The Savage Altar

by Unknown

  Be very careful with him, she thinks.

  She sneaks a glance at the girls. They are fast asleep.

  She sees who the other man is before he removes his hood and goggles. It doesn’t matter what he’s wearing, she would recognize him anywhere. Thomas Söderberg. The way he moves. Dominates the room. It’s almost as if they had rehearsed. Curt Bäckström and Vesa Larsson take up positions on either side of the door to the pigsty.

  Vesa Larsson looks past her. Or maybe straight through her. He has the same look as the parents of small children in the supermarket. The muscles beneath the skin of the face have given up. They can’t hide the tiredness anymore. The dead expression. The parents haul their trolleys up and down the aisles like donkeys beaten to the limit of their endurance, deaf to their children’s crying or their agitated chatter.

  Thomas Söderberg takes a step forward. At first he doesn’t look at her. With tense, watchful movements he unzips his leathers and takes out his glasses. They are new since she last saw him, but that’s a long time ago. He looks around the room like a commander in a science-fiction film, registers everything, the children, the axe in the corner and Rebecka, by the kitchen table. Then he relaxes. His shoulders drop. His movements become softer, like a lion padding over the savannah.

  He turns to Rebecka.

  “Do you remember that Easter when you invited Maja and me here?” he asks. “It feels like another lifetime. For a while I thought I wouldn’t be able to find it. In the dark and the storm.”

  Rebecka looks at him. He takes off his hood and his gloves and pushes them into the pockets of his leathers. His hair has got thinner. The odd gray streak among the brown, otherwise he is just the same. As if time had stood still. Maybe he has put on a little weight, but it’s hard to tell.

  Vesa Larsson leans against the door frame. He is breathing with his mouth open and his face is turned slightly upward, as if he were feeling carsick. His gaze wanders from Curt to Thomas, and to Rebecka herself. But he doesn’t look at the children.

  Why doesn’t he look at the children?

  Curt sways to and fro a little. His gaze is firmly fixed, sometimes on Rebecka, sometimes on Thomas.

  What’s going to happen now? Is Curt going to take the shotgun from his shoulder and shoot her? One, two, three, and it’s all over. Black. She must gain time. Talk, woman. Think of Sara and Lova.

  Rebecka uses her hands to support her; leaning on the edge of the table, she raises herself from the chair.

  “Sit down!” barks Thomas, and she slumps back down like a beaten dog.

  Sara whimpers slightly but doesn’t wake. She turns over and her breathing once again becomes deep and calm.

  “Was it you?” croaks Rebecka. “Why?”

  “It was God himself, Rebecka,” says Thomas earnestly.

  She recognizes the serious tone of voice and the attitude. This is how he looks and sounds when he wants to impress important matters upon his listeners. His whole being is transformed. It is as if he were a block of stone that has thrust up through the earth from under the ground, with its roots in the earth’s core. Gravity, strength and power through and through. And yet, at the same time, humility before God.

  Why is he putting on this performance for her? No, it isn’t for her benefit. It’s for Curt. He’s… he’s handling Curt.

  “What about the children?” she asks.

  Thomas bows his head. Now there is something fragile in his tone. Something frail. It’s as if his voice can barely manage the words.

  “If you hadn’t…” he begins. “… I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for forcing me to do this, Rebecka.”

  As if he has been given an invisible sign, Curt removes his right glove and takes a coil of rope from his pocket.

  She turns to Curt. Forces her voice past the lump blocking her throat.

  “But you love Sanna,” she says. “How can you love her and kill her children?”

  Curt closes his eyes. He continues to sway gently to and fro as if he doesn’t hear her. Then his lips move silently for a while before he answers.

  “They are shadow children,” he says. “They must be put aside.”

  If she can just get him talking. Gain some time. She has to think. Follow his thread. Thomas is letting him talk, he daren’t do anything else.

  “ ‘Shadow children’? What do you mean?”

  She tilts her head to one side and rests her cheek on her hand just as Sanna does, makes a real effort to keep her voice calm.

  Curt speaks straight out into the room with his eyes fixed on the kerosene lamp. As if he were alone. Or as if there were some being inside the light itself, listening to him.

  “The sun is behind me,” he says. “My shadow falls before me. It walks in front of me. But when I step into it, the shadow must give way. Sanna will have new children. She will bear me two sons.”

  I’m going to be sick, thinks Rebecka, and she can taste minced elk meat and bile surging up through her body.

  She gets up. Her face is as white as snow. Her legs are trembling under her. Her body is so heavy. It weighs several tons. Her legs are like spindly toothpicks.

  In a second Curt is in front of her. His face is twisted with rage. He screams at her so loudly that he has to draw breath after each word.

  “You… were… told… to… sit… down!”

  He hits her in the stomach with enormous force and she folds forward like a clasp knife. Her legs lose their last vestige of strength. The floor comes rushing up to meet her face. Grandmother’s rag rug against her cheek. Unbearable pain in her stomach. A long way above her, agitated voices. A rushing, ringing noise in her ears.

  She has to close her eyes for a little while. Just for a little while. Then she’ll open her eyes. That’s a promise. Sara and Lova. Sara and Lova. Who’s screaming? Is it Lova, screaming like that? Just for a little while…

  Benny the locksmith unlocks the door to Curt Bäckström’s apartment and disappears. Sven-Erik Stålnacke and Anna-Maria Mella stand there on the dark staircase. Only the lights from outside shine in through the window facing the yard. Silence. They look at each other and nod. Anna-Maria has undone the safety catch on her pistol, a Sig Sauer.

  Sven-Erik goes in. She hears his tentative hello. Anna-Maria stands guard outside the open door.

  I must be out of my mind, she thinks.

  The bottom of her back is aching. She leans against the wall and takes deep breaths. What if he’s in there in the dark. He might be dead. Or lying in wait somewhere. He could rush her from inside and knock her down the stairs.

  Sven-Erik switches on the light in the hallway.

  She peers in. It’s a one-room apartment. You can see straight into the combined living room and bedroom from the hall. It’s a peculiar place. Does someone really live here?

  There isn’t a stick of furniture in the hall. No desk with bits and pieces and the mail. No mat. Nothing hanging on the coat stand below the hat pegs. The living room is empty too. Almost. There are some lamps standing on the floor, and a huge mirror hangs on the wall. The windows are covered with black sheets. Nothing on the windowsills. No curtains. A single pine bed up against the wall. The coverlet is pale blue machine-quilted nylon.

  Sven-Erik comes out of the kitchen. He shakes his head imperceptibly. Their eyes meet. Full of questions and foreboding. He walks over to the bathroom door and opens it. The light switch is on the inside. He stretches out his hand. She hears the click, but the light doesn’t come on. Sven-Erik remains standing in the doorway. She can see him from the side. His hand taking out his key ring. He has a small torch on it. The narrow beam of light in through the door. The eyes narrowing so that they can see better.

  Perhaps she makes a movement that he sees out of the corner of his eye, because his hand flies up to stop her. He takes one step into the room. One foot over the threshold. Her back is tense and aching again. She clenches her fist and presses it against her spine.

  He comes out of the
bathroom. Rapid steps. Mouth open. Pupils like black holes in a face made of ice.

  “Ring,” he says hoarsely.

  “Ring who?” she asks.

  "Everybody! Wake up the whole bloody lot of them!"

  Rebecka opens her eyes. How much time has passed? Thomas Söderberg’s face is floating just below the ceiling. He looks like the eclipse of the sun. His face is in the shadows, and the kerosene lamp hanging behind his head forms a corona around his brown curls.

  Her stomach is still hurting. Worse than before. And over and above the pain, outside the pain, is something warm and wet. Blood. She realizes with terror that Curt didn’t punch her.

  He stabbed her with a knife.

  “This isn’t exactly what we planned,” says Thomas Söderberg firmly. “We must reconsider.”

  She turns her head. Sara and Lova are lying head to tail on the bed. Their hands are tied to the bedposts. Bits of white cloth are sticking out of their mouths. On the floor by the bed lies a torn-up sheet. That’s what they’ve got in their mouths. She can see their chests moving up and down rapidly as they fight to take in enough air through their noses.

  Lova has a cold. But she’s breathing.

  Keep calm, she’s breathing. Fuck, fuck.

  “The idea was,” says Thomas Söderberg thoughtfully, “the idea was to set fire to the cabin. And we were going to give you the keys to your snowmobile so you could get away, just in your nightdress or a T-shirt. You’d take the chance, of course; who wouldn’t? With the storm and the windchill factor when you’re traveling by snowmobile, I reckon you’d have got about a hundred meters at the most. Then you’d have fallen off and frozen to death in a matter of minutes. It would have shown up as a simple accident on the police report. The cabin catches fire. You panic, leave the kids and rush out just as you are. You try to escape and freeze to death just a little distance away. No major investigation, no questions. Now it’s going to be more difficult.”

  “Are you intending to let the children burn to death?”

  Thomas bites his lip thoughtfully as if he hasn’t heard her.

  “I think we’ll have to take you with us,” he says. “Even if your body burns, the mark of the stab wound might still be there. I can’t risk that.”

  He breaks off and turns his head as Vesa Larsson comes in with a red plastic gasoline can in his hand.

  "No gasoline," says Thomas angrily. "No accelerants and no chemicals. Anything like that will show up in a technical examination. We’ll set fire to the curtains and the bedclothes with matches."

  He nods at Rebecka.

  “We’ll take her with us,” he continues. “You two go and spread a tarpaulin over the trailer.”

  Vesa Larsson and Curt disappear through the door. The storm roars, then falls silent as the door closes. Now she is alone with him. Her heart is pounding. She must hurry. She knows that. Otherwise her body will fail her.

  Did Curt put the gun down by the door? Difficult to spread out a heavy tarpaulin in a storm with a gun slung on your back. Come closer.

  “I can’t understand how you could do this,” says Rebecka. “Doesn’t it say ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”

  Thomas sighs. He is squatting by her side.

  “And yet, the Bible is full of examples of when God has taken life,” he says. “Don’t you understand, Rebecka? He is allowed to break his own laws. And I couldn’t do it. I told him that. Then he sent me Curt. It was more than a sign. I had to obey him.”

  He stops to wipe away the snot running from his nose. His face is beginning to redden in the heat from the stove. It must be warm in that suit.

  “I don’t have the right to allow you to destroy God’s work. The media would have blown these financial difficulties up into a full-scale scandal, and then it would all have been over. What has happened in Kiruna is something great. And yet, God has made me understand that this is only the beginning.”

  “Did Viktor threaten you?”

  “In the end he was a threat to everyone. Not least to himself. But I know that he is with God.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Thomas shakes his head impatiently.

  “There is neither the time nor any reason to do so, Rebecka.”

  “And what about the girls?”

  “They can tell people things about their uncle that… We still need Viktor. His name must not be dragged through the dirt. Do you know how many people we help to come off drugs every year? Do you know how many children are reunited with their lost mummies and daddies? Do you know how many find faith? Job opportunities? A decent life? Marriages saved? In the night God has talked to me about all this again and again.”

  He breaks off and stretches out his hand to her. Lets his fingers trail over her mouth and down to her throat.

  “I loved you just as much as I love my own daughter. And you…”

  “I know,” she squeaks. “Forgive me.”

  Come closer.

  “But what about now?" she sobs. "Do you love me now?”

  His face becomes as hard as stone.

  “You killed my child.”

  The man who has only daughters. Who wanted a son.

  “I know. I think about him every day. But it wasn’t…”

  She turns her head to the side and coughs and presses her hand against her stomach. Then she looks up at him again.

  There it was. She could see it. Thirty centimeters from her head. The stone Lova had painted Virku on. When he’s close enough. Grab it and hit him. Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. Grab it and hit him.

  “There was someone else as well. It wasn’t…”

  Her voice tails away in an exhausted whisper. He leans toward her. Like a fox listening for voles under the snow.

  Her lips form words he cannot hear.

  Finally he bends over her. Don’t hesitate, count to three.

  “Pray for me…” she whispers in his ear.

  One…

  “… you weren’t the only one I…”

  Two…

  “… it wasn’t your child.”

  Three!

  He stiffens for a second and it’s enough. Her arm shoots out like a striking cobra, grabs the stone. She shuts her eyes and hits him with every ounce of strength she has. On the temple. In her mind’s eye she sees the stone shooting like a missile straight through his skull and out through the wall. But when she opens her eyes the stone is still in her hand. Thomas is lying on his side next to her. Perhaps his hands are making an attempt to shield his head. She doesn’t really know. She is already up on her knees and she hits him again. And again. On the head every time.

  That’s enough. Now she’s in a hurry.

  She drops the stone and tries to get to her feet, but her legs won’t bear her weight. She crawls across the floor to the corner by the door. Curt’s shotgun is next to the axe. She drags herself along on her knees, using her right hand. She keeps her left hand pressed against her stomach.

  If she can only manage it in time. If they come in now it’s all over.

  She grabs hold of the weapon. Gets to her knees. Fumbles. Her hands are shaky and clumsy. Slips the bolt. Breaks the gun. It’s loaded. Snaps it shut and releases the safety catch. Scrabbles backwards toward the middle of the floor. The rag rugs are spattered with blood. Drops of her own blood as big as a one-krona coin. Blurred prints from her right hand, the hand that held the stone.

  If they go around the house they’ll be able to see her through the window. They won’t do that. Why would they go tramping off round there? She feels ill. Mustn’t throw up. How is she going to manage to hold on to the gun?

  She shuffles farther back in a half-sitting position, one hand pressed against her stomach. Moves the other hand toward the table and pushes with her legs. Gets hold of the gun and drags it along with her. Sits with the table leg supporting her back. Legs slightly drawn up. Lays the gun along her thighs so that it is pointing upward at the door. And waits.

  “Keep calm,” she says to Lova
and Sara without taking her eyes off the door. “Shut your eyes and keep calm.”

  Curt is the first to come in through the door. Just behind him she can see Vesa. Curt catches sight of her with the gun. Registers the two black holes pointing at him. For a fraction of a second his face alters. From irritation with the cold, the wind and the stiff tarpaulin into—not fear, but something else. First of all, the realization that he can’t get to her in time. Then his gaze becomes dull. Empty and expressionless.

  She doesn’t lift the gun high enough and the recoil cracks her lower rib when she blasts a hole in Curt’s stomach. He falls back against the door. The snow comes whirling in through the opening.

  Vesa stands frozen to the spot. His whole body is a single scream.

  “In!” she snaps, and points the gun at him. “And bring him with you. Sit down!”

  He does as she says and squats on his haunches by the door.

  “On your backside!” she orders.

  He slumps down. His suit is bulky. He can’t easily get to his feet from that position. Without her telling him to, he links his hands behind his head. Curt is lying between them. In the silence that follows when the door has closed against the storm, they can hear Curt’s labored breathing: short, panting whistles.

  She leans her head back. Tired. Very tired.

  “Now,” she says to Vesa Larsson, “you are going to tell me everything. And as long as you keep talking and keep telling the truth, you can stay alive.”

  “Sanna Strandgård came to me,” says Vesa hoarsely. “She was… in floods of tears. I know that’s a ridiculous expression, but you should have seen her.”

  Oh, I can see her, all right, thinks Rebecka. Hair all fluffed out like a dandelion clock. Nobody suits snot and tears better than Sanna.

  “She said Viktor had interfered with her girls.”