Top Dog

by Jens Lapidus

  He had shuffled out into the hallway with the guard behind him. The interview room was exactly how he remembered it. The same dirty plastic floor with the same simple table screwed to it. The same bare, grayish-white walls.

  The door had opened and Simon Murray had come in: the cop who had arrested him at the hospital, the plainclothes officer who had been after Nikola and his crew ever since they were kids. Who had pulled them over, harassed their girlfriends and stopped off to see their parents when they still lived at home. He was part of Project Hippogriff—the joint initiative in southern Stockholm working toward a safer city. Murray’s hair was short and blond. Black boots and a heart rate monitor around his wrist. He looked like he always had: a cop from birth. There must be something in his blood, in his DNA. Nikola didn’t know how the man could work undercover when it was so obvious to everyone what he was.

  “Hi, Nicko,” Murray said, gesturing as though he wanted to embrace Nikola.

  Nikola had sat down. He wasn’t “Nicko” with this cop. Didn’t Murray realize that he was grieving?

  “I’m sorry. They couldn’t save Chamon, he died quickly.”

  Nikola had looked out of the window, toward the walls. The sky was the same color as the concrete. He already knew Chamon was dead; Nikola had seen his friend’s stomach close-up.

  “I know this must be extremely difficult for you, I know how close you were to Chamon,” Murray had said. “But I have to interview you. I’m sure that you, more than anyone, know why things turned out like this.”

  Nikola didn’t have the energy to move. Though the room was warmer than his cell, he was still freezing. But he had wanted to go back there all the same. Away from this.

  “Come on, Nikola. Give me something. At least tell me who was there when he was shot the first time.”

  Nikola had pulled his legs up beneath him. He shivered. He and Yusuf had driven Chamon to the hospital from the gym, and they had agreed simply to hand over their friend—not to say a word to anyone about what had happened.

  Murray said: “Do you remember when I arrested you and Chamon for the first time? You were only eleven. We had to drive you home to your parents. You’d been stealing baseball caps from Intersport in Södertälje and then selling them at school. Do you remember what your mom said when I handed you over?”

  Nikola hadn’t replied.

  Murray continued: “She said, ‘Nikola isn’t like that.’ That was what she said: ‘My son isn’t like that.’ Do you remember that?”

  Nikola remembered. Linda had been disappointed in him so many times. But somehow, she continued to believe in him. Pictures had flown through his mind. All the times she had made dinner for him and Chamon, all the times he and his friend had kicked the ball around in the inner courtyard on Robert Anbergs väg, how Chamon had come up with his own little songs about their lame teachers.

  Nikola had realized that he was about to start shaking. He opened his mouth. Murray grasped the situation immediately, fell silent—waited for Nikola to start talking.

  He had considered just doing it, telling the cops what happened. Forgetting his honor. Spilling what little he knew—saying that the first crap had gone down at the gym, that Yusuf, Isak, and a load of MMA guys had seen the bastard who shot Chamon. But at the same time: How did the police actually work? Why should he show them the way?

  “Come on, Nikola. Say something. You’re a Swede, for God’s sake, not a Syrian. Don’t be like them. Just give me something.”

  Nikola had had to hold himself back then, a hairbreadth from flying at Murray: the racist. The cop who wanted everything but gave nothing in return.

  He had cleared his throat. Built up some saliva—defended the holy principles. Spat straight into Simon bastard Murray’s face.

  “I’ll never be Swedish the way you mean. And I don’t talk to cops.”

  * * *

  —

  The gold ornamentation around the columns and the painted icons on the walls. Huge ceiling lamps as big as Smart cars hanging above the churchgoers. The marble floor glistened. He saw Chamon’s father, Emanuel, his mother, and his siblings; he saw Yusuf and Isak. He saw Bello and the rest of the boys spread out among the others, sitting next to their fathers. He saw people he only vaguely recognized.

  The priests held out their hands in front of them, their palms turned up. Gold and silver crosses around their necks. The melodies sounded ancient. It was Linda who had bought him his suit.

  It was time to file past the coffin. There were a few men standing on one side of it, and a few women on the other: the core of the Hanna family.

  Nikola saw how the majority held their right hands over their hearts, and he did the same. He also saw that no one was stopping to talk to anyone from Chamon’s family, they were just moving past, nodding, trying to meet the parents’ tear-filled eyes.

  He moved closer. The procession was slow. There were three people ahead of him in the line for Chamon’s father, and he tried to see how Emanuel was reacting to all of the people passing by.

  Hand on heart. Nikola was now face-to-face with Chamon’s father. He thought of the walnut baklava Emanuel had always given him when they were younger.

  “Nikola,” Emanuel whispered, taking ahold of him. It wasn’t a tight hug, but it felt like the entire church was about to come crashing down on top of Nikola.

  “I know you did what you could to save him,” Emanuel continued, letting go. There was a moment of silence. And then he howled. Chamon’s father’s anguish filled the church—everything came to a standstill. Everything froze—time froze in an eternal chasm, and would crack beyond repair. At rock bottom. From the end of life.

  And Nikola thought: I’ll never get out of this. I’ll never be able to move again.

  * * *

  —

  During the wake in the function room at the church, Yusuf came over to Nikola. He smelled like gum and had a gold chain and cross around his neck. They hugged. “Isak wants to talk to us later,” he said.

  “What about?”

  “We’ll find out then.”

  “Your chain, is that Chamon’s?” Nikola pointed to the cross.

  Yusuf kissed it. “Yeah, he gave it to me at the hospital, just before you arrived. He wanted me to have it.”

  They met an hour later, in the back room of Steakhouse Bar. Isak was sitting down: it looked like he didn’t have the energy to stand. Yusuf, Bello, and the others were hanging around him. They were all still wearing suits. There were ten or twelve of them there, and it was four in the afternoon. It was the first time Nikola had ever seen Isak, or any of them, for that matter, in anything but sweatpants.

  Subdued small talk between the boys. One of Mr. One’s guys, Jacub, told Nikola that he was the one Isak had ordered to go to the hospital to watch over Chamon, but that he had been stuck in traffic. Nikola didn’t know what to say to that.

  Everyone was waiting for Isak’s sign, for him to hush them or start talking. But nothing happened. Yusuf shifted his weight. Bello glanced over at Mr. One. Eventually, they understood—he was waiting for them to fall silent on their own. Isak demanded dignity, respect for the situation.

  “Whores,” Isak said.

  Someone’s phone beeped. The guy quickly pulled it out and switched it to silent.

  “We can’t let those little whores scare us. Who do they think they are? We’ll fuck their mothers in the eye. We’ll do their sisters up the ass. They’ll know what we’ve done.”

  Quieter than quiet now, not even the kitchen staff could be heard.

  “I’m completely devastated. Chamon was like a little brother to me. And you couldn’t find a better one. You get me?”

  They all nodded slowly.

  “But if they think they can break us by taking out the people we love, they’re wrong. I’ve worked hard to build up what we’ve got. Bloo
d, sweat, and tears. Nothing comes for free. It’s taken us over ten years. You know? But, that whole time, it’s always been about principles. That if someone hits us, we have to hit back ten times harder. And that means everyone has to be in. Everyone.”

  The boys nodded. Everyone looked deadly serious. Nikola wondered if Isak knew who the killers were. The boss’s eyes flashed at him.

  “So now I’m wondering: Who’s volunteering? Who’s going to help me find out who these bastards are?”

  Nikola saw Emanuel Hanna’s tear-filled eyes before him. Could still hear his desperate cry. One of the explosion headaches had started to pulse behind his forehead, lightning flashes in his mind. He thought of George Samuel and the electrician’s certificate that was within reach, so close, how proud Linda and Teddy were.

  He felt Isak’s eyes burning. The boss lowered his chin and seemed to be staring straight through him. Nikola himself barely knew what he was doing. It was as though Isak’s eyes were pulling at his body.

  He raised a hand. There was a full-blown storm raging in his head now.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Isak breathed out through his nose. Nodded slowly.

  Nikola said: “Chamon’s blood was my blood. I’ll find whoever was behind this. I swear.”

  PART II

  MARCH–APRIL

  15

  They hadn’t been able to keep their hands off one another, even in the elevator. They had tumbled into the hallway, knocking Emelie’s coats from the hooks as they rushed past, and staggered on toward the bedroom. Their clothes were off before they even landed on the bed. As Teddy entered her, she had bitten his lip so hard that it started to bleed. The whole thing was over in a few minutes.

  That was more than a month ago now, and it was as though something had exploded. Despite Teddy’s “No, I don’t believe in the two of us” line, they had grabbed one another the minute the door had started to swing shut. Emelie still didn’t know what had made him change his mind.

  Half an hour after they got to her apartment that night, they had done it again. This time, they had taken it slow, their fingers and lips exploring one another—she had felt Teddy following her breathing, panting, rhythm. They had kissed, nuzzled, explored their way forward, as though it were the first time for both of them. Or maybe it was the feeling that had been smoldering since that night in a Palma hotel room, more than a year earlier. She didn’t know and, in the moment, she didn’t care. Teddy had kissed her back, right down to the base of her spine, moving across her buttocks. His hands had embraced her, his entire body surrounding her. He had stroked her hair, his tongue grazing her breasts. She had clung to him, felt how wet she was. Then he was beneath her, his big body like a wiry bed of muscles. “Come on,” she had whispered, taking ahold of his dick.

  There had been something about the way he looked at her, like he was really seeing her, like he could see into her. It was as though all he wanted was to be a part of her, without holding anything back. And maybe that had scared her, even as she lay there—the fact that she couldn’t picture a life with Teddy. It was impossible to imagine him at her place on an ordinary Friday night, cooking in the kitchen and with a friend over to visit. She couldn’t even fantasize about him going to meet her parents in Jönköping. He was so far removed from her ideal. He was so far removed from her world.

  But, in the moment, she had ignored it—that night, a month ago, she had brushed away those thoughts and looked at him instead. Picked up speed. Felt him inside her. She had glowed. Looked deep into Teddy’s eyes.

  * * *

  —

  She was at the office today, but her thoughts wouldn’t give her any peace. That night with Teddy was a bright point, but her mind was overflowing with unpleasant images. Katja’s lifeless body and slashed T-shirt. The blood on the floor. The writing on the wall. The images popped up whenever she ate, whenever she tried to work. They were there when she tried to sleep and they came back again later, in her nightmares. They had even been there when she tried to watch something on Netflix.

  Emelie’s appetite had been worse than the stick insect she’d had as a pet one summer as a child. Her periods were irregular. She was averaging fewer than four hours’ sleep a night, despite popping melatonin pills like they were mints. She knew she could get ahold of something stronger—not just sleeping pills but proper sedatives. She had done it before, but she didn’t want to go down that road this time. She had to resist it.

  The police had interviewed her: once at the scene, in Katja and Adam’s apartment, and twice at the police station. “Did you hear anything in the stairwell?” “Did you see anyone outside?” “Was Katja alive when you got there?” “Do you know why Katja didn’t want to go to the police interview?”

  Emelie had replied no to everything, unfortunately. She wished she could have given them something, but she knew far too little.

  “Why exactly do you suspect her partner?” she had wanted to know.

  The policeman conducting the interview looked at her like she had just asked whether he was unfaithful. “The preliminary investigation is confidential, as you well know. I can’t tell you anything.”

  Chief Inspector Nina Ley had called her up in tears—yes, a police officer who cried. Emelie hadn’t known how to take it. When their call ended, she had spent two hours sitting at her desk without moving an inch. Could she have prevented this? Was it because she pushed Katja to go to the police and testify?

  * * *

  —

  A few days later, Anneli rang through to her. “You’ve got a call.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I have no idea. He won’t say his name.”

  Emelie held the receiver to her ear. At first, she heard someone yelling. Then a scraping sound, followed by agitated voices.

  “Hello, who is this? I can’t hear you.”

  She heard a voice, a man, amid the noise. “It’s me. You have to help me.”

  “Who is this?”

  The same voice, heated: “Adam, Katja’s partner. They want to arrest me.” He was short of breath. She could hear noise in the background. “The cops. They’ve been hunting me ever since what happened to Katja. I need you, Emelie. You have to talk to them.”

  Emelie didn’t know what to say.

  “They’re going to find me. Sooner or later,” he continued.

  “Why haven’t you called them yet, or gone in voluntarily?”

  “I’m telling you. They’ll arrest me, they’ll try to convict me of this. I’m completely crushed. Katja’s been murdered, for God’s sake. I haven’t slept since it happened.”

  “Did you have anything to do with it?”

  Adam’s voice sounded almost calm now. “I loved Katja, but love leads to strange things sometimes. You have to help me, Emelie. You’re the only lawyer I trust, because Katja trusted you. You have to save me.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t be your lawyer. I’m sorry. There could be a conflict of interest. I was Katja’s counsel and now you’re a suspect. It isn’t allowed.”

  There was a crackling sound over the line. “Is it because I work in the erotic industry?”

  “No, I’ve just told you why. I have certain ethical rules to abide by. I have to follow them.”

  Emelie heard other voices in the background. Then the call ended.

  * * *

  —

  It was the first time she had worked out in a month. She hoped it would help make the pictures in her head disappear.

  Right-left. Hook-uppercut-elbow. Her blows struck the pads Jossan was holding up. Bam, bam, bam.

  It was incredible that she had even managed to get Josephine to come along. Her friend was always going on about the latest exercise classes: barre, streamed fitness programs, PT training in Takkei, kripalu yoga, hot yoga, air yoga, dark yoga, made-up yoga. Though maybe that wa
s just it: fighting sports were hot right now. Or, as Jossan put it: “Kayla Itsines says that it’s part of the HIIT trend, and that’s enough for me.” She held the pads at head height, moved around the blue rubber floor. Emelie followed her—chin to her chest. Eyes on the pads. Breathing through her nose. Back leg moving first every time.

  When she and Josephine swapped positions, her arms were shaking with exertion. The drops of sweat were clouding her vision. She was breathing loudly. “You might not have worked out for ages, but you’ve got a punch like Manny Pacquiao, you know that, right?” Jossan said as she pulled on the boxing gloves.

  They got going again. Jossan looked like a kitten snatching at a ball of wool. This was relaxation for Emelie—but it did nothing to get rid of the images. Katja’s wide eyes, like they were staring at something on the ceiling. WHORE on the wall. The carving knife on the floor.

  “Wait,” she panted. Jossan’s arms were hanging heavily. “I have to stop,” Emelie said. “This doesn’t feel right.”

  Jossan’s face was red. She just nodded. Josephine’s strength might not have been in the force of her punch or the size of her cultural capital, but somehow she always understood.

  * * *

  —

  Emelie was freezing as she waited for the bus. She had thought the police would get somewhere after she, Jan, and Teddy found the backpack on the roof opposite Katja and Adam’s apartment. But she hadn’t heard a thing from Nina Ley and her team since they interviewed her—Emelie assumed that meant they still hadn’t arrested Adam Tagrin.

  She had also assumed that she and Teddy would continue to see one another after their night at her place. His scent had hung around all weekend, on her body and on her sheets. But he never got in touch, and she didn’t either. Playing games felt unnecessary with Teddy: they knew one another too well. Though maybe that was precisely why she hadn’t called him—it was too big, too serious, too impossible.