She counts the seconds, minutes, gets annoyed every time Zeke has to slow down for a bend or a junction. But there’s no better driver than him.
She opens her eyes again.
Fields of yellow rape, and Zeke turns off onto a gravel track that leads off between the fields, and a minute or so later they reach one that’s been left fallow. There are just a few thin remnants of the previous year’s crop left.
Zeke stops the car.
‘It should be here,’ he says. ‘In the middle of this field.’
Malin opens her door and leaps out. She runs off across the field, looking for anything that catches her eye. Some difference in the colour of the earth, and off in the distance she sees something blue. A pipe, a plastic tube, that must be it.
Zeke is running beside her now, heading towards the tube. The ground there has been dug up, an area large enough to contain a human body. A grave, Malin thinks.
They crouch down.
Malin takes the stopwatch out and puts it down beside her.
Barely ten minutes left.
‘The spades!’ she yells.
Zeke rushes back to the car as Malin begins to dig. She tears at the ground with her fingers, feeling her nails give way as blood seeps from her fingertips.
No pain.
How deep down are you, Nadja?
Just below the surface they find a large container with a few drops of water at the bottom. Another tube leads down from it.
Are you alive, Nadja?
You’re coming now, aren’t you? You’re digging. Mum and Dad, you’re digging.
You’re hurrying.
Hurry up.
Unless it’s a badger?
Someone who wants to be dead along with me.
Malin is shovelling the earth over her shoulder. Zeke is doing the same.
Sweat is pouring off her now, and it feels like the lactic acid is going to beat the adrenaline, but at this moment the will to live is stronger, so they keep digging as the clock counts down.
They follow the tubes down into the earth.
Three minutes now.
Two minutes and fifty seconds.
Faster now, Malin.
Then her spade hits something hard. We’re never going to have time.
And they free part of what they’ve found.
Part of a coffin, where the tubes stick through the lid, and Malin can hear ticking now, two clocks ticking, and they beat their spades on the lid of the coffin, aware that they’re never going to uncover the whole lid in time.
They beat and hammer and bang, and Malin screams: ‘We’re coming, Nadja, we’re coming!’
Göran Möller puts his foot down on the accelerator after turning onto the gravel track leading through the fields of rape. The siren of a patrol car is wailing behind him.
I’m responsible for them, he thinks. I should have stopped them. This is too dangerous.
But sometimes the world is dangerous.
And we’re the ones standing in the front line.
Will they make it in time? he wonders, as his car lurches along the track.
There can’t be many seconds left now.
The wood gives way. First a small hole, then gradually larger.
Fifty-five seconds now.
A face.
Eyes staring out of darkness.
A mouth opening, forming itself into a scream, but nothing comes out. Just the angry ticking sound, and Zeke swearing at the splinters he gets as he tries to make the hole in the coffin large enough to pull the girl out.
A face.
It’s you, Nadja, we’re here now, and Malin can smell the stench of excrement and urine, but she can also see the life in Nadja Lundin’s eyes. The hope.
Thirty seconds.
Malin reaches down into the hole alongside Zeke.
Then the ticking stops and is replaced by a loud whistling sound that cuts through Malin’s eardrums, and she tears at the wood, reaches her arms in towards Nadja Lundin, puts her hands under her armpits and then pulls.
She’s never pulled so hard in her entire life.
You’re coming with us.
Up.
And Zeke breaks more of the wood.
Nadja’s body moves. She’s helping now. Kicking with her legs. Malin can feel it as half of her upper body comes free.
Her skin is more like dirty, torn fabric than skin.
Fifteen seconds.
Twelve.
The whistling becomes a ringing sound.
Dust everywhere.
Her entire upper body now.
Up, up.
Zeke stops tugging at the wood, grabs hold of Nadja and helps to pull.
She stares at them.
Who are you?
Who am I? Where am I?
Up, out of the coffin.
She tries to stand, but her legs won’t bear her weight, so Zeke picks her up, and Malin helps him, and quickly, quickly, they scramble out of the shallow grave.
Three seconds.
The ringing sound ebbs away.
And everything goes silent apart from the approaching sirens.
Göran Möller arrives just as the explosion rips the air apart and shakes the windscreen of his car.
One hundred metres out across the field he sees a cloud of dust rise towards the sky, and little lumps of earth rain down on his car.
He punches the steering wheel, and goes on hitting it.
They didn’t get there in time.
It’s all too late now.
68
Daniel Högfeldt’s arms are stretched out, and the man in the room has driven nails through his wrists.
He used the nail-gun on his calves as well.
Daniel feels the pain through the veil of drugs, but adrenaline makes it vague and diffuse, bearable in the midst of all that is unbearable.
The room is dark and damp. He can see water running down bare stone walls, and a red lamp is shining right in his face.
The man in black is moving at the edge of the room, seems almost to blend into the rock wall.
Faced with the fact that anything at all could happen, your reaction ends up being almost indifference, Daniel thinks.
Then fear takes hold of him and he wants to scream. But his mouth is full of earth, unless it’s sand, and he’s thirsty.
Have I still got my tongue?
There.
There’s my tongue.
It would make sense to think of myself as dead, Daniel thinks. But he doesn’t want to stay calm, because if the adrenaline stops pumping, he’ll end up screaming with pain.
Can I meet death halfway?
He glances down.
His chest is bare.
Completely exposed to the figure at the edge of the room.
Helpless.
Like a corpse that’s about to undergo an autopsy. That’s about to witness the cause of its own death.
69
Dust swirls through the air as Göran Möller runs out across the field.
Fog.
The dust is like fog, and he races through the earth-red veils.
It can’t have happened again.
Where are they? Let them be here somewhere.
Then he catches sight of Zeke.
He’s getting to his feet, and he coughs, stumbles towards Göran. Holds up his hand. Gives him the thumbs-up, and points behind him.
Göran Möller rushes past Zeke, deeper into an increasingly murky world.
Malin.
There she is. She’s kneeling beside a body that looks naked and clothed at the same time. She’s waving her hand in front of the figure’s face. It’s a girl, and as Göran Möller gets closer he sees that the girl’s chest is rising and falling, rising and falling.
She’s alive.
Malin’s alive.
She turns her filthy face towards him, smiles.
The look in her eyes says: We made it, we made it.
But did we? This isn’t over yet. We haven’t caught him. The game is
n’t over.
Göran Möller crouches down beside her, asks: ‘Are you hurt?’
Malin shakes her head.
‘We managed to get far enough away. There were a few extra seconds before the bomb went off.’
Göran looks over towards the five-metre-wide crater beyond them. He can’t see how deep it is, but it was a powerful explosion.
‘What about her?’
‘She’s going to be OK,’ Malin coughs. ‘But we need an ambulance.’
While they wait for the ambulance they try to get some sort of response from Nadja Lundin, but she just stares up at the sky, doesn’t seem to hear what they say, or want to drink the water they offer her. Göran Möller calls her parents, tells them she’s alive, that she’s going to be OK, but that she isn’t able to talk for the time being.
Fifteen minutes later the ambulance arrives and she is put inside.
One of the paramedics sits down beside her.
Malin’s ears are ringing, but she can hear again. Zeke seems to be similarly unharmed: shaken, but not hurt.
The ambulance drives off, and Malin thinks: We made it.
Then she thinks of Tove.
Why haven’t I heard anything more?
Has the helicopter crashed? Or was there never another village, still less a helicopter?
Her stomach feels like a lump of rock and stagnant water at the same time.
‘How’s Börje?’ she asks.
‘He’s in intensive care. Internal bleeding and burns.’
‘Is he going to be OK?’ Zeke asks.
Göran Möller hesitates before replying.
‘He’s not?’ Malin says.
‘It’s fifty–fifty.’
The bastard, Malin thinks. What’s he going to come up with next?
‘Where could he be?’ Göran Möller asks.
They’re avoiding saying his name, unwilling to humanise him like that, it’s better to keep him as a nameless creature.
‘In his van?’ Zeke says.
‘Not impossible. There’s been no sight of it since the alert was issued,’ Göran Möller says.
‘We need a wash,’ Zeke says. ‘And a change of clothes.’
‘Get back to the station.’
Uniforms are milling about around them, don’t seem to know what to do with themselves. Music is coming from one of the patrol cars, one of that spring’s big hits, but Malin has no idea who the artist is.
Then her phone buzzes again.
Another text.
Maybe you could save her, but can you save your love?
Before she has time to show the others, another message arrives.
A YouTube link.
Malin clicks on it as Göran and Zeke lean closer to her. They watch the video together in silence.
Daniel naked, nailed to a piece of plywood in a room with stone walls.
The room is bathed in a red light.
Daniel.
I can’t manage without you.
He’s groaning. His mouth is covered by tape.
The look in his eyes is pure fear.
Then a man in a hood comes into shot. His face is just vague shapes, and it’s impossible to say if it’s Jonas Ahl.
He says, in a voice that’s so cold that it seems to be made from some unknown metal: ‘I’m going to silence him. The game is over now. I’m going to silence everyone, so that you realise the importance of watching your words. Of being honest.’
The man moves away from the camera. To the left of the picture they see him do something at a table. In the background Daniel appears to have lost consciousness, his head is hanging limply to one side.
The man with the hood comes back into shot.
Eyeballs in an otherwise featureless blackness.
Then a long, echoing laugh.
‘Can you save your beloved?’
The video ends.
Malin throws her phone on the ground and rushes out into the field, screaming as loudly as her lungs are capable of, and she hears the scream make its way out across the plain, slowly dissolving into its constituent parts and falling to the ground.
She screams again.
Realises that what’s coming from her lungs is death, that the scream is just disappearing into nothingness, and then she feels Zeke’s hand on her shoulder.
‘Come here, Malin.’
She follows him back across the field towards the car, and Göran Möller holds her phone out to her.
‘Take this call.’
She takes the phone.
‘Mum? Is that you? It’s me, Tove.’
70
The truck had broken down. They were helped by people from a mountain tribe. Spent two days walking to their village, where there was a radio. Then a helicopter picked them up.
‘Everyone was so kind, Mum. They wanted ten dollars to let us use the radio, but then they realised we didn’t have any money. The aid agency sent some cash with the helicopter.’
Malin feels the phone shake in her hand. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.
‘Where are you now?’
‘In Kinshasa. They flew us straight here.’
‘Are you coming home now?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you realise how worried I’ve been?’
‘This was nothing, though.’
Malin feels anger crowding in: NOTHING? But she holds back.
‘I love you,’ she says instead. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘I love you too, Mum. But I’m doing important work here.’
‘Come home.’
‘This is home now. Is everything OK with you?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ Malin says. ‘Just as it should be.’
‘OK. They want me to hang up now. The satellite link costs a fortune.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye, Mum. Say hi to Daniel.’
They decide to hold an improvised meeting by the car.
Questions fly between Malin, Zeke, and Göran Möller.
‘Where could he be?’
‘Has Johan found out anything else?’
‘Where was that video filmed? Can we trace where it was uploaded from?’
Their questions remain unanswered, and their frustration is growing.
‘Fuck!’ Malin eventually shouts. ‘Fucking bloody hell!’
So much has happened, yet they still know hardly anything.
Zeke tries to calm her.
One of the uniforms, a heavily built man is his mid-twenties, Malin remembers that his name is Andreas Gran, approaches them. He holds up his phone.
‘I’ve watched the video.’
Don’t bother us now, Malin thinks.
‘Get lost,’ Zeke says. ‘We’re busy.’
‘Wait, you have to listen to me.’
We don’t have to do anything, Malin thinks.
‘You heard what Zeke said,’ Göran Möller says. ‘Bad timing.’
‘But …’
‘Leave it,’ Malin snarls.
The thickset cop, Andreas, looks upset, almost tearful, then he gets angry instead: ‘I know where the video was filmed. Do you hear? I’m quite certain.’
They stop, stand motionless. Feel the words they were about to utter catch in their throats.
Göran Möller recovers first.
‘OK. Let’s hear it.’
Andreas clicks to start the clip, then pauses it at a point where you can see most of the room.
‘Bare rock walls,’ he says. ‘Ventilation pipes in the ceiling. And you see that wall over there, those hooks? The way they look sort of double? They were made specially for that site. I recognise them because my grandfather designed them. That’s the big bomb shelter up in Kvarn. You know, the abandoned military area up towards Tjällmo. That’s where he is.’
Malin sees Daniel in the background of the picture.
His body hanging lifeless.
Her whole being is a mass of contradictions now: relieved and angry, full of anxiety an
d exhaustion.
‘You’re quite sure?’
‘Hundred and ten per cent,’ Andreas says. ‘You can hang your helmet and rucksack on those hooks at the same time. They were only ever installed there. I went there once when I was little, thought it was a really cool place.’
‘Hundred and ten per cent certain?’ Zeke says.
‘Definitely.’
You don’t even realise how stupid that sounds, Malin thinks.
Then she slaps his shoulder a couple of times. Hard and laddish.
‘Fucking well spotted,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’
He’s there, Malin thinks. Daniel is there.
A silent room.
And he must be terrified.
As terrified as I am.
I have to reach you in time. I can’t start all over again.
That’s enough now.
You mustn’t die, Daniel.
If you do, I’ll die too.
And she thinks of a child, playing restlessly, certain that each moment is both the last and the first.
71
That’s the end, hanging there. When I’m done with him, it’s over.
Then you’ll be able to talk, Mum. Say whatever you want. Then the whole world will hear what you say.
He wrote about me as if I were the devil. And got people to believe it. All to make himself look good, when in fact he’s the evil one.
Black plus white equals grey.
Everything is grey.
But I’m turning it red.
I shall cut off the hands he uses to write with.
Or shall I burn out the lungs that give your words the air they need?
Lungs, hands. Hands, lungs.
Eeny, meeny, miny, mo.
Hands it is.
Or tongue?
What do you think, Mum?
I wish you could see me play. The way you thought the police played with you when you went to see them.
The laughter behind your back.
The animals weren’t enough in the end. I came to this city, saw these false, arrogant people, and felt I had to act. Something snapped.
Animals weren’t enough. It was time for people.
Cut Hajif’s head off, crucify you, render the first one mute.
I walk towards him now.
To silence the person I became when you disappeared.
Mum.
Earth Storm_The new novel from the Swedish crime-writing phenomenon_Malin Fors Page 24
