The Shapeshifters

by Stefan Spjut

  Torbjörn had peeled off the upper part of his snowmobile overall. The sleeves of his thermal vest underneath had a pattern of broken stripes and had seen better days. The blue synthetic fabric was knobbly and smelled of smoke and old sweat. He was wearing a plastic watch outside his sleeve on his left wrist. He had owned that watch for as long as she could remember, at least since secondary school. There was so much about him that was familiar. Unchanged. But even though he was the same old Torbjörn, she could not reach him, however hard she tried. He had always looked shy, but these days she could only occasionally catch his eye.

  It was light by the time they reached Holmajärvi’s northern shore, and they could see far out over the ice. Susso pointed at Gudrun, who was standing with a snow shovel in her hands outside a log cabin with snow piled up to the windowsills. A second later Roland came walking out of the cabin. He was looking very satisfied with himself, holding a packet of raisins in his fist and chewing.

  The doors of the shed used as a garage were open and the snowmobiles had been brought out. One was a heavy Lynx with a wide track and a black aluminium chassis, tinted extra-high windscreen and wing mirrors. Behind the dual saddle was a back support with a grey, mottled reindeer skin hanging over it. The second snowmobile was also a Lynx, but an older model with taped handlebar grips.

  Susso hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder, took out the helmets and shut the car door by pushing it with her foot. Torbjörn lifted a plastic container of petrol out of the boot and carried it at arm’s length to keep his ski overall from getting dirty. He greeted Roland and Gudrun with a brief nod of his head and walked once round the snowmobiles, scrutinising them with eyes like slits. Roland leaned against the veranda railing, watching him. From below the sides of his cap his hair protruded like small upturned wings, and the tip of his nose was comically red. He said it was a ninety-seven and that he had extended the track for better performance.

  Torbjörn leaned forwards.

  ‘This can’t be the original belt?’

  ‘No, I’ve fitted a wider one. I didn’t think it cleared the snow very well.’

  Roland was surprisingly pleasant, explaining that the little kitty cat had a full tank and was ready to ride. He started his snowmobile, put on his helmet and glasses, then stood with his padded leather gloves on the handlebars.

  ‘What have you got yourself?’ he shouted above the rattle of the engine.

  ‘A fifty-nine,’ Torbjörn answered, fastening his overalls at the neck. And an old Polaris.’

  ‘Polaris,’ snorted Roland, as he turned the machine around slowly to allow Gudrun to climb on and sit down. ‘They’re like reindeer. They head for roads at the first sign of snow.’

  Then he revved the engine, making Gudrun throw her arms around his waist, and let out a muffled shout from inside his helmet. Not until they had ridden out onto the ice did Roland sit down. In a flurry of fine snow they raced off across the lake towards the far side and the dark jagged silhouette of the pine forest against the sky.

  Grains of snow flying in the raw air struck her ski glasses. They did not touch her, but even so it made her frown. If she turned her head, her helmet hit Torbjörn’s shoulder, and occasionally there was the sound of plastic colliding with plastic, so she tried to sit still. She huddled down and looked at the trees, at the firs in their patchy overcoats of snow, crowded together. The lines of willowy birches with frost-covered branches. The hissing white clouds around the skis as they ran over the ridged trail.

  They were not going fast. He’s afraid of damaging the snowmobile tread on a rock or something, she thought. He had always been a careful person. Considerate. Wanting to do things properly.

  There was a load of logs on the back, held together with a strap. They planned to find a place to sit for a while and make a fire.

  They had been travelling for less than a kilometre when they caught sight of a wide trail leading steeply upwards among the trees. Torbjörn’s helmet turned sideways, he pointed and Susso nodded.

  Torbjörn stood holding a load of logs while Susso kicked the snow aside, revealing moss and low, shrubby bushes.

  ‘That’s enough,’ he said, taking a step forwards to show that he wanted to put down the load he was carrying.

  They had found a small plateau where the wind had made soft drifts of snow, revealing the ground in places. Spruce saplings and willow twigs peeked through. Stunted, knotty birches bowed down around them. Hanging from the lean branches were mourning veils of lichen, and the icy crust of the birch bark glistened in the rays of the sun, which was already on its way down.

  Torbjörn poured the petrol, a yellow stream that splashed against the logs.

  Then he threw on a lighted match. Squinting, he stood for a while watching the flames before going back with the petrol can and attaching it to the rear of the snowmobile. While he was there he kicked the footplates a few times to get rid of the clumps of ice that had collected there.

  He took a thermos from the backpack. He twisted off the lid, which split into two mugs, one of steel and one of black plastic.

  ‘Steel or plastic?’ he said, but when there was no immediate reply he poured coffee into the steel mug and handed it to her.

  She put her lips to the coffee but thought it was too hot, so she put the mug down in the snow.

  Torbjörn sat leaning forwards and stared down at the reflective mirror of coffee in his mug, thinking. He had sucked in his lips until his mouth was a thin straight line, and she could see he was about to say something that was important to him. But instead he stretched his neck and wrinkled his eyebrows. Something behind Susso had attracted his attention.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, turning round. He had raised himself up, straining his head to see.

  ‘What could that be? Is it a . . . bat?’

  ‘What?’ she said, smiling in disbelief.

  At first she thought it was a small bird that had become caught up in the birch behind her, unable to get free. But then she saw its snout and the dog-like face. The domed folded ears. Its mouth was wide open and it seemed to be screaming at the top of its lungs in anguish. One of its wings was closed and the other unfolded, the thin skin a pale grey and criss-crossed with veins like cracks. The claws on its hind feet gripped the delicate frosty sprigs. It looked unnatural. As if it wanted to sit in the tree but was unable to.

  Susso’s eyebrows rose in astonished arcs. She had never been this close to a bat before. And in winter?

  Slowly Torbjörn took a step through the smoke that was coiling sluggishly over the ground. He had taken out his mobile and was directing it at the bat.

  ‘It must have woken up,’ she said. ‘From its hibernation or something . . .’

  He nodded and crept closer, but clearly he overstepped some invisible boundary because abruptly the birch twitched and the bat flew off, a grey rag that fled into the shelter of the trees and was gone.

  ‘I wonder if it will be all right?’ he said, sitting down by the fire and putting his mobile back into the pocket on his trouser leg.

  Susso was quietly watching the flames crackling upwards. Her face had become so hot it hurt and she straightened up and moved back a step. But the pain did not go away. She rubbed her forehead, which had filled with the same piercing noise that she had heard in the park. She was about to say something about her headache when there was a crack from the bottom of the slope.

  Then she froze.

  In among the trees stood a man, watching them. His eyes were staring through the gap between his hat and the woollen scarf he had wrapped around his face up to the bridge of his nose. An axe head glinted down by his knees.

  A second later another man appeared diagonally behind the first. He was heavier and struggling to walk. Against his chest he held a moose-hunting rifle with a telescopic sight. The shoulder strap hung in an arc of shiny leather. He was wearing a thigh-length woollen jacket in black and grey check, and a cap that shaded his flabby, almost spherical face, with its pink cheeks a
nd patches of stubble. He was peering at them with his deep-set eyes. Both pockets on the legs of his baggy, faded combat trousers were open. It was impossible to tell his age. He could have been twenty or forty.

  No one said a word. All that could be heard was the sound of the fire gently crackling. The fat man lifted the rifle, grinned, and glanced at the older man, who had taken a step forwards. The snow had fastened in chunks among the laces of his heavy boots. The axe he was carrying was one used for splitting logs. He raised it slightly, seeming to weigh it in his hand.

  ‘Did you want something?’ Torbjörn finally asked.

  There was a whooshing sound, and the next moment the man with the masked face rushed forwards with the axe raised above his head. But Torbjörn was already on his feet. He rammed his shoulder into the man and with his left hand grabbed the arm holding the axe. Susso screamed as they collided.

  Locked together they fell to the ground and rolled over and over, grunting and panting. Snow and sparks flew around them. Boots scraped and thudded.

  ‘Drop the axe!’ yelled Torbjörn. ‘Drop the axe, for fuck’s sake!’

  The overweight man seemed uncertain about leaving the shelter of the trees. He had raised the butt of the rifle to his shoulder and stepped to one side, and was following the fight with his eyes. From time to time he raised his rifle but did nothing more than take aim before lowering it again.

  The scarf had slipped from the face of the man lying on the ground and he bared his teeth in a wet grin. Susso realised it was the same man who had tailed her in the park. He had long grey hair and looked about sixty. It did not take long for Torbjörn to overpower him and end the fight. The axe landed a short way off and Torbjörn was trying to hold the man and press him into the snow to get him to keep still. It soon became too much for the older man. His chest was being crushed and his face was turning a deep blood-red. A couple of veins stood out on his forehead. Torbjörn had landed a few forceful punches across his mouth and blood-stained saliva was oozing from his lower lip. The only part of him that had not given up was his eyes.

  They burned with rage.

  ‘Shoot then!’ he yelled at his companion.

  When Torbjörn heard the rasping command he rolled onto his side, using the older man’s body as cover. Immediately the man came to life. Perhaps he was cunning enough to have been lying there gathering his strength. The fight picked up again but it was not long before Torbjörn regained the upper hand. He pressed one of his elbows hard against the man’s jaw. Powerless, the man turned his cheek to the ground and spat out red flecks, which were absorbed by the snow.

  ‘Shoot,’ he mumbled. ‘Shoo-o-o-t!’

  A faint click was heard from the little trigger on the rifle as the barrel was raised. The younger man’s cheek fell in folds against the oily surface of the rifle butt as his eye peered through the crosshairs of the sight.

  Susso realised she had to do something. The axe was too far away, so she reached for the thermos and sprinted a few steps until she was a couple of metres away from the man with the rifle. Then she threw the thermos with all her strength.

  She missed. But the man was so surprised when the thermos flashed past his eyes that he stumbled backwards, and Susso reached him quickly. She hurled herself at him, grabbed hold of his rifle and tried to pull it away from him. The man was stockily built but had been caught unawares, so when Susso shoved her boot into his stomach and pressed as hard as she could she managed to snatch the gun away from him.

  Hands flailing, the man fell backwards and crashed into a greying spruce, which clawed at his jacket, ripped off his cap and covered him in a sheet of snow. Almost immediately he was up on all fours, studying Susso, who was standing with a firm grip on the rifle a few metres above him. He got up and loped down the slope. After about ten metres he stopped and turned round. He was breathing so hard it looked painful.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ he shouted, resting his hands on his knees, panting and dribbling saliva. ‘You little slag!’

  He spat out the words, sneering at her.

  Susso raised the rifle but the man did not attempt to move. He stood where he was, his fair hair standing on end above his perspiring forehead, and glared at her with a disdainful expression.

  Was he stupid? She had a good mind to fire off a shot between his legs just to see the fear hit him like a fist in the face. On the other hand, she wasn’t convinced he would be afraid—at least, not so it would show. He’s crazy, she thought. A fucking psycho.

  ‘Susso . . .’

  Torbjörn was standing behind her, tall and at an angle, as if he had hurt his leg. He was very pale and sucking in short gasps of air between his tense lips.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, pulling her jacket, trying to get her to leave, to get back to the snowmobile.

  ‘But what about him?’ she said, wrenching herself free and pointing the barrel at the man, who had picked up his cap and was brushing it off.

  ‘Forget him. We’re leaving.’

  The older man was lying stretched out beside the fire. Although Susso was unwilling to look at him, her eyes were drawn to the lifeless face. His eyelids were dark grey and blood had dried in the stubble on the slack chin. His leather gloves were fur-lined and enclosed wrists that were skinny.

  ‘What have you done? Is he dead?’

  Without answering Torbjörn put on his helmet, grabbed the handle of the starter cord and with a powerful pull started the engine. As he turned the snowmobile the headlight swept the trees around them. He stood up, letting the engine nose forwards, finding its own way. Exhaust fumes mingled with the smoke from the dying fire.

  It took a while for Susso to realise it was time to jump on, because she was shaken and most of her concentration was fixed on the direction the man in the military-green trousers had taken.

  Reluctantly, she stood the rifle against the snowmobile, picked up her helmet and pressed it onto her head, feeling the lining cold against her cheeks. Then she climbed up behind Torbjörn and rested the weapon on her knees.

  ‘Leave it there!’ he shouted.

  ‘Not fucking likely!’

  Before he accelerated away he leaned forwards slightly, and Susso, who had rested one hand on his shoulder, moved with him. They drove down in the same tracks they had made on their way there, and not until they had reached the trail and Torbjörn had accelerated as hard as he could, the wind blowing bitingly cold against Susso’s throat, could she gather her thoughts and get them in some kind of order.

  The police arrived at Holmajärvi only thirty minutes after Susso had phoned. It must be a county record, I said to them as they stepped out of the patrol car, but either they didn’t hear or were pretending not to. No doubt they are used to dealing with people who are agitated and want them to get there instantly. Every minute seems like an eternity when something terrible has happened.

  Torbjörn was sitting in the cabin knocking back coffee topped up with something stronger by Roland. He was leaning heavily on the solid pine table, pulling at the hairs on his lower arm, convinced he had killed the man he had been fighting with. I suggested he phone his parents, but Susso gave me such a sharp look that I backed away.

  When the police returned a couple of hours later without having found even a trace of blood, and Torbjörn had convinced himself that they had been looking in the right place—on the laminated map the police inspector had unfolded Torbjörn had pointed out exactly to the millimetre where the attack had taken place—I saw the misery in his tense face dissolve in relief. He began firing questions at them instead, encouraged by the alcohol and the adrenalin that was probably still rushing through his body, but of course the police had nothing to say. All they had to go on was the statement he and Susso had given them. They were clearly puzzled and spoke quietly among themselves. The woman, her hair pulled back in a short ponytail, moved away to make a phone call, and then sat in the car and talked over the radio. I heard her mention the moose-hunting rifle.

  ‘A
class one weapon,’ she said. ‘A Remington.’

  Susso explained that she had seen one of the men following her the previous evening, and that she thought it was all related to the kidnapping of Mattias Mickelsson, there was no other explanation, but the police were only mildly interested in that theory. They wanted a detailed, factual account of what had taken place, and nothing else. It was insulting and almost off-hand, the way they dismissed Susso when she tried to explain how it was all connected. I did my best to convince them she was telling the truth, but in the end I had to go outside and stand in the cold. I was hot from the warmth in the cabin and my suppressed rage, and as I stared at the patrol car, a V70 with a fringe of icicles at the front, only then did it occur to me that of course they knew who Susso was—they knew very well who was phoning when the call came through. That she was a Myrén.

  It was morning, bitterly cold with a high, cloudless sky, and Seved was clearing snow when he heard the door of the camper van creak. The stocky man squeezed through the doorway with a grunt and upturned a plastic bottle. It gurgled quickly as it emptied, leaving a yellowish-brown hole in the snow. The big man flashed Seved a grim look and then disappeared inside the van. When he came out again he was wearing his sunglasses and a peaked hat. His cheeks were red and blotchy. No doubt it had been a cold night.

  ‘You’ve got to get the boy outdoors,’ he said. ‘Make sure he plays out here for a bit.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘He can build a snowman or whatever the hell he likes, just as long as he’s out of doors.’