Eighteen Below

by Stefan Ahnhem

  It was obvious that he had done this many times before, and when all the shaving cream up top was gone, he moved on down, stopping at the eyebrows, face, and neck on the way. Not a single hair on his chest, arms, or legs was spared the blade. Not even those on his hands and feet.

  Once his body was dry, he rubbed it meticulously with aftershave lotion, pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, placed his feet in a pair of shoes, and wrapped himself in a bathrobe before leaving the trailer, walking unhurriedly up to the manor-like building with a worn old suitcase in one hand.

  In the laundry room, he opened the suitcase and traded his shoes for a pair of brand-new disposable slippers, then walked down the hallway, whistling, to the great room and the open-plan kitchen. He took a bottle of beer from the fridge, opened it, and took a few sips as he browsed through the playlists on Chris Dawn’s cell phone.

  Soon, Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” was playing through the hidden speakers in the ceiling. The man turned up the volume and sang along with the talkbox intro as he danced out of the kitchen and over to the chest freezer in the hall, which was still plugged in and humming. He jumped up and sat on the lid, took a few sips of the beer, then put it down and began to drum along with the music on the outside of the freezer.

  He screamed along to the chorus, then drained the rest of the beer in one long gulp. He ended with a long burp before jumping down from the freezer. From his pocket he took a small plastic bag to put the bottle in, and then moved on through the house to Richie Sambora’s guitar solo.

  He passed room after room as he adjusted the gloves around his fingers. This was the first time he’d been able to have a proper look around this enormous house, and he took his time learning what was on the walls and what was hidden in drawers and cabinets. Now and then he stopped in front of a painting, studying it more attentively and taking a picture with his phone before moving on.

  On the top floor of the west wing he found a bedroom that was about the size of the average apartment. And as the modest little drum-machine beat from Phil Collins’s “In the Air Tonight” began to fill the room, he set the suitcase on the black wall-to-wall carpet and looked around the room at the burlesque-inspired red, black, and gold wallpaper. The centrepiece was a large, canopied bed with bright red silk sheets, and along the row of windows was a matching divan with a few dresses casually draped over its backrest. On the other side of the bed was a vanity with a large, lighted mirror and a jewellery tree full of necklaces.

  He entered a large walk-in closet that was illuminated by hundreds of built-in LED bulbs, and looked around as Phil Collins began to sing. Cabinets, drawers, and shelves. All full to bursting with clothes, shoes, and purses. A little less than half the space appeared to belong to Chris Dawn, with everything from grey sweatsuits to stage outfits with sequined boots and studded leather pants.

  He pulled on a pair of boxer shorts with skulls, dark socks, and a pair of black, well-worn jeans. Then he stood in front of the floor mirror and studied himself from various angles, squeezing and adjusting. He found that the jeans were at least one size too large, but the solution was simple — a studded belt and a pair of pointy boots with heels. Now they fit perfectly.

  Last of all, he picked out an old, ratty T-shirt with the Aerosmith logo and a jukebox on it, pulled it over his head, and made the last few adjustments, a satisfied smile on his face.

  Back in the bedroom, he took his suitcase over to the vanity and turned on the lights framing the mirror. He took out a portrait of Chris Dawn, fastened it to the mirror, then chose a pair of false eyebrows in the right shade and stuck them on. As he added the fake nose, which was only a tiny bit larger than his own, and a little concealing powder, he increasingly resembled Chris Dawn. But it wasn’t until he put on the wig of long, straight hair that he truly looked the same.

  He sang as he put on some of the silver skull rings he found in a drawer.

  He stood up and began to walk around, as if to get the feel of his new look and make it his own. A few turns later, his physical movements were totally changed, and when the real drums in the song kicked in he couldn’t keep from dancing and playing air drums.

  A ringing phone interrupted the music, and he hurried over to the control panel next to the bed to turn down the volume so he could locate the source. It was coming from an adjoining room that functioned as an office. The phone — a beige, older-model speakerphone with a built-in answering machine — stood on the neat desk. He walked up and stared at it until it stopped ringing.

  “You’ve reached Chris Dawn. Say something nice and maybe I’ll call you back,” the recording of Dawn’s voice said in Swedish. Then, in English, it added: “This will not be repeated in English.”

  “Hi, honey, it’s me. I tried to call your cell, but you aren’t picking up. Call me when you get this. The kids really want to say hi. See you tomorrow. Love you.”

  The call ended and the man waited a few seconds before he pressed the button to play the saved messages.

  “Hey, it’s Sture. I looked through the contract, so call me.”

  A beep.

  “Hello, hello! This is Guggen from Soundscape. I just wanted to let you know that the harmonizer came in. And if I know you, you don’t want to wait any longer than you have to, so nice guy that I am I thought I’d drop by today, Saturday, after closing time. See you.”

  Another beep.

  One in English: “Hey Chris, Miss G here. You know I don’t speak Swedish. Anyway, just listened to your new song. Loved it, want it. Beep me back.”

  “No more messages,” came a stiff computer voice.

  The man pressed another button.

  “You’ve reached Chris Dawn. Say something nice and maybe I’ll call you back. This will not be repeated in English.”

  “You’ve reached Chris Dawn,” the man repeated in the same Skåne dialect. “Say something nice and maybe I’ll call you back. This will not be repeated in English.”

  He pressed it again. Same button. Same message.

  “You’ve reached Chris Dawn. Say something nice and maybe I’ll call you back. This will not be repeated in English.”

  “You’ve reached Chris Dawn. Say something nice and maybe I’ll call you back. This will not be repeated in English.”

  32

  Bored

  That was all the message said. A single word. From an unknown number. But one word was all Theodor needed. He had no problem figuring out who it was from and what it meant. Alexandra wasn’t just thinking about him, she had gone to the trouble of getting his number. This realization made something inside him leap, and he lay on his bed, heart pounding, trying to think of a good response. It took ten whole minutes for his sweaty hands to type the two words and send them off.

  Same here

  Of course, at the moment this was a total lie. The truth was, he was so wound up that he was bouncing off the walls, awaiting her answer.

  Hang?

  Once again she stuck to one word. Not to be outdone, he limited his reply to two letters.

  OK

  Theodor knew exactly where Alexandra lived. Her house was one of the nicest in Tågaborg, on the corner of Johan Banérs Gata and Karl X Gustavs Gata. He had biked past it any number of times, and sometimes he even sneaked up close to catch a glimpse of her room through the massive hedge, just to see if she was home.

  But this was the first time he’d opened the gate and walked across the multicoloured paving stones, climbed the five white-painted steps, and rung the bell. He was nervous and found himself swallowing repeatedly. Why wasn’t she answering the door? He pressed the little button again and heard the chimes inside. Had she just been joking? Had she realized he had a crush on her and decided to toy with his emotions? He wondered if he should leave, because this was definitely too good to be true, but he decided to see if the door was unlocked; he turned the handle.

 
He had never seen such a hallway. It was as large as a whole living room. Its ceiling was so high, and there were double doors ajar in every direction. The walls were dark green and decorated with hunting trophies, old rifles, and sabres. Straight ahead of him, a wide staircase reached for the upstairs floors.

  “Hello,” he called. “Um, I’m here.” There was no response. Maybe she was in the bathroom, or maybe the house was so large she hadn’t heard him. He took off his shoes and walked into the kitchen, which was at least as fancy as the hall.

  “Why’d you take off your sneakers?”

  Theodor turned around, startled, and saw Alexandra sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, a beer in hand. “Uh, I didn’t know —.”

  “Want one?” She held up the bottle. “You can grab one from the fridge.”

  “Okay.” He walked past the kitchen island, opened the fridge, and took out a beer.

  He’d had beer several times. He had even been drunk before. And still, it felt like the very first time as they raised their bottles and drank without taking their eyes off each other. It tasted bitter and strong and — really, not very good when he thought about it. But what did it matter? He was in love. Holy fuck, he was so in love. For the first time, he let himself think that thought. Shit, he had fallen hard.

  “Come on,” she said, and vanished into the hall.

  He followed her up the stairs and down another hall until they reached her room, which was actually a small two-room suite with its own kitchen and bathroom. She showed him into the bedroom, where most of the floor space was taken up by a large bed full of pillows. In front of the window, in one corner, stood a desk flanked by an open cabinet that held the type of stereo system he could only dream of; several wardrobe doors stood ajar along another wall, proof that she had clothes in droves.

  “Have you ever listened to Lykke Li?” Alexandra crawled up onto the bed.

  Theodor nodded, even though he had no idea who that was, as he walked over to look at a few framed martial arts posters featuring Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan. “Are you into this stuff?”

  “Maybe.” Alexandra shrugged and reached for the remote. “I had this idea that you only listened to death metal and thrash punk.”

  “No, I listen to all kinds of stuff, and Lykke Li is, like, awesome.” He sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Right? Especially the latest album. It’s like the only thing I’m listening to right now.” She aimed the remote at the stereo, which lit up and started playing Wounded Rhymes at top volume. Then she finished her bottle and closed her eyes.

  Theodor looked at her and saw that she was totally into the music and knew every line by heart. But he didn’t know quite what to think. It didn’t sound like anything he listened to. A bunch of drums and a weird organ hook. And yet there was something kind of good about it.

  He drank a little more of his beer and noticed that she was even prettier close up, if that were possible. She might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He wanted to crawl over and kiss her, but he didn’t dare. He didn’t want to risk making her mad. Or was that what she was waiting for him to do?

  “Is it true he closed you up in an old baking oven?”

  He wasn’t surprised that she knew about it. Everyone did. But no one ever asked. Maybe because they knew he wouldn’t answer. That what had happened was the last thing he wanted to talk about. Yet he found himself nodding.

  “So you were, like, about to die?”

  He nodded again.

  “Wow…What did it feel like? I heard you were locked up for hours.”

  “At first I just thought it was a sick dream. But when I realized I was actually awake I got scared for real.” He met her eyes and realized that this was the first time he’d ever talked about it with someone other than his therapist. “I’d never been so scared in my whole life.”

  “Didn’t you try to get out?”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t work. I was tied up, plus there was no room in there. All I could do was try to keep calm and not waste oxygen. But I couldn’t even do that. For a while I could hear someone in the house. I think it was my dad coming home from the hospital, and I just panicked and started screaming. But he never heard me and he took off again, and then I just laid there screaming.” Theodor fell silent and shook his head at himself. He drank the last of his beer.

  “Well, I think most people would panic in that situation.”

  “But you wouldn’t, or what?”

  Alexandra shrugged. “Maybe? It’s one thing to sit here and talk about it. But for it to actually happen would be a whole other thing. Maybe it sounds totally sick, but…” She hesitated, looking into his eyes. “In some ways I feel like I would actually think it was kind of nice. You maybe don’t get it, but, like, just sailing off into nothingness, you don’t have to care about anything, you can just forget about everything.”

  Theodor was close to tears. Finally, someone who understood him. For the first time ever, he wanted nothing more than to talk about it. “That’s exactly how I felt as soon as I gave up hope.” The words crowded their way out. “It was like all the fear just drained out of me. Like I was rid of everything difficult and I could just lie there and enjoy it.” He went silent, with a sigh, and shook his head. “I know it’s all wrong, but I can’t help but see life as this heavy fucking backpack you have to drag around even though it just gets heavier with every step you take. And right when my dad left and I realized it was over, it was like I finally got to take the backpack off.”

  He stopped and she looked back at him. Neither of them said anything as Lykke Li sang about how she would rather die in the arms of someone else than all alone.

  Then she took his hands in her own and filled them with a warmth that spread up his arms and through his whole body. He could feel his pulse quickening and pumping up his blood pressure down there. Was now the time? He’d never done it. But he had thought about it. Almost daily.

  “Come on, I want to show you something.” Alexandra let go of his hands and left the room. “Come on!”

  Theodor climbed off the bed and pushed his erection down as best he could while walking into the hall. He didn’t see her anywhere, but he could hear that she was on her way down the stairs. He hurried after her but didn’t catch up until they were in the basement, on their way into a large, bright yoga studio full of soft mats, and mirrors along the front wall.

  “Wow,” he exclaimed, looking around.

  “It’s my Mom’s. She teaches classes in yoga and ‘mindfulness.’ But if you ask me, it should be called ‘mindfuckness.’ Sometimes they’re totally naked and they do warrior and downward dog and all that…Anyway, screw that, come on.” She stood in the middle of the studio in a position that suggested she was ready to fight.

  “What? What am I supposed to do?”

  “See if you can get me on the floor.”

  Theodor laughed and shook his head. “Why would I do that?”

  “If you want me, you have to win me. If you dare, that is.” She fired off a grin.

  He did want her. But he couldn’t fight a girl. He approached her. “What if I don’t? What if I refuse?” He walked around and stood behind her.

  “Then you can go home. Wusses aren’t my type,” she said, without the least indication that she was going to turn around and face him.

  The notion that he could kick her legs out from under her and catch her as she fell never got beyond the level of impulse before she spun around, knocked his legs out from under him, and yanked, causing him to fall flat on the floor. An instant later, she was on top of him, pinning his arms to the mat with her knees.

  His legs were still free, though, and soon he had raised them behind her back so he could scissor them around her head, pull her down, and roll onto his side. All he had to do now was lock her arms and let go of her head. The problem was, she was stronger th
an he’d expected, and soon she was the one who had him in a chokehold between her arms.

  He gasped for air but couldn’t get any. At the same time, fists were striking him from a variety of angles. Hard and merciless. As if there were suddenly several people on him. And now he could see them all. They were here. The faces from Stockholm. Every single person he hated and wanted to smash into a pile of raw meat.

  In the end, it was the blood running from Alexandra’s nose that made him realize it was just the two of them. Shit, he had hit her, and way too hard. That was as far as he had time to think before she burst into laughter and wiped her nose.

  “Nice job. You can do it, if you just want to.”

  33

  The video had been taken on a phone that was getting on in years. It was shaky, grainy, and blurry, and the colour palette ran to shades of beige. But the contents were just as horrifying and frightening as if it had been filmed in HD on a Steadicam.

  A half-full subway car somewhere, maybe in London or New York. Most of the passengers seemed tired, leaning or half asleep like they were on their way home from a long workday. A middle-aged man was reading a newspaper. Next to him sat a black woman with big hair and headphones, nodding along to the music. After her came two girls in school uniforms, backpacks held in front of them, and across the aisle was a dad with his little daughter sleeping on his lap and his son in the next seat.

  No one seemed to be aware they were on camera. The train slowed and the screech of the brakes cut through everything, but only the boy held his ears. The doors opened and a few people got off; others boarded. Among them was an older woman who struggled to keep her balance as she looked around for a spot no one wanted to give up.