Clinch

by Martin Holmén

The yo-yo king puts his apparatus into a spin, lets it roll across the cleared paving stones, then, with a jerk, snaps it back into his hand. A collective sigh passes among the kids. The tramp shuffles off in a northerly direction.

  ‘We’ll see.’ Beda nods as she accepts the paper bag. ‘If it wasn’t for Petrus…’

  ‘He’ll make his way.’

  ‘He can’t even make a pot of gravy.’

  We laugh. She puts her hand on my arm. ‘I want you to promise me something, Kvisten, do you think you can?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Can you look in on Petrus sometimes?’

  ‘Of course I can.’

  ‘So he doesn’t end up in Konradsberg Asylum. Can you promise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Beda reaches up and pats my cheek quite firmly a few times. ‘Well that’s good. Maybe things will sort themselves out.’ She nods thoughtfully. ‘If tomorrow comes, common sense will come too.’

  ‘I’ve celebrated Christmas in every corner of the world,’ I say, sitting opposite Doris at the Metropol Restaurant on the corner of Sveavägen and Odengatan about half an hour later.

  Although it’s the only restaurant that seems to stay open for a late afternoon lunch on Christmas Day, the dining room is not more than half full. The trio makes an abrupt change from ‘Jingle Bells’ to ‘La Paloma’.

  ‘Usually they slaughtered the last pig on board. The skipper gave the crew a bottle of gin to share, and the cook made blood pancakes and pork escalopes. Sometimes you got a ginger cake. The off-duty watch sang Christmas songs, accompanying himself on the violin. This isn’t so bad, not so very bad at all.’

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  Doris is resoundingly unimpressed by the huge crystal chandeliers under the ceiling, the live orchestra and the rippling water sculpture in the middle of the dining room that changes colour. After two mouthfuls of the Christmas food, she puts down her cutlery. I’m eating with good appetite, keeping the linen napkin under my chin and the silver fork in my right hand.

  ‘And damn, on Långholmen. If you were lucky you got the Christmas edition of The War Cry.’

  ‘I said, don’t do that!’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Don’t talk to me as if I were a spoilt child.’ She fiddles with a cigarette to get it into the cigarette holder, and then lights it.

  ‘Okay.’

  I have a good go at my herring salad. It’s delicious. Doris exhales a cloud of smoke and nods at me.

  ‘Did you change your hairstyle?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You had a side parting before, it wasn’t slicked back like that.’

  ‘I’ve always had it like this.’

  ‘I preferred it before.’

  ‘I’ll change it, then.’

  With darting eyes, Doris takes a gulp of her champagne. ‘Sorry. I’ve had a couple of miserable days. My son slapped my face – on Christmas day, no less.’ She has another mouthful. She’s on her fifth glass of champagne.

  ‘I’ll be blowed.’

  She sighs and looks around the room. ‘Everyone hurts you in the end, it’s just a matter of finding the ones who are worth the bother.’ She takes a drag of her cigarette. ‘Do you want children? You’re still young, aren’t you?’

  ‘I had one. A daughter.’ I put down my cutlery.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She died.’

  ‘La Paloma’ ebbs away, followed by a pause. I take another Meteor from my inside pocket. Outside, darkness is quickly gobbling up the last of the city. It’s snowing; there are lots of tiny, whirling flakes. No people are out and about on the pavements except a boy dragging a jute sack along the pavement, his legs swaddled under his shorts.

  A few tables behind us, a bloke raises a toast, and the crystal glasses tinkle as they’re brought together. The guitarist is tuning his instrument.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Doris crushes her cigarette in the ashtray. I light my Meteor with the restaurant matches, and then throw the box on the table. She picks a few crumbs off the table.

  ‘It’s long ago.’

  ‘So you had someone, then? Were you married?’

  ‘It must be almost ten years ago.’

  ‘Did you leave her? Or did she leave you?’

  ‘I never hit her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I never hit her. We almost always had food on the table and we weren’t cold. Maybe I was drunk from time to time but I never raised my hand against her.’

  Outside the window an old Ford picks up speed to make it to the top of the hill. The almost-empty number 3 tram passes in the other direction. I hold up my schnapps glass at an angle to see if there are still a few drops left in it. I look around, but the waiter’s already on his way to our table. He holds a handwritten note in his hand.

  ‘Mr Kvist?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘A caretaker by name of Petersén asked me to give you this. He’s looked for you at home, and has been directed here.’

  Sonja’s lover from Boden Hotel. I wipe my mouth with the linen napkin and push back my chair. The waiter gives me the note and makes himself scarce.

  ‘She’s on Regeringsgatan, number 67’, I read out loud.

  There’s a stabbing feeling in my stomach. Sonja. The missing prime witness.

  I read the note one more time, then push the car keys over to Doris. Regeringsgatan is only about fifteen minutes away.

  ‘Thanks for lunch. I have to look into this at once.’

  ‘What does she have that I don’t?’

  ‘It can’t be helped. This is urgent.’ I stand up.

  ‘All right, I’ll wait at your place. And be a good fellow and send the waiter over on your way out, would you? I need more champagne.’

  I nod and set off. I point the waiter towards our table. Doris has gone to the toilet. I won’t have time to go home and pick up that blasted Husqvarna. I get my overcoat from the cloakroom and put it on. I step outside into the falling snow, and start running at once towards the crossroads.

  Sonja, my little dear. Now you’re mine.

  As I head up the hill on Regeringsgatan, I pass the pleasure palace, Alcazar, at number 74. It’s closed for Christmas. The snow is falling hard and, above my head, the local retailers have put up streamers of electric lights to force away the darkness and create a bit of Christmas cheer.

  I continue past the spice huts with their blue-painted shop signs and the boutiques just above the bridge. The mannequins in the dark windows have painted-on bob hairstyles. They stare at me with their dead eyes. I walk onto the bridge that runs over Kungsgatan. I stop halfway across and gaze down towards Stureplan. It’s an excellent vantage point. I’ve already checked countless times whether I am being followed, but it doesn’t hurt to look one more time. All the shops and restaurants are closed, and the fashionable street is eerily deserted. The newly fallen snow on the pedestrian walkway is scarcely marked by any footprints.

  ‘Maybe the German sod went home for Christmas.’

  My voice is muffled by the snow. I snort. The wind whines under the bridge like a drive-belt in a workshop. The spans of the bridge have been decorated with lamps that meet in a gigantic shining Star of Bethlehem, exactly where I am standing and keeping a lookout. Kungsgatan has been carefully cleared and high snowbanks separate the traffic lanes from the wide pavements. Cinemas and shops jostle for space with restaurants. The evening is lit up by neons. The falling snowflakes seem to capture the lights and deflect them as a glow of red or blue shimmering mist.

  I hunch up my shoulders. The cold drums against my limbs. I turn around, pace a bit, and read the numbers of the houses.

  Further down on Regeringsgatan, a torch-lit procession comes slowly winding along like a giant glow worm. In the front rank, behind a mounted policeman, a couple of blokes are striding along with banners in their hands, but they’re too far away for me to be able to identify which congregation they are from. Maybe they’re on the
ir way up to Johannes, to celebrate the Redeemer’s birthday.

  I check the address in my notebook. Number 67 is squeezed between a perfume shop and a tobacconist just a few doors further down the street. An elegant black Rolls is parked outside. I have an idea I’ve seen the car before some place but I can’t remember where. I let my gaze wander up the façade. Most of the windows are lit.

  I cross the bridge and head towards the torch procession.

  The shop signs creak on their hinges and occasionally make a snapping sound in the wind. I peer into the dark doorway. My heart is racing. I’m close now, I can smell it.

  I put a cigar between my lips and rummage in my pockets, then open the door and step inside. The light switch clicks redundantly. Slowly, my eyes accustom themselves to the darkness. A long, sober line of black-dressed men in fur hats and woollen mittens passes in the street outside. The flickering of their torches penetrates the window set into the door. I read the nameplate of the residents. Nothing. A smooth-worn stone staircase winds upwards through the building. There’s an abiding smell of mulled wine.

  I take the gold lighter from my pocket, shake it and, without success, try to make it work. Muttering, I turn around to face the stairs.

  As I put my foot on the first step, a short, desperate scream cuts through the gloom and echoes between the stone walls. I freeze. The hair stands up on my neck and a shiver runs all the way down my spine, leaving my skin goosebumped. I stare up the staircase and listen.

  The shop signs are still creaking. I can hear the gentle clattering sound of hooves further up the street. The scream must have come from the first or maybe the second floor.

  I run up the stairs quickly, panting. Before I step onto the first-floor landing, I pause and listen again. Everything is silent. It must have been some Christmas drunk having a crack at his wife. I go up the two remaining steps in one leap. Immediately I wish I hadn’t.

  ‘Oh good God!’

  At the far end of the stairwell, some three or four metres ahead of me, one of the wooden doors is open. I can see directly into the flat. The light of the hall lamp falls over a worn doormat and a pair of high ladies’ boots someone has put there. The hall is small and narrow. Someone has obstinately squeezed a secretaire into a cramped space by the door, but the piece lacks a chair. On top of it is a two-armed brass candlestick. An overcoat and a ladies’ umbrella hang from a couple of hooks in the light, floral wallpaper.

  Sonja looks at me with her slanted eyes. She’s lying on her stomach in the hall, her head towards me, her lipstick smudged across her chin. In her dark sleeveless dress, her arms shine palely against the floor. Tears have painted long black stripes down her cheeks. Whimpering quietly, she holds out a pearl necklace in her bleeding hands as if offering it to me as a Christmas present.

  The German with the bowler hat greets me with the same smile as in Yxsmedsgränd. He’s standing over Sonja, straddling her, his black overcoat buttoned all the way up, black gloves on his hands. In his right hand he holds a blood-caked stick bayonet that is near on half a metre long. The bastard nods, as if greeting me.

  Sonja moans again. She manages to slide forwards a little. I take a step towards her. The blood from the bayonet is whisked all over the hall when the German lifts it up and thrusts the blade down.

  The tip penetrates Sonja’s neck, cuts right through her throat and strikes the hall floor with a dull thud. Her eyes widen, then their light is extinguished. Her hand thumps against the floor, and the pearls make a rattling sound.

  I turn and run down the stairs.

  A horse with bells pulls a creaking gig across the bridge over Kungsgatan. I throw my unlit Meteor over the railing. The freezing air claws at my nose and in my lungs like steel wool. The banks of snow on either side of the street mute the sound of the race. I know that I’m slower than the murderer. I hope I can stay ahead until we catch up with the procession.

  Quickly I draw closer to the march struggling up the hill. My pursuer is keeping up with me; I can hear his thudding boots. Do I have ten metres on him? Five? I don’t know, there’s no time to check.

  I reach the tail end of the torches and change into a higher gear. I gain a couple of metres and throw myself into the left flank of the procession. Embers are flying through the air of the dark afternoon with a smell of burning paper and rank wool. Someone raises his voice but I can’t hear what he’s saying. I force aside a few more lines of men while, at the same time, removing my hat. For a moment I think I’ve got away from the German fucker, maybe I was hoping that he might have been looking the other way when I threw myself in among hundreds of witnesses, but then I see his dead left eye sparkling in the light of a torch just a few rows behind me.

  Gradually I work my way to the right. When we pass Alcazar and cross David Bagares gata, I crouch down and slip away from the procession. Half running, I slip into a side street, open the first door I find on the right-hand side and throw myself inside. I press myself against the wall of the corridor and try to catch my breath.

  Even if the German only stays with the procession for a few metres before he notices I’m no longer there, I’ll be safe. It’ll give me time to scamper down the steps to the Royal Library and disappear into Humlegården, which I know like the inside of my pocket.

  But I don’t have time to take my plans any further. I’ve only just put my hand on the door handle when my pursuer is standing outside. He smiles as he draws the long bayonet from his coat, then opens the door and steps into the darkness. I back away. Sweat is running down my brow, stinging my eyes. Stumbling backwards, I tug at the doors on my left.

  ‘Sagt hallo zum tot!’ My pursuer slowly closes the space between us, holding the bayonet in front of him like a fencing foil.

  Somewhere behind me a flight of steps goes up into the house, but I daren’t turn my back on him.

  I keep tugging at the doors until one of them opens, and I tumble into a restaurant kitchen. Someone at Alcazar has been sloppy with the routines.

  It’s a big kitchen with several worktops and a floor of black tiles. On the far side are four cookers under a row of windows where a bit of light comes in. Kitchen implements, pots and trays gleam in the comparative gloom. Quickly I look around for something sharp. My opponent makes an attack at once.

  I dodge to the right and grip the knife-wielding arm with my left hand at the same time as I throw a hook with the other. The German flinches but the fist connects nonetheless and smashes into his left eye. There’s a crunch in my hand, and shooting pains. Something’s snapped.

  The false eye jumps out of its socket and makes a little arc through the air before smashing against the hard floor. I put my right palm under his chin and push him back into one of the worktops with all my strength. As the edge of it crunches into his lower back, making him snort with pain, I bend down and bite the fingers of his right hand as hard as I can.

  The bayonet clatters as it hits the floor. The remains of the enamelled eye crunch under my foot. The iron-rich taste of blood eggs me on, and I take him in a clinch, though I might as well have embraced a main mast: he has no soft parts, only the sharp edges of muscle and bone. He smells rank. I let the blood and bits of skin run down my chin.

  Despite my right fist being broken, and even though I’m the shorter of us, I feel I have the upper hand. I have spent many hours in situations no worse than this.

  My old trainer once said that boxing, at its best, makes you feel properly alive. This is wrong. Boxing is at its best when you’re completely empty inside, pressing on like some kind of automatic doll. One movement is no more than a natural extension of another. The body is abandoned to the fight, pre-programmed and choreographed to answer in a certain way to a given situation, hardened through thousands of hours of training. The fight turns into a physical self-examination, a receipt for the time that’s been invested. Street fighting is really no different; it just lacks a system of rules.

  Accompanied by the slamming of saucepans and cooking implem
ents hitting the floor, we spin a couple of times in our furious dance between the benches. Both of us are quietly grunting with the exertion of it. Our cheeks graze against one another. My eye is right up close to his black eye socket.

  I keep on his blind side. I chomp after his ear with my bloodied mouth but he reads my movement and clashes heads with me. My neck muscles smart, and my breath is wheezing. I shift myself into a lower position so I can push my skull bone into his carotid artery.

  If I can work my shoulder and upper arm round on the other side, I can put him in a lock that way. He pushes me forwards but suddenly stops and steps back. There’s a stinging pain in my body when he thrusts his knee into my crotch.

  While the pain is still hurtling inside my belly, he grabs hold of my back. He hangs himself on me, curls his legs around my body and locks one arm around my neck with the other.

  I don’t have much time. My head is thumping with oxygen depletion. I stamp the heel of my boot on his toes, then drive my elbow as hard as I can into his side, but this fails to break the hold around my neck. I throw myself backwards in the hope that he’ll let go of me when we smash into the floor.

  The fall winds him. Little droplets of saliva shoot up and land on my swelling, heated face. He’s moaning in my left ear but still clamped onto me.

  We’re lying there between the worktops and I thrash with my legs, my eyes flickering and my field of vision starting to reduce. I claw for his healthy eye, but can’t get hold of it.

  In a last expenditure of energy I fumble over the floor and find a sharp object. Without ever having held one, I know right away what it is. Everything I can hear seems to be heading into a great darkness. I close my hand around the fat handle and drive the meat thermometer into him.

  The world around me is shaking and vibrating. I make another stab at him.

  All the light is retracting into a black sun. Dusk falls quickly.

  I stab again.

  I wake on the murderer’s arm. It’s still dark outside. I’m cold. We’re both lying on our backs. I turn my head and look at him, staring at me now with his empty eye socket. That bowler hat of his has gone. He has one puncture wound through his cheek, and one on his forehead. The meat thermometer in his throat shows thirty-three degrees but I don’t know how long I’ve been out.