by Jens Lapidus
The others are already gone. I gave one such a fright that he died of a heart attack. I drowned another while he was out on his yacht. I killed one on the street in Brazil. I drove another into a rock face and undid his seat belt just before we crashed. I strangled one in Switzerland, making it look like a suicide. He was actually the first to take up contact with Katja, the man she described in her interview. I’ve injected air into two men’s eyes, making their hearts stop. I shot another in the face back at the place where it all happened: Fredrik O. Johansson. I know he was one of the men who did things to Amanda in particular.
I want you to know that they were all nothing but facade, they were all so weak. So empty. Amanda was stronger.
Amanda was greater than all of them.
I’ve done what I’ve done for her and for everyone they abused. Now and in the future.
/ Nina Ley
* * *
—
Ikea with Roksy: he felt like a lion among a flock of sheep. Everyone was just walking around, perfectly normal, so happy and content, so interested in pale wood dining tables that cost 399 kronor. All the same, it was nice: his arm was around Roksy’s waist—they were talking about starting a life together. Or maybe that was an exaggeration, but they were here to buy a bed. That was enough for him. Suddenly it struck him that everyone here probably saw him and Roksy as the most super average normal couple of all. They couldn’t know that his arm was hanging in a sling beneath his jacket and that he was carrying a Sig Sauer in a shoulder holster.
“You know,” said Roksy, “I think this place is ridiculous. But I still love being here with you.”
It was a quiet day by Ikea standards, but there were still people peering into every single mocked-up room. This was Sweden in microcosm—only, they didn’t reconstruct the cells, the prison hallways, or the tired school classrooms. Not that everything about Sweden was bad. Roksy had told him about the money she had gotten back from the police. She had sent a third of it to Z—even though he had let her down, she thought he had a right to it. A third had gone to repaying their loans and paying the handymen, DJs, and others who still hadn’t received their money. The last third was hers, taxed and ready, since the prosecutor was already holding back anything she might owe. After paying off the psychos’ money, she was left with roughly 100,000 kronor. “That should be enough to live off for a few months and to buy us a new Ikea bed,” she said.
“When do I get to meet your parents?”
Roksy smiled. “They’re not too happy with me right now.”
Nikola felt his arm ache. The doctors had said that they didn’t know whether he would ever be able to use it like normal again, but he was just happy he had survived.
* * *
—
They made their way to the bed section. Continental beds, sprung divans, mattresses: new words for a new life. At his mom’s place, he’d had the same bed since he was a teenager, and he’d never given any thought to what kind it was. Teddy had bought the bed for his apartment.
Get five-star sleep in our continental beds, the ads said. Dunvik, Vallavik, Lauvik. He went over to one of the show beds and started reading the label. Everything was so chill.
He thought back to the explosion, caused by the cop lady’s bullets. Her target had been the client—Anders Henriksson, Nikola had later found out he was called. But, because of his tackle, she had missed. He didn’t really know why he had thrown himself at her—the old bastard definitely deserved to die. But if he had decided not to kidnap someone because it didn’t feel right, clipping some old man by shooting him in the eye felt even less okay.
He had realized what had happened the minute he hit the ground—bombphobic that he was. The boxes had exploded—Isak’s explosives, the boxes he and Bello had been moving around the county at regular intervals. The building above had come crashing down like a house of cards. It was so crazy that he could barely make sense of it, but as he and Bello ran away with ringing ears, they hadn’t been able to stop laughing. He hadn’t realized at the time that his arm might be permanently messed up—and not even because of the explosion. One of Nina Ley’s bullets had hit him. He had read in the papers that she was dead: the crazy cop had fallen.
“Should we test it out?” Roksy asked.
Nikola couldn’t quite drop what she had said about her parents. “Yeah, but tell me something first. Why are your mom and dad unhappy with you?”
“Because I took the aptitude test myself and got top marks, I guess you could say.”
“Congrats, but that doesn’t sound like something to be angry about.”
Roksy explained. She had been over at her parents’ house a few days earlier and had showed the university application page to her father. “I let my Baba read from the screen himself. Admission decision: you have been accepted and are hereby offered a place in the psychology program. You don’t know him, but he was happier than I’ve seen him in years. ‘This is wonderful,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be a psychologist. I have to call your mother and let her know.’ But I said to him, ‘No, don’t do that. Because I’m not going to take the course.’ ”
Nikola interrupted her. “Why not?”
“That’s exactly what he said, only with more disappointment in his voice. I’ll tell you what I told him: I don’t want to start the psychology program. I don’t think it’s right for me. I’ve realized I want to do something else. I’ve been offered a night shift at Palm Village Thai Wok until I work out what, you know.”
“What did he say?”
“The usual, that I’m losing out on a title and all that. But I’m sure he understands, Nikola. Deep down. I think he’s a musician at heart. My grandmother in Tehran told me that.”
A musician, Nikola thought. Like Chamon.
They lay down on the Dunvik bed. There was a plastic sheet covering the foot, preventing it from getting unnecessarily dirty. Nikola tried to relax and get a sense of what it would be like to actually sleep on it.
Kerim Celalî had been an inch away from punching him when he told him what had happened. They had met in a café in Bredäng. “So you screwed over my client? The guy who ordered the whole thing?”
Nikola had gone through the conversation with himself over and over again. He knew he had no option but to be straight with Kerim. The media had done nothing but write about the bombing over the past few days, most fascinated by the fact that only one person had died and no one else had been seriously injured. How could the terrorists be so stupid, they said, to attack on Midsummer’s Eve, of all days?
“I changed my mind,” Nikola had said. “These things happen.”
Kerim had raised his hand again. “I swear, I’ll rip your head off. I’ll fucking dance in your blood.”
“Kerim, you don’t need to worry. Your client’s not going to cause any problems. I swear.” He explained what had happened as concisely as he could. “How much were you meant to be getting for the job?”
“A hundred and fifty grand.”
Nikola had given his money to Roksy, all of his savings from the past few years—but she no longer needed it. “Here,” he had said, holding out a wad of 500 notes to Kerim. “A hundred and fifty thousand. It’s yours.”
Kerim had scratched his cheek. He really did resemble a young Tony Montana, when he was still living in the refugee camp.
“Nah,” the boss had said, pushing the money back toward him. “You did the right thing, man, and you’ve messed up your arm. I didn’t know what all that shit was about.”
Kerim got up, walked over to the entrance, opened the door, and held it like that—signaling that Nikola was free to leave.
Nikola had shoved the wad of notes back into his pocket.
“Hey, Nikola, one more thing.”
Nikola had turned around, wondering what was coming next.
“We’re not basta
rds. We only go after people who deserve it,” Kerim had said with a grin. “But you can leave the bombs at home next time, yeah?”
* * *
—
It was hard to get up with only one arm. Roksy was still lying on the bed: it almost looked like she had fallen asleep.
Nikola sat up and glanced around. The bed department in Ikea was practically the same size as half a football pitch. Maybe they could go over to Linda’s tonight. Imagine being able to introduce Roksy to her: now that everything felt so good.
Then he saw the person he least wanted to see right now. There was a man lying on one of the beds next to them. Dachri. At Ikea, of all places—and in the bed department at that. Mr. One himself.
Isak was lying there, right beneath Nikola’s nose. But he wasn’t alone: there was a woman lying next to him, just like Roksy had been lying next to Nikola. And between Isak and his woman was a small child.
Nikola couldn’t move: all he could do was blink repeatedly at his former boss. The tingling had started to appear in his head now—he knew what was coming. The woman seemed to say something to Isak, and he lifted the child up in the air. It was a baby, no more than a few months old—a tiny little thing that made the people around it smile and seem happy: the miracle of life amid all the shit.
Nikola hadn’t heard that Mr. One had become a father, or even that he had a girlfriend. The boss clearly had several different lives that no one else knew about—he wasn’t just a pig collaborator. But that wasn’t the thing—the thing was that the man responsible for Chamon no longer existing, the man Nikola had sworn to take revenge on, was lying only thirty feet away.
He felt for the gun beneath his sweater. It would be easy: just walk over there and shoot that motherfucker in the face. One small squeeze of the trigger and everything would be in equilibrium again: Chamon against Isak—Isak against Chamon. It was cosmic justice. It was how it had to be.
That was when the first lightning strike appeared.
Nikola pulled his gun from its holster. Roksy was still lying on the bed with her eyes closed. Nikola went over to Mr. One and his family.
Isak was playing with the baby—his focus on the child. He held it up in the air above him. Kissed it on the forehead. The woman laughed. The baby gurgled with laughter again. Nikola couldn’t see whether it was a boy or a girl. He paused three feet from the bed. His pulse was at 180 now. His head was pounding. He was holding the pistol in a loose grip by his thigh.
It would be so easy.
And so right.
Then Isak turned around. Looked straight at him. His eyes widened: he understood. He saw the weapon in Nikola’s hand.
Nikola stayed where he was, his eyes locked on Mr. One’s. Isak clasped the child in his arms, panic moving over his face. His breathing was unsteady.
Nikola bent down and almost-whispered: “You’re a police informant. And you know what we do to rats.”
Nikola could see that Isak understood. He panted: “No, no, don’t do anything stupid.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Mr. One couldn’t come up with anything.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t waste you right here and now.” He pressed the gun to Isak’s side. A light squeeze now, such a simple movement.
“Huh? Tell me why I shouldn’t waste you.”
Isak’s bottom lip was trembling. “I don’t know, but please, think of my kid. It’s not right to do this kind of thing in front of innocents.”
“Is that what you were thinking as they clipped Chamon while he was lying in a hospital bed?”
“Please, don’t do this.”
Nikola shoved the gun back beneath his sweater. “If you ever bother me, everyone’s going to know what you are. You understand?”
“Yes, yes, just let me live.”
“I don’t execute people who can’t defend themselves. I’m not like you. I’ll never be like you.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And one more thing,” said Nikola. “You need to take care of Yusuf’s widow. You need to give Magdalena whatever she wants. It won’t bring Yusuf back, but you’re going to help her anyway. Forever. You got that?”
“Got it, I swear.”
Nikola turned around and went back over to Roksy.
She was sitting on the edge of another bed.
“Lie down here and try this one instead,” she said.
The continental bed was higher, and therefore easier to get onto with only one arm. Roksy laughed and put an arm around him. “Imagine we’re back at your place now,” she whispered in his ear.
Nikola closed his eyes. Leaned back. Felt his headache dissipating.
He was calmer now. The lightning was gone. His head felt heavy, but clear all the same.
He was tired.
Relaxed.
He could sleep now.
* * *
—
Emelie was in her office, trying to work. Aside from the fact that her bump was constantly in the way now, she felt relatively good—though she still had too much work to deal with. There was a knock at the door and Marcus peered in. “Since you’re working so much and have your phone off, your guy calls me. He’s going to stop by.”
“Thanks. Wait a second, Marcus,” Emelie said before he had time to close the door. “I’m not going to be in the office much before long. Again, I suppose I should say.”
“I guessed. Your bump speaks volumes.”
Emelie laughed. “Well, you’re used to holding the reins, right?”
Marcus laughed, too—he was a hero, looking after the majority of her cases during those chaotic months, and not least for having helped her save Teddy. Some of her clients had been irritated by her absence, but that was understandable: they had the right to demand full attention and availability from their own lawyer. Emelie hadn’t been there like she should.
She went online to check the latest news. The papers were full of articles about the explosion at Leijon, and they finally seemed to be starting to accept that it wasn’t a terrorist attack, more some kind of accident linked to a crazy police officer. Anders Henriksson was still in custody, and the police were investigating all of the material Emelie had handed over to them.
Everything but the letter from Nina Ley.
Nina: A lone avenger. A retaliator. She had been playing the double game until the very end.
Emelie had been worried about the baby, but after having everything checked over once and once more, the midwives and doctors were confident that the child hadn’t been harmed by either the pressure wave or Emelie’s fall to the ground. Magnus Hassel had left the building before the blast—the question was whether he would survive from a purely psychological point of view. His life’s work no longer existed.
Josephine, on the other hand, had been deeply shaken by the young man in the balaclava who had threatened her in her own home. For obvious reasons, she couldn’t work out what it was all about—and Emelie was probably never going to tell her. Though maybe she should? Maybe she should invite Jossan and Nikola over for matcha tea and energy drinks sometime?
* * *
—
When Teddy arrived at the office, they went out to buy a stroller. It was an entire industry, a science in itself. Though, at the same time, maybe it was the easiest possession of all to sell. Surely no parent wanted an unsafe stroller for their newborn child?
They were going to meet Dejan, who apparently wanted to help them get it home, despite the fact that Teddy had a car of his own. “He’s doing it to be nice,” said Teddy. “It’s important to him.”
They were on the corner of Odengatan and Sveavägen, waiting for Teddy’s friend.
“Mats Emanuelsson called.”
“Incredible,” said Emelie. “He can talk?” She thought back to Mats’s bullet-torn body after t
he shooting.
“Yeah, apparently he’s starting to feel better. He woke up from his coma and has been in rehabilitation for the past few weeks. He’ll never be able to walk again, he said, but he’s alive. And, in a way, his life is better now—he doesn’t have to hide anymore. For the first time in years, he can actually live freely.”
The air felt exceptionally clean for the middle of the city. Stockholm was, despite everything, a great town—possibly the best on earth. She pushed the stroller back and forth, tried to imagine how it would feel when there was a child in it.
Teddy’s phone started to ring. He answered and gestured for her to put one of the headphones into her ear. She listened in on the conversation.
“Hi, Hugo. What do you want?” said Teddy.
“I, uhh, just wanted to have a quick word with you?”
“What about?”
“I’m reading about Anders Henriksson in the papers,” said Hugo.
“Yeah.”
“And the dead policewoman who killed the people involved in the network.”
“Yeah.”
“So I just wanted to make sure you didn’t have a score to settle with me or anything. Either you or your friend with the dog. That neither of you are after me, if you know what I mean. Because I helped you as best as I could, I really did.”
Teddy said: “Like hell you did.”
“Yeah, yeah, I haven’t done anything to either of you. You said yourself that you were grateful you were reported to the police, that it changed you.”