by Lars Kepler
‘Forward,’ Joona says.
Arne whimpers quietly as they approach the exit.
‘Oh, God,’ he whispers, holding his left arm.
A dog is barking frantically on the other side of the security airlock, as guards rush outside the glass doors to get into formation.
‘Let them through!’ the security officer calls, following them out through the airlock. ‘I’ll come with you, make sure you get out.’
He pulls out his card, taps in the code and opens the door.
‘Who the hell are you, really?’ he gasps, looking at Joona Linna.
Outside the prison the sun is shining, the sky is a radiant blue above them as they walk across the paved entrance area towards Joona’s grey Porsche.
Joona walks round the vehicle and pushes Arne to the ground, and apologises as he fastens the other handcuff to the metal fence behind the car. The security officer stands and watches them as the prison guards mill about inside the glass doors only a dozen metres away from them.
Joona gets in quickly and starts the car.
Before Rocky has time to close the door he drives over the kerb, down the grass slope, past the cement blocks and out on to the road, where he accelerates hard towards the forest where the old Volvo is waiting.
109
Nestor was taken to the Karolinska University Hospital in Huddinge, where a team operated on him and managed to stop the bleeding. Nestor was lucky, his condition is already stable, and he’s been moved from the Intensive Care Unit.
Margot has put two uniformed officers outside the post-operative care unit.
Nestor is conscious again, but in a state of severe shock. He’s being given extra oxygen through a tube in his nose, and the saturation of his blood is under constant monitoring. A pleural drain has been inserted above his diaphragm, and bubbly blood is running out through the tube.
Nelly has spoken to Nestor’s consultant and has suggested a low-level sedative out of consideration for his medical history.
Nestor cries the whole time Margot tries to explain the chain of events from the police’s point of view, up to the storming of his flat.
‘But Erik wasn’t there – so where was he?’ she asks.
‘I d-don’t know,’ Nestor sobs.
‘Why did you call and say that …’
‘Nestor, you have to understand that none of what happened is your fault, it was just an accident,’ Nelly says, holding his hand.
‘Has Erik been in touch with you at all?’ Margot asks.
‘I d-don’t know,’ he repeats, staring past her.
‘Of course you know.’
‘I d-don’t want to talk to you,’ he says quietly, and turns his face away.
‘What line of work are you in?’ Margot asks, taking a ham sandwich out of her large bag.
‘I’m retired … but I d-do a bit of gardening work …’
‘Where?’
‘For the council … d-different places,’ he says.
‘Do you have a lot of trouble with weeds?’ Margot asks.
‘Not really,’ he says, looking curious.
‘Stinging nettles?’
‘No,’ he says, picking at a tube.
‘Nestor,’ Nelly says gently. ‘You’ve probably worked out that Erik and I are good friends … and like you I think it would be best for him to hand himself in to the police.’
Tears well up in Nestor’s eyes again, and Margot goes over to the window so she doesn’t have to watch him cry.
‘I’m riddled with b-bullets,’ he says in a loud voice, and puts his hand on top of the bandage covering the wound in his chest.
‘It was a terrible accident,’ Nelly says.
‘God wants to k-kill me,’ he says, pulling the oxygen tube from his nose.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘I can’t bear it,’ he whimpers.
‘You know … the Jews say that a righteous man can fall seven times and get up again, but the ungodly stumble when calamity strikes … and you’re going to get up.’
‘Am I r-righteous?’
‘How should I know?’ she smiles.
‘That’s what you m-meant, isn’t it?’
Nelly can see that the oxygenation of his blood is falling, and reattaches the tube to his nose.
‘Erik saved me and I just wanted to save him,’ he whispers.
‘Yesterday, you mean?’ she asks tentatively.
‘He c-came to me and I gave him food and l-lodging,’ he says, and coughs lightly. ‘They p-promised not to hurt him.’
‘How did he look when he came to you?’
‘He had an ugly c-cap on, and his hand was bleeding. He was d-dirty and unshaven, and had scratches on his face.’
‘And you just wanted to help him,’ Nelly says.
‘Yes,’ he nods.
Margot is standing by the window eating her sandwich, but can still hear Nestor’s careful answers. His description of Erik fits someone who ran off through a forest and has been sleeping rough.
‘Do you know where Erik is now?’ she asks slowly, turning round.
‘No.’
Margot meets Nelly’s gaze, then leaves the room to set a large-scale police operation in motion.
‘I’m starting to get t-tired,’ he says.
‘It’s a bit early for the medicine to take effect.’
‘Are you Erik’s g-girlfriend?’ Nestor asks, looking at her.
‘What did Erik say before he left?’ Nelly asks, but can’t help smiling. ‘Do you think he’s planning to give himself up?’
‘You m-mustn’t be angry with Erik.’
‘I’m not.’
‘My mother says he’s b-bad, but … she c-can just shut up, I think …’
‘Get some rest, now.’
‘He’s the nicest m-man you could get,’ Nestor goes on.
‘I think so too,’ she smiles, and pats his hand.
‘We meet sometimes … but you c-can’t see me,’ Nestor says. ‘You can’t hear me, and you c-can’t smell me. I was b-born before you and I’ll be waiting for you when you die. I can embrace you, b-but you can’t hold on to me …’
‘Darkness,’ she replies.
‘Good,’ Nestor nods. ‘If a man carried my b-burden, he … he would …’
Nestor closes his eyes and gasps for breath.
‘I’m going to go home now,’ Nelly says quietly, and carefully gets up from the edge of the bed.
When she leaves the post-operative care unit she notices that the police officers are no longer guarding the door.
110
The bell in St Mark’s Church is ringing under an open sky. The wheel turns, pulling the great bell with it. The heavy clapper hits the metal and the peal reaches across the wall of the churchyard, in amongst the trees, all the way to the buried animals.
The dirty single pane of glass in the window of the shed where Erik is hiding rattles. The red shack in the pet cemetery consists of thin timber walls and a stained chipboard floor. Presumably there would once have been a plastic mat on the floor. The shed may have been used by local cemetery workers before everything was streamlined. In recent years only Nestor has been here, as the solitary but conscientious guardian of the animals’ last resting place.
On one wall there is a cold-water tap above a large zinc trough.
Erik has moved five sacks of compost and lined them up on the floor to form a bed.
He’s lying on his side listening to the church bell. The smell of earth around him is pervasive, as if he was already lying in his grave.
Who can understand their own fate? he thinks, watching the morning light shine in through the grey curtain and wander slowly across the sacks of grass seed and grit, spades and shovels, then down across the floor to an axe with a rusty blade.
His gaze lingers on the axe, staring at the blunt edge with its deep indentations, and thinks that Nestor must use it to chop off roots when he’s digging graves.
He turns on his bed, trying to get m
ore comfortable. He spent the first few hours curled up in the corner behind the sacks, he’d cut his thigh on a sharp branch, had a ringing sound in his ears, felt nauseous and was shaking all over.
The ambulance siren died away, the helicopter disappeared, and silence enveloped the little shed.
After a few hours he began to feel a bit safer, dared to stand up, and went over to the tap, where he drank some cold water and washed his face. The water splashed up on to a plastic sleeve that had been pinned to the wall. The drips ran down a price list from the Association of Stockholm Pet Cemeteries, on to the discoloured chipboard.
He called Joona and told him what had happened, aware of how incoherent and repetitive he sounded, and realised that he was in shock. He lay back down on the sacks, but couldn’t sleep, his heart was beating far too fast.
His ear has stopped bleeding now, but is still humming, as though he were hearing everything through a piece of thin fabric. Gradually the jagged, dazzling halo of light fades and he closes his eyes.
He thinks about Jackie and Madeleine and hears children’s voices in the distance. He creeps over to the window. They’re probably playing in the woods behind the school.
Erik has no idea what he’d do if they come over here. His face could be on the front pages of all the papers today. A wave of anxiety washes through him, leaving him feeling utterly chilled.
Spiders’ webs rustle when he slides the curtain aside a few more centimetres.
The pet cemetery is a beautiful place, lots of grass and deciduous trees. A small path leads away from the church and over a wooden bridge, lined by tall stinging nettles.
On one grave a number of round stones form a cross, and a child has made a lantern out of a jam-jar, with red hearts painted round the outside. The candle is just visible beneath the rainwater and fallen seeds.
Erik thinks about his conversation with Joona again. He knows he can find his way into Rocky’s memories if he gets the chance. He’s already hypnotised him, but he wasn’t looking for the preacher then.
But how long can he stay here? He’s hungry, and sooner or later someone is going to find him. He’s far too close to the school, the church, and Nestor’s flat.
He swallows hard, gently touches the wound on his leg, and tries again to work out how his fingerprints could have ended up in Susanna Kern’s home. There has to be a simple explanation, but Joona seems to think that they’re dealing with an attempt to make him look guilty of the murders.
The thought is so ridiculous that he can’t take it seriously.
There has to be a rational explanation.
I’m not afraid of a trial, Erik thinks. The truth will come out, if I can just have a chance to defend myself.
He has to hand himself in.
Erik thinks he could seek refuge in the church, he could ask the priest for communion, for God’s forgiveness, anything at all, as long as he gets shelter.
The police can’t shoot me in a church, he thinks.
He’s so tired that tears come to his eyes at the thought of giving himself up and putting his fate in someone else’s hands.
He decides to creep out and see if the church is open, but then he hears someone crossing the little wooden bridge that leads to the pet cemetery.
Erik ducks down quickly and goes and sits in the corner where he hid to start with. Someone is walking along the path, groaning oddly to himself. There’s a tinkling sound, as though whoever it is had kicked over the homemade lantern on the grave.
The footsteps stop and everything goes silent. Perhaps he’s putting flowers on a dog’s grave? Perhaps he’s listening for sounds inside the shed.
Erik sits in the corner thinking about the dog that Nestor was forced to drown. In his mind’s eye he sees the flailing legs, the animal’s attempts to swim as the sack filled with water.
The man outside spits noisily and carries on walking. Erik hears him come closer, walking through the dead bushes, their thin branches snapping under his shoes.
He’s right outside the shed now, Erik thinks, looking around for a weapon, glancing at the spade, then the axe with the short handle and blunt blade.
Something starts trickling down the wall of the shed, splashing the tall grass. The man outside is urinating, slurring to himself as he does so.
‘You do your best,’ a deep voice mutters. ‘You come home, nice and quiet, but … nothing’s good enough any more …’
The man lurches over to the window and peers in. The grass scrapes and his shadow falls across the wall with the spades and shovels. Erik presses himself against the wall next to the window, clearly hearing the man’s breathing, first with his mouth open, then through tight nostrils.
‘Honest work,’ he mutters, and carries on through the low-growing blueberry bushes.
Erik thinks that he’s going to have to wait for the drunk to disappear before going to the church and handing himself in.
He tries again to imagine that Nestor is the killer, but he can’t honestly believe that Nestor is driven by a compulsion to turn himself into the arbiter of life or death.
The sun goes behind a cloud and the grey curtain loses its transparency again.
On a shelf stands a dusty thermos flask, with a plastic bag tucked between it and the wall, a little grey urn and a painted plaster bulldog.
Erik just has time to see Nestor’s shaving mirror quiver on the wall, sending a glint of a reflection across the floor, before the door of the shed swings open.
111
Erik scrambles backwards and a green folding chair clatters over onto the floor. The opening door hits the wall then bounces back and hits a very large shoulder. Dust is swirling round the bulky figure, who’s panting as he makes his way into the shed. Rocky Kyrklund coughs and hits his head on the dangling light bulb. He’s dressed in prison-issue clothing, his face is sweaty and his hair is hanging pale and grey around his big head.
Joona comes in right behind him, shuts the door and stops the swaying bulb with his hand.
‘Viihtyisä,’ Joona says.
Erik tries to say something, but he can barely breathe. When the door flew open he got so scared that his cheeks felt like they were burning.
Rocky mutters something to himself, picks up the folding chair and sits down. He’s out of breath as he glances round the little room.
‘You came,’ Erik says in a weak voice.
‘We made our way through the forest from Nacka gård,’ Joona says, taking three cheese and salad baguettes out of a bag.
They eat in silence. Rocky is sweating from withdrawal, and breathing hard between mouthfuls. When he’s finished he goes over and drinks some water from the tap.
‘It’s more expensive to bury people,’ he says, gesturing towards the price list.
Drops of water glisten in his beard. Shadows dance behind the curtain.
‘I think we’re fairly safe here,’ Joona says, removing the last of the duct tape from his hands. ‘The operation has already been downgraded. Externally they’re claiming that they received inaccurate information, because Nestor wanted to commit suicide.’
‘But he is still alive, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ Joona replies, meeting Erik’s gaze.
His blond hair is sticking up, and his eyes have regained the chilly blue of an October sky.
Erik chews the last of the bread.
‘If this doesn’t work, I thought I’d hand myself over inside the church,’ he says, trying to keep his voice steady.
‘Good,’ Joona replies quietly.
‘They can’t shoot me inside a church,’ he adds.
‘No, they can’t,’ Joona replies, even though they both know it isn’t true.
Rocky is standing by the price list smoking, muttering to himself and picking the little plastic caps off the tops of the drawing pins.
‘I’m ready to start,’ Erik tells him, crumpling the wrapper of his sandwich into a ball.
‘Sure,’ Rocky nods, and sits down on the chair.
/> Erik looks at him, his dilated pupils, the colour of his face, listens to his breathing.
‘You’ve marched through the woods, your body is still working hard,’ he says.
‘Maybe it won’t work, then?’ Rocky asks, stubbing his cigarette out with his foot.
‘I’d like to start with some relaxation … the fact that the brain is active is no problem, you’re not supposed to be asleep, after all … all we want to do is gather all that activity and focus …’
‘OK,’ Rocky says, leaning back.
‘Sit comfortably,’ Erik goes on. ‘You can change position as much as you like during the hypnosis, you don’t need to worry about that, but each time you move you’ll sink deeper into a state of relaxation.’
Joona and Erik know that this is their chance, the opportunity they’ve been waiting for.
They don’t need much, just a name, a location, or some other definite detail.
If they can only come up with one defined parameter, the pattern that’s already emerged will refine itself to an arrow pointing straight at the preacher.
Erik can’t force the process, and needs to take his time leading Rocky into a very deep trance in order to reach the most inaccessible memories.
‘Rest your hands on your lap,’ Erik goes on in a quiet voice. ‘Clench them tight, then relax, feel how heavy they are, feel them sink, they’re being pulled down towards your thighs, your wrists are feeling soft …’
Erik concentrates on not letting his need for a result show in his voice, as he slowly works his way through the whole of Rocky’s body, watching as his shoulders gradually relax. He talks for a while about his neck, about how heavy his head feels, and taking deep breaths, as he almost imperceptibly approaches the moment of induction.
In a monotone voice he describes a wide, sandy beach, with gentle waves rolling in and out of the shore, as the white sand shimmers like porcelain.
‘You’re walking along the edge of the water, towards a headland,’ Erik says. ‘The wet sand feels solid under your feet, it’s easy to walk on, warm waves lap around your legs, grains of sand swirl round …’
He describes the tiny, ridged seashells and the coral rolling in the bubbling surf of the waves.
