Stallo

by Stefan Spjut

  ‘According to plan?’

  ‘Yes, if the child doesn’t cry or scream or make a fuss, because that makes them sad and things will get even worse.’

  Börje nodded.

  ‘I’m sure that won’t be a problem.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘As long as we’re kind they keep calm. Children are polite creatures. Their politeness paralyses them.’

  Seved was unsure if he should ask because they had never discussed these things before, but after what had happened it seemed as if a wall between them had come down, and without thinking he blurted out:

  ‘But have you ever done it? Taken a child, I mean?’

  Börje said nothing. After putting down the tube, screwing the top back on and licking his thumb he said:

  ‘How do you think she got here?’ he said, nodding towards the ceiling. ‘Do you think the stork brought her?’

  ‘But isn’t she adopted? I mean, really adopted? That’s what Ejvor said. That you had adopted her.’

  ‘We did, in a way. But there’s no paperwork.’

  ‘So you just took her?’

  ‘I don’t want you to say anything to her about this. It’s getting close now.’

  Seved nodded.

  ‘It was Erasmus who told me to do it,’ said Börje. ‘Erasmus Partapuoli, that arsehole who was here yesterday. It was a crisis. Just like it is now. Erasmus had snatched a child in Finland, but we needed more. And they had to be girls – well, you know why. And dark-haired, because he’d worked out there was less of an outcry if you took a kid with black hair, and that’s true. There’s less coverage in the newspapers because it’s not nearly as dramatic as when a Swedish kid disappears. People don’t identify with it in the same way. They don’t care because they don’t feel it could have been their child. It’s only some immigrant kid. And anyway it’s much easier to hide children who aren’t Swedish. No one recognises them. They all look alike.

  ‘It was the summer of ’97, and I travelled way down south because there weren’t that many foreign kids up here, at least not then, and it’s always better it happens far away, whatever the circumstances. I was in Småland, and by pure chance I passed a farm where a group of sodding immigrants was standing, gawping at me. They looked pretty strange, I can tell you, out there in the middle of the forest, and as I drove up they got frightened and some of them even ran off to hide, and I wondered what the hell was going on. And they had kids, masses of them, swarming around like chickens. I assumed they were refugees, hiding on this farm, and I thought I’d go back at night because surely they couldn’t keep tabs on all those kids. But then as I drove away I caught sight of her. She had taken herself off maybe three hundred metres from the farm, and was playing with something in the grass. I told her that her parents were looking for her. She couldn’t speak a word of Swedish, but I indicated she should get in the car. And then I told her I’d drive her back to the farm.’

  He sniffed.

  ‘But that didn’t happen.’

  After a pause he laughed and went on:

  ‘Remember that ferret that was always in here before? Bloody hell, he was a laugh. It’s like he had a sense of humour.’

  After saying this he sat quietly for a second or two, looking at the table.

  ‘I wonder what happened to it …’

  ‘You mean the brown one? With the long mark on its throat?’

  Börje nodded.

  ‘I haven’t seen it for several years,’ said Seved.

  ‘Well, whatever. I had it with me,’ said Börje, nodding. ‘And she liked it so much, she sat stroking it all the way up here. And everything went so smoothly that I drove back down again. She was mentioned in the papers, but not much, you know. That’s the way it is. Most people think it’s a family matter, that some relatives have come from their homeland and taken the kid for some unknown reason. So people don’t care and neither do the police because there’s not much they can do if the kid’s been taken out of the country. People looked for her. There were search parties, but after a couple of days they gave up. Well, the papers did, anyway.

  ‘So I drove around down there and came across another girl. She was dragging a black rubbish sack, collecting empty cans, and I thought she was a gypsy with her long black hair. Bloody perfect. So it was the same thing with her. All I had to do was let the ferret run out and get her. It was in Sävsjö, that’s what the place was called. I drove with her all the way up to Kattuvuoma. To Erasmus. Skabram was living up there at that time. But he said he didn’t want her and suggested I strangle the girl and throw her body somewhere on the roadside. Well, not just strangle her. It had to look as if there was a paedophile on the loose.’

  Börje took a huge crunch.

  ‘So I took her with me to Grete, and she’s settled down really well there. I bet she’s better off there than with her filthy gypsy parents down in Sävsjö.’

  He thought for a while before he went on:

  ‘Some people shouldn’t have children, Seved. They can’t cope. A refugee family with ten kids. I mean, shit, if they have so many kids they can’t even look after them, then something’s wrong. And the whole pack was allowed to stay, I heard, for humanitarian reasons, after they had lost the girl. So everyone ought to be happy all round.’

  He licked a blob of cod roe from his knuckle.

  ‘I did Signe a favour. That’s how I see it.’

  ‘Erasmus was wearing Ejvor’s jacket.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that.’

  ‘And is that supposed to be okay?’

  Börje shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘It’s his jacket, in a way.’

  ‘What do you mean, “his”?’

  ‘It’s his money we’re living off.’

  ‘But isn’t Lennart …’

  ‘Most of it comes from Erasmus. And from the Finns. And Grete, of course.’

  Börje had stood up. He opened the fridge and put in the tube of spread and the packet of crispbread as well.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Erasmus, not really,’ he said. ‘He’s a bit of an unsavoury character but he’s only doing what’s necessary. Just like Lennart. That’s all there is to it. Erasmus loves his wolves and he’ll do anything for them. Anything. And for us too. You’d better remember that.’

  ‘I think he could have left the jacket alone.’

  ‘Oh, get over it,’ Börje said, sitting down. ‘It’s only a jacket. Tell me what else Lennart said. About that child. Is it a girl?’

  ‘No, a boy. He lives in Vaiki …Vaikijaur. It’s some village outside Jokkmokk. On the road to Torsten Holmbom. He’s the one who told us he was there.’

  Börje nodded.

  ‘I know where that is.’

  ‘So I’ve got to drive there and talk to Torsten.’

  ‘I can come with you, if you like.’

  Seved nodded.

  ‘Yes, okay. Seeing as I don’t know where it is.’

  ‘That’s settled then.’

  ‘But what about Signe? Are we just going to leave her here?’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right. As long as she stays indoors there’s no danger.’

  Susso’s sleep was more like a hibernation, with intermittent explosions of insistent and vivid dreams filled with cries and unintelligible words. The room was cold but she was wearing her outdoor clothes, and that was probably what woke her eventually.

  Not moving, she lay staring at the thin strip of light under the door, trying to recall where she was. When she moved her sleeve she heard the rasping sound of the jacket’s stiff fabric, and then she remembered.

  With an effort she sat up in bed and took out her mobile, pressing a key with her head bowed. Her hat was perched on top of her head like a cone. There was a crackle of static electricity as she pulled it off.

  It was pitch black outside the window. 16:14, the display said. What time had she fallen asleep? Eleven, maybe twelve. It did not feel as if she had slept deeply, but even so she must have done because whe
n she woke up her glasses were still in her hand. Normally she only slept in that immobilised state when she was drunk.

  There had been a slamming of car doors, lowered voices, whispers. A small figure had stood motionless in the doorway, watching her for a long, long time, and afterwards a larger shape had blocked out the light and closed the door. A mobile had rung, an Ericsson. That little six-tone melody, over and over again.

  She sat still on the bed for a while, listening, unable to move. From outside nothing could be heard except the rumble of the fridge. It was almost uncomfortably quiet.

  After smoothing out the creases in the bedspread and placing the cushion symmetrically on the bed, she walked into the kitchen, where Edit was sitting reading with her head in her hands. She was wearing a bulky yellow knitted cardigan. The squeak of the door made her look up.

  ‘Well, look who’s here,’ she said.

  A long yawn escaped Susso’s smiling mouth. She sank down on a chair and looked distractedly at the newspaper, which was spread out across the table.

  After a while she wrinkled her brow and said:

  ‘Were there people here?’

  Edit looked up at her, surprised, and then lowered her eyes. She licked her thumb, flicked through the paper to the TV listings page and flattened it out with her hand.

  ‘Per-Erik and Mattias looked in.’

  Susso nodded, staring at the floor.

  ‘So he’s allowed to come and visit again then. Mattias.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said he wasn’t allowed to come and see you after what happened. But now he can?’

  Edit nodded.

  Susso scratched her face and realised the cross-stitch on the cushion had left an imprint on her skin. She pointed at the door.

  ‘Was he standing there looking at me?’

  An embarrassed smile appeared on Edit’s lips.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was curious, naturally, when he heard there was a girl asleep in there. In Granddad’s old room. Something like that doesn’t happen every day, so he immediately wanted to have a look.’

  ‘Just wondering,’ Susso said, shaking her head. ‘Because I had such weird dreams. You can’t sleep properly when you’re that tired. It’s something different.’

  She fidgeted on the chair, thrust her hands between her thighs and yawned widely, exposing her teeth.

  ‘Something not like sleep at all,’ she said. ‘Now my head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool.’

  After staring at the floor for a moment she said:

  ‘But aren’t you happy he can come and visit you again?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Edit replied.

  She sighed.

  ‘It’s just that I didn’t know what to say about what we had seen. He must be wondering too. There’s only the two of us involved – and you too, of course,’ she added, nodding at Susso.

  ‘Well, how did he seem?’

  ‘He sat here with his glass of juice in front of him and didn’t say a word. I asked him what he had been up to lately, and he told me about something he had seen on television. I couldn’t say anything because of Per-Erik, so I’ll have to wait until next time I see him.’

  *

  Edit had placed the camera and the straps in a plastic bag printed with ICA Rajden, and she held it out to Susso as they stood on the veranda steps.

  The sky had cleared and there were stars. Far away on the other side of the water, along the road leading to Jokkmokk, there was a solitary light. A house. Or a lamp post at a slip road. Occasionally it flashed and then disappeared for a moment: no doubt there were trees in the way, swaying in the wind.

  Susso opened the bag and looked inside. She didn’t know what to say. They had hardly spoken about Edit’s experience.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Susso said. ‘As soon as I’ve checked the photos.’

  Edit nodded.

  ‘And if you see him again, give me a ring.’

  There was a news programme on the television. Some social services bosses from a council further south were being chased with a blowtorch, but Seved had no idea why. Something about not doing their job properly. He was slumped in the armchair with his chin on his chest. He was cold but could not be bothered to shuffle over to the sofa and get a blanket. Börje had already gone to bed, and Signe was on the upstairs landing. From time to time she tuned to the same programme he was watching, but most of the time she sat there channel hopping.

  That weary look in her eyes – he did not want to see it. That was the reason he thought he would put off going upstairs until she had gone to bed. It had to be soon. Or had she slept during the day? She often did. Then she sat in front of the TV all night, huddled under blankets.

  Signe.

  He knew that was not her real name, and he thought she knew that too, but they never talked about it. They never talked much about anything. They did not even look at each other in the kitchen, and he thought he hated her.

  What was it he felt if not hate?

  He had no real reason to hate her, but she made him feel uncomfortable, and perhaps that was enough. To get him through the days.

  No one had told him she would be coming or who she was. She had suddenly been sitting there one day at the kitchen table, glaring at him, her black fingernails clasping a sandwich that Ejvor had made for her. A foreigner! He didn’t understand a thing and afterwards he had asked Ejvor who she was. She would be living with them for a short time. That was all she said, and he had gathered from her voice that she wanted no more questions.

  Unless it was unavoidable, they never even mentioned her name.

  Has she eaten? Is she up yet? Has she cleaned out Hybblet?

  For a while.

  That was over six years ago.

  But she wasn’t a child now.

  When Susso entered the kitchen Gudrun was standing with her back to her, slicing a cucumber. She had rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and her bracelet was jangling as she sliced. Small chunky silver charms dangled from it.

  ‘Where’s your camera?’ Susso asked, putting the plastic bag on the table.

  Gudrun pointed with the wet blade of the knife towards the brown-stained cupboard visible through the open bedroom door, and after Susso had gone in she yelled:

  ‘On the top!’

  Susso stood on tiptoe and saw the black nylon shoulder strap with its white lettering. Holding the camera with both hands she walked back into the kitchen and dug the memory card out of her pocket. Strands of hair had come loose from her ponytail and were hanging down in two curls. They met at her nose as she bent her head over the camera.

  ‘What have you got there?’ asked Gudrun.

  She had put down the knife and was taking bites from a slice of cucumber. She was so curious she was almost smiling.

  ‘Wait until you see this,’ said Susso, pressing the button to illuminate the display. An alert popped up on the screen saying there were no pictures on the memory card.

  ‘Oh shit,’ she said, rubbing her face.

  She told Gudrun about the tracks outside Edit Mickelsson’s window, and what had happened to the wildlife camera when that arse Per-Erik had removed it from the wall of the house. Gudrun did not appear worried about the fact that he had sabotaged it. All her attention was focused on the camera.

  ‘Then we’ll have to ask Cecilia. She’s clever at this sort of thing.’

  *

  Susso and Gudrun sat close together, looking at the screen as Cecilia clicked her way to the folders. The computer took its time. Cecilia said it was lost in thought, and when computers were lost in thought it was time to take them out and shoot them.

  ‘You see,’ said Gudrun. ‘What did I tell you?’

  ‘It wasn’t because the card was damaged that you couldn’t see the pictures. It was because you moved the card from one camera to another,’ explained Cecilia. ‘Cameras don’t always talk to each other.’

  She double-clicked on one of the files, tapping her index finger im
patiently on the mouse as the reader got going. Slender birches in a grey mist appeared.

  ‘It’s the warmth,’ said Susso. ‘As the sun rises. Either that or the branches are blowing in the wind.’

  The next photo was practically identical, and the next, and even the one after that. After a while Cecilia grew tired of the birches.

  ‘How many photos are there?’ asked Susso.

  ‘Just over a hundred.’

  ‘Go on to the last ones then,’ said Susso.

  *

  The final photo documented the brutal removal of the camera and was just a blur. They backed up a dozen images and found more birches, pale skeletons standing out against a background black as night.

  Then Gudrun jabbed her index finger hard against the screen.

  ‘There!’ she said. ‘See?’

  Deep in the murky shade hung a small but penetrating dot of light. Susso bent forwards to get a better view, while Gudrun wrenched the mouse out of Cecilia’s fingers and clicked on the next picture.

  Now there were two dots, suspended beside each other in the darkness.

  ‘There’s something there,’ Susso said.

  Gudrun’s hand trembled as she moved the arrow to the next file, so Cecilia took over the mouse again. Susso had pulled her sleeves down over her hands and was sitting leaning towards the screen, looking closely.

  On the next photo both dots were enclosed in an oval of faint light that could only be a face. No one said a word. They just stared at the screen while Cecilia clicked with the mouse.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ said Gudrun, twisting her bracelet round and round her wrist.

  Yes, someone was coming. Its eyes were shining white from beneath the hood of its jacket. It was an old man, a very small old man: the snow came up to his chest. His arms were open wide and he was wearing gloves.

  The camera had taken a picture every ten seconds and the tiny figure was visible on a total of eleven, if you included the first ones showing only his eyes: seven as he walked towards the camera and two as he walked, or rather ran, off.

  He could be seen most clearly in the seventh photograph. He was standing to the side of the shot, and his face glowed white in the cascade of infrared light.