Stallo

by Stefan Spjut

‘Can you help me with this, little fellow?’ he said.

  Oddly enough, the boy showed no shyness. He strode into the kitchen, let the mouseshifter leap down onto the table, and took the egg from the old man’s rough hand. He unwrapped the foil as Lennart watched him with his eyes half closed.

  ‘You’ll have to open it too.’

  Mattias purposefully broke apart the two chocolate halves and removed the plastic egg inside. It was yellow.

  ‘Was that all?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Is it an egg yolk?’

  Mattias shook his head.

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘A toy.’

  ‘A toy?’

  Mattias shook the container, and it rattled.

  ‘So there’s something inside?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Is it a chicken?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Open that one too. Then we can see what we’ve got.’

  The brown halves that Mattias laid on the table instantly attracted the little mouseshifter’s attention, but it seemed as if it was afraid to touch or even approach the chocolate. The boy struggled with the plastic egg but his small fingers kept sliding off.

  ‘I can’t do it.’

  Lennart took the yellow container and pressed it together until one side came apart from the other with a popping sound. Then he shook out the contents onto the table. There were colourful pieces of plastic and a slip of paper, coiled from being rolled up. When Seved bent under the table to pick up one of the plastic halves that had fallen down he saw the hare looking at him. It had lowered its neck exactly as if it had been a cat about to run up and play with something that had landed on the floor. It was an old hare and its whiskers were thick and unpleasantly long.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lennart.

  The boy sorted through the pieces, picked them up and examined them.

  ‘A dinosaur, I think.’

  ‘Do you want it?’ Lennart asked.

  Mattias shrugged.

  ‘What about some sweets then?’ the man grunted, resting his hand on the pile of sweet bags. They rustled as he moved his hand among them.

  ‘There are all sorts here,’ he said. ‘Dummies and things.’

  ‘I’d like some cola,’ said the boy, scratching his head under his hat.

  Signe unscrewed the cap of one of the bottles and it started to spray, so she hurried to the sink as the brown liquid overflowed.

  ‘They’ve been in the car,’ Lennart explained.

  After wiping the bottle she poured out a glass, which she placed in front of Mattias. He took hold of it in both hands and drank.

  When he had finished he put the glass down in front of him and asked:

  ‘Can I go home now?’

  ‘You want to go home?’ Lennart asked.

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Why so soon?’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Lennart, ‘I’ve just spoken to your mum, and she said it would be good if you could stay here overnight. Then you can go home tomorrow. They have lots to do, seeing as it’s nearly Christmas.’

  ‘I want to phone her and talk to her.’

  ‘And they were very tired,’ Lennart continued. ‘They were very tired and were going to go to bed early. They didn’t want us to phone and wake them. But we can phone tomorrow.’

  The boy did not move. He was fighting back the tears.

  ‘Tomorrow we’ll phone your mum,’ said Lennart. ‘And when you have drunk your cola I think you should go to bed, so that you will be wide awake tomorrow and can play with your friend. You’re going to have your very own room to stay in, you and your friend. That’ll be nice, won’t it, little fellow?’

  Torbjörn sat up, reached out his slim arm and pulled the pizza box onto the floor. Then he went into the kitchen. There was a clatter as he searched in the drawer for cutlery. Everything was in a mess, and he searched for some time before coming back and sitting cross-legged against the sofa. First he cut the pizza into slices, and then into smaller pieces which he put into his mouth with a fork.

  He stabbed a piece of pizza and said with his mouth full:

  ‘You’ve got to follow it up somehow.’

  ‘My sister reckons it’s someone dressed up.’

  ‘Cecilia?’

  Susso nodded and shoved the grease-stained carton onto the floor, then lay on her back and stretched out her legs.

  ‘It’s like …’ she said, and then fell silent because she had to think. ‘It’s like I want Cecilia to be right – that it isn’t real, that it is only someone in disguise. Or else it’s a completely normal dwarf – you know what I mean, a really short person who is interested in Edit Mickelsson’s house for some reason. I can’t bear the thought of it being anything other than a human being. Even I can’t bear that. Do you understand?’

  Torbjörn had eaten less than a fifth of his pizza and it seemed enough for him because out came the snus tin. Holding it in his hand he stood up, ambled over to the computer and switched it on. The seat of his trousers hung low, exposing the lettering on the wide waistband of his underpants. A string of fine dark hair clambered up his lower vertebrae. Susso knew how silky it felt under her fingers.

  ‘It could be a mask,’ he said, leaning towards the screen. ‘But then again, you can see how tiny he is. Less than a metre tall, I would guess. How old are you when you’re a metre tall? Three? And the photo is taken at five thirty in the morning. Not many three-year-olds out at that time.’

  After a while he said, without turning round:

  ‘Do you trust her? The old woman?’

  ‘I’m a hundred per cent sure she’s not a hoaxer, if that’s what you mean.’

  He spun the chair round.

  ‘In that case there are two alternatives. It’s either a dwarf who looks like this, or a dwarf who is wearing a mask. And for some unknown reason he’s sneaking around up there in Vaikijaur.’

  ‘Three,’ said Susso, looking up at the ceiling. ‘There are three alternatives.’

  ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘And what’s the third?’

  ‘That it’s a real troll.’

  It was silent for a long time.

  Eventually he said quietly:

  ‘Okay. Three alternatives.’

  Then he stood up and asked if he should switch off the computer, but Susso told him to leave it on, so he returned to where he had been sitting in front of the television.

  ‘Come here,’ she said, holding out her hand.

  He was holding a snus pouch between his fingers and looked at her with his mouth open. Then he turned to face the television again.

  ‘No,’ he said, inserting the snus.

  ‘I only want you to see something.’

  ‘What?’

  She rolled onto her stomach, folded the pillow into a pad and placed it under her chin.

  ‘My bruise,’ she grinned.

  He snorted.

  ‘I don’t want to see your fucking bruise.’

  ‘It’s not a fucking bruise. It’s my bruise. My lovely bruise.’

  ‘Susso,’ he said, ‘cut it out. I know your tricks.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, beckoning with her finger.

  He shook his head.

  ‘C’mon here, boy. Good boy.’

  ‘Cut it out, for God’s sake!’

  *

  They didn’t fall out exactly but there was irritation and silence between them, and the television droned on, unremitting and soporific. Susso nodded off, and when she woke Torbjörn had gone. But the sheet under the pillow was soaking wet. When she patted it she could feel that not all the snow had melted. He always did that: brought in lumps of snow and put them in the bed. It amused him enormously. She swore at him, but still she was happy that he had played the trick on her. It meant he couldn’t be too annoyed.

  She did not know what to make of him. He seemed embarrassed, only partially present. But she did not want to ask him if he had met any
one else. If he was forced to say it, there was a risk he would hear his own words. And that could sway him. Make him clam up.

  It had been fairly okay between them, but he had left anyway. Although it was probably like Gudrun said: if his feelings were stronger, he would not have minded. That scared her. Because she did not mind. She thought the situation was pretty difficult, naturally, but not insurmountable.

  About six months after he had moved to Luleå he had turned up at Ferrum, out of nowhere, wearing a new shirt and with his hair spiky and a beer in his hand. She had screamed at him and had enjoyed seeing his face flatten in a grimace. She could not remember what he had said in his defence. Probably nothing. Later that evening he had got involved in a fight, rolling around on the ground outside, standing there afterwards with his jumper caked with snow, pestering the doormen who resolutely pushed him away. And he had lost the cloakroom ticket for his jacket and had to spend the night at her place. The cold was ferocious and naturally he had no taxi money – he had shown her his wallet. In bed he had indifferently stroked her hip with limp fingers, but had then given up and fallen asleep with the snus still in his mouth. After that they had not been in touch until he came back home and started working for Wassara.

  After she had pulled off the sheet and thrown it in the laundry basket she picked up the pizza boxes and pushed them into the bin. They stuck out at the top and the cupboard door would not close.

  She sat with her back against the cold stone wall and watched television, holding the remote. She clicked on teletext. There was a film on at nine, but it was not even six thirty, so she walked to the bookshelf and stared at her DVDs for a long time. There were about twenty. She ran through some of the scenes in her head but nothing really appealed.

  Her mobile began to buzz on the coffee table. Susso stretched forwards and saw that it was Edit. For a moment she hesitated, trying to decide whether to answer or not. Eventually she picked up the phone.

  She could hear immediately that something was wrong. Edit apologised for calling like this on a Saturday, and when Susso assured her it was not a problem she said in voice almost like a whisper:

  ‘Mattias is missing.’

  The boy was dressed in his outdoor clothes and holding the mouseshifter he had named Jim close to his chest. The little creature sat stock still, with its rounded cheek against the boy’s snowsuit. It looked as if it was listening to the boy’s heartbeat. Below the worried creases on its forehead the eyes showed like black peppercorns.

  Signe asked the boy if he wanted his hat, and when there was no answer she pushed it down on his head and then straightened it so that he could see properly.

  ‘It’s cold in there,’ she said in a low voice.

  Lennart had opened the door to Hybblet and was standing on the porch steps waiting for them. He had opened a couple of windows as well, to get rid of the worst of the smell.

  They walked across the yard, Signe first, then the boy and lastly Seved. Börje was not with them. He had gone to lie down again. He had told Seved that Lennart had taken care of Ejvor’s body, and when Seved had asked what he had done with it, he had mumbled that it did not matter. Did this mean he did not know or that he did not want to say? Seved was unsure. Börje had looked so grey and fragile he had not wanted to question him any further.

  The door to the kitchen was closed and Seved was careful not to breathe in through his nose. The stench in Hybblet had always been hideous but he did not want to know if there was a different kind of smell. Like something new had been added to it.

  The room known as the jumping room was empty apart from a green-painted metal bed frame standing in the middle of the floor. A dirty yellow foam mattress was lying on it.

  ‘Here,’ Lennart said, pointing to the bed. ‘This is where you can jump if you want to. That’s what this bed is for.’

  Through the open window where net curtains were flapping a parched light fell onto the floor tiles dotted with mouse droppings.

  The boy looked at the bed.

  He did not understand a thing.

  He pressed the little object hard to his chest and ran his eyes over the walls.

  Seved remembered standing there himself.

  How Ejvor had forced him to jump.

  How she had held onto his hands and jumped with him.

  How he had hated it.

  ‘You have a go,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lennart. ‘You have a go, little fellow.’

  Susso told me to put on teletext, and when I didn’t do as she said immediately, because I thought she only wanted to see what was on the other channels, she told me again, this time almost shouting. At first I thought she was annoyed because my boyfriend Roland was over and we weren’t properly dressed, which made me annoyed because I thought we had the right to be completely naked if we chose. Her habit of walking straight into the flat often got on my nerves.

  I grabbed the remote and changed to teletext:

  FOUR-YEAR-OLD BOY ABDUCTED IN JOKKMOKK

  At first I didn’t understand at all: which four-year-old boy? My thoughts were still grinding slowly, or unwillingly, after the hour we had spent in the sauna earlier, so Susso had to explain that the missing boy was Edit’s grandchild.

  ‘The one who was with her when she saw!’ she said.

  ‘It’s two minutes to,’ said Roland. ‘Switch the news on.’

  Dazed, I changed to a different channel. My left hand picked nervously at the collar of my silk dressing gown. It was not so much the news as Susso’s peculiar behaviour that worried me. I had never known her to be so solemn.

  The television wouldn’t obey the remote, so I stood up to get as close to it as possible.

  Flying above the snow-topped fir trees was a police helicopter, chasing its powerful light over the ice of Lake Vaikijaur. And there was a voice saying:

  ‘Four-year-old Mattias was visiting his grandmother on Friday. At five o’clock his mother realised that he had not come home and alerted the police.’

  A squinting police officer from the Luleå police force was standing in front of a furry grey microphone from Nordnytt TV.

  ‘The charge,’ he said, and then he paused. ‘Is kidnapping.’

  ‘Oh God,’ I said, and sat down on the coffee table, carefully so it would not tip. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘A witness saw Mattias in an unknown car, a brown Volvo 240, in central Jokkmokk at four fifteen on Friday afternoon. The police are appealing to the public.

  ‘If anyone has seen anything in the vicinity or has any other information, please contact us,’ the police officer said. ‘However small, it could help.’

  Susso stood immobile, concentrating, her arms folded. She had lowered her forehead as if to confront the news head on. The item was over, and I searched the channels looking for other news bulletins.

  ‘But what does she say?’ I asked, pumping the arrow-shaped button with my thumb. ‘What does Edit say?’

  Susso went into the kitchen. She returned with a wine bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. She poured the wine and drank deeply.

  Roland had crossed his arms and was leaning back in the sofa.

  A feeling of uneasiness came over me. My stomach was in knots.

  ‘His parents,’ I went on. ‘What do his parents say?’

  Susso shook her head, not in answer but more to indicate that she hadn’t the energy to answer. She sat in the armchair, holding the wine glass in both hands. Her eyes were directed at the wooden floor. The bottle stood on the glass-topped table, shining a deep red.

  ‘What if he’s the one who’s taken the boy?’

  ‘Who?’ I asked. ‘The troll?’

  Susso nodded.

  ‘What troll?’ Roland asked, sitting with his hands on his kneecaps, his eyes wandering between me and Susso.

  I kept quiet for a moment, fiddling with the small clip of my watch strap, which rubbed against the veins where the skin is so thin.

  ‘It’s like this: Susso has taken a
picture of a troll,’ I said finally, slowly placing the remote on the table. ‘Or maybe a gnome. At least, we think that’s what it could be. And it was there at that little boy’s granny’s house.’

  I told him the whole story and how the picture had been taken with a wildlife camera outside Edit’s house.

  A deep exhalation of breath came from the sofa. Roland was staring grimly out of the window. He’s not going to put up with us, I thought. He’s not letting on what he really thinks. He’s going to give up now. It’s making him cocky. Any minute now he’ll snort and maybe come out with a sarcastic remark. Oh God, what if he does? Susso will be furious. We had spoken about the troll several times before, me and Roland, so it couldn’t just be avoided, but even though he had never mocked me I got round it by pretending I didn’t believe it. From habit, because I was afraid of scaring him off.

  ‘Can I have a look?’ he said.

  *

  Roland sat wordlessly looking at the laptop on the kitchen table. He had pushed his glasses down the bridge of his nose. After a while he grabbed the screen and angled it a fraction as he leaned closer.

  ‘So this is supposed to be a troll …’

  ‘We don’t know,’ I said. ‘But it certainly could be, couldn’t it?’

  He gave a laugh.

  ‘Could be? Well, yes, perhaps.’

  He craned his neck and shouted in the direction of the sitting room:

  ‘Have you shown this picture to the police?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ Susso answered. ‘But I think Edit has. At least, that’s what she said she’d do. Tell them it’s on the website.’

  Roland nodded.

  I went back to Susso. She was lounging in the armchair, her hand against her chest, tapping on her mobile. In the gap between her trousers and her jumper there was a roll of fat with her navel in the centre. It was snowing and I stood looking out. Mainly because I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Did you ever meet him?’ I said eventually.

  She didn’t answer, so I turned round.

  ‘Susso. Did you meet the boy?’

  She shook her head, texting with both thumbs.

  ‘What about his mum and dad?’ I said. ‘Do they live together?’