The Shapeshifters

by Stefan Spjut

  By this time Torsten had come so close to the officer that his palms were almost touching him, and the policeman took a small step backwards.

  Wikström nodded at Torsten’s explanation. It looked as if he actually believed it.

  ‘But where is he now?’ he asked. Torsten stroked the stubble on his chin.

  ‘Oh, he has his hiding places, that one, so I don’t actually know.’

  ‘He ran into the garage and he’s not there now. I want you to tell me where he went.’

  ‘He’s little, you know. And a genius at hiding.’

  There was the sound of rapid footsteps in the snow and Kunosson came running up. In his hand he was holding a bundle, which he held out to Wikström. It consisted of the old man’s anorak, hat and boots, and the constable said he had found them shoved in a box just inside the door.

  Wikström studied the clothes carefully. He straightened his glasses and looked at his colleague and then back at the clothes, before lifting his eyes to the garage.

  ‘Now would you please do us a favour and tell us where he went,’ he said.

  Torsten burst out laughing, and it was so unexpected and so loud that Tony Kunosson instantly took a step backwards and put his hand to his hip where the pistol was hanging.

  But all Torsten could do was shake his head.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, still laughing. ‘I’ll show you something.’

  Elna had come out onto the veranda, holding the wooden box in her outstretched arms. The lower edge rested against her thigh to help her bear the weight. She had not put on any old-fashioned clothes, and Seved could not understand why. Did she want no part in Torsten’s Laestadian performance? Did she think it was unnecessary?

  Torsten took the box and carried it over to the policemen. He put it down gently in the snow at their feet.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘let me show you what we have here.’ And with that he opened the lid.

  After Magnus and his mother had left, Susso and Torbjörn stayed a while longer at the table in the flashing glow of the Christmastree lights. The map was spread out, and Susso looked at it as she ate the remains of the pizza.

  ‘They must have been there, don’t you think?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, you’d think so,’ replied Torbjörn. ‘If it’s as well known as Anette says.’

  ‘But I don’t understand why Edit and Mattias’s parents haven’t heard anything about it. They ought to be told, if anyone.’

  ‘Have you spoken to them then?’

  Susso shook her head and leaned back.

  ‘Not for a while,’ she sighed. ‘But I think Edit would phone me straight away if they found out anything. Even before Mattias disappeared she was asking people if they knew who was running about on her land. And no one knew anything. Weird, isn’t it?’

  Torbjörn nodded into his coffee cup.

  ‘Perhaps you should talk to her?’

  ‘We could drop in on our way past,’ said Susso quietly.

  ‘Is it difficult?’ he asked. ‘Talking to her?’

  She shrugged her shoulders, and Torbjörn went on:

  ‘You know he’s dead, don’t you?’

  She looked up.

  ‘No one knows that for sure!’

  ‘No kid goes missing for this long and comes back alive.’

  ‘It’s happened before.’

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘Steven Stayner,’ she said. ‘He was kidnapped in the States in the early seventies, and he came back after seven years. Fusako Sano was a Japanese girl who was trapped in a flat for ten years with a psycho. And what about Dutroux, that Belgian—two of those girls he kidnapped came out of it alive. And there are even more children who have come back.’

  ‘But it’s bloody unusual,’ Torbjörn said.

  ‘It’s also bloody unusual for a child to be kidnapped by a person completely unknown to them.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Though you don’t even know if this is a kidnapping. Maybe he’s just been murdered and his body hidden. Maybe he’s lying under the snow somewhere.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, getting up. ‘And maybe not.’

  Detective Chief Inspector Ivan Wikström put the small bundle of clothes on the bonnet of the patrol car and stood with his hands in his pockets, studying the elderly man who was kneeling in front of the opened wooden box, talking to it in whispers. Strange whispers. The constable had positioned himself behind Wikström, his thumbs once again hooked into his belt.

  ‘What have you got there?’ asked Wikström.

  When there was no answer he leaned forwards.

  ‘I said, what is it?’

  Torsten did not appear to have heard him. His head had almost disappeared inside the box. There was a rustling as he moved his hand carefully through the straw. The fox also came up to have a look. Seved flinched as it padded past, just like a dog. He was about to shoo the animal away when he realised it no longer mattered. It would all be over soon.

  They got to the constable first.

  He suddenly took a step backwards, raising his fingertips to his forehead, which had become deeply lined. Then his left hand gripped his head as he sank to one knee. He looked stunned and scared. His cheeks had turned ashen.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Wikström asked.

  After a couple of unsuccessful attempts to get to his feet, Kunosson sat down, breathing heavily and loudly. He knocked off the cap of his uniform.

  ‘I don’t feel very well,’ he said, looking at the lining of his cap. ‘I think I’ll just sleep for a while.’

  Then he rested his gloved hand on the ground and stayed like that for a moment, panting, before sinking down onto his elbow and rolling into a foetal position.

  ‘Wake me up before you go, Ivan,’ he said, his lips slurring against the snow. ‘I’m just not feeling so good, that’s all.’

  Wikström had been walking forwards to help his colleague, but he came to a halt, looking at him with complete indifference.

  And there he stayed.

  Eventually Torsten stood up and brushed the snow from his knees. He walked over and gave the detective chief inspector a shove in the back. Wikström took a small step forwards but did not even turn round.

  Even Seved had been affected. He leaned against the car and swallowed repeatedly. It felt as if his head had been filled with ice-cold meltwater.

  He could have cried. Not just because of the whisperings from the shapeshifters but from the tension as well, which was receding now that the policemen had been disabled.

  Torsten watched him with interest. He had closed the box and handed it to Bodil, who had put it in the hall. Seved felt the old man’s searching gaze.

  ‘I’m not used to it,’ he explained. ‘That’s all.’

  Elna had walked over to Tony Kunosson to see if there were any signs of life. With her arms folded she prodded his body with her foot. It moved involuntarily. He was completely gone. His eyes were open but he saw nothing. She bent down, undid the buckle of his belt and wrenched it off him with such force that he rolled over and remained lying on his back with his face to the sky, from where occasional snowflakes were fluttering down. They settled on his cheeks and even on his eyes, which did not even blink.

  By this time Patrik had come out. The narrow barrel of a rifle was resting on his arm, and Seved realised that he had been standing inside all the time, hidden by the curtain, ready to shoot if anything went wrong.

  Torsten walked over to Wikström and searched inside his jacket. Seved knew he was looking for a weapon. It was attached to his belt and he had to turn the detective over to get at the holster with its metal clip at the back. When he had worked the holster free from the belt he opened the door of the patrol car and dropped both Kunosson’s belt and Wikström’s weapon on the seat.

  ‘Fetch the snowmobile,’ Torsten said. ‘And attach the sledge.’

  Patrik strode off and disappeared into the barn, and shortly afterwards an engine roared to life insi
de.

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’ Seved asked, watching the snowmobile driving slowly towards them. Patrik was standing up behind the windscreen with both boots on one footplate. The rifle was in the sledge.

  ‘Luttak is going to have a few words with them,’ said Torsten, and holding his cupped hand under his chin he spat out his snus, hurled it away from him and added:

  ‘After that they won’t even know their own names.’

  Enveloped in exhaust fumes from the snowmobile, they loaded Kunosson onto the sledge. It took a while because he was such a weight, over a hundred kilos at least. When he was finally in place he lay there like a slaughtered ox, staring vacantly. Seved tried not to look at his face.

  Wikström was even more difficult.

  When they pushed him towards the sledge he tried to resist. A whimpering sound came from his lips.

  ‘Pack it in!’ grunted Patrik, tugging at the detective’s jacket.

  Torsten rummaged in the back of the snowmobile and brought out a length of light-blue bailer twine. He tied it round the officer’s arms and legs. When he had secured it he took a step away and placed his foot on Wikström’s back. He fell forwards, his chest thudded against the ground and his glasses flew off.

  Patrik and Seved lifted him onto the sledge as if he were a parcel.

  ‘Now take that fox and get out of here,’ Torsten said.

  He picked up the glasses lying in the snow and rammed them in an inside pocket of the prone detective’s jacket.

  ‘And lock that barrier after you!’

  Edit Mickelsson was sitting in the kitchen in front of her laptop with a sombre expression on her face. Her fringe was pinned back with a small clip. She looked up when Susso and Torbjörn walked in through the door, and when she saw Susso was not alone she shut the laptop and stood up.

  ‘This is Torbjörn,’ Susso said.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ the old woman asked.

  ‘No thanks,’ Susso answered, as she sat down at the kitchen table without taking off her jacket or her hat. ‘We’ve just had some.’

  Torbjörn sat down on the small chest of drawers in the hall, resting his elbows on his knees.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’

  Susso smiled and said, ‘No thanks,’ and Edit sat down again.

  ‘How are you?’ asked Susso.

  ‘Well, you know how it is. You sit here, waiting.’

  ‘No news?’

  She shook her head and then turned to face the window.

  ‘They’ve started talking to people in the village again,’ she said. ‘Asking things they’ve already asked. So I suppose they’ve run out of ideas.’

  ‘Do you know of a farm near Årrenjarka, where Laestadians live?’ Susso asked, getting out the map. But there was no need to unfold it because Edit nodded.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve just heard that he might come from there,’ Susso said.

  ‘The person who was here?’

  ‘Yes, and I thought you might have heard something about it too . . .’

  ‘As far back as I can remember there has been talk about those poor people,’ she said. ‘Edvin said they were intimidating Lars and Gun, who run the Fells Holiday Village over there. They had plans to expand, a restaurant or whatever, but it came to nothing because the digger broke. And when they got it repaired it broke again. And again. Then there was the year the campsite was invaded by lemmings. They even wrote about it in the Kuriren. There were so many lemmings the visitors couldn’t put their feet down on the ground. It was literally heaving with them. And they were vicious, those creatures. So soon the cabins were standing empty. Until they were filled with researchers and ecologists from every corner of the globe, that is. So the Mannbergs didn’t lose out. But they still insisted it was the Laestadians who caused the invasion—treating the ground with some kind of manure that attracted the lemmings, whatever that might have been. The things you hear.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘So I can’t say I’m surprised if people are saying they’re the ones who have taken Mattias,’ she continued. ‘They get the blame for all the trouble that goes on around here—unless it’s the Poles or the Estonians, of course.’

  ‘No one is saying they’re the ones who have taken him. Only that the dwarf lives there.’

  ‘The Vaikijaur man,’ Edit said slowly.

  It was clear she hated the name so much she could hardly bring herself to say it. Susso was aware that all the negative attention had resulted in ugly, indelible graffiti being painted on the village sign, and she guessed there were neighbours who blamed Edit for the damage. Quite possibly she blamed herself as well, far more harshly than anyone else. It was the same for Susso: she could not see how she could have acted any differently. If she had not set up the camera, the police would have nothing at all to go on, but that did not make her feel better. Susso had no idea what to say, so she sat looking at her hand, which was still resting on the folded map.

  ‘Shall we get going?’ Torbjörn said after a moment of silence.

  Susso nodded.

  ‘We’re on our way to Årrenjarka,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘To do a bit of snooping.’

  Getting the foxshifter into the car was easy. Like an obedient dog it leapt onto the back seat when he opened the door, followed by its bushy tail. It sat in exactly the same place as when it had been in its other form.

  Seved reversed to get past the police car, and just as he was putting the car into first gear and was about to drive off there was a thump on the roof. It was Elna. Seved reached across the seat, grasped the handle and opened the door, a puzzled look on his face.

  ‘The clothes,’ she said, scraping a tangled lock of hair from her face. ‘He’s got to have his clothes.’

  She indicated the patrol car with a nod of her head, and the bundle lying on its bonnet.

  Seved waited while she ran to fetch them, and after she had handed him the clothes he placed them on the seat beside him. There were wood shavings on the anorak and stains on the nylon fabric of the boots, probably piss. It smelled like that anyway. He nodded his head at Elna, who returned the nod, and then he drove slowly off down the slope. Creaking gently, the car trundled along the narrow forest road. Seved could see the fox’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. Yellow and ringed with black they were watching him intently. There was no doubt Jirvin was concealed in there, in those narrow pupils. It was exactly the same look.

  Seved knew he was very old. He had been living in this country when people were eating marsh turtles, so Torsten had said. That was an exaggeration, of course, but how old could he be? Five hundred years? A thousand?

  When Seved had passed through the barrier and locked it behind him, he saw in the mirror that the fox was lying down. He felt a sense of relief and glanced over his shoulder to see what it was doing. Its head was resting on its front paws on the seat. Its eyes were glittering slits. Perhaps that was what it was going to do. Sleep.

  After swinging onto the main road he turned round again, and this time he saw that the pelt had already started to disappear from around the eyes. And there was a patch on the forehead where grey leathery skin was shining through, and the nose had paled and begun to change shape.

  He did not want to see this.

  He picked up the old man’s anorak. Without letting go of the wheel or taking his eyes off the road, he tried to cover the fox but failed, so he began to pull over to the side of the road.

  Three hours to get to Jillesnåle. Would that be enough time to shift shape? It was doubtful. Larger varieties usually took a long while. Karats had taken over a week last time, ominous and growling. They had not been allowed to go into Hybblet then.

  It was extraordinary that he was shifting shape in a strange car in close proximity to a human he had never met before. Had Torsten told him where he was going and how long it would take to get there, or did he just know?

  In the distance, at the furthes
t point of the white road, he saw a car driving towards him. It was shrouded in a halo of snow flung up by its wheels. When he realised it was not a police car he put on the handbrake. Then he turned round and spread the jacket over the bony old animal, which had begun shuddering, and he could feel the peculiar heat of the shapeshifting process radiating towards the palms of his hands. It was like warming yourself at a stove.

  As the car passed, Seved looked the other way, towards the ploughed wall of snow. The risk of being recognised was practically non-existent, but in these parts he felt like a criminal, and he had an idea it showed.

  ‘You going up to Riksgränsen for Christmas?’ Susso stared at the road, and waited for an answer.

  ‘Yes, I thought I might,’ he said.

  She turned and looked at his profile.

  ‘Seriously?’

  Torbjörn snorted and moved the pouch of snus under his lip. Which meant: ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, I thought I’d go up anyway,’ she said.

  Torbjörn nodded, and after a moment he said:

  ‘Say hello to my mum from me.’

  They sat in silence for a few kilometres, watching the peaks grow larger. The slopes were jagged with fir trees. Torbjörn leaned forwards and squinted.

  ‘It’s near here somewhere,’ he said.

  A short distance further on there was a break in the wall of ploughed snow on the right-hand side. Susso depressed the clutch and switched her foot to the brake pedal.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘There’s nowhere else it can be.’

  The Volvo lurched as it made its way through the snow lying in thick ridges on the small road. In front they could see tyre tracks, the edges marked out in sharp shadows, and although she was not sure if they had been made by a vehicle with greater ground clearance than her own, she took it as a sign that there was no risk in going on. After about fifty metres the road was blocked by a barrier. There was a circular steel notice hanging from it, and even though the text was hidden by snow, the message was unmistakable: they would not be welcome here.