He took a step back. Then three more. A woman ran between the trees dragging a girl with bouncing plaits, the girl holding on tight to a piece of string at the end of which a helium balloon bounced. He saw it glistening in the sharp light; it could well have been a lion, but with a moustache and actually more like an ape. Don’t let go! he shouted, and the girl did as he said, she held on tight to the string as she was pulled along, and the balloon did not disappear up towards the light clouds.
Outside the gates he limped away, one hand held to the wound in his side, feeling a slight trickling between his fingers. Realised he was going in the wrong direction, turned and headed back the other way, past the main entrance. He heard sirens in the distance, saw a crowd of people gathering; he continued along the fence, moving from shadow to shadow as though that could make him invisible.
He didn’t see her until he was back at the car. Leaning back in the passenger seat, not moving. He wrenched open the door, pulled her arm.
She stared at him. – Where have you been?
– I thought, he shouted, struggling to control his voice. – Thought they’d got you too.
He climbed into the driver’s seat, started the car, threw it into reverse, braked millimetres from an old woman wheeling a shopping bag, waited for her, reversed again, stalled the engine, started it again.
– Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with you, Sigurd?
He straightened the car up and sped towards the junction.
– We’re going left, Sigurd. Pull yourself together.
He drove up on to the kerbstones, tried to make a U-turn, heard the screeching of brakes and a chorus of horns, gave up the attempt and carried on in the same direction.
– Mujo, he finally managed to say.
– What about Mujo?
He heard the panic in her voice; maybe it was his own.
– Dead. The boy, too.
– No!
Her scream started a wave of tremors through his body, as though only now did what he had seen become real.
He tried to make a slashing motion across his throat. The car glided over the central line, a trailer coming right at him. He managed to straighten up just in time, accelerated hard.
– Which way? he shouted. – Tell me which way to drive to get the hell out of this fucking town.
– Carry on.
– Carry on where?
– I don’t know. Shit, you’re lying, right?
He drove straight ahead, over every junction he came to, looking in the rear-view mirror, certain someone must be following them.
– Calm down, said Katja again. She took hold of his T-shirt, realised it was soaked in blood, and screamed. Her screaming turned to sobbing, and then whimpering.
Not until he came to the last roundabout and swung out on to the E6 towards Oslo did she fall silent.
It was two thirty before he thought of checking the time. They had passed Helsingborg. He concentrated on the road ahead, on pulling out in plenty of time before overtaking, on making sure he kept his speed below a hundred and forty. He checked the road behind them, to see if any of the cars he saw stayed with them, got closer, followed them.
The stink from his trousers filled the car. Katja hadn’t said a word since leaving Malmö, sat hunched up next to him, the only sound her low whimpering now and then, but she must have noticed the smell too.
He turned off after Halmstead and pulled in at a petrol station.
– Go and buy something I can clean myself with.
She straightened up, looked across at him.
– Have you … messed yourself?
He shook his head.
– That guy, he said. The other bloke. He had a knife. I was holding him. He just emptied himself. He gestured in the direction of his trousers. – Get the bag out first, my clothes.
She went to the boot and got him what he asked for. Came back from the forecourt shop with a pack of wet wipes. He cleaned up the seat before taking his clothes and locking himself into the toilet.
When he returned, she was sitting there with her phone in her hand.
– What’s happening? he asked, his voice still not back to normal.
She was looking straight ahead, over towards the far side of the motorway, into the landscape of fields, a derelict barn with a hoarding on the side advertising hamburger and chips.
– I’m talking to you.
He grabbed her by the neck and forced her to turn her head until her eyes met his. Empty. It was as though she was still staring into the horizon.
– Who the hell are you calling?
He struggled to control his breathing. It seemed to run on ahead by itself.
– Sting, she said at last.
– The guy who drove my car?
– He saw you. You came running out.
Sigurd realised what she was thinking.
– Sting’s asking if you have anything to do with it.
The boy with the burst-open face. Mujo’s eyes. The blood pumping in thin jets into the toilet bowl. He blinked hard to drive the images away.
She turned towards him. – Was it you?
He stared down into her eyes, still couldn’t engage her attention.
– First you were in the house and you beat Ibro up. And now when Mujo was killed …
He couldn’t say a word.
– Did you do it?
The question sank into him, reached a base.
– I, he began. Had to search for words, put them together. It took time.
He was balanced on an edge; a breath of wind would be enough to knock him over. He had an unendurable urge to hit her. If he did, it would take possession of him, nothing would be able to stop him, not until she lay bleeding on the asphalt.
– What you are asking me …
He felt something let go inside him, that itch in his chest. His breathing slowed. He felt he had come to some end point, had let everything go and now was lighter than air. It stops here. Or turns. The same room he’d entered when the knife came towards him. Could enter it now. From now on he could enter it whenever he wanted.
– I don’t ever want to hear anything like that from you again. Ever.
She looked up. For a few moments she seemed confused. Then she leaned up against him and held on to him. – You’re the only one I have, she murmured. – No one else but you.
She had offered to drive; he wouldn’t let her. She didn’t have a licence. And right now the best thing for him to do was sit behind a steering wheel at a hundred and thirty-nine and let his eyes follow the long lines of the road ahead, the light above the sea on their left, the forests on their right. He felt a throbbing in his side, a wound that ran from his hip to the bottom rib. She’d found a bandage in the first aid kit and bound him with it; it was saturated immediately, but the blood no longer ran. He’d explained what had happened three or four times. She was the one who wanted to hear it again. But no questions about why he’d gone looking for her. That was something he’d asked himself. And maybe she had asked it anyway, wordlessly, after she fell silent and leant in against him, her head pressed against his chest, one hand carefully touching the cut in his side, as though wanting to cure it by the application of a power of some kind that she had no access to.
Near Uddevalla they stopped to fill up with petrol. She used the toilet. From where he stood, he could follow every movement at the other pumps. A goods wagon glided in and a guy about his own age jumped out. He was in poor shape, round shoulders slumped in a tracksuit that was much too tight. He disappeared into the forecourt shop without looking round, and for a moment relief was mingled with something else, a tingling that reached all the way out to his fists. He might even have called it disappointment.
Katja returned, put her arms around him, repeated some of the things she had said earlier: now there’s just the two of us. Back on the road again he asked: – What was Mujo supposed to be sorting out for you?
She opened the side window slightly, the wind catching in he
r hair.
He asked the question again. She adjusted the seat back. – He was going to find out who knew about Ibro not having got rid of the gun like he was supposed to. The proof.
– And?
– He was going to tell them I didn’t know anything about it.
– And?
– He made a deal. I’ve got two things to do. Then I’m out of it.
– Find the gun and hand it over to the person who did the killing?
– Yes. Or make sure it’s destroyed.
– And the other thing?
She didn’t answer.
– What was the second thing?
– Something I’ve got to deliver. Sting had it in his car, that’s why we weren’t in the café. We went out the back way, see? That’s what saved me.
He didn’t let her distract him.
– Exactly what are you supposed to deliver?
She nodded over her shoulder, towards the boot.
A dark suspicion clouded his mind and he pulled over on to the hard shoulder. He jumped out, walked round to the back of the car, lifted the boot. It felt as though the wound in his side opened up again.
Her little red suitcase was there, and his own sports bag. And two other bags, black nylon, each with a small padlock. He slammed the boot shut, pulled open the passenger door. – No fucking way!
She got out, stood directly in front of him. Stood like that for a long time, as though looking for something in his eyes.
– All right, she said. – Leave me here.
– What are you talking about?
– You have a choice. I don’t.
– And how are you going to get home?
She shrugged. – If you decide to drive on, you don’t need to worry about me. It’ll be my problem.
He felt the urge to hit her, that thin nose, the half-smiling mouth. She lifted her face to him, as though aware of what was going through his head. He had never hit a girl before, never even been close to it. What’s happening to you? he thought.
It was as though the question cleared his mind. He breathed in deeply, released it again as slowly as he could. – Katja, please.
Her gaze didn’t move.
– You know I can’t drive off and leave you here. Wake up, for fuck’s sake.
He saw something happen in her face; she pressed up against him.
– Wake up, he repeated, but now in the tone he might have used to a child, one that was lost and needed help to find the way back.
He stroked her hair, could feel patches of wetness on the front of his T-shirt.
She had regained her composure by the time they drove on. Began to explain and rationalise, offer alternatives, surprisingly detached, it seemed to him.
– So you don’t know what is in these bags we’re driving round with?
She shook her head. – I don’t ask. I’ve to find the gun Ibro hid. Deliver some bags. After that they’ll leave me alone.
– They cut Ibro and Mujo’s throats, and they’re going to let you go?
– They’ll get their stuff. That’s all I can do.
Sigurd bit his lip. – And if they ask you to do other jobs for them?
– We have to see this through, she said calmly. – Or not. And in that case, we know what’ll happen to me.
Over the last week he’d done several things he had to get sorted out. He might even be charged and sentenced. But what she was asking of him now was something completely different.
He laid it out for her. The alternative. Go to the police. Hand over the bags, explain what had happened. They wouldn’t have anything on her. More on him, actually.
She seemed to be listening, didn’t interrupt at least.
Not until he pulled out his phone did she say: – The only thing you haven’t thought about, Sigurd, is that I’ll disappear.
– Not if you co-operate with the police. You’ll get protection.
She gave a loud, forced laugh.
– The police protect me? How? A patrol following me wherever I go for the rest of my life?
– A personal alarm.
Her laugh was even cruder this time, and he could hear himself how unreasonable the suggestion was.
– You’ve seen how these people deal with things, haven’t you? She leaned into him again. – If these bags are found, then I’ll take full responsibility. Until the day I die, I’ll swear you knew nothing about them.
As though anyone would believe her. That he hadn’t a clue what was in his own car.
– On top of that, they have an insurance, she added.
– Insurance?
– The border crossing here is often closed; they don’t have the capacity, just do a few random checks.
He pulled into the outside lane, accelerated, over a hundred and forty now.
– And that is an insurance?
– Someone keeps a lookout, up in the forest with binoculars. If the crossing is manned, they send a message. Then we get a call. There’s no way we get stopped.
Sigurd increased his speed, a hundred and fifty, fixed his gaze on the far end of the rise.
He guessed before they reached the bridge at Svinesund. He guessed before they passed the sign that marked the precise point at which they entered Norway, guessed before he saw the flashing arrows up on the rising slope. Long before he heard Katja’s cry.
– They’ve tricked us, she yelled.
She grabbed his arm, still shouting, something about how he should turn around, drive back over the bridge, back into Sweden. When she got no response, she bent forward, put her head between her knees.
Sigurd dropped his speed, followed the arrows, pulled over on the right. Only some cars were being stopped, he tried to encourage himself. Most were being waved on. He rolled up to the barrier, wound down the window and looked up at the uniformed policewoman. She bent down and studied his face, and he saw in her eyes that they were not going to be waved on; they would be pulled over.
Another customs officer was standing next to what looked like a garage door, a man, younger than the woman, shaven head, looked like he pumped iron on a daily basis, as though that might have any bearing on what was about to happen. Sigurd pressed the window button, the window closed; he’d forgotten it was already open, wound it down again.
– Where did you start your journey?
It was the woman who asked. He tried to answer, but there was something blocking his throat. He struggled to move the lump lower down.
– Malmö.
– And what were you doing there?
– Visiting family.
For an instant he almost burst out laughing. Family and friends, he almost shouted, we’ve been visiting Uncle Mujo, the one lying there with his throat cut in Aladdin’s Grill, right next to the People’s Park. Uncle Mujo’s given us a couple of bags to take for him, but we’re not to open them, he was very definite about that.
– Been there long?
While the woman continued to ask questions, the muscular guy walked around the car. Sigurd glanced at Katja. She sat staring straight ahead, her skin grey, empty eyed.
– Please step outside and open up for us.
He opened the door a little too quickly; it hit the uniformed woman on the thigh and she jumped back and said something or other. He tried to apologise. A warm wind blew down from the copse in front of him, a summer evening breeze beneath a white-blue sky, and he picked up the smell of pine needles, drew it down with the vague thought that this was the kind of thing he would miss. Suddenly he thought of Trym. Trym up in the barn loft. He’s blocking the door with his body, no one is going to be leaving there with a hammer in his hand, no one will run down to the lawn and smash up the blue Renault Mégane, or into the house where his mother has a visitor and smash something else in there.
Sigurd pressed the boot opener, took the five steps back to the rear of the car and raised the door. The muscular guy shone an enormous torch into the recess, as though that was really necessary.
– I t
hink we’ll take a look inside your bags, the woman said behind him, and Sigurd nodded, because that was the smart thing to do. He would have done the same thing himself, he thought, almost said so out loud, and maybe he did, because both customs officers looked at him.
Recently he’d been making plans for Trym. Had decided how he would help him. After he’d established a chain of fashion stores in Oslo, he would offer his brother a permanent job in one of them. Wouldn’t matter if Trym dropped out, stayed at home in front of his computer instead of going to work; he’d keep the job anyway, and his regular wage, which he could gamble away or do whatever he liked with. He, Sigurd, the kid brother, would be there for him whenever he needed it. He hadn’t kept their agreement yesterday, had gone off because Katja called. Trym had been left sitting there waiting, and it was the thought of Trym that was painful as he lifted out his bag, put it on the ground, opened the zip. From now on, Trym would have to manage on his own.
The woman pulled on plastic gloves and started to search the bag. The man did the same with Katja’s bag, and even now Sigurd noticed how much he disliked seeing those hairy fists disappearing beneath the tops and the used G-strings, rummaging around in there.
– And now those bags, said the woman when she’d finished.
– They’re locked, Sigurd told her.
– We can see that.
Sigurd went round to the passenger door, opened it. Katja was still sitting staring straight ahead. She should have done what he was doing, spoken to the customs officers. She was the one responsible for what was in the boot, the one who was supposed to keep him out of it.
She didn’t respond when he took hold of her shoulder, and he gave up.
– We don’t seem to have the keys, he explained to the female customs officer, and there might have been some movement in the woman’s face when he said this. Only now did he notice that she was good looking, not too many years older than him; he’d always liked the look of women in uniform. Perhaps he was looking for some sign that she liked him too, and was going to say something like It’s a pity you’ve lost the keys, these things happen, you better just drive on, enjoy the rest of your journey.
Certain Signs that You are Dead Page 24