Black River

by Will Dean

  ‘I get it,’ I say.

  ‘Twenty-two thousand four hundred positive reviews on eBay, 98.1% rating.’

  Behind him I can see rolls and rolls of duct tape and packing tape. I can see cardboard boxes big enough to encase Benny Björnmossen’s stuffed bear. I can see packing knives and cable ties.

  He bends down and opens a fridge and hands me a bottle of Ramlösa water.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I live up there,’ he says, pointing up to the rear quarter of the warehouse. He’s built a kind of house within a house. Covered by the warehouse roof is a wooden structure, rough, bolted pine and windows that haven’t been installed straight. There’s a spiral staircase up to his living level and beneath it all is the curtained-off photo studio.

  ‘You might even get to see inside my crib someday,’ he says, rubbing his flat head and looking me up and down. He looks more drunk now.

  I cross my arms.

  ‘Any idea where Tammy could be?’ I say, and he looks annoyed that I keep talking about her. How come he’s not more worried? What is wrong with this guy?

  He puts his cap back on and turns on the headlamp.

  ‘No idea,’ he says.

  I shield my eyes from the glare with my forearm and suddenly I feel less safe here. I move my handbag on my shoulder again just to reassure myself and then he switches the headlamp off and I can sense someone behind me. I turn and it’s Viktor holding a long serrated knife.

  ‘Dinner’s ready,’ he says.

  Karl-Otto nods and fills himself a glass from the tap.

  ‘Ice-cold,’ he says. ‘We got a deep well. The water’s always ice-cold even in June.’

  We all walk back outside.

  They take ICA burger buns from the side of the fire and Karl-Otto carves at the carcass with that long serrated hunting knife.

  ‘You want some?’ he asks.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  They fill a saucepan with the carved meat and then they place the saucepan between their camping chairs and fill burger buns and eat.

  ‘There is one person Tammy’s had issues with,’ says Karl-Otto with a mouth full of deer rump.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Viktor’s mamma.’

  Karl-Otto points over at the young hammerhead kid.

  Viktor looks nervous but then he drops his chin and says, ‘Can’t stand each other. My mum’s not the sort you want to fight with, is she, mate?’

  Karl-Otto snorts and some half-chewed deer meat sprays from his mouth. ‘That’s true.’

  I hear a noise from Utgard forest, from behind the warehouse.

  ‘What was that?’

  Karl-Otto and Viktor both stand up. Karl-Otto’s too drunk to do it quickly or smoothly.

  ‘Could be wolf pups,’ says Karl-Otto, picking up the shotgun, turning to face me, hog grease rolling down his chin in shiny lines. ‘It’s pup time of year.’

  The noise is faint and I can’t hear clearly enough with the fire crackling and with all this darkness. I can’t hear as well as in the daytime.

  ‘Then there’s the paramedic,’ says Karl-Otto pulling out more deer flesh from the saucepan and stuffing it inside an ICA burger bun. ‘The guy seeing my dear mother. He can be a bit of a handful and Tam had a run-in with him just last week. She used to fancy him back in the day but one time he goes up to her as she’s serving, and he dumps down a bag-load of food, rice and crackers and noodles, and tells her, no, he wants a refund cos it’s not real Thai food. She tells him yes it is. He tells her he’s been to Thailand three times and the balance of spices ain’t right. You believe that? So Tammy tells him to go back to Thailand for his green curry if hers isn’t good enough but he ain’t getting no refund. Fuming he was. Mainly because his mates were with him when she told him. Typical bodybuilder, buys all his protein powder in the shoe shop. Paramedic’s got a giant ego. And his temper’s bigger than his pumped-up man tits.’

  ‘I’ll check him out,’ I say.

  Karl-Otto nods and chews. ‘You do that. Don’t tell him or my mother I said nothing, though.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I look around at the fire and the spit seems even worse now. Torn leg muscles and a hacked-off neck hanging limply down by the embers, its skin charred and blackened. There are old bones in the firepit, bones from other creatures. Something catches my eye so I walk around the pit.

  ‘Don’t get too close in that fleece,’ says Karl-Otto. ‘You’ll go up like a firework.’

  There are larger bones over here on the dark side of the fire. Bones that could be from a larger deer. Or a wild boar. Or a human. I’ll ask Thord to check through the ashes, or to at least take a look. I crouch down and see a patch of denim half-buried under ash. Tam was wearing jeans yesterday when she disappeared. Jeans and a grey cotton T-shirt.

  ‘We burn our garbage,’ says Karl-Otto. ‘Ain’t strictly legal but we do it.’

  ‘My job, that,’ says Viktor.

  ‘We don’t have bins out here like town people,’ says Karl-Otto. ‘We burn. Who’s gonna know?’

  ‘Who’s gonna stop us?’ says Viktor.

  I walk around the pit some more. In my peripheral vision, at the murky edges of Utgard forest, I can see patches of cow parsley in this dim Midsommar light, and the tall stalks with their broad flower stems look like desperate hands grasping up from the undergrowth, reaching up for help.

  ‘I’m heading home now,’ I say. ‘Good to meet you, Karl-Otto.’

  ‘I’ll make a noise if she turns up here,’ he says. ‘But like I told you, she isn’t my girlfriend and she does what she pleases.’

  I go to get into my truck and a bat dive-bombs my head. It almost gets tangled in my stupid thin hair and I let out a scream as I try to knock it away with my hand.

  ‘Just a hungry bat,’ says Karl-Otto. ‘You probably had a mozz in your hair. That bat saved you from a bite, I’d say.’

  I switch on the engine and drive. The new-car smell of my Hilux is a tonic. Inside here, things are relatively clean and ordered. Predictable. Man-made. I run a hand through my hair just to doublecheck. Then I drive past the box-shaped crusher and then past the shipping containers where Viktor lives. I need to talk to the cousins as soon as I can but I can’t ring their doorbell now, not at this time of night.

  When I get back to Gavrik the streets are empty. The dark presence of the liquorice factory looms over the whole town like a curse. I drive up Storrgatan at a steady 10kph, no other cars on the street.

  And that’s when I notice it.

  In the glare from the streetlights.

  The flyers we taped to the poles and rails and boards.

  They’re gone.

  Every last one of them.

  11

  Who would do this? What breed of evil would scupper a missing persons search?

  I park outside the cross-country ski store and get out. It’s late. Storrgatan’s empty, save for a woman in the distance dragging an old dog around for its last walk of the day.

  There are the remnants of a poster taped to a signpost. It’s been ripped off. Who would remove it? The Kommun? If I go to Thord with this tomorrow he could find out, he could access the CCTV cameras. It might be a lead. As ugly as this action is, this could give us a clue as to who has Tammy, or at least who wants to stop us looking for her.

  The street is a Midsommar nightmare. In the grey twilight haze nothing looks good. There are cheeseburger wrappers rolling down towards Eriksgatan like children doing continuous cartwheels. There are puddles of vomit outside Ronnie’s bar, three distinct patches, some footprints leading through, some spreading of the regurgitated hot dogs and nachos up and down the street. And the heavyweight liquorice factory stares down on us all.

  ‘You looking for the little posters, Tuva?’ says a voice behind me.

  I turn on my heels and see Viggo standing there wearing Top Gun aviator glasses, holding a Filet-O-Fish.

  ‘Viggo,’ I say, moving my handbag to my chest, opening it slightly. />
  ‘You came back then,’ he says. ‘I always said you would. And you did.’

  ‘I’m looking for Tammy.’ I step back incrementally, almost shuffling as if not to trigger him, retreating towards my Hilux. ‘I’m back to find her.’

  He nods and moves slowly towards me, maintaining the distance between us, not allowing me to widen it. Viggo’s not making any aggressive moves. He looks like an uncooked grey shrimp of a man in his V-neck sleeveless pullover and his charcoal slacks, but he’s still lifting weights, I can tell by the way he carries himself.

  ‘Little Mikey asks about you,’ he says.

  I open my Hilux door. There’s nobody around but Ronnie’s bar’s still open. If I scream people might come out of their apartments. They might help me.

  ‘He’s top of his class,’ says Viggo, taking another bite of his Filet-O-Fish. ‘Reading age of fourteen even though he’s only eight.’ He licks his lips. ‘Takes after his old man.’

  I close my truck door and lock it. My heart’s racing. Steel between me and him. Locks. Glass. He steps up to my window. His breath clouds the glass.

  ‘Good to see you, Tuva,’ he says, dragging his fingertip through the condensation and leaving a stripe on my window.

  I start the engine and drive away, my summer tyres squealing as I accelerate too hard, and I leave Viggo behind in my mirrors.

  There are no flyers anywhere. Lena said they printed 300. Someone has been meticulous in their removal. Somebody is making sure Tam is forgotten about. Some ghoul is erasing my best friend from Toytown and I will not permit it.

  Lena’s house is sanctuary. It’s suburban and taken-care-of and there are no wild beasts spit-roasting in hog fat out in the garden. No discarded teeth. I find her spare key under the rosemary pot, just like she told me, and let myself in. There’s a note on the kitchen table. It says ‘Get some rest, help yourself to whatever you need xx.’ Lena has never – not once in a message or email or text or note – she has never written xx. Maybe it’s because I’m not her employee anymore. Or maybe it’s because she can tell that I need them.

  I drink a glass of milk and eat three chocolate digestives from Lena’s 100-year-anniversary Grimberg Liquorice tin. Lena’s lit the scented candle in the friggebod lantern and I could cry with appreciation. It’s not a grand gesture but it makes me feel like I am wanted, like I’m being thought of. Down in my new life, in my tiny apartment, I have nobody to light me a candle or make me a morning mug of tea. It was my decision to leave, and the new job is good, it’s challenging. Anders is an excellent boss. He pushes me. He forces me to write better and to think differently. But I miss Tam and Lena and Noora and Thord, and I even miss Lars and Nils. It’s just transition stuff, I know, but I have never felt more alone than in my neat non-alcoholic apartment outside Malmö. I should call Aunt Ida. I’m supposed to be seeing her later in the week for Midsommar. It doesn’t help that I say no to after-work drinks, I say no to weekend barbecues, I say no to karaoke nights in Malmö. I won’t say no forever but I understand deep within myself that I need a few months drinking nothing stronger than espresso. I’ve been gaming manically to compensate. I’ve been hiding in imaginary worlds, obsessively completing levels and mastering new games. I’ve had to replace a PS4 controller because I abused it so much. But it helps me to not think. It’s not the same as rum but it helps me to not think too deeply. About being completely alone. About Mum being alone within herself all those years. About Dad missing out on his own life.

  The hut curtains are flimsy things. Lena’s closed them but I adjust the fabric to make sure I don’t inadvertently sunbathe at 3 am, when the bright unforgiving morning light bursts through. There’s a smudge on the glass so I rub it with my fingertip. The glass is cold and the smudge is on the outside. I pull open the cotton curtains and there’s blood all over the glass. Splodges. Blood splatter like outside Tam’s food van. I take my stun gun and dash outside. Nothing. Then I see them. Small feathers, bloodied, down on the grass. But no actual bird. I hope it got away from whatever was attacking it. A hawk? A cat?

  I take my transparent airline freebie travel pack and go into the house and tiptoe upstairs to the bathroom. The spare bedroom, where I stayed for a few days after Mum died, is opposite. Johan’s turning it into a gym or a hobby room or something, which is why I’m sleeping in the shed. He’s preparing a surprise for Lena. There’s a padlock on the door and a Post-it note that says ‘no peeking’.

  I place the mini toothbrush and the mini toothpaste and the mini comb down on the side of the sink. My reflection is a mess. Bloodshot eyes, a dishevelled, slightly greasy ponytail, the start of a pimple on the side of my nose.

  It feels good to wash my face. I use the airline flight kit but I also borrow cotton buds and face wash and moisturiser from Lena. I owe her. For letting me stay with her like this. For not even hesitating. Would I have been this straightforward and hospitable? Mum never allowed me to have friends to stay. She wouldn’t even let me have friends over for dinner, even though it was me cooking and even though I hardly had any friends to invite.

  I lock the front door and head back to my oversize dog kennel. I used the WC in the house and I’m relieved not to face the compost toilet tonight. Feels odd not to flush away. And I don’t like the intrinsic warmth. Compost mixed with human waste in a small room in Midsommar. The warmth is too similar to manure. It’s too animal.

  There is no lock on my friggebod so I place the stun gun and the knife down on my bedside table. If you come in here tonight, anonymous shithead, I will electrocute you and I will cut you. Just test me.

  I leave my bag by the door, blow out the candle and climb into bed. I have no pillow alarm so I sleep with my phone under my pillow and set the alarm for seven and make sure it’s on vibrate mode. I remove my aids. I have no desiccant but they’re dry. It’s June. Everything’s dry.

  Dark rooms are unsettling. Especially once I’ve removed my hearing aids. I don’t think of myself as a vulnerable person, but that only applies to daytime. The darkness is not my friend. I fear it. Especially in this town. Especially now. But maybe because Lena’s not far away, or maybe because this room is so compact, I feel okay. I think of what I think of when I need to fall asleep. When I need comfort. I think of Dad and the way he’d tell me stories as a little girl, both of us lying on the rug in our living room, both of us staring up at the ceiling in a way that most grown-ups don’t do. No rush for him to get up and do adult things. Taking his time. Our time. Him making up some weird ridiculous tale. Me enthralled. The safety of it. Just him and me.

  When I wake up my phone’s not vibrating but something else is.

  There’s a tapping.

  A knocking.

  I can’t hear it but I can feel it.

  I reach for my aids and put them in and listen.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  I take the stun gun in one hand and stand up. Slowly. Carefully. Light is pouring through the narrow gap in the curtains like a spotlight at a theatre, and the tapping is coming from the window. I check my phone: 4am. I open the curtains and a frantic little bird is flying straight at the glass, over and over and over again. Tap as its beak hits the glass. Tap, tap, tap. And more blood. A fresh splatter. I open the friggebod door and look outside. Flower scent and buzzing flies and a suicidal bird ending its own life in the most painful way imaginable. I scare it away. Don’t do it, bird. It’s not worth it.

  I try to fall back to sleep but the light is ridiculous. I could get sunburnt and it’s only 4am. What is it with this country? The winters are so long and dark and cold you think they’ll never end and then this. Incessant light. Sometimes I miss living in London and this is one of those times.

  I take my aids back out and think about every possible location in the Kommun where someone could hide a twenty-two-year-old woman. I make a list on my phone: the unoccupied houses and outbuildings in Mossen, the village that snakes its way through Utgard forest. Then the rest of the forest, including Badger Hollow and
the Stack – the chimney standing alone now the wooden house has rotted down to the ground. Then the Toyota dealership out by the reservoir – they have a derelict building close by, the abandoned showroom. Then the sewage farm and Bertil Hendersson’s beehives and outbuildings. The reservoir itself, and the hundreds of caravans and chalets close to its shore. But my main priority is Snake River. You could hide a dozen women there. A hundred. I want to meet the cousins and I want to search that whole site. Preferably not on my own.

  After a five-minute breakfast Lena and I drive in my Hilux to Storrgatan.

  ‘Who the hell would take all the flyers down?’ she says, outraged.

  She’s furious about that, but she’s also angry that this morning, this pleasant summer morning, one of her neighbours started mowing his grass at 6:30am. See, this is not something I’ve ever had trouble with. Down south my neighbours have put up passive-aggressive notices on the hallway board telling people not to play music before 9am on weekends, not to vacuum early in the day, not to use power tools when people might be sleeping. I just smile every time I see them. Not an issue for me. I sleep like a clubbed seal, as people say here. Disturbingly. Don’t like that expression at all and it never went down well when I used it in London. Too barbaric. But noisy neighbours are not a problem for me. I sleep with my aids out and I am never disturbed by a late-night party or an early-morning DIY dickhead. One of the many benefits of being deaf.

  We park outside the office and Lena storms off to check the lamp posts and railings, scraps of printed flyers flapping in the warm June wind. I catch up with her.

  ‘Look at this,’ she says, pointing to a flyer that was taped to a bus shelter and now just shows Tammy’s forehead ripped in half. ‘Why?’