Black River

by Will Dean

  I’m outside Mrs Björkèn’s haberdashery when the first peanut-brain confronts me.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing, young missy?’ he says.

  ‘They’re called flyers,’ I say. ‘A young woman is missing.’ I thrust a flyer into his hand. ‘See?’

  The man’s face is tanned but now it turns strawberry-red with fury.

  ‘You got permission from the Kommun to vandalise our main street in peak tourist season, do you, miss? Well, do you?’

  I can see Lena walking over to back me up.

  ‘Yep,’ I lie. ‘Why don’t you talk to the Kommun, check it out.’

  Lena’s by my side now.

  ‘Oh, I will, don’t you make no mistakes about that, I will. I know the chief counsellor, friend of my uncle’s, hunting pal. I will be checking this out, miss.’

  ‘You done?’ asks Lena.

  ‘She even Swedish?’ the man asks, pointing at Tammy’s photo.

  ‘Are you even an idiot?’ asks Lena.

  ‘He does look a bit like an idiot,’ I say to her.

  ‘I can’t disagree about that,’ says Lena.

  ‘Look, I ain’t racist, I’m just saying this is Midsommar, right? Last thing we need is you two women scaring off tourists thinking people go missing in Gavrik, cos they just don’t. We’ve had enough bad stories this last year. Your friend on that photo most likely went off travelling or somesuch. It’s summer. People go peculiar. You don’t got to drag the whole of us into it, you understand me?’

  ‘You done now?’ asks Lena.

  I stare at this guy like I might just rip the hair off his head and stuff it down his throat the day I’ve had so far.

  He nods the shallowest nod I’ve ever seen in my life and then he walks back to his people carrier.

  ‘Asshole,’ I say.

  ‘You got that right,’ says Lena.

  A white Volvo taxi passes by with the driver’s side-window down. I see Viggo Svensson, the creep from Utgard forest, and he sees me. His eyes widen. Then, in the middle distance, I see Benny Björnmossen emerging from his hunt store. I walk over.

  ‘Benny,’ I say.

  He turns with his key in his hand and a Marlboro hanging limply from his lips.

  ‘Heard you were back up here, Moodyson.’

  ‘My best friend’s missing.’

  He takes the cigarette from his mouth.

  ‘Heard that too. Was sorry to hear it. Reckon she’ll turn up soon enough.’

  He has on blue jeans and a suede jacket and there are mosquito bites all over his neck. His skin looks like tanned horse hide and the light from the glowing tip of his cigarette gives his eyes a red hue.

  ‘Well, good luck,’ he says.

  ‘I need your help.’

  He frowns a frown so deep his eyes almost disappear under the ridge of his brow. There’s a giant box inside his shop still on its shipping pallet. Maybe a prefabricated gun cabinet. Or a new freezer.

  ‘I’ll be searching places. Forests and lakes and sites out of town. I’d like something to protect myself.’

  He looks me up and down and takes a long drag on his Malboro.

  ‘You got an up-to-date gun licence, Moodyson?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You want a knife, then?’

  I rummage in my handbag and show him the sheath of my knife I bought from him last year during the bad Medusa days.

  ‘Still got this one,’ I say.

  He looks at the window display of his store. There are boxes of ammunition: shotgun cartridges and rifle shells. There’s fishing tackle and a couple of rods being held by a poorly-stuffed brown bear. Inside I can see wax jackets and hunt dog GPS trackers and a display cabinet full of scopes.

  ‘Who stuffed your bear, Benny?’

  He looks at me and narrows his eyes. ‘Who stuffed my bear?’

  ‘Who stuffed it?’

  He looks at the bear. ‘Woman over Utgard way. Breeder.’

  ‘Sally Sandberg?’

  He rubs his eyes and says, ‘What gear is it you want, Moodyson?’

  ‘I don’t know, what do you recommend?’

  ‘What do I recommend?’ he says, dropping his cigarette and rubbing it into the pavement stone with the toe end of his boot. ‘What do I recommend? I recommend you stay the hell away from them sorts of places unless you’re in a decent-size armed group is what I recommend.’

  ‘We’re doing a search party tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I hope we’ll have a group. You’re welcome to join.’ I see him frown again. ‘But,’ I say, ‘when I’m on my own I’d like, I don’t know, pepper spray or bear spray or something like that.’

  He sighs and tuts and unlocks his door.

  ‘Wait here,’ he says.

  I wait. There are ‘Missing Person’ flyers strapped to every available rail and post, and they’re fluttering in the breeze like it’s some kind of satanic Mayday parade. But it feels good to see them flutter. They catch the eye. Tomorrow’s Toytown wanderers will see them, they’ll gossip about them, they’ll photograph them on their phones. The message will spread.

  Benny comes back out and relocks his door. He has something tucked up his sleeve, I can see the bulge.

  ‘Now, you got to listen to me here. This thing I’m about to give you. It’s a last resort type situation. You get too close to an angry elk cow, you get between her and her calves, it might buy you a little time, might save your hide. Might not. You get cornered by some punk, it might put him on his backside; well, I’d say it absolutely will put him on his backside. But be careful with it. Ain’t officially legal if you catch my meaning, so don’t go telling your policewoman friend about it, you hear?’

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  He looks around at the street and then he looks around one more time. Then he pulls out a black box the size of three iPhones taped together. He places it straight into my handbag.

  ‘Stun gun,’ he says. ‘Enough volts to make your hairs fall off your head should you ever get stunned by accident, which you will never let happen, you understand me?’

  I can feel it in my bag. The extra weight of it.

  ‘How do I use it?’ I say.

  ‘You’ll figure it out. Point and press the button. Doesn’t fire no barbs or nothing like that, it ain’t sophisticated, just a prod is all. It’s already fully charged. I use it when I go up bear country, another tool on my belt.’

  There’s a bang from above the shop, a yell from somewhere, and then Benny manoeuvres me away from the door.

  ‘How much?’ I ask.

  ‘Shhhh,’ he says. ‘I’m not selling you this thing, it did not come from me, you understand? Shouldn’t be doing this at all. It’s a loan. You find your friend and then you hand it back. Deal?’

  ‘Done deal.’

  10

  I drive out of town and drop Lena off at McDonald’s. She’s going to talk to customers, ask if she can leave flyers, then hit ICA Maxi and do the same.

  It’s just after ten and the light’s morphing into the muddy twilight we’ll have till 2am. My headlights are on but I probably don’t even need them. Weird time of year. I spray green windscreen fluid onto my screen, it’s a special formula to remove bug corpses. My headlights pick out midges and mosquitoes and moths the size of baby blackbirds. There are eyes on the sides of the road; twinkling pairs of eyes staring back at me, peeking out from undergrowth so dense it may as well be solid.

  I pass the small digger graveyard opposite Utgard forest. The skeletal forms of giant excavators and bulldozers sit motionless as fossils. The memory of Viggo Svensson locking me in his Volvo taxi – me, drunk and exhausted in the back seat, a tea light flickering on his dash, ‘Unchained Melody’ playing softly through his speakers – still troubles me to this day. The vulnerability. I’m not drinking anymore, three months sober this coming Thursday, and to be honest the thought of that stun gun in my handbag makes me feel a whole lot better. Viggo tries anything like that again, even though he didn’t actually to
uch me or threaten me, I’ll zap him in the groin quicker than you can say deep-fried testicle.

  The forest is a dark presence on my right-hand side. Utgard doesn’t end. Feels like it could be anything this time of year: a hundred-foot-high barrier wall, a cliff of purest black coal, a slow-motion tidal wave. It’s leaning over the car. I’m in its shadow; its long and noiseless shadow.

  Right turn to Snake River. There’s something about this junk yard. Maybe it’s because I know Tam’s been here before. To visit Karl-Otto. Or maybe it’s the otherworldliness of the place. The isolation. The lack of rules or community norms.

  I have a stun gun, a fully-charged phone, a knife I’ve never used, and a brand new 4wd Hilux. I’ll be fine.

  I pass the ‘Welcome to Snake’ sign. Thousands of decaying cars face me. I turn left and follow the dirt track round to the 12 noon position. Sally’s place looks dark. No one on the deck. No rifle. I keep driving and see some kind of bonfire, smoke rising over the rusting cars parked neatly side-by-side like a parking lot outside end-of-days Las Vegas.

  My truck slows and I pull out the stun gun. It’s also a torch. Handy. I make sure I’m not about to electrocute myself, then I press the button and two metal studs poking out of the front crackle and light up. Holy shit on a stick, this is the real deal. God bless Benny Björnmossen for being a wannabe maverick cowboy and God bless his illegal zapper.

  The fire pit comes into view as I round the curve of the dirt track. It’s right next to Karl-Otto’s warehouse home. There are two figures sitting on foldaway camping chairs. Firelight illuminating their faces. I park up.

  ‘Your GPS busted?’ asks a deep voice.

  I walk over showing my teeth in a big smile to inform them that I am friendly. But I have my handbag on my shoulder, I have what I need.

  ‘I’m Tuva Moodyson,’ I say. ‘Used to work for the Gavrik Posten.’

  He stands up and he’s unsteady on his legs. As he walks towards me he activates the security light bolted to his warehouse. I get a look at this guy. Baseball cap, denim overalls, tall and strong. Athletic. His eyes are so droopy they’re almost cartoonish, like a sleepy bloodhound, and his stubble covers most of his face. I mean, his stubble rises up to just under his eyes. But he’s attractive somehow. By Gavrik standards, he’s attractive.

  ‘Karl-Otto Sandberg,’ he says, reaching out a hand.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Mum told me you’d be back,’ he says, glancing over at Sally’s shack. ‘We don’t get too many return visitors. You want a beer?’

  He shows me his bottle of Norrlands Guld. I see the beads of cold water rolling down the curved brown glass. I can taste the hops and the bitterness on my tongue. Yeah, I’ll take a beer.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘Driving.’

  ‘Alright.’

  His voice is clear and its pitch is at a good level for me. I can hear this guy without too much effort.

  ‘I’m here about Tammy, I heard you two know each other.’

  He has a headlamp strapped over his baseball cap but it’s not switched on. The security light turns off and we’re plunged back into darkness.

  ‘I knew Tammy,’ he says.

  ‘Knew?’

  ‘Know,’ he says. ‘We went out.’

  The security light comes back on as he moves towards me and suddenly I see the clouds of flying bloodsuckers gathered around the lamp like it’s an oracle and they’ve travelled from far and wide to hear its message.

  ‘You guys are dating?’ I ask.

  ‘She told me about you,’ he says. ‘How you left for some big job. Come on, sit down. We’re about to eat.’

  He gestures to the firepit and I see young Viktor with his hammerhead eyes already sitting there nursing an underage beer.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, his eyes so far apart I reckon he can see round corners.

  ‘Hi again,’ I say.

  ‘Told you we’d roast her,’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  He points to the fire. There’s a medieval-type spit spanning the burning pine logs and braced on the spit is what looks like a flayed child, all red and charred and ungodly.

  ‘Roe deer,’ says Karl-Otto handing me a bottle of Ramlösa sparkling water. ‘Viktor hit it in his kiddie truck.’

  ‘It’s not a kiddie truck,’ says Viktor. ‘EPA tractor. Not for kids.’

  I remember writing a story on this for the Posten last year; on the loophole in the Swedish road laws dating back to World War II. Farmers can drive unregistered, unlicensed, uninsured short-wheel drive trucks at a maximum of 40kph on public roads provided they are over fifteen years old and display a red warning triangle on the rear of the truck cab. Worked fine for about fifty years but then kids caught on. You see, you can’t get a driving licence in Sweden until you’re eighteen. But now there’s a plethora, some call it a plague, many of my readers certainly did, of fifteen-year-olds driving these things to school and to parties and to McDonald’s to hang out with their friends. Which is peachy for parents who no longer have to operate as a taxi service but not so good for normal drivers who get stuck behind these painfully slow kid-mobiles.

  ‘Covered her with boar fat,’ says Viktor, stifling a grin. ‘Like I told you we would.’

  The deer is held in a metal rack. Looks homemade. Its ribs are spread and the main pole of the spit is skewered through its asshole and out through its neck on the other side. Some creature, one of these two guys I suppose, has cut off its head and cut off its hooves and manhandled it onto this contraption. There are slabs of sizzling fat basting the skinny little deer from the outside. It smells amazing.

  ‘It’s not boar fat, stupid,’ says Karl-Otto. ‘Just farm hogs. Fat, domesticated Danish hogs. Otherwise the deer’d get dry.’

  ‘Do you know where Tammy is, Karl-Otto?’ I say, perching on the stump of some long-felled tree. It’s uneven and uncomfortable and I reckon Karl-Otto probably uses it to chop logs on.

  The hog fat blisters and spits.

  ‘It’s not like we’re married,’ says Karl-Otto. ‘We keep it independent. She comes and goes as she pleases and I do the same.’

  ‘When did you see Tammy last?’

  He takes a swig from his beer bottle and I notice the gun resting behind him, leaning against the breeze-block wall of his warehouse home.

  He turns to see what I’m looking at.

  ‘Elk cows,’ he says. ‘They got little ones and they’ll kill you to protect them. Right now, this is the most lethal time. They’d do anything for their calves, they would.’ He glances over at Sally’s shack. ‘They’d face certain death to save their own offspring. That’s why we have the shotgun out here, ain’t nothing to be scared about. No need to go blabbing your mouth to your police buddies.’

  A mosquito buzzes too close to my hearing aid and I swat it away.

  ‘Tammy’ I say. ‘Did you see her yesterday?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Last week?’

  Karl-Otto opens another bottle of beer with his teeth.

  ‘I’m an eBay trader and that means I’m always working. No nine-to-five for me. Last time I seen her, Thursday, I think it was,’ he says. ‘She came here for a few hours after closing up her van. Left early the next morning.’

  ‘She seem okay? She say she was afraid of anything?’

  ‘Nope,’ he says, lifting his bottle and letting the beer glug down his gullet.

  ‘Can I get another water, please?’

  I don’t want water. I want to see inside.

  Karl-Otto looks at Viktor and Viktor looks back at Karl-Otto.

  Karl-Otto stands and passes me, and as the security light flares up I see there are two or three bats flapping around hysterically in mid-air.

  ‘Bats,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he says.

  He opens the huge rolling loading-bay doors of his warehouse. I follow, giving the ugly-ass wolverine fang doorbell a wide berth.

  ‘Nice car,’ I say, nodding towards th
e vintage red ’70s car parked inside the football-pitch-size building. ‘You a raggare?’

  He grins at this and points to his car. ‘’74 Mustang,’ he says. ‘Two hundred seventy horses under that bonnet.’

  It looks like the burning turquoise car on the side of the motorway.

  ‘You got problems with us raggare?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ I say, and it’s true. Raggare is one of my favourite subcultures in Sweden. Groups of ’50s and ’60s inspired rockabillies; people who enjoy Americana and beat-up vintage cars, and beautiful restored vintage cars, and just hanging out chatting and dancing and having a beer. Unlike expensive pretentious country clubs and golf clubs, there is no entry fee for being a raggare. ‘I think it’s great. Like to see the convoys drive through town in the summertime.’

  ‘You do, eh?’ he says. ‘Come on, let’s get you that water.’

  I follow him past the stacked engines and the shelves of neatly-boxed door handles and handbrakes and car stereos. There’s an area in the corner with shower-cubicle-sized cardboard boxes and crates. We go past a bank of computer screens like something from NASA.

  ‘You a part-time stockbroker or something?’ I ask, pointing to the computer screens. There are six of them all arranged together.

  ‘I told you before,’ he says, ‘eBay trusted seller.’

  ‘Huh?’

  He takes off his cap and his head torch and scratches his hair. The guy has a flattened head like Sally Sandberg dropped him from a significant height as a baby. But there’s something about Karl-Otto, even with his droopy bloodhound eyes and his overgrowth of stubble. If he’d lived in Malmö – in another life, a life where he wasn’t dating my missing best friend – and he’d asked me out for a pizza, there’s a good chance I’d have said yes.

  He points to the shelves beyond the computer.

  ‘Packing area,’ he says. ‘My old dad, rest his soul, he was a scrap man of the old days. He had cars coming in every day of the week, employed eleven men full-time. He’d take out engines and he’d crush the cars and he’d sell to a dealer who’d ship them off to some faraway place to be smelted down. He was good at what he did. We still have hundreds of cars here that we let people pick over on open days. But I buy specific models and break down the parts and then I photograph them properly in my studio with the right lighting.’ He points to a curtained-off area further back in the cavernous warehouse. ‘And sell each piece for top dollar.’