by Will Dean
She stirs the melting ice cubes into the soup and my stomach grumbles. I think it’s inaudible to them. I hope so.
‘Sit down, let me get you a drink, you look like you could do with one.’
‘Just water, thanks.’
‘You can have a small glass, surely?’ says Hannes as he takes a bottle of white wine from the fridge and opens it. I watch as a bead of cool water rolls down one side of the bottle. ‘You get pulled over by Björn or Thord, you just tell them you drank Hannes Carlsson’s Chablis and then they’ll let you be on your way.’
The cork pops out and he pours me a large glass and I decide to do what I did in the strip club and sip the top ten per cent.
Frida pours three deep bowls of steaming soup and brings over a loaf of brown bread on a board.
‘Can you get the butter?’ she says to Hannes. ‘The whisked one, please.’
It all looks wonderful. I’m getting nourished and I haven’t even tasted a mouthful yet. I’m sitting at a clean table with a napkin and a glass of cold white wine and a bowl of hot soup. I ease down into my chair, my posture slipping as I start to feel relaxed and a little tired. We drink and we eat. The warm bread with whisked, salted butter is delicious and the soup is rich and earthy and I eat two deep bowlfuls.
‘I was wondering,’ I say, the wine loosening my voice. ‘Have you read any of David Holmqvist’s books? Do you know what he’s written?’
‘I don’t read fiction,’ Hannes says, like the question was only directed to him. ‘I’m too busy for made-up stories, got no time for all that. Now, you give me a good history book or an encyclopaedia and I’m right as rain but I stopped reading fairy tales when I started shaving.’
‘And like I told you before,’ says Frida. ‘We’re not even sure what he’s written.’
‘Hannes, what do you do for relaxation? You have any clubs or places locally you like to hang out?’
He sits up straight and leans towards me. ‘I hunt.’ He refills my glass and I realise I’ve drunk the whole thing. It tasted so good with that soup.
‘Oh, no more, thank you. I’ve already had far too much.’
‘Nonsense,’ Frida says. ‘You can either stay here in the spare room, or else Hannes will drop you back home, won’t you Hannes?’
‘Well,’ he says. ‘I’m on my third glass, so best not risk it.’
‘I know,’ says Frida. ‘We’ll call Viggo, how about that. It’s his job after all and we get very good rates with Viggo, only two hundred and ten into Gavrik’.’
They both look at me.
I smile and let go and nod and Hannes fills up my wine glass.
‘Is Mikey’s mother around?’ I ask. ‘How long has Viggo been a single dad?
‘She left after the boy was born,’ Hannes says. ‘Reckon she’d slept with half the Kommun by then and at least half of my hunt team.’ Hannes and Frida look at each other. ‘Karlstad girl, not from around here, she was a weirdo, that one.’
‘So,’ says Frida, changing the subject. ‘I need to do the weekly shop tomorrow so how about I drive your truck to your office in the morning and then Hannes can bring me home later on. I promise I won’t crash into anything. Is that okay with you two?’
I nod and smile. Hannes nods.
‘Now, cloudberry pie. Let me take those bowls.’
I stand up and feel slightly light-headed from the wine. I’m so out of practice since London, where wine was for sale in every corner shop and supermarket. I take the bread plates and walk them over to the sink.
‘Not for me, thanks Frida. I’m full, it’s all been so delicious.’
‘Just a smidge,’ Frida says, pinching her fingertips together. ‘Half a smidge.’
‘Okay, you persuaded me.’
She slices the pie and brings out a big bowlful of Chantilly cream with black vanilla specks. She takes a spoon and quenelles balls of cream onto the three plates as expertly as a chef on TV.
The pie tastes incredible. Not too sweet. ‘Sorry if this sounds rude,’ I say, finishing the last of the cream. ‘That was so lovely but can we call Viggo now? I need to work early tomorrow morning to get the next issue of the Posten out, it’s an important one for me.’
‘No problem.’ says Frida, clearing away the plates.
Hannes calls him.
‘Viggo’ll be here in ten minutes,’ he says.
Frida drives me to the fallen spruce and we hug goodbye. She gives me a dog-eared novel as I disappear into the needly branches. It’s called Cowboys and Wedding Bells and it looks like vintage paper-back bullshit. I thank her and see Viggo on the other side seated in his Volvo. I check my truck’s locked up and then I jump in the back seat of his car.
He doesn’t say much, just confirms the price and destination. The car’s warm and smells a little musky. He drives fast and smooth through the twists of the road, and my eyelids start to feel heavy. I’m warm and I feel my chin hit my neck a few times as I drop off.
I wake up in the digger yard close to the E16.
26
I’m sober in a second. The Volvo’s cold, the engine’s been off for a while. My seatbelt’s tight and my mouth is dry.
I have to think, have to be smart right now, no missteps.
‘Engine trouble?’ I ask, and then I spot the tea-light candle on the dash in the centre of the windscreen.
‘No trouble,’ Viggo says, facing forward like he’s still driving, the collar of his fleece jacket giving him a straight jawline in the darkness of the car.
I’m trying to think fast but the wine’s still there in the background, sluicing around and messing with me.
‘Why did we stop?’
He presses a button on the central console of the Volvo, under the pathetic little candle, and a song starts to play. I look to my right and see the door’s locked, the little plastic nub flush against the window sill. I slide my hand to the door handle as the first bars of ‘Unchained Melody’ drift out of the speakers at low volume. The door won’t open.
‘Child locks,’ Viggo says softly from the front seat, his face still in shadow, his head still pointed forward. ‘For protection.’
I’m sweating now. My feet are hot in my boots but the air is chilled and I can see my breath cloud in front of my eyes.
‘Viggo, what are you doing?’
No answer. The song continues. The candle’s flickering and I can see small souvenirs dangling in front of it. They’re in silhouette like Viggo; small mementos hanging from string under the rear-view mirror. It’s a cross, some kind of crucifix. And a Swiss army knife. And a little figure. It’s a tiny troll the size of a kiwi fruit.
‘I thought you didn’t approve of trolls, Viggo.’
I see his shoulders shake as he laughs an inaudible laugh.
‘The sisters didn’t make this one. This one’s a good troll, it’s a hustomte, a gnome to take care of things, no menace here, Tuva, not in here.’
I pull my handbag up from between my knees. No phone reception.
‘What do you want?’ I say. ‘I don’t like this.’
He seems to deflate a little and his shoulders slump down. I notice he’s wearing cologne, a scent I last smelt back in the ’90s: a unisex perfume that used to be sold in a black bottle.
‘Well that’s not what I wanted at all, now is it?’ he says. ‘I can never get these things right.’ I see him shake his head. ‘I thought we could just, chat, you know? Like adults, no children around. I liked our time the other night, with Mikey, you were really great with him.’
He pauses and I stop searching in my bag with my hand.
‘He’s a good kid,’ I say.
‘He’s not an easy child,’ Viggo says. ‘You were really something.’
‘Listen Viggo, it was nice to meet you and Mikey. But don’t do this. Just let me out now and I’ll get a friend to pick me up. Let’s just say this never happened, okay?’
He turns to face me and the candle lights up one side of his face.
‘But it di
d happen,’ he says softly with what looks like a caring expression. ‘It is happening.’
I rattle in my bag and find the canister with my hand.
‘Okay, now shut up. I’ve got a weapon here that will put you in the hospital. Let me out.’
‘So do it,’ he says, turning back to face the windscreen. ‘Unchained Melody’ peters out and we’re left in silence once more. ‘Do what you like to me, I don’t really care. I thought we could have a, not a date really . . . just a grown-up chat, so to say. I thought I’d make a little effort, as you’ve been so nice to me and Mikey.’
I take a deep breath and unclip my seatbelt.
‘Let me out, Viggo. This is over.’
‘Is it because I’m not a hunter?’ He pauses. ‘Because I’m not like Hannes and the others, all bravado and muscles and hunting stories, is that what this is about?’
I shake my head and start to answer but he holds up something between the two front seats.
‘Well, you might want to take a look at this, Tuva.’
I have my fingertip on the white tip of the bear-spray canister. I take the square piece of paper from him.
‘Turn the light on so I can see this.’
‘If you focus, you’ll see it.’
I bring it closer to my eyes and then realise I’m obscuring my view of this freak’s head so I hold it up to the window and try to keep one eye on that fleece collar.
‘It’s a target sheet.’
Viggo sits up in the driver’s seat and raises his chin a fraction.
‘All nines,’ he says, cocky again. ‘Bet you Hannes and his so-called poker buddies couldn’t get three nines. Nope. You think I’m not man enough, well I can shoot as good as an army sniper.’ He looks back at me. ‘Better than a sniper, Tuva. Now you’ve seen the proof.’
‘Here’s the deal,’ I say. The windows are steaming up and I know that the longer this goes on, the more likely it is I’ll end up face down in a ditch with my throat slit. ‘This was nice, I got to know you a little better. Thanks for the effort. I have a boyfriend in Stockholm, but otherwise I think you’re a real nice guy. Like I said before, I have a weapon in my hand but if you unlock the car right now and let me out then we’re quits. All right? Unlock my door and we’ll forget all about this and we’ll move on.’
I watch him. His breathing’s faster, his silhouette rising and falling like he’s sobbing but he’s not. I see his arm extend towards the tea light. He pinches it with his fingertips and now everything is dark. It’s pitch black and as cold as a freezer. I’m watching him.
He turns on the engine and the headlights fly forward and pick out a sleeping hoard of diggers and dumper trucks.
‘Let me out,’ I say quietly. ‘It’s time.’
He releases the handbrake.
‘You don’t need to drive me anywhere.’
‘It’s what I do.’
‘Think of Mikey,’ I say. ‘He needs his dad. He doesn’t need you to put this taxi into drive or pull away or do anything else. Think of little Mikey and unlock my door.’
Nothing. I look at the bear-spray and then out at the caterpillar tracks of the diggers.
‘Let me out now!’ I scream as loud as I can. ‘Now!’
He presses a button and there’s a clunk sound and the little plastic nub on my door pops up. I fall out of the car onto the muddy gravel and scramble away towards a dumper truck.
He drives off slowly and carefully, the Beware, Children on Board sign still erect on his taxi’s rooftop.
I use my phone to find Tammy’s number but my hands are shaking so bad I keep getting the wrong person; first Tina, my hairdresser, then Savanah, the girl from the strip club. I stand on a pallet and get one bar of reception. Still trembling, I tap the screen and get Tammy and call her.
‘Kitchen’s closed.’
‘It’s me.’
Her tone changes instantly, like she understands exactly what I’ve just been through from those two useless words.
‘Where are you? You okay?’
‘I’m at that weird digger lot near the underpass to Mossen village. I’m okay, but––’
‘I’ll be there in five minutes. Are you safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hold tight, Tuva, I’m coming.’
I rest against the wheel of some kind of excavator and the hard rubber tyre is as tall as I am. Somehow I’m not as cold as I was in the car. It’s dark but what little light there is bounces off the machines so it’s not like being in a forest. I’m not expecting elk or wolves or snakes in this place because it’s all reassuringly metallic and mechanical.
It’s been two minutes. My eyes are starting to acclimatise and my head’s calmer now, though my heart’s still stressed, it doesn’t move on so fast. The sky’s amazing. There are so many stars that I want to open my eyes as wide as possible to try to see them all in one go. My hearing aid beeps a battery warning and I search my jacket pocket for my key fob and it’s not there. I remember I gave the bunch, minus my apartment key, to Frida back at the house. That’s fine. I’ll have them tomorrow and anyway the battery will last twenty-four hours or so and I have more at home and the one in my other aid’s practically new out the box. But nothing for my hand to jangle. My hearing now has a life expectancy.
Above me, a large cloud moves over from somewhere else and the sky falls dark. I hear something and then I spot a headlight.
In seconds she’s on me, hugging me, kissing me, asking me if I’m all right. I’m tired. I’m happy I have Tammy here in this digger graveyard, but I’m so, so tired. I jump on the back of her bike and she passes me a helmet. My tongue tastes bitter. She starts the engine and turns onto the road and the throb of the bike feels good. I’m tight against her back like a shipwrecked child clinging to a lifeboat. I’m hugging her waist so tight, my chest warming up, nestling my nose into the smooth leather of her jacket. I’m safe.
She takes me home and we walk up to the flat together and go inside.
I’m about to explain everything when she points to the kitchen worktop.
‘And what the fuck is that?’
27
Tammy picks up the troll and inspects it fearlessly, like it’s just any old Cabbage Patch doll.
‘Found it earlier,’ I say. ‘That’s why I left the flat, I wasn’t planning to leave. Found it here and just freaked out, Tams, just look at it.’
‘Looks like a local girl, born and bred.’
‘Can you dump it for me? Can you just get it out of here?’
‘Who gave this to you?’
‘Likely it was made by a couple of sisters in Mossen village, they carve this crap for handicraft fairs and Christmas markets. Don’t know if it’s a message or a gift, but this place is starting to get inside my head.’
‘Do you have to keep going back to that shitty village? Can’t you do some desk time and send Lars out there? Those people are even worse than my customers. You’re dealing with the crème de la fucking crème of Gavrik’s rednecks and perverts.’
We share half a bottle of rum and wash it down with Diet Coke. I feel normal again. Tammy’s my lifeline, my umbilical cord to the outside world. She tells me her mum’s gone travelling, no Skype contact for the last few weeks, and I realise just how different out mothers are.
I tell her more about what happened with Viggo.
‘If I ever see him, I’ll . . .’
‘I know,’ I say. I’ve stopped shaking now thanks to the rum but my heart’s still pounding. Part of me keeps imagining what could have happened tonight if he’d driven off with me and part of me shuts that down because it’s too awful.
‘You gonna talk to the cops?’ Tammy asks.
‘Tomorrow. I have no idea what he was trying to do.’
‘I have an idea,’ she says.
I take a deep breath. ‘In a way, it was just a candle. He didn’t try to get in the back seat with me, he hardly even looked at me.’
‘You let the cops decide what to do,’ she s
ays. ‘You need a lift in future, you call me.’
We hug and I persuade her I’m okay and that she can go home and leave her bike here until morning. She takes the troll and agrees to throw it down my building’s garbage chute on her way out. I almost pity it. I pull out my aids and strip and pull on a nightie I’ve had since I was a teenager. Then I climb into bed and curl up into a ball to sleep.
I wake up hot, my pillow alarm shaking my head from a vaguely enjoyable dream. I have a hangover on top of a hangover, rum on top of wine, and all mixed together with stale adrenaline. No more drinking. It’s too much of a relief, a blissful escape, a warm blanket. What happened in London can’t happen here. I’m done.
I shower and pour brightening eye drops into my eyes. As a retired optician, Mum hates these drops. For me they’re a godsend. I scrub my face with an exfoliating cream to try to rid myself of October paleness, of that dull skin look. It works. I have colour now, albeit mild-sunburn colour.
As I brush my teeth I think about Viggo. He didn’t even touch me, didn’t even say one inappropriate thing. I’ve had worse in bars and house parties. But it was him. In a taxi. That’s what was scary. It should be a place of safety and it always has been for me, drunk or sober, awake or asleep.
I’ll tell Thord and I will never again fall asleep in a taxi.
I pull out a frozen loaf of white bread and toast two slices. I have no butter but I have chocolate spread which I heap on the toast with a spoon. Water. Two paracetamol. More water. I walk to work and it’s sub-zero, or exactly zero, the worst temperature for me, raw and cutting. I turn to look at the Grimberg liquorice factory and get hit in the face by microscopic ice crystals and they burn my already beat-up cheeks. My hair freezes, each wet strand hardening and pulling chill down into my scalp. But the cold helps me to think. I remember the old cathouse by the E16 and the articles I need to email Lena today and the stories I haven’t even started to draft yet.
Frida’s waiting outside my office. She jumps out of my truck as I walk past with my collar turned up and my hands deep inside my pockets.
