Black River

by Will Dean

  ‘Plenty,’ she says. ‘But I got bigger boxes designed for gators and crocs if need be. Secure boxes.’

  ‘What happens to them all?’ I ask, remembering the niche taxidermy, the python biting the wolverine biting the python. ‘What will they end up as?

  ‘All sorts,’ she says, pushing the strong, pristine head of the serpent back down to join her looped body. The forked tongue is flicking in and out. Kristina is smelling the air, tasting the both of us, and she is saying fools, weaklings… one day, fools… one day. ‘I’m a licensed breeder,’ says Sally, ‘so I sell some snakes, get people driving up from all over, had one woman come up from Norköping last week to buy a big rattler named Arno Baptiste III. Beauty he was. Then I do some sculpture – some taxidermy work. People can order bespoke poses, you know the kind. Sometimes they want their own pets stuffed and posed, sometimes they just want one of mine. I also do skeletal work. Mostly for collectors but I’ve had veterinary schools and art colleges buy my bone work. That’s what the buckets are for, the ones you were staring at out back last time you were here.’

  ‘I was just curious,’ I say.

  ‘Curiosity killed the kitty-cat, friend.’

  It’s hot in here and it is humid. Sally cleans out some of the smaller snakes’ boxes while I’m standing here. I have never seen snake poop before. Now I have. There’s a sack of what looks like cat litter in the corner, and there’s a box of torn-up newspapers. I can see a large fully-completed crossword. Shredded.

  ‘Buckets and vats out there full of bleach, different types of acid. I got to strip a carcass of all its meat, you see, get a nice clean skeleton. Some folks use beetles but they can be a pain in the ass, excuse my language.’ She swallows. ‘I only use the flesh-eating skin beetles for really big jobs.’

  ‘Do you make things with the snakeskins?’

  ‘Big part of what I do,’ she says. ‘Handbags, belts, wallets, all sorts. I’ll show you if you like. Sell them all on the handicrafts websites, I’ve got some fine products and they fetch a decent price nine times out of ten.’

  ‘Do you feel sad, though?’ I ask. ‘Breeding them then killing them?’

  She looks at me like I just disrespected her late husband.

  ‘You ever ask a farmer that question, did you, Tuva?’ I don’t like the way she just said ‘Tuva’. ‘Because I’m doing the exact same thing. Except I go one step further. I am an ethical breeder and crafts-woman.’ She points the kinked metal stick at me. ‘Ethical. Cos I eat what I kill, I don’t throw nothing away. I use a three-metre python for a project then I’ll be grilling, marinating, stir-frying, and freezing all the meat I can get off that snake. You ever eat eel, Tuva?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there you go then, isn’t it? There you go.’

  I step back into the corridor and I feel disorientated. Too many doors and too much heat. The knowledge that there’s a whole jungle’s worth of frustrated angry snakes just metres away from me. All that muscle. Venom. Do I turn left or right to get out? There are so many doors, so many locked unlabelled doors.

  ‘Fresh air?’ says Sally, a stern look on her face.

  I nod and she points to the way out.

  ‘You see all you wanted, did you?’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I say.

  ‘Snake lover, are you?’ she says. ‘Didn’t look that way to me, friend.’

  ‘I’ve only ever seen vipers out in the wild,’ I say. ‘Small Swedish vipers.’

  ‘Bog snakes,’ she says. ‘Got too many of them around here, got them all up the river banks living off voles and rats. That’s where our name comes from. Watch your ankles round my house, friend.’

  I step out into the sunlight and wave to her and she waves her bloody metal stick by way of goodbye.

  When I get back to Gavrik town there are people all over the streets. This isn’t normal. Normal is a couple of old dudes walking a couple of old dogs, and maybe some tired-looking parents wheeling round their insomniac snotty-nosed kids. I can see new flyers going up so I slow down my truck and wind down my window. There’s a woman in sunglasses and shorts and she’s taping her A3 supersize laminated Lisa ICA poster right over the A4 black-and-white budget Tammy poster that was put up a few hours before.

  ‘Don’t cover the other one,’ I say. ‘Put it above or below.’

  ‘Other one’s old,’ she says, not even turning to look at me. ‘Lisa’s fresh news. Needs to go at eye level. Them’s my instructions.’

  I look up the street and twenty or so other volunteers are doing the exact same thing. They’re erasing Tammy, her black-and-white photo, the photo taken by me, downloaded from my phone, and they’re covering her with Lisa like Tam never even lived here.

  I speed off to ICA, my chest tight with anger. You can be damn sure I’ll be pushing for people to look for Tammy and Lisa. Both of them. There is no priority here. There is no ‘fresh news’ for God’s sake.

  I save a reminder on my phone to call my new boss. Anders deserves a full explanation and I need to give him one soon if I want to keep my job.

  A multipack of five ICA T-shirts, a multipack of underwear, a multipack of socks. A pair of shorts, two pairs of mom jeans, two sweaters. The bras look like polyester bullshit so I’ll make do with what I have. I buy toiletries and about a bathtub load of wine gums and Marabou chocolate and bottles of red Coke. All in all: 2,400 kronor. That’s about two hundred English pounds and in Tesco, my supermarket of choice during my London student years, all this would have cost about half. But this is Sweden. Home to state-monopoly wine shops and overpriced supermarkets and restaurants so expensive it’s cheaper to fly to Spain for the night to eat there.

  Sunlight hits me as I walk outside. The stack of cut roses and ‘We Love You Lisa’ teddy bears has grown to Princess Diana memorial proportions. One side of the trolley house is covered. There’s a TV crew. A team of three I don’t recognise. Part of me wants to go back inside and buy all the flowers they have, all the stupid bears, and stack them up against Tammy’s food van as if to say, here too, assholes. Look here. And then my phone rings.

  ‘Tuva,’ says Lena. ‘Police press conference is being moved forward an hour. Starts in ten minutes. Can you make it?’

  ‘Moved forward?’ I say.

  ‘Townsfolk heaping on the pressure,’ she says. ‘Locals are furious. And…’

  ‘And?’ I say. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just hurry,’ she says. ‘The police have found something.’

  15

  I park behind Gavrik Posten. There’s nobody around so I change my T-shirt inside my truck, roll on some much-needed extra-strong men’s deodorant, the stuff that actually works, and pull on new socks. I look at myself in the rear-view mirror and fix my hair. Then I walk over to the cop shop.

  The June glare doesn’t do Toytown any favours. Uneven pavements. Flies. For Rent signs. There are vans outside the police station, vans with satellite dishes on their roofs.

  ‘Saved your old seat,’ says Thord as I walk to the reception desk. He looks flustered and hot, his cheeks flushed.

  I smile my thanks and leave him and walk through to the press conference room. There are ten people here, most of them wafting notebooks in the air to create some kind of personal comfort breeze. The police have set a large office fan at the rear of the room and it does a good job of moving warm sweat-air around the place. There’s an artificial plant right next to it and even that looks like it’s wilting.

  Thord walks through and stands by the podium, and then he clears his throat.

  I place my digital Dictaphone with the others and then take my seat at the front.

  The Chief walks in and he looks severe. Have they found her? Is this how I find out? With all these people in this public room?

  A group of five follow Chief Björn in and stand behind him.

  The Chief has a pair of glasses hanging from his neck. He’s got rid of the magnetic ones, these ones look normal. He puts them on.

  �
��Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to thank you all for coming, some of you from great distances. I am here today to provide you with an update.’

  A flashbulb goes off behind me and Björn’s face lights up and he’s sweating like a wild boar locked in a sauna.

  ‘As many of you will know, Gavrik Kommun police department is working on two ongoing missing persons investigations.’

  He looks around the room at us, then back to his notes.

  ‘In addition to our ongoing missing persons investigation into Ms Tammy Yamnim, Ms Lisa Svensson…’ The chief pauses and five people behind him all contort at her name in different ways. ‘…We believe Ms Svensson went missing last night following the conclusion of her shift at the ICA store at twenty-two hundred hours.’

  The Chief wipes sweat from his upper lip with his tongue. He has a short-sleeved uniform shirt and I can clearly see his red-heart tattoo on his wrist.

  ‘Neither woman has tried to access her phone or update her social media account between that time and now, and neither have accessed their bank accounts. Ms Yamnim’s takeout van is located in the furthest section of the ICA site and is not covered by CCTV. We can see on the ICA footage that Ms Svensson walked in that direction, as was her routine, after her shift. It is regrettable that the area is not better covered by CCTV surveillance.’

  Some guy behind me with a squeaky Stockholm accent says, ‘Do you have any new leads, Chief?’ and the chief stiffens his jaw and waits for the room to quieten and then he gets back to reading from his notes.

  ‘A new witness has come forward. Said witness reported a scuffle in the ICA Maxi car park on the west side of Gavrik on the evening Ms Yamnim disappeared. The witness doesn’t recall the truck details but has told us that, in her estimation, two people were there at the takeout truck with Ms Yamnim. One shorter than the other, possibly a man and a woman. We have no further details from the witness. At this point I’d like to appeal for the public’s assistance.’

  A man and a woman? Could it be the cousins? I throw up my hand.

  One of the guys behind the Chief, a good-looking blond personal-trainer type, holds up both Tammy’s and Lisa’s flyers. I’m embarrassed to look at them. Lisa’s seems professional, in full colour, a good HD photo. Tammy’s is a photo I love of her, from up at the reservoir last summer, but it’s fuzzier, black-and-white and not crisp enough for this. It won’t be showing up as well on camera.

  ‘I’d like to open up for questions but do be aware that due to this being an active investigation there may be some questions I am unable to answer.’

  He takes off his glasses and looks at us. A bluebottle buzzes past. The fan whirrs. I raise my hand but someone else asks a question.

  ‘Do you have any person or persons of interest, Chief Björn?’

  It’s Sebastian Cheekbones.

  The chief ignores my hand. I guess I’m not the local priority journo any more.

  ‘We’re actively investigating multiple leads,’ he says to Cheekbones. ‘And I have the family of Lisa Svensson here with me today,’ he looks around awkwardly to the five people behind him. ‘They’re helping us locate Ms Svensson.’

  I raise my hand again and the Chief points to me.

  ‘Is there any update regarding Tammy Yamnim, Chief Björn? Do you have any fresh information apart from the new witness report?’

  He swallows and looks at Thord by the door and Thord looks back at him.

  ‘We have had one other individual come forward to say that they saw a dark red pickup truck driving erratically in the general area last night. If any member of the public with a vehicle matching that description was in the ICA area we would appreciate you coming forward so that we can eliminate you from our enquires.’

  Someone behind me, a woman with a strong Gothenburg accent, says, ‘Sir, with the high crime rate these past three years, in this small town, is it time for new leadership at the Gavrik police department?’

  The Chief rubs his eye and points to a man next to me with his hand up.

  ‘Chief Björn. Will you be conducting searches in the area? Will helicopters or dog teams be involved?’

  The Chief nods like he’s happy to have a reasonable question.

  ‘As many of you know our direct resources are very limited. We’re a small town with a small-town police force. However we are being assisted with these missing persons investigations by officers from Torsby and Karlstad, and we have additional forces on standby should we need their help. No canine or helicopter resources have been requested as of now, but they can be if we have a specific area that needs searching.’

  ‘Mountain rescue?’ says a man behind me with a deep radio voice.

  Chief Björn takes a breath. ‘No, but I would like to say one final thing. Much of the wilderness around Gavrik town is challenging to search, even in summertime. The nature can present us with difficulties and I’d like to ask members of the public to be mindful of the risks. If you do go out searching, please stay in coordinated groups and follow instructions from your team leaders. Stay hydrated and make sure you have a charged phone on your person. Be aware of snakes and elk and other risk factors. The last thing we want is for more people to go missing. I urge the public to help us search, but I must stress that you should not touch anything you think might be suspicious. Leave that to the police – we mustn’t risk contaminating evidence. Do not move anything. Do not challenge anyone. This is not the time for amateur heroics. If you see something relevant, call the Gavrik Kommun police department immediately.’ He reads out the phone number I memorised years ago. ‘Thank you.’

  The chief turns his back on us and his shirt is dark with sweat. The five Svensson family members turn as well and they’re all drenched. They exit together and all I can think is: I wish Tammy’s mum was here. She’s as fierce as Tammy is. More, even. But she’s not here. I’m next of kin for the moment. It’s down to me.

  16

  Outside the cop shop, rumour spreads of a search-party base camp on the eastern edge of Utgard forest. They say ICA Lisa’s boyfriend’s already there coordinating. One of Lisa’s brothers confirms this as he walks out from the back of the police station. I leave the other journos and jump in my truck and head straight out to Utgard.

  The stream of traffic is unfamiliar, especially so far outside town. You’ll see traffic queuing to join the E16 to drive north to the pulp mill or south towards Karlstad, sure, but not on this road. Not on the route out to nowhere.

  I’m stuck behind an EPA tractor for a while, some kid with no number plate driving at 40 flat. I overtake eventually and a parade of old American raggare cars draws up behind me. One is the car from Ghostbusters, or a DIY imitation of it. It has blue roof lights, red stripes and a ladder up one side. We continue in convoy. There’s a man in an orange neon jacket with an orange neon sign on the side of the road pointing to a farmer’s track so I turn.

  This is the same spot I entered the forest last year with my red yarn. Where I came to make peace of sorts, came to think of Dad for a while. And Mum.

  Today it looks like a refugee camp. Or a shit music festival. There are small tents and garden umbrellas, fold-out tables and at least three grills smoking away against the hazy yellow rape field.

  Five caravans and a whole fleet of cars. Ice boxes and trestle tables with disposable paper tablecloths. I can see a bucket full of ice sitting lopsided in the shade of a motorhome.

  I park.

  Four guys are standing on top of a stage-size granite boulder talking among themselves. Ex-military, or more likely ex-military service. They’re all wearing army camouflage and bright yellow hi-vis jackets. Do they want to be seen or don’t they? I recognise two of them from the cop show. They were standing behind Chief Björn. Two tall, broad guys who are Lisa’s brothers. One guy who might be her cousin, there’s a resemblance. And one handsome Sikh guy, slightly taller than the brothers. Lisa’s boyfriend.

  They turn and, en masse, like a compliant battalion of drone ants, we turn
to them.

  ‘I’ll keep this real short so we can get started,’ says Lisa’s boyfriend, in a clear, deep voice that we’ll all follow without question. ‘But first I want to say a few things to keep everyone safe.’

  He stands a little straighter on the rock, shielding his eyes with his hand.

  ‘ICA Maxi have been good enough to donate all kinds of equipment for today’s search and we want to thank them.’ He nods to a woman in her fifties sitting behind a table full of Ramlösa water bottles and she nods back. ‘We have food and refreshments for when we get back from the afternoon search. Plan is to trek through to the Mossen road from here, then trek back. There’s about a hundred of us so we’ll cover a good part of the forest that way. Then after some food those who feel strong enough can continue this evening, from the Mossen road west to Snake River.’ He looks around. We’re all listening, eager to start, thankful for someone leading and someone taking action.

  ‘You need to stay watchful of elk in the woods. Elk and vipers and wild pigs are the main concerns. We have about thirty trained hunt dogs between us and that should keep the elk at a good distance. I suggest you stay ten to twenty metres from each other, try to keep in visual contact with the person you set out with. The terrain is thick and it’s treacherous in places. Stay in visual contact and keep your hi-vis on at all times. Make sure you have enough water.’

  Someone behind me is putting up a large ridgepole tent and there’s a gaggle of kids playing underneath the sagging canvas structure, oblivious to what we are about to do and what we may well find.

  ‘Use your bug spray – ICA have donated all they had – and use a stick if you have one. Lyme disease and tick-borne encephalitis are real risks. I need to repeat what the police have said: do not touch anything or move anything. If you find something out of the ordinary, call it in. Tell someone.’

  He looks at the other men on the granite rock and they look back at him.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Spread yourselves out ten to twenty metres apart along the edge of the woods. When you hear the loudhailer, then you start walking. God speed and good luck, everyone.’