered. She had a look in the box, pulled out an earring and looked at it like she’d found a dead bug. She muttered something in Finnish and he could sense it was a derogatory remark. Was this all?
He went into William’s room, pulled out his desk drawers and rummaged through his papers and pens and tangled headphones until he found a black plastic box. It said ‘Ceverin Jewellers’ in embossed letters on the lid. Inside it, on a bed of cotton wool, rested a gold chain with a pendant in the shape of an ox. The boy had been given it for his confirmation, but he didn’t know by whom, maybe his grandparents, and he had never seen him wear it. He held the necklace up for Stava to see. He figured it was gold at least, but she didn’t even look at it.
‘How much money do you have in your bank account?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied and tried to fit the lid back onto the tiny box. ‘A few thousand.’
She asked if he had any weapons and he nodded.
They went down to the basement and he opened the gun safe and stepped aside. As if to make room for a potential buyer. She picked up a box of ammunition and shook it, then she took the .30-06 from the rack and picked up the shoulder bag with the ammunition.
When they stepped out the front door, the wolf was standing there, watching them with its head lowered. Anders stopped in the doorway, fearful. Stava opened the boot and the wolf jumped in like a German Shepherd.
They got in the car and drove off. Out on Bergslagsvägen and down road 68 toward Gävle. He opened his hand and looked at the tiny ox that had been pressed into his skin.
*
She held the wheel casually, with her elbow against her stomach. He could tell she was angry, but he didn’t understand why. He could hardly be blamed for there not being more valuables in his home, now could he?
The air in the car was crackling with her displeasure. Anders sat shaking his head; he shook it incessantly. Like a mental patient facing the wall in a common room. As though his entire existence revolved around a single question to which he was doomed to answer no for the rest of eternity.
‘We can’t arrive empty-handed,’ she said.
Anders said nothing. He was too busy shaking his head, convinced terrible pain would set in the moment he stopped moving it.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’m glad we’re in agreement.’
Her eyes roved across the landscape. Fields sprinkled with silage bales. Red wooden houses immersed in verdant greenery.
‘Are there any rich people around here?’
‘Rich people?’
She nodded.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘No neighbour of yours?’
‘Why am I feeling like this, what’s happening to me?’
Lennart followed behind the motorhome. Sometimes he saw Ingvill’s elbow moving in the rear-view mirror. They had crossed over into Norway. The fens and low-trunked birch woods disappeared, replaced by blue-tinted mountainsides and roads leading up and then down and then up again.
They stopped for petrol in Varangerbotn and then followed the road that ran along the stony shores of the sea fjord. Every now and then, a breeze smoothed dark fields on the water. Far out in the distance, there was a person in a boat, their life jacket like an orange dot.
The further out on the barren peninsula they got, the further apart the houses were, and the more derelict.
Once the boy woke up, he sat watching Lennart with enigmatic patience. Lennart told him to look at the sheep lining the road like grey rocks, but the boy never took his eyes off him.
*
The road up the mountain to the bunker was little more than a trail. A woman was walking along its edge and when Lennart climbed out of the car, he heard a dog barking not too far away.
He followed Abraham into the motorhome. Grete was sitting on the floor by the sofa. Her shiny scalp could be glimpsed between her wilting strands of hair. Her top lip arched, wrinkled and taut, across the teeth of her upper jaw as she tugged at the blanket in an attempt to hide her legs. When Abraham knelt down to lift her up, she let out a sound that made him shy away. He straightened up, bewildered. Ingvill said something inaudible from over by the bed and Grete smiled without looking at them.
‘I’m tired, lads. You’ll have to come back later.’
They went outside and stood in silence, united in confusion.
‘There’s too many people around,’ Lennart said. ‘We have to wait for nightfall.’
Abraham took out his weasel. It lay curled up in the palm of his hand; which end was which was anyone’s guess.
After a while, Ingvill came out with a camping mat under her arm. She walked around the motorhome and unrolled the mat on the ground. She hid her head in her hood and lay down on her side with her arms crossed, her knees pulled up and her eyes closed as the sea wind filled her jacket with folds and blisters.
The little boy toddled over to her but when he put his hands on her leg, she pulled it away. Her shoe hit him in the stomach and he sat down hard on his bottom. He didn’t cry, just looked wonderingly at the woman who had kicked him, then he struggled back onto his feet and tottered off in the opposite direction; a golden plover called from somewhere.
I recognised the girl, so I knew who he had to be and naturally assumed Diana was nearby too, but the shop was so crowded and the queue to the till kept growing, so I didn’t have time to look for her. I didn’t even have time to ponder what her reason for coming might be. Had she been out to see Susso or had she just stopped by to say hi? To my surprise, I couldn’t actually see her anywhere. It was just the little girl and her dad. He had been standing there, holding her hand, the entire time, but now he let go and came up to the till and from the grave look on his face, I could tell something was amiss. He introduced himself as Håkan Sillfors and having made sure I was Susso’s mother, he got straight to the point. Diana had gone to see Susso the day before, on Friday. She had let him know she was going to spend the night and be back in the morning. Now it was almost five and she had neither come home nor been in touch. And she wasn’t answering her phone and hadn’t read any texts since last night.
‘And we’re getting a bit worried,’ he said.
He must have sensed
what I was thinking, because his expression changed. He had probably counted on me at least trying to calm him down and when I didn’t, but rather acted as though I were about to pass out, he demanded, through gritted teeth, that I give him Susso’s address.
‘It’s not what you think,’ I said.
‘Would you please give me her address.’
‘Just let me close up and balance the till.’
*
He borrowed his father-in-law’s car, swapping it for the little girl. Kent Sillfors’ car was a red Skoda and having it in the rear-view mirror on the E10 motorway felt like being tailed by the police. Because I knew he was sitting there, thinking all kinds of thoughts about me, like the police do when they’re keeping an eye on a car in front of them. Like heat against the back of my neck. He was a doctor too, and he and Diana had likely discussed Susso, and probably our entire family, and it wasn’t hard to imagine what that conversation had been like.
I always used to be proud of my name, boastful even. I would pronounce it with a level of smugness in any and all contexts. When a stranger found out what my name was, I would follow up with he was my dad before they were even through asking whether I was related to Gunnar Myrén. I was that eager to bask in his glory. However, that glory had gradually faded and eventually vanished and these days I felt a pall had been cast over our name. I certainly didn’t take any joy in telling people my name any more; it made me feel ashamed, because I knew people no longer associated the name Myrén with pictures of beautiful mountains; they associated the name Myrén with pictures of trolls. Faked pictures. Counterfeiting. And as if that wasn’t enough, kidnapping and obscure cults too. That’s what Margareta Oja had told me when she came in the shop one day, that someone had asked her on Facebook what our connections had really been with that kidnapper cult outside Sorsele. And she obviously didn’t want to reveal who it was who had asked. She felt it didn’t matter. And that was the worst of it, that she said it didn’t matter who had asked the question, because that made it seem general. Everyone is wondering. Everyone is talking. That was why she had popped by and told me about it, under the guise of wanting to share a confidence. She probably thought I shouldn’t look quite so smug, standing by my little display case in the village hall, for everyone to see, because as we all know, you must never think too highly of yourself, and definitely not of your father. And she succeeded, I’m sad to say. I took it to heart. It went straight in. I probably wouldn’t have cared if it had been some random snide remark, but this was obviously something that had already gnawed at me for a long time.
*
For some reason, I took the fact that Diana’s car wasn’t parked by the house as a good sign, and I told Håkan she might already be on her way home. We would have met her on the road, he countered. I don’t know why I assumed the role of optimist, maybe that’s just what happens in difficult situations: if one person pulls one way, the other takes the opposite tack. I felt anything but optimistic on the inside.
Håkan barged through the door, calling Diana’s name; the sound of his voice broke my heart. The worry I had carried inside for years had been just that, a worry. Something internal. Now here he was, shouting. It was suddenly serious. I didn’t call out; I was already bracing for the worst and didn’t know if I could even bring myself to enter the house.
Diana’s phone was charging on the floor. He yanked the cord out and stomped up the stairs with the phone in his hand.
When I reached the upper landing, he had already gone into Susso’s bedroom. He stood there, stock-still in complete silence and when I came in, I realised why.
There was a man sitting on Susso’s bed. The bed was unmade but the man was fully dressed. He had a red beard and his arms were covered in tattoos.
‘Where is she?’ Håkan demanded.
‘We’re going to live here,’ he said without looking at us.
‘What?’
‘We’re going to live here.’
‘Where the fuck is she!’
Håkan was instantly furious; he revved up like an engine. He kicked at the feet sticking out from the bed and when the man pulled them back and curled up in the foetal position among the pillows, he lunged at him and grabbed his throat with both hands. He straddled him and bellowed into his blood-filled face, where is she, where is she, what did you do to her!
Did I try to intervene? I might have mumbled something, but that was it. I stood there, watching Håkan Sillfors strangle that poor sod. I was invaded by the dark energies that were also filling Håkan with a murderous rage. But I was neither murderous nor rageful. I was nothing. I felt absolutely nothing. The man was emitting gurgling sounds and I just stood there, looking at his feet, which twitched and then stopped twitching. Pilled white socks that said INTERSPORT, I remember that clearly, and I suppose I’ll never forget it.
Afterwards, Håkan slid to the floor and sat with his back against the bed, staring vacantly into thin air. Not at me; I don’t even think he was aware I was in the room. I was also fairly certain he hadn’t seen what I’d seen and if he had, he had no way of knowing what it meant.
‘Håkan!’ I said.
That made him look up. Then it was as though he suddenly realised what he’d done, because he leapt up onto the bed and tried to resuscitate the man, who lay there with his mouth wide open, his baseball cap still on his head, oddly enough. He carried on for quite some time, doing rescue breathing, which looked obscene, and trying to get his heart to start beating, but what good did that do, the guy’s face looked like a prune. In the end, he gave up and slid back down to the floor and this time, he buried his head in his hands.
‘What have I done,’ he said, ‘what have I done.’
‘Håkan, it wasn’t your fault.’
‘How can you say that? I strangled him! I’ve strangled a person. And I don’t even know who he is. And I strangled him. Oh my God.’
He held his hands up in front of him and stared at them like they were two alien instruments.
I put a hand on his knee and maintained that it wasn’t his fault and that everything was going to be okay. Håkan pulled out his phone and moments later, Diana’s phone lit up on the bed; he reached for it and sat looking at it as it rang. It seemed to give him comfort. Then he said he was going to call the police.
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Let’s think about this.’
He didn’t want to do that, he wanted to call straight away.
So I took his phone from him and put it in my handbag, and then I took Diana’s phone as well. I helped him up and led him out of the room, walking as slowly as I could make myself, only to then slam the door shut, quick as lightning, before the mouse could get out.
*
It had been sitting on the bed. A tiny little thing, not much bigger than a pine cone, and it was lucky I spotted it, because otherwise who knows what might have happened. There were bald patches in its fur, and it walked on two legs or four by turns. Håkan was calling Diana’s name again and wanted to search the garden, but I told him there was no point.
After nagging and pulling at him for a while, I managed to make him sit down at the kitchen table. Broken glass crunched under my feet when I fetched him a glass of water. He sat with his head in his hands.
‘Drink this.’
I pulled out a chair and sat down across from him.
‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘No, but you see, I do.’
‘What have I fucking done.’
‘It wasn’t you.’
‘Gudrun. What have I done.’
‘There was someone else in that room.’
‘We have to call the police, we have to look for her.’
‘We will look for her. But we’re not going to call the police.’
‘Give me the phone.’
He held his hand out across the table. It was shaking.
‘Listen to me, Håkan. If we call the police, you’re going to end up in prison for I don’t know how many years, and Diana wi
ll probably never come back. Do you understand what I’m telling you? If we call the police, Kiruna will be an orphan. You don’t want that, do you?’
He stared at me and at length lowered his hand.
‘Calling the police,’ I said, ‘is a bad idea.’
‘Then what do we do?’
I pondered that for a minute. Leaned back in my chair. And then I saw it. It was sitting on the threshold, looking at us. What had I expected? After all, a mouse can squeeze through cracks light can barely get through.
‘Come on,’ I said and pulled Håkan out of the kitchen.
We climbed into the car and I was quick to shut the doors and lock them. Then I studied him from the side. He looked broken.
‘Did you by any chance notice a mouse up there? That there was a mouse on the bed. This big.’ I showed him with my thumb and forefinger. ‘Tail included.’
Håkan made no reply. He just stared vacantly into thin air.
‘That’s what made you strangle that man.’
‘Gudrun.’
‘Yes?’
‘What have I fucking done.’
‘I know it’s hard to understand, especially for a doctor, but you understanding this right here, right now, is critical if we want to find Diana.’
He looked completely helpless.
‘I want to turn back time.’
‘You can’t.’
‘No.’
‘There’s no chance of that.’
‘What have I done.’
‘This mouse,’ I said, ‘it has some kind of telepathic power. I don’t know how it happens, but they can get in your head and mess you up in there. Why do you think I did nothing to stop you, Håkan! Have you thought about that? I was affected too, don’t you see? Do you understand what I’m telling you?’
He shook his head.
‘Can you at least hear what I’m telling you?’
He nodded.
‘Good. That’s all I ask. For now.’
We sat gazing out at the river and I wondered where the mouse might be. It was probably sitting in the grass just outside the car, pondering how to get inside; the thought made me queasy. The windows were fogging up.
