Never Fuck Up: A Novel

by Jens Lapidus

  Mahmud didn’t touch the shit. There wasn’t time. He wanted to get out of there quick. Pulled his sweatshirt sleeves down over his hands. Tore the books out of the bookshelf just to take a quick look. Nothing hidden there.

  Finally, the bedroom. Double bed. The junkie seemed to live alone—only one pillow. Dirty. Stained comforter. Yellowish sheets. An oriental rug on the floor that had to be fake. A mirror on the ceiling. Porn magazines open on the nightstand: a chick blowing one guy, jerking off another, and getting pissed on by a third. Mahmud approached the closet. There had to be something interesting somewhere. Inside: jeans, shirts, drawers with underwear and socks. A wooden box. He opened it.

  Freakshow. Whose house’d he come to, the chairman of the Sodomite Association? Chock-full of sex toys. Dildos—veiny super cocks—Anal Intruder, a strap-on, a leather leash, a riding whip, a couple of thin chains, a leather mask with a zipper over the mouth, a stud choker. Some latex armor, handcuffs, a blindfold, anal beads, lubricant, a couple bottles of poppers, all kinds of oils.

  Mahmud: porn watcher, pious Muslim, pornographer. Papa’s boy. Thought, This is sick.

  Then he grinned. Sven men are losers.

  He continued to tear through the closet. Threw out old shoes, T-shirts, bags, LP records. Finally—maybe something of value. Farthest in, attached to the wall: a small locked key cabinet. He applied the crowbar. Pulled. The cabinet cracked open. Inside: small keys that looked like bike keys. And two bigger keys. Looked like they went to padlocks.

  He was feeling stressed. Even if he hadn’t seen Rantzell for a few days and the guy didn’t pick up his phone, he could come home at any moment. He grabbed the larger keys.

  Stopped for a second in the hallway. What was he going to do now? Maybe the keys went somewhere. But where? He looked at them again. He recognized them. Assa Abloy. Tri-circle. Like the ones to the padlock on his locker at the gym. Like to the basement storage locker at Dad’s house. A little idea worth testing. He left the apartment.

  Took the stairs up. There was no attic. Took the stairs down. The basement storage lockers were a mess. Behind the wooden boards and bars: a bunch of Suedi gear. Winter jackets, skis, suitcases, books, and boxes. Why didn’t they just toss this shit? Did they think they were gonna make big bucks at the Skärholmen flea market, or what?

  He tried out the keys in every lock. Thoughts of Wisam Jibril were mixed with thoughts of his father. Images of Gürhan’s monster grin mixed with the heads of pigs. He felt manic. The keys just had to fit somewhere.

  He tried lock after lock. After at least ten failures: one of the keys fit into a storage locker. It was half-empty in there. A rolled-up carpet, a couple of boxes. Plates in one and porn magazines in the other.

  He kept trying the other key in different locks. The other one fit in the lock of the next storage locker over. He thought, Rantzell pulled an old trick—steal someone else’s empty storage locker. Mahmud went in. Lots of bags on the floor. Fuck. He looked in one of them: documents. Numbers, names of companies, letters from the tax authorities. He didn’t have the energy to keep digging. Could it be valuable? He didn’t have the energy to think. Grabbed two bags. Walked up. Out.

  The morning sun was glowing beautifully on the street.

  Mahmud thought, Maybe I’m back on track.

  Sunday. His cell phone clock showed one o’clock. Sweet, he’d slept for six hours. Then he remembered how they’d treated his father. And that Dad hadn’t woken him up all morning. An angel, as usual.

  He thought about the night; it was hazy in his memory. What’d he achieved? A couple of bags with documents. Congrats, Twiggy. What crap.

  Beshar was sitting in the kitchen. Had his usual Middle Eastern coffee with five sugar cubes in it. Murky as a mud puddle. Big, dark eyes. In Arabic, “How did you sleep?”

  Mahmud hugged him.

  “Abu, how did you sleep? It’ll be okay. No one’s gonna hurt us. I promise. Where’s Jivan?”

  Beshar rapped the table with his knuckles. “She’s at a friend’s house. Inshallah.”

  Mahmud got some juice from the fridge. A cooked chicken breast.

  Dad smiled. “I know you work out, but is that really a good breakfast?”

  Mahmud grinned back. His dad would never understand what it meant to build for real. Protein-rich food without an ounce of fat didn’t even figure in his world.

  They sat in silence.

  Beams of sun lit up the kitchen table.

  Mahmud wondered what kind of person his dad could’ve been if they’d stayed in Iraq. A great man.

  Then: the doorbell rang.

  Mahmud saw the panic in Dad’s eyes.

  His entire body was racked with anxiety. Mahmud went into the bedroom. Got an old baseball bat. Brass knuckles in his pocket.

  Looked out through the peephole. A dark guy that he didn’t recognize.

  The bell rang again.

  Dad positioned himself behind Mahmud. Before he opened the door, he said to Beshar. “Abu, would you please go into the kitchen?”

  Ready as hell. Just so much as a twitch from the guy outside and he was gonna crack his skull like an egg.

  He opened the door.

  The guy outside extended his hand. “Salaam alaikum.”

  Mahmud didn’t understand.

  “Don’t you recognize me? We went to school together. Wisam Jibril. I heard you’ve been looking for me.”

  Beshar laughed in the background.

  “Wisam, it’s been ages. Welcome!”

  20

  Today, Niklas felt safer on his run. He’d bought two pairs of shin guards, the kind made for soccer players. Strapped them to his calves. To reduce the risk of rodent bites.

  He thought about his nightmares. Thought about Claes, who was dead. About his mom.

  He thought about his visit to the open adult psychiatric clinic in Skärholmen. Mom’d forced him to go.

  “You’re always complaining about how you can’t sleep, that you have nightmares,” she said in an accusatory tone. “Shouldn’t you get some help?”

  She kept nagging, even though Niklas hadn’t even told her what the dreams were really about. He didn’t need that kind of help, head doctors weren’t his thing—but he did need sleeping pills. The nights were crap. Maybe he should follow Mom’s advice after all.

  He went to the clinic’s drop-in hours in the middle of the day. Thought there’d be fewer people at that time, the shortest wait. That was a mistake—the waiting room was full. Another sign that something wasn’t right in this country. Niklas felt like turning back at the door. He wasn’t a weak person who needed others. He was a war machine. People like him didn’t go to shrinks. Still, he stayed. Mostly because he wanted to get a prescription for the pills as soon as possible. But also: to be spared Mom’s pestering.

  The armchair that the doctor offered Niklas was pretty comfortable. He’d expected some stiff Windsor chair, but this felt nice. The psychologist, the psychiatrist, the doctor—or whatever her formal title was—scooted her armchair closer and took her glasses off.

  “So, welcome. My name is Helena Hallström and I’m a psychiatrist here at the clinic. And you are Niklas Brogren. Have you been to see us before?”

  “No, never.”

  He checked her out. Maybe ten years older than he was. Dark hair in a ponytail. A searching gaze. Hands in her lap. He wondered what her family life was like. She was in charge here, that much was clear. But at home?

  “So, I’ll tell you a little bit about what we do here. I don’t know anything about why you’re here, but our goal is to work to help you, based on a mutual evaluation of your needs. All to help you achieve an increased quality of life. We have a broad and varied assortment of treatments, and we’ll see what is best for you. Maybe pharmacological or psychosocial efforts. Or both. And in a lot of cases, nothing is needed.”

  Niklas didn’t even have the energy to try to listen to what she was saying.

  “So, Niklas, why are you here today?”


  “I can’t sleep. So I thought maybe you could help me with sleeping pills.”

  Helena put her glasses back on. Gave him that searching gaze.

  “In what way can’t you sleep?”

  “I have a hard time falling asleep and I wake up several times during the night.”

  “Okay, and why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know. I just think about a lot of stuff and then I have weird dreams, too.”

  “And what is it you think about?”

  Niklas hadn’t come here to talk about his thoughts or his nightmares. Maybe he’d been naïve, he realized now. At the same time, he really wanted to get a prescription for those pills.

  “I think about all kinds of things.”

  “Like what, for example?” Helena smiled. Niklas liked her. She seemed to care. Not a soldier like him, but maybe she was still a person who’d understood society’s mistakes.

  “I think a lot about the war. And about the war here at home that no one is doing anything about.”

  “I’m not quite following. Could you explain a little more, perhaps?”

  “I’ve been in the military for many years. In active combat, so to speak. And I have a lot of memories from that. They bother me sometimes. I know you have to let that shit go and move on, and that’s what I’m doing, so it’s fine. But since I got back home, I’ve come to understand that there’s a war going on in Sweden, too.”

  She wrote something down.

  “Did you experience violence in the military?”

  “You can say that.”

  “Maybe those memories are troubling you?”

  “Yeah, but the war bothers me more, the war against all of you.”

  “Against us? How do you mean?”

  “Against you women. You’re attacked on a daily basis. You’re subjected to attacks, offensives. I’ve seen it. It happens all the time, on the streets, in the workplace, at home in the apartments. And you don’t do anything about it. But you’re the weaker party so maybe that’s not so strange. But society doesn’t do shit, either. I often imagine what I could do.”

  “And what is it you imagine?”

  “I think and dream, both. There are a lot of methods and I used a couple of them the other night. I heard noises from the neighbors. Don’t forget that I’m an expert at this.”

  She nodded faintly. “Niklas, there are different terms within psychiatry.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There are different names for different types of thoughts. Sometimes we talk about delusions. Delusions can be positive symptoms for, for instance, psychoses. There are different types of thoughts like that, but all are more or less incompatible with your immediate surroundings. Your perception of reality becomes skewed. It can cause sleeplessness, but also feelings of anxiety. Sometimes people who have been subjected to trauma or where there are other underlying reasons may experience these kinds of symptoms.”

  “What?”

  “I think it may be a good idea for you to come back here at a regular time, not during our drop-in hours. To talk some more about the thoughts you’ve been having.”

  This was starting to go too far. He just wanted the pills. Helena could talk about whatever delusions she wanted. Niklas saw the rats. He saw the women. He’d heard what that cop’d said about society not giving a damn. It wasn’t a lie—the police officer’d said so himself. It wasn’t some unrealistic perception of reality, not symptomatic of anything but Sweden’s slow rot.

  “Yes, maybe, but do you think you could give me a prescription for sleeping pills?”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t do that at this time. But I really recommend that you book a time with us. I’m sure we can help you.”

  “I don’t feel like I’ve made myself understood. But that’s okay. I can take care of myself and I think it’s time for me to go. I can work on my sleeping problems on my own.”

  He got up. Extended his hand.

  Helena got up as well. “I think that sounds like a good idea.”

  They shook hands. She said, “But know that we are always here in case you need to discuss your thoughts again. Would you like to book a time for another appointment?”

  “No, that’s okay. Thank you for your time.”

  He left. Was not planning on going back.

  Later, he thought about the guy who’d come by to thank him the day before yesterday: Mahmud. Big dude. Wide as a Hummer. Head that somehow continued into a neck that was just as wide—veins like worms along his neck. His face was square, hair so black it almost looked dark blue. Probably too many Dbols and protein shakes. But the guy was genuinely grateful. Apparently the girl who lived next door to Niklas was his sister. The dude rang his doorbell at eleven-thirty at night. Niklas didn’t mind that it was so late, but it was still suspicious. He peered out through the peephole. Prepared himself for the worst—that the neighbor’s boyfriend’d brought his buddies over for payback. Every muscle tensed as he unlocked the door. The knife in one hand.

  But when he opened the door, he was faced with a box of chocolates that was being offered to him. Mahmud’s words in Arabic: “I want to thank you. You’ve given my sister hope back. More people should do as you did.”

  Niklas accepted the gift.

  “Call me if you ever need anything. My name is Mahmud. My sister has my number. I can take care of most things.”

  That was it. Niklas hardly had time to react. Mahmud walked back down the stairs. The front door slammed shut.

  Niklas thought about what he was going to do later that day. Visit a women’s shelter—Safe Haven. He’d read an article about it in Metro yesterday:

  Recently, a Left Party proposal highlighted the great pressure that Stockholm’s women’s shelters are experiencing, reporting that they are forced to transfer women to their counterparts in neighboring counties for help. But the phenomenon is neither new nor unusual. The guarded shelters frequently become so crowded that they have to send women seeking help to other areas.

  It was shocking. Everyone failed women. Shuffled them around like cattle. It couldn’t be tolerated.

  Maybe this could be his thing: he was planning to get in touch with them to offer his services. Safe Haven ought to be interested, considering the current situation. Protection. Intervention. Security. Just like at the private security company where he’d applied for a job.

  On the subway on his way into the city. He was freshly showered. Felt clean.

  Mom’d called him earlier today. But it was sick—she was totally crushed because of the Claes thing. Wouldn’t stop talking about telling the police. But Niklas knew better. If they ratted to the police, it could all be game over.

  She asked him straight out: “Niklas, why is it so important to you that we not tell anyone?”

  He tried to explain. At the same time, he didn’t want to make her upset. Responded in a calm voice, “Mom, you have to understand. I don’t want the police getting suspicious and starting to dig into my past. I’ve got a whole bunch of money from before that I’m sure the tax authorities would be interested in, too. It’s unnecessary. Don’t you think?”

  He hoped she would understand.

  Niklas closed his eyes. Tried to forget the images from his nightmares. The blood on his hands. The way Claes looked when Niklas was young. The world was sick. There was no point in playing along. Someone had to break the silence. Like the cop he’d met at Friden’d said, “This is society’s demise we’re talking about.” Despite that: the logic was disturbed by the fact that his mom was crushed. It was a beautiful thing that Claes was gone. A heroic deed that ought to be celebrated. But she didn’t understand this. She, the one for whom the deed was done. She, who gained from it more than anyone else. She should say thank you, like that Mahmud guy.

  The train was pounding out a sort of beat in his head. He tried to forget about his mom. Force himself to think about something else. His own problems. The job search that wasn’t leading anywhere. H
is resources that wouldn’t last forever. Curse the fact that he’d thought he could double his little fortune on the gambling floor—right before he came home to Sweden he’d done a turn in Macao. Naïve, foolish, risky. But maybe it wasn’t so strange, considering all the success stories he’d heard Collin and the others tell. Everyone seemed able to bring it in. Except for Niklas, as it turned out. Half of his assets’d been lost before he could rein himself in.

  Niklas opened his eyes. It was almost time to get off. Mariatorget’s subway platform was rolling away outside the window. He eyed the Åhléns CD ads on the train car. Thought, Certain things in life never change. The clarity of the starry night sky in the desert, Americans’ difficulty learning foreign languages, and Åhléns CD ads on the Stockholm subway. He grinned. It was nice when things remained the same. Except for one thing: some men’s attitude toward women. He couldn’t drop that shit. Men like that were rats.

  He got off at Slussen. Checked the address one more time on the slip of paper he had in his back pocket—5 Svartensgatan. Walked along Götgatan. It had been remade into a pedestrian street. Population: a mix of scenesters in tight jeans, Converse sneakers, sweatshirts, and Palestinian scarves, and trendy families with kids and three-wheeled strollers—the dads sporting thick-rimmed glasses and carefully cropped stubble. Niklas’d been struck by the phenomenon before: in Sweden, young hipsters wore the keffiyeh as if it were something cool, just another piece of clothing. For Niklas, it was just as bizarre as if people ran around in jellabiya and a full beard.

  Summer was in high gear. Niklas felt at home. Put his sunglasses on. Thought about all the coma-like hours he’d spent on guard duty. In the heat. Always a light sand wind that hit like a gust against your cheeks and forehead.

  He took a left. Up a hill. Svartensgatan. Cobblestones. Old-fashioned. Number five: from the outside, it looked like an old church. No windows above the entrance, but higher up—large clerestory windows that must illuminate a huge room inside. A small plaque next to the door: Safe Haven. A heart, the female symbol, a house. Nice. A small camera lens behind a Plexiglas bubble above the buzzer.