Michael shakes his head.
‘I thought that was what he’d heard about, too, and that Jonathan must have been the leaker. Again. But no, it wasn’t about Antonsson. It was about …’
Michael doesn’t finish the sentence. He goes quiet instead.
‘I think it must have been Jonathan who took the Dictaphone,’ Christian says eventually.
‘So do I. But I can’t prove it — he wasn’t the only one who stayed over. And we can’t afford to shut him out. He knows too much.’
Christian takes a deep breath, wishing he were somewhere else. ‘Should we call this off?’ he says.
Six months earlier, it is summer, and Jonathan is turning twenty-two. He’s been in for a little over three years, after Christian wooed him at a mutual friend’s party in Salem. They’ve built their movement, Christian says, from the ground up. They are stronger than ever. They are going to change Sweden.
Jonathan cannot resist the temptation, can’t say no to the camaraderie and the vision: the interests of the people stand above the interests of the individual. They must be protected. He is tested, goes through initiations, and swears his loyalty. When he looks in the mirror, he stands straighter than he used to, with a look that has more conviction. His life has been instilled with a new purpose.
In June, he gets a phone call from a woman who sympathises with their aims. She wants to give them a present. A Jewish cockroach who took part in the gang-rape of a young woman out in Kista. The Jew, a man from Poland or somewhere, sits in one of the rooms used by the local office of a security company in Kista’s shopping centre.
Finally, he has the chance to prove himself. He heads straight for Kista, but on the way he starts having second thoughts. He might be walking into a trap. The sun is shining in his eyes as the underground train glides through Hallonbergen.
He meets the woman. Her name is Iris, and she works with security. She demonstrates that she’s on his side by telling him she knows he likes to get high sometimes and giving him a couple of grams of speed.
Jonathan snorts a bit of the speed. His ears pop, and his eyes start running. His airways are burning and wheezing. It’s a lovely sensation. She lets him into the room. The Jew is sitting there, captive.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ she says. ‘Don’t beat him to death.’
Jonathan smiles. Jonathan is invincible.
The Jew survives, but only just. His hearing will be poor for the rest of his life, and he will need new teeth, might have to lie still in his hospital bed for a few weeks to let the broken bones heal, but he survives.
Jonathan takes a picture with his phone, so that he’s got something to show them, but he wipes his hands first. The tiny flash illuminates the dark room.
He steps out of the room. He and Iris are the only ones there.
‘Come with me,’ she says slowly, and that’s when he realises that everything is not as it seems.
A long, long time ago, in Hallunda. Jonathan is in middle school and hasn’t started puberty yet. First he gets teased for that, and then, when the bullies realise that you can do a lot worse things than teasing, come the kicks and punches.
The one who helps him — no, protects him — is Ebi Hakimi. Ebi has a strange accent that Jonathan really likes. It’s as though Ebi sings when he speaks. He’s a warm, gentle person who couldn’t possibly set out to hurt anyone. It’s not as though he’s a pacifist, because that doesn’t get you very far in Hallunda. Quite the opposite, in fact. But Ebi is good, and fair. He shares his cigarettes with Jonathan when they go out for sneaky fag-breaks, because Jonathan can’t afford his own. He helps Jonathan with homework when Jonathan doesn’t get it.
In high school, they drift apart. Jonathan chooses the construction stream, and Ebi chooses social science with communication and leadership studies. They end up in different schools, in different parts of town. They want to stay in touch and at first they do, but before long Ebi makes new friends. So does Jonathan. His friends take him to Totenkopf gigs, and introduce him to people like Christian.
Slowly, Jonathan teaches himself to hate the memory of Ebi’s accent. The memory of it is all he has left, since they don’t see each other anymore. The accent represents laziness and insouciance. It’s not impossible to get rid of your accent. A lot of people do.
And in spite of this, there’s the hole. Somewhere within Jonathan, even after he has started socialising with those who are now his brothers and sisters in arms, it’s there. The memory of the years spent with Ebi fills him with grief and regret. He doesn’t dare to talk about those feelings, not with anyone. That would make him a traitor.
Iris leads Jonathan into a room containing two chairs and a table. On the table is a remote control. There’s a man in a suit in there, waiting. He introduces himself as Paul, and has slippery hands. During the conversation, he just stands there, leaning against the wall, observing Jonathan.
Iris explains that the present he’s just been given comes with strings attached. She’s not asking a lot, she reassures him — just one thing.
‘What?’ says Jonathan.
‘Information. And that you don’t show anyone that picture you took. It would look strange.’
‘Information about what?’
‘A bit about your movement. Things that could be useful for us to know. What you believe, what you think, what you’re planning, and so on. That’s all. And this is important for us.’
Jonathan gets up from the chair.
‘This is illegal. You can’t do this.’
‘No, no,’ says Iris. ‘All I did was put the two of you in a room together, with no witnesses. What you got up to in there is nothing to do with me.’
‘Fuck off!’
‘If you don’t agree to this,’ Iris says, as though she hasn’t heard him, ‘we have a problem. So that it doesn’t come to this, I’ve been thinking we ought to be able to reach a compromise that you would be wise to accept. You should get something for your trouble.’
She offers him their complete silence, and money. A lot of money.
‘Nothing you say will be traceable to you as an individual,’ she says. ‘You are anonymous. And I know you need the money.’
She sounds compassionate. This terrifies him.
And as if that wasn’t enough, she picks up the remote control lying on the table and points it at the little cube of a monitor behind Jonathan’s back. A red light is flashing. She turns it on.
It shows the room that Jonathan was just in — the room where the battered man is still lying.
From now on, he has two phones to keep track of. They are identical, to avoid causing any suspicion. The only way to tell them apart is by the wallpaper. It is a sickening task. Jonathan is an informer, a traitor. It’s as though he’s falling apart inside. To keep his head above water, he starts doing speed regularly. He buys it on Södermalm from a guy called Felix.
The summer flashes by in a haze. Iris contacts him from time to time, but she is never satisfied afterwards. He gives her whatever information he has, but it is of little value. That much he can work out himself.
It’s the end of August. He is going to attend a boot camp in Västergötland, for offensive weapons training. He’s out of amphetamine, and requests a large sum of money, in exchange for information about the training camp’s structure and content. For the first time, Iris’s eyes reveal something other than disappointment and indifference.
And it is there, during the training camp, that he is exposed. They practise martial arts, and their attack training revolves around paintball battles. In the afternoons, they compete in tug-o-war, play a version of rugby they call lightning-ball, drink beer, and light barbecues.
It happens on the last night: the phone falls into the wrong hands. Christian’s hands.
‘I don’t want to do this,’ Christian says. ‘But I have to.’
&nbs
p; He looks dejected, Jonathan thinks to himself. As though he really doesn’t want to. Then Christian punches him in the gut. Jonathan recognises that feeling, and he accepts it, almost welcomes it. He deserves it. Part of him feels relieved. It’s over, at last.
‘Sorry,’ Christian says. ‘But what you have done …’
Jonathan thinks he can hear Christian sniffle, but he’s not sure. It’s dark, and in his stomach it’s as though his guts are aching, cramping.
Christian hits him in the face. He’s about to scream when his nose cracks, but he doesn’t manage to do it in time, because everything turns black. When he comes round, he’s lying on the floor in his tent. His face is sticky. It takes a second for him to work out that it’s blood. His arms are tied behind his back, and a torch in his face blinds him, makes him close his eyes tight. His mouth is covered with gaffer tape.
‘No,’ he hears Christian say. ‘Eyes open.’
Jonathan forces himself to obey. There’s a sharp pain in his nose. Snot and blood combine in a brownish sludge that trickles down over the tape.
As his eyes get used to the stark, white light, he just can make out the mouth of a tube. Christian is holding a revolver, and his breathing is strained, his jaws clenched.
Jonathan tries to speak. Christian puts the gun down and rips the tape off.
‘Where is he?’ Jonathan hisses.
‘I’m the only one here,’ says Christian.
‘I don’t want to talk to you.’
‘I’m the only one here,’ he repeats. Then he crouches, bows his head down to Jonathan’s, and whispers in his ear. ‘He’s waiting outside the tent. I want you to listen to me now. You have two options, and you are going to choose the first, because neither of us could cope with the second. Got that?’
Jonathan nods frenetically. Christian stands up again.
‘One,’ he says, louder. ‘You tell your friend exactly what I tell you to say, and I intend to make sure you don’t say anything other than that. Or you can choose option two.’
He puts the tape back on Jonathan’s lips, and presses the barrel of the revolver to his temple. It is ice-cold.
Jonathan just wants to scream. He doesn’t know what to choose. Christian cocks the hammer. Jonathan pisses himself. The warmth spreads across his groin and down along his thighs.
He doesn’t want to die. He wants to be one of them. That’s all he’s got.
‘Make the right choice now, for fuck’s sake.’ Christian spits.
17/12
When I wake up, I do so with Sam’s hair in my face. She’s lying with her back to me, with her bum against my stomach, and her shoulder blade to my chest. I’m sore, across my back, and naked. She’s paler than I am, but while her skin is cool and smooth, mine feels hot and coarse, covered in dried sweat. I am completely devoid of energy; every movement is jerky and tremorous, and my mouth is dry.
The world is collapsing. It always starts with this: the walls tumbling inwards, towards and over me. And as the fear grows, the nausea follows. It’s not withdrawal from the physical addiction to Serax that makes me turn the world inside out. It’s the fear, the great swell of emotion, that my body simply cannot accommodate.
I force myself out of bed, hobble to the bathroom, and manage to open the tap. The water sloshes and splutters in the sink, and I bend myself over the rim of the toilet. I vomit as quietly as I can, but the convulsions are so powerful that it feels like my stomach is tearing, and I find it hard to breathe.
I black out. I’m hyperventilating. Tears force their way past my eyeballs.
I wonder how long I’ve been lying there on the bathroom floor, sweating and wracked by cramps, with the smell of vomit all around me. I must have managed to flush, because the smell soon dissipates and there’s nothing but water in the toilet bowl. Eventually, I manage to stand up. The world is tilted, wobbly. I open the bathroom cabinet and find a tube of Serax in the bottom of an old wash bag; I shake out two pills and take them, all without looking at myself in the mirror.
I was neither pissed nor high last night, yet the time after I left Salem feels like a dream sequence, a hazy twilight. Was it me that called her? Yes, yes it was.
I have no idea what we talked about.
I remember this. Sam, the way she dropped to her knees by the bed in front of me, and undid my fly. Locks of her hair tickled my hips. Even now, the next day, when all that remains is the memory of a sensation, I still gasp. I’d forgotten, or perhaps suppressed, how good she is.
In the bathroom mirror, I notice the claw marks on my shoulders — five on one side, but only four on the other. Seeing this fills me with regret, but maybe it’s not as tangible as it should be. The Serax takes the edge off.
I squeeze a big blob of toothpaste onto my fingertip, and rub it on my teeth and gums. Then I go back to bed, and I’m relieved to find Sam still asleep there. She might not have heard me. When I put my arm across her tummy, which is softer than it used to be, it’s the first time in a long time, yet it still feels as natural as anything I can think of. It’s good to be home.
Her sleep seems dreamless, stock-still. When she does wake up, she keeps her eyes closed, puts her hand on my neck, and carefully strokes my hairline with her nails, which makes me shiver. She notices this and smiles, before she pushes one hand down to her thigh and breathes out loudly. Then she puts the finger to my lips and I take it into my mouth. The taste turns everything into a comfortable, white noise, and I forget everything, and the Serax buzzes by my temples, and soon she pushes my face down, giving me silent, determined instructions, and when I finally put my mouth against her, she’s so hot it burns.
‘What are you doing today?’ she asks me afterwards.
‘I’m going … I have to see Grim.’
‘Oh, right.’ She’s making an effort to avoid giving anything away, which gives everything away. ‘Why?’
‘I need to see him.’
Sam doesn’t say anything. She stays in bed, and plays some sort of game on her phone while I get dressed. Her cheeks are rosy. I open my mouth, then close it again, and sit down on the edge of the bed.
‘It’s … I need …’
‘I know,’ she says.
She puts her phone down and runs her hand through her tangled hair. Then she laughs at something on her palm.
‘I’ve got cum in my hair.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I kind of like it.’ The smile disappears, and she’s serious again. ‘What do you talk about when you meet up?’
‘Nothing in particular.’
‘Do you talk about me?’
‘Sometimes.’
I look away.
‘Hey,’ Sam says, and puts out her hand, stroking my forearm, ‘it’s okay.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you look like you’re about to start blubbing.’
I give Sam a spare key and then I’m off, out onto Chapmansgatan, its pavements covered in slush and grit. I wonder where Goffman is. Since we parted company last, I haven’t seen the black Volvo anywhere, and I’m sure Birck hasn’t either. Goffman is probably sitting somewhere in Stockholm, waiting for something. I read the headlines as I pass the newsstand. No attack overnight. It might be empty words.
Sweetest sisters. Esther.
Ebi Hakimi’s last words could have been the result of his brain sending impulses to his mouth to make noises that sounded like words — noises that might not mean anything. They might have been the answers to Birck’s questions. Could have been a name. Who knows? Maybe Ebi Hakimi didn’t even know himself.
‘Have you missed me?’ Grim asks as we sit opposite each other in the chilly visiting room.
‘Yes.’
‘Same here.’ He leans across the table, and sniffs. ‘You’ve had sex.’
I can’t help blushing.
&nb
sp; ‘Yes.’
‘With Sam?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well done.’ Grim smiles. ‘Does she know you’re here today as well?’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘Was that the first time you’ve had sex?’
‘Since the break-up, yes.’
‘How was it?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘So, not great then?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ I hesitate. I shouldn’t be saying this, but something pulls it out of me, puts the words onto my tongue. ‘She reminded me of something that I …’
‘What did she remind you of?’
‘That I used to say that I couldn’t cope without her.’
Grim sniggers.
‘Hollow fucking words.’
‘It was true. That’s how I felt.’
‘Don’t you feel that anymore?’
‘I don’t know.’
Grim doesn’t seem to care all that much about this. He yawns — a loud, drawn-out gasp —before bringing his hand up to his face and smelling it. He grimaces.
‘The drugs they give me. I’m sure I can smell them on my skin, in my pores. So fucking nasty.’
‘You could just not take them.’
‘How? They make sure I’ve swallowed them.’ Grim has a spark of curiosity about him. ‘Something is different this time.’
‘What would that be?’
‘Something about you.’ He rests his arms against the edge of the table. ‘Like you’re full of remorse.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t think I can stop. And I’ve only got two left.’
‘You’ve only got two Serax left?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, get some more then.’
‘I can’t. If I get another script, it’ll be in my notes. I could get caught.’
‘Have you had withdrawal symptoms?’
‘I thought I was going to die.’
Grim looks at me, with a look that you could easily mistake for empathy if you weren’t careful.
The Falling Detective Page 20
