The Shapeshifters

by Stefan Spjut

  ‘Pizza for breakfast?’ said Torbjörn, pulling out a chair.

  ‘Too right, man,’ said Magnus, grinning widely. ‘So fucking rock and roll, that’s me.’

  He had a surprisingly deep voice.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, grinning again. ‘But allow me to say I haven’t got a hangover, I’m just wiped out. Stayed up far too late. Don’t even know if I went to bed.’

  Susso walked over to the counter and the globe-like coffee jugs. There were fifty-öre coins welded to the hotplate and she wondered what the coffee would taste like. Cat piss, probably. The man by the till waved his hand: she could help herself.

  She put the cups on a tray and carried them to the table.

  ‘I didn’t know if you wanted milk,’ she said. Magnus shook his head.

  ‘Black,’ he said. ‘Black, like my heart.’ He gave a hoarse little laugh. It was as if he was incapable of being serious for any length of time, and Susso wondered whether what he had said about the Vaikijaur man and the sect was some kind of joke. What if Torbjörn had misunderstood everything?

  ‘Magnus,’ she said, ‘tell me again. Do you know anything about the Vaikijaur man, who he is or where he lives?’

  ‘Not me,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Mum. She says he lives out Kvikkjokk way. With the Laestadians.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘If you want to know exactly, you’ll have to ask my mum,’ he said. ‘She’s shopping in ICA but she’ll be here soon.’

  Jirvin had come out of the barn and was standing there in his mildew-green jacket, as small as a child. Elna slid the bar into place behind him and then hurried back across the yard. Before she went into the house she said softly to Seved:

  ‘It’s not a good idea to talk to him.’

  Talk to him? What the hell would he talk to him about? The very idea brought on a shudder that quickly spread through his body. Driving him all the way down to Jillesnåle would be absolute torture.

  The little old man approached the car slowly, stopping often. It looked as if he was considering turning back to the barn. His yellow, deep-set eyes could barely be seen below the rim of his hood, which was drawn in tight. He was wearing snowjoggers on his feet. They were a bad fit.

  The dogs were barking frantically and continuously. Seved was sure it was because of him and the little old man. But the dogs at home did not usually bark like that. Börje must have better control over them. It was hardly because their dogs were more used to the shapeshifters. He had no idea how many of them were in Hybblet, but he was sure there were more here at Torsten’s. If you counted them, that is. Except they would not let themselves be counted. He and Signe had tried once but had given up.

  He held the door open for the little man, who climbed up onto the seat without looking at him. He curled up in the furthest corner, twisted his head and looked towards the dog enclosure. I expect he is sad, thought Seved, and slammed the door shut. Who knew how long he had been here? How old was the farm? Two hundred years, certainly—agricultural buildings this far west of the cultivation boundary were usually pretty ancient. The old house did not even have exterior cladding and the barn’s guttering was made of wood.

  He knew the shapeshifters disliked being moved. They attach themselves to places, Börje said, not to people. Maybe he had been there for generations? Seen Torsten grow up, and perhaps Torsten’s father. And grandfather.

  Of course it was painful for him.

  To the extent he could feel emotional pain, that is. Ejvor had frequently told him he should not allow himself to be fooled. They have faces, but that is all. Any other human attribute you think you can see comes from your own imagination.

  Suddenly Patrik came running out onto the veranda and leaned over the railing.

  ‘It’s the police!’ he shouted.

  Instantly Torsten was there with his binoculars. ‘You didn’t lock the barrier behind you!’

  Seved felt his stomach sink into a gaping hole. His mouth quickly filled with saliva and he swallowed, uncertain what to do next. Now he really had dropped them in it. He did not dare think of the consequences. He let go of the car door handle and cast an indecisive glance at the veranda, but Torsten was no longer there. Only Patrik stood there, with his hand held against the peak of his cap. He looked scared, like a child. Defeated and pale, with no trace of his arrogant, squinting gaze.

  ‘Patrik!’ There was a roar from the interior of the house, and the next instant Patrik had run inside. Then Torsten came out. He had pulled on a large fur hat and Bodil was behind him, swathed in a dense, grey woollen coat.

  ‘Quiet!’ Torsten yelled at the dogs, who obeyed instantly. It was like flipping a switch.

  The police car rolled into the yard.

  Behind the wheel was a man in uniform, and beside him a white-haired man in an unbuttoned down jacket bisected by the black strip of the seat belt. The car came to a halt and Seved could see that both men were talking. Then they drove up slowly, stopping as close to the Merc as they could possibly get.

  ‘This is Anette,’ said Magnus with a grin. ‘My mum.’

  Susso stood up and took Anette’s hand. Her eyes shone blue behind her glasses and her blonde hair was cut to ear-lobe level and combed in a side parting. She had on a low-cut top in a flimsy dark-grey fabric. On the front a black tree spread its branches across her chest, where a silver pendant in the form of a snake was hanging. The chain ran right through the snake’s head.

  Anette had not contacted the police, but she was absolutely sure they knew. There might not have been many who had seen the dwarf with their own eyes, but after his photograph had been in the newspaper people had started to talk. And they all seemed to know where he belonged: a few miles west, in the direction of Sarek, on a farm.

  ‘Are they Laestadians?’ Susso asked. Anette nodded.

  ‘The silent kind,’ she said. ‘If you know what I mean.’

  ‘Where do they live?’ Susso asked.

  Anette unfolded the map she had brought with her. Leaning over the vast area she ran her finger along the lakes which fed the river, and carried on up in a northwesterly direction.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘It’s up here, along this road. But as I say, I’m fairly sure the police already know he lives up here.’

  ‘Årrenjarka,’ Susso read.

  ‘Årre-njarka,’ Anette said. ‘“Njarka” means promontory in the Sami language. I’m not sure I know what “Årre” means.’

  ‘It’s maybe twenty kilometres from Vaikijaur,’ said Susso, looking at Torbjörn.

  ‘Well, you might as well go there and have a look,’ said Magnus. ‘Do a bit of spying.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Anette said, giving her son a reprimanding look. He rolled his eyes.

  ‘They could easily shoot at you,’ she went on. ‘I remember that from when I was a child. There was someone from school who had been chased off their land, and they had fired a rifle at him. It might only be gossip, but I wouldn’t go snooping around up there. Leave that to the police.’

  Ivan Wikström was the name of the plain-clothes police officer. He was a detective chief inspector with the local CID. His colleague’s name was Police Constable Tony Kunosson.

  Seved tried to smile but his face was not complying, as if it had set rigid from the fear that had flooded his body like an icy fluid. The only thing he managed to force out was a parody of a smile that was hard to remove afterwards. He wanted to wipe it off with his hand.

  ‘And you are?’ said Wikström.

  ‘I . . . I don’t live here,’ mumbled Seved. ‘I’m only visiting.’

  ‘But you have a name?’ the chief inspector said, leaning closer. Seved nodded.

  ‘Jola,’ he said.

  Jola? He had no idea why he had said that. How stupid. He noticed straight away that the lie only heightened his nervousness. What was he going to do if they asked about Jirvin? If he lied and then they caught sight of him sitting
in the car, that would be it. What the hell should he do?

  His eyes flitted about, seeking support from Torsten, whose face had twisted into a hard expression, the downturned corners of his mouth framing his jutting chin. To prevent the detective chief inspector’s gaze coming anywhere near the old man in the back seat, Seved glided one step sideways to hide him from view.

  ‘Are you Holmbom?’ Wikström asked, turning to Torsten, who nodded. His eyes had narrowed to thin lines under the fluffy rim of his fur hat.

  ‘Can we be of assistance in any way?’

  The chief inspector put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

  ‘How many people live here?’ he asked. He turned round, running his eyes over the barn, the garage, the dog enclosure, the house and the outhouses among the pines.

  ‘Me and my wife, and our two children.’

  ‘No one else?’

  Torsten shook his head.

  Wikström unfolded the piece of paper, which he showed first to Torsten and then to Bodil, who craned her neck in curiosity.

  ‘See him?’ he said. ‘Do you know who it is?’

  Seved could not see what was on the paper, but he knew only too well. Once again the saliva welled up in his mouth and he made an effort not to swallow in case the uniformed constable standing next to him heard. He looked down at the snow, blinked and raised his eyes slightly, only to see the policeman’s heavily weighted belt: radio, a small torch, handcuffs and the butt of a revolver, black and shiny inside its holster.

  ‘Don’t recognise him,’ Torsten said convincingly.

  ‘Isn’t that him?’ asked Bodil in an unassuming voice. She tucked in the lock of hair that had fallen from her hood. ‘The one in the paper?’

  ‘So you read the papers, do you?’ said Wikström.

  Bodil looked quickly at her father, whose expression did not change.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I do. Sometimes.’

  ‘And why wouldn’t we read the papers?’ said Torsten loudly.

  Wikström shrugged his shoulders and folded the sheet of paper.

  ‘I was only thinking of the isolation. Your self-imposed isolation. That you avoid keeping up with the news.’

  ‘We don’t,’ Torsten replied. ‘We keep up as well as we can.’

  After saying this he gave a yellow smile.

  ‘And I see you have curtains,’ said Wikström, nodding towards the window.

  ‘Are you harassing us?’ said Bodil, glaring at him. The fierceness of her question and her hostility made her eyes glitter, and Wikström raised his eyebrows. The words came like pistol shots from her mouth:

  ‘We haven’t seen him. We don’t know who he is. So you can leave now.’

  ‘Aren’t you curious about why we’re looking for him?’ he asked.

  Torsten was quiet for a long time, thinking.

  ‘We know why,’ he said eventually. ‘We’ve read about it in the newspaper. He’s taken some lad.’

  ‘You didn’t recognise him, you said.’

  ‘That’s not what I said. I said I didn’t know who it was.’

  ‘No,’ answered Wikström, smiling. ‘You said: “Don’t recognise him.’”

  ‘But that’s what I meant!’

  Wikström nodded. He took in a deep breath and puffed out his mouth. Then he turned suddenly, released the air and held up the photograph for Seved to see.

  ‘Do you know who this is then, Jola?’

  Seved knew that he should go closer in order to give a plausible answer, but he dared not move from the car window that he was obscuring with his body, so he bent forwards slightly and squinted, and then he shook his head.

  ‘I’ve also seen him in the paper. And I don’t know who he is either.’

  Clearly he leaned too far forwards because a second later he heard the police constable’s voice behind him.

  ‘Ivan . . .’

  Tony Kunosson was leaning forwards with his hand on his belt, looking through the rear window, and when he made eye contact with DCI Wikström he nodded towards the car. This took place directly in front of Seved, and there was nothing he could do except step aside. He wanted to run but realised that would be pathetic.

  With his head to one side and a deep line etched between his eyebrows, Ivan Wikström walked towards the car, and when he saw who was sitting inside he stroked his moustache with his thumb, reflectively. He showed no sign of surprise.

  He thought for a while before grabbing hold of the handle and slowly opening the car door. The little man was sitting stock still inside, staring straight ahead. Seved looked at Torsten, but he seemed to be lost in thought. He was standing with a blank look on his face.

  With one hand on the car roof Wikström leaned inside the car and almost shouted:

  ‘Hello. Can I have a chat with you?’

  There was no answer, obviously. Jirvin gave no indication whatsoever that the policeman was even talking to him.

  ‘Hello?’

  When the little man continued to ignore him, Wikström climbed into the car and sat down on the back seat, but in a flash the little man reached out, took hold of the handle on his side and after a moment’s fumbling got the door open and slipped out.

  He headed towards the barn, but Tony Kunosson had already rounded the car and blocked his path, so the old man hurried off to the garage instead. He slithered about in his cumbersome boots. The policeman ran so fast his equipment rattled, but by the time he reached the garage the old man had opened the door, shut it and locked it behind him. Kunosson tugged at the handle and battered on the door with his fist.

  ‘Open up!’ he shouted.

  Wikström had been calmly watching the chase from inside the car, but now he stepped out.

  ‘Give me the key to the garage,’ he said, reaching out his hand to Torsten, who began searching his fur coat.

  ‘I’m not sure exactly where it is . . .’

  This was too much for the detective chief inspector. Without waiting a second longer he walked over to the patrol car, opened the boot, took out a crowbar and walked briskly off towards the garage.

  There was a crash from the direction of the garage as Wikström started to break open the door. The noise was immediately picked up by the dogs and they started leaping around inside the wire netting. A small brown Spitz barked crazily as it backed away, as if afraid of its own barking, but the other dogs kept quiet. The largest, a shaggy grey Siberian with heavy paws and clear shining eyes, lay down with its tongue hanging out, seemingly watching the policeman with interest. Wikström worked steadily and methodically. From time to time he threw broken shards of wood aside.

  Moments after he had broken open the door and entered the garage with the crowbar in his hands, something red slipped out into the yard. Seved glanced at Tony Kunosson as he caught sight of the fox running towards the barn, where it sat down outside the door, elegantly sweeping its bushy tail over its paws, concealing them. The policeman’s eyebrows creased and thickened, but that was all.

  There was a clatter from the garage. It sounded as if a metal can had fallen to the floor, but it took almost a minute for Wikström to reappear. He was still holding the crowbar.

  ‘I can’t find him!’ he shouted loudly, and it was clear from his voice that he could not help finding it comical in some way. ‘There was only a blasted fox in there!’

  Kunosson jogged across the yard and took over the search while Wikström stood thinking, the crowbar resting on his shoulder. He was keen to get round to the far side of the garage but the snow was almost up to the guttering, which made things difficult for him. He tested the snowdrift by stepping upon it but regretted it almost immediately and took a few paces back instead, to see what it looked like on the roof. Then he walked to the other side, but the snow was just as deep there.

  Torsten was holding his gloves under his arm as he got out his snus tin and rapped it with his knuckles. He twisted off the lid, inserted a pouch under his lip, then snapped th
e lid back on and glanced sideways at Seved. He had pulled his hat so far down that his eyes were shaded, but Seved could see the trace of a grin among the wrinkles.

  Seved felt momentarily relieved. Torsten had experienced this before. But then he remembered that the policemen had actually seen the little man in his car, and a knot formed in his stomach again. There was no way out.

  Wikström came walking towards him, but then he stopped and pointed over his shoulder with the crowbar.

  ‘Is the fox tame?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Torsten. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘You know it can infect the dogs if it’s got scabies?’

  ‘That’s kind of why we keep it in there. In the garage.’

  It was clear from Wikström’s expression that he knew this was a lie, and a contemptuous lie at that, but he kept quiet and carried on walking to the patrol car. He replaced the crowbar in the boot and slammed it shut.

  On his way back he took out his mobile, and when Torsten saw the phone in his hand he turned away quickly to face the house. Then he approached the police officer, holding up the palms of his hand in a gesture to suggest there was no hurry.

  ‘No need for you to phone until we have discussed this properly,’ he said. ‘To make sure we understand each other.’

  ‘I’m waiting,’ Wikström said, lowering the hand holding the mobile.

  ‘It was unfortunate,’ said Torsten, ‘that he was photographed, and he had no business being near that old lady. But he’s not quite right in the head and we wanted to protect him. That’s why we . . . we were less than truthful when you asked us about him. Because we didn’t want him to get into any trouble. But I can guarantee he had nothing to do with the disappearance of that lad. It’s all an unfortunate coincidence.’