The Shapeshifters

by Stefan Spjut

  Seved could not see him: he was clutching his forehead with his right hand and staring out through the window. He must not start crying, but he felt very close to it. It was rising up inside him.

  ‘It hasn’t got a name,’ said Börje, over his shoulder. ‘But you can give it a name, if you like.’

  ‘Can I have it?’

  ‘No,’ said Börje. ‘Like I said, not this one. But you can give it a name. It makes them happy if they have a name. And we have so many it’s impossible for us to find names for them all.’

  The boy was silent.

  ‘Have you got a good suggestion?’ he went on.

  ‘Perhaps Jim.’

  ‘Jim?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Jim,’ said Börje, as if testing the sound of it. ‘That’s not a bad name, is it? Did you hear what a good name he thought up? Jim.’

  Seved nodded.

  ‘It’s nice,’ he said softly. By this time he had twisted his face towards the glass so that the tears welling up in his eyes would not show. They would be streaming down his cheeks any second.

  Time.

  It was only a matter of time.

  Everything passes with time.

  He had been told that himself, and he knew it was true in a way. Time blotted things out. They lost their hold. Although of course there was no telling what would fade and what would remain. But it would get better. He would get used to it, even if he was sad to begin with. It vanished with time. A shell formed.

  They had to drive through Jokkmokk, and they knew that was not entirely risk free. Partly because the boy would realise they had no plans to stop at a pet shop, and partly because they would have to drive relatively slowly through the built-up area, and then someone who knew the boy might catch sight of him. On the other hand, it was fairly dark.

  They were not particularly worried that he would start screaming and struggling. It would take a lot for the boy to do that. But there must not be silence. Seved tried to think of something to say but his mind was a complete blank. It would be a disaster if the boy heard the crying in his voice.

  They turned into the road that ran past the police station. Lights were shining in the windows of the ground floor. Seved tried to see if Börje was nervous, but it was hard to tell.

  ‘Jim,’ repeated the older man loudly, and craned his neck to get a glimpse of the boy in the rear-view mirror. ‘That’s a really good name. How clever of you to come up with such a good name, Mattias.’ He put the indicator on and the Volvo began to tick. ‘If you like, you can name a few more, because I can never think of names that suit them. They have to be names they like, of course. And you can’t ask them because they can’t talk. But they can nod. They understand!’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Of course. Ask him if he would like to be called Jim.’

  The boy sat and thought for a moment.

  ‘Do you want to?’ he said quietly.

  He looked for a long time at the mouseshifter, which was lying very still and looking at him with eyes like dark dots. The little object did not understand a thing, it seemed.

  ‘Well?’ asked Börje. ‘What does he say? Would he like to be called Jim?’

  ‘I think so.’

  The streets of Jokkmokk were lined with frozen birches, cars covered in white and high mounds of snow left behind by the ploughs. In the windows, Advent stars and candlesticks were shining. They passed an ICA supermarket and a pizzeria. Some way along a side road a car was parked with its headlights on full beam.

  ‘Well, Mattias,’ Börje said, ‘perhaps you’d like other toys too? What toys would you like to have? Do you like Lego?’

  Mattias nodded.

  ‘You can build a house with your Lego for Jim to live in, can’t you? You could build a block of flats, and then Jim’s friends can live on the other floors, and you can build a castle . . .’

  It was clear from Börje’s voice that he was running out of things to say, and Seved tried desperately to think of something. He swallowed, repeatedly. He was unsure of his own voice. It might let him down.

  ‘They like to wear clothes,’ he said, turning round in his seat to study the boy, who was trying to pat the little mouseshifter with his finger. ‘Like the mice in Cinderella. Have you seen Cinderella?’

  Börje turned his head with a look that stung Seved’s cheek. That was exactly the kind of talk that had to be avoided. Nothing about home, nothing outside the car.

  They approached a junction, and Börje slowed down because a car in front was pulling out. At the same time a woman came along with a kick sledge. Her glasses had misted up under her fur-edged hood and she passed by on Seved’s side. He looked at her and she looked at him. Stared, in fact.

  As they began to move again he met Börje’s eyes.

  And now he was no longer unaffected.

  Seved looked at his watch. Over half an hour had passed.

  ‘Shall we phone Lennart?’ he said quietly.

  Börje nodded, extracted his mobile from his trouser pocket and gave it to Seved.

  ‘Better still,’ he said, ‘send a text.’

  Seved had never owned a mobile phone. He didn’t know how to send a text; he didn’t even know how to unlock the phone.

  Börje had to instruct him, step by step.

  When Seved had found the right place and worked out how the keys functioned he wrote:

  ‘WE HAVE THE BOY.’

  Then he held up the phone so that Börje could check.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘You’ve got to send it as well. Press YES.’

  Shortly afterwards the phone rang.

  ‘LENNART BRÖSTH,’ it said in black letters against the grey display. Seved handed the mobile to Börje. He answered Lennart’s questions in monosyllables, and when the conversation ended he threw the phone into Seved’s lap.

  ‘Have you cleaned up the cellar?’

  Seved shook his head.

  ‘Then you’ll have to call Signe,’ said Börje. ‘Lennart was in Glommersträsk, on his way to Skellefteå. But he’s going to turn round straight away, so it looks like he’ll be there before us. Tell her to clean up the worst of it. And make the bed.’

  ‘I think I want to go home now.’

  When Seved heard the boy’s high voice from the back seat he felt a knot form in his stomach, and for a few seconds he could not even draw breath.

  ‘Home?’ Börje said at length. ‘Didn’t you want your very own little troll mouse?’

  ‘Yes, but I have to go home.’

  ‘We’ll drive you home as soon as we have collected the mouse,’ Börje said over his shoulder. ‘That’ll be all right, won’t it?’

  Mattias had stiffened.

  Seved unclicked his safety belt, put one boot on his seat and squeezed himself between the front seats and into the back, almost falling on top of the boy, who was holding his cupped hands in front of him. They were empty. The mouseshifter had slipped away. Now it could be anywhere in the car, and it would not be easy to get hold of it again.

  Mattias stared out through the window. A tear had left a shiny stripe down his cheek. His hat had ridden up his head and one ear was visible. It was a little red nine shape, surrounded by tufts of brown hair.

  ‘You mustn’t be sad,’ Seved said, using the back of his hand to wipe his own cheekbones, and then his moustache to get rid of the mucus that had collected there in a sticky fringe.

  ‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see. It’ll be all right.’

  When they pulled up outside the house someone was moving about in the spotlight. It was Signe. She was on her way into the house and glanced at the car before disappearing through the door. Lennart’s Merc was parked in front of the dog enclosure, and they pulled up alongside it.

  ‘Come on,’ Börje said, opening the door for Mattias.

  The boy did not move at first, so they had to help him out.

  He walked between them, holding the mouseshifter in his cupped hands. Seved had
heard a scratching in the moulded pattern of the floor mat and managed to catch hold of the little creature again. That was lucky. From what he could see the boy was once again mesmerised. The small eyes had fixed themselves on his.

  Strangely, there was music in the kitchen, lively Christmas music. The notes from the CD player came from a disc that Seved had never heard before, and he realised Lennart must have brought it with him. On the plastic case lying on the windowsill there was a red price sticker.

  The big man sat at the kitchen table, looking towards the door. The lump of his left hand was hidden under the tabletop and he had taken off his jacket. Seved realised he had never seen him without a jacket before, not even in the summer.

  The table was laid. Two plastic bottles of cola were standing in the centre. There were ginger biscuits arranged on a red napkin on a plate, and on another plate were clementines. And bags of sweets in a big pile: chewy cars and jelly dummies and chocolate rice puffs. Lennart must have emptied the confectionery shelf at Q-Star.

  Signe stood with her back against the draining board, her arms folded. At her feet sat a hare, staring vacantly ahead. Its ears were pressed back. Shapeshifters in the kitchen, thought Seved. What about that, Ejvor?

  Lennart was distractedly rolling a chocolate egg wrapped in foil on the table, and when Mattias appeared in the doorway he immediately began playing with it.

  ‘Can you help me with this, little fellow?’ he said.

  Oddly enough, the boy showed no shyness. He strode into the kitchen, let the mouseshifter leap down onto the table, and took the egg from the old man’s rough hand. He unwrapped the foil as Lennart watched him with his eyes half closed.

  ‘You’ll have to open it too.’

  Mattias purposefully broke apart the two chocolate halves and removed the plastic egg inside. It was yellow.

  ‘Was that all?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Is it an egg yolk?’

  Mattias shook his head.

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘A toy.’

  ‘A toy?’

  Mattias shook the container, and it rattled.

  ‘So there’s something inside?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Is it a chicken?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Open that one too. Then we can see what we’ve got.’

  The brown halves that Mattias laid on the table instantly attracted the little mouseshifter’s attention, but it seemed as if it was afraid to touch or even approach the chocolate. The boy struggled with the plastic egg but his small fingers kept sliding off.

  ‘I can’t do it.’

  Lennart took the yellow container and pressed it together until one side came apart from the other with a popping sound. Then he shook out the contents onto the table. There were colourful pieces of plastic and a slip of paper, coiled from being rolled up. When Seved bent under the table to pick up one of the plastic halves that had fallen down he saw the hare looking at him. It had lowered its neck exactly as if it had been a cat about to run up and play with something that had landed on the floor. It was an old hare and its whiskers were thick and unpleasantly long.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lennart.

  The boy sorted through the pieces, picked them up and examined them.

  ‘A dinosaur, I think.’

  ‘Do you want it?’ Lennart asked.

  Mattias shrugged.

  ‘What about some sweets then?’ the man grunted, resting his hand on the pile of sweet bags. They rustled as he moved his hand among them.

  ‘There are all sorts here,’ he said. ‘Dummies and things.’

  ‘I’d like some cola,’ said the boy, scratching his head under his hat.

  Signe unscrewed the cap of one of the bottles and it started to spray, so she hurried to the sink as the brown liquid overflowed.

  ‘They’ve been in the car,’ Lennart explained.

  After wiping the bottle she poured out a glass, which she placed in front of Mattias. He took hold of it in both hands and drank.

  When he had finished he put the glass down in front of him and asked:

  ‘Can I go home now?’

  ‘You want to go home?’ Lennart asked.

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Why so soon?’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Lennart, ‘I’ve just spoken to your mum, and she said it would be good if you could stay here overnight. Then you can go home tomorrow. They have lots to do, seeing as it’s nearly Christmas.’

  ‘I want to phone her and talk to her.’

  ‘And they were very tired,’ Lennart continued. ‘They were very tired and were going to go to bed early. They didn’t want us to phone and wake them. But we can phone tomorrow.’

  The boy did not move. He was fighting back the tears.

  ‘Tomorrow we’ll phone your mum,’ said Lennart. ‘And when you have drunk your cola I think you should go to bed, so that you will be wide awake tomorrow and can play with your friend. You’re going to have your very own room to stay in, you and your friend. That’ll be nice, won’t it, little fellow?’

  Torbjörn sat up, reached out his slim arm and pulled the pizza box onto the floor. Then he went into the kitchen. There was a clatter as he searched in the drawer for cutlery. Everything was in a mess, and he searched for some time before coming back and sitting cross-legged against the sofa. First he cut the pizza into slices, and then into smaller pieces which he put into his mouth with a fork.

  He stabbed a piece of pizza and said with his mouth full:

  ‘You’ve got to follow it up somehow.’

  ‘My sister reckons it’s someone dressed up.’

  ‘Cecilia?’

  Susso nodded and shoved the grease-stained carton onto the floor, then lay on her back and stretched out her legs.

  ‘It’s like . . .’ she said, and then fell silent because she had to think. ‘It’s like I want Cecilia to be right—that it isn’t real, that it is only someone in disguise. Or else it’s a completely normal dwarf—you know what I mean, a really short person who is interested in Edit Mickelsson’s house for some reason. I can’t bear the thought of it being anything other than a human being. Even I can’t bear that. Do you understand?’

  Torbjörn had eaten less than a fifth of his pizza and it seemed enough for him because out came the snus tin. Holding it in his hand he stood up, ambled over to the computer and switched it on. The seat of his trousers hung low, exposing the lettering on the wide waistband of his underpants. A string of fine dark hair clambered up his lower vertebrae. Susso knew how silky it felt under her fingers.

  ‘It could be a mask,’ he said, leaning towards the screen. ‘But then again, you can see how tiny he is. Less than a metre tall, I would guess. How old are you when you’re a metre tall? Three? And the photo is taken at five thirty in the morning. Not many three-year-olds out at that time.’

  After a while he said, without turning round:

  ‘Do you trust her? The old woman?’

  ‘I’m a hundred per cent sure she’s not a hoaxer, if that’s what you mean.’

  He spun the chair round.

  ‘In that case there are two alternatives. It’s either a dwarf who looks like this, or a dwarf who is wearing a mask. And for some unknown reason he’s sneaking around up there in Vaikijaur.’

  ‘Three,’ said Susso, looking up at the ceiling. ‘There are three alternatives.’

  ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘And what’s the third?’

  ‘That it’s a real troll.’

  It was silent for a long time.

  Eventually he said quietly:

  ‘Okay. Three alternatives.’

  Then he stood up and asked if he should switch off the computer, but Susso told him to leave it on, so he returned to where he had been sitting in front of the television.

  ‘Come here,’ she said, holding out her hand.

  He was holding a snus pouch between his fingers and looked at her with his
mouth open. Then he turned to face the television again.

  ‘No,’ he said, inserting the snus.

  ‘I only want you to see something.’

  ‘What?’

  She rolled onto her stomach, folded the pillow into a pad and placed it under her chin.

  ‘My bruise,’ she grinned.

  He snorted.

  ‘I don’t want to see your fucking bruise.’

  ‘It’s not a fucking bruise. It’s my bruise. My lovely bruise.’

  ‘Susso,’ he said, ‘cut it out. I know your tricks.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, beckoning with her finger.

  He shook his head.

  ‘C’mon here, boy. Good boy.’

  ‘Cut it out, for God’s sake!’

  They didn’t fall out exactly but there was irritation and silence between them, and the television droned on, unremitting and soporific. Susso nodded off, and when she woke Torbjörn had gone. But the sheet under the pillow was soaking wet. When she patted it she could feel that not all the snow had melted. He always did that: brought in lumps of snow and put them in the bed. It amused him enormously. She swore at him, but still she was happy that he had played the trick on her. It meant he couldn’t be too annoyed.

  She did not know what to make of him. He seemed embarrassed, only partially present. But she did not want to ask him if he had met anyone else. If he was forced to say it, there was a risk he would hear his own words. And that could sway him. Make him clam up.

  It had been fairly okay between them, but he had left anyway. Although it was probably like Gudrun said: if his feelings were stronger, he would not have minded. That scared her. Because she did not mind. She thought the situation was pretty difficult, naturally, but not insurmountable.

  About six months after he had moved to Luleå he had turned up at Ferrum, out of nowhere, wearing a new shirt and with his hair spiky and a beer in his hand. She had screamed at him and had enjoyed seeing his face flatten in a grimace. She could not remember what he had said in his defence. Probably nothing. Later that evening he had got involved in a fight, rolling around on the ground outside, standing there afterwards with his jumper caked with snow, pestering the doormen who resolutely pushed him away. And he had lost the cloakroom ticket for his jacket and had to spend the night at her place. The cold was ferocious and naturally he had no taxi money—he had shown her his wallet. In bed he had indifferently stroked her hip with limp fingers, but had then given up and fallen asleep with the snus still in his mouth. After that they had not been in touch until he came back home and started working for Wassara.