Stallo

by Stefan Spjut

  Then it struck him that this was Lennart’s car. The key might be inside. He leaned across, opened the glove compartment and pulled out ice scrapers, papers and the instruction manual. He stretched out across the seats, put his hand into the passenger-door compartment and found a key ring. Ten keys threaded onto a length of twisted steel wire. Of course. Lennart would never get out himself and unlock the barrier. That is what he had Jola for.

  He was lucky. There was only one key that matched the manufacturer’s name engraved on the padlock.

  He had to kneel for a long time on the icy crust of the road, blowing on the frozen steel, before he dared to grab hold of the key and turn it all the way.

  As he pulled the key from the lock he noticed it had buckled. That was bad. He pulled on his gloves and moved the creaking barrier aside. He decided to leave the barrier open because he did not want to risk not being able to get out – that would be really worrying. Was it possible to turn the Merc on this road now that the ploughed ridges of snow had made it narrower? It was doubtful. He visualised himself reversing from the house with that disgusting little man sitting on the rear seat. He did not even want to think what that would be like.

  He drove a few metres before flooring the brake pedal – it was as if his foot had thought for him. He flung open the door and leapt out, swung the barrier back across the road and replaced the padlock without locking it.

  The sound of hoarse, agitated barking broke through the noise of the engine, and soon he could make out the light from the porch lamp, disappearing and reappearing between the fir trees. As he swung into the yard he glanced up at the ridge of the barn roof, but of course the little old man was not up there.

  *

  They were sitting at the kitchen table, the three of them: Torsten, Patrik and Bodil. But there was no sign of the wife, Elna. Torsten had pushed the metal frames of his glasses down the bridge of his nose. He was the only one to look at Seved.

  ‘Did you lock the barrier?’ he asked. Seved nodded. He would soon be leaving. They would never know.

  ‘Do you want coffee? Bodil, put the coffee on.’

  He did not seem at all angry, so it was likely he knew nothing about the car. Maybe he had not seen the paper? Seved stood motionless for a while, not knowing whether to hang up his jacket or not: he wanted to get away as quickly as possible.

  Bodil had moved silently towards the corner of the kitchen, where the coffee machine was plugged into an extension lead. Her dark-blonde plaits were fastened to her head in two loops which moved when she reached up to get the tin of coffee from the cupboard.

  The floor tiles creaked behind Seved, who turned and moved aside to make room for Elna to get past.

  ‘There’s some in the thermos,’ she said.

  ‘We want fresh coffee,’ Torsten said, sitting up straight and casting an enquiring glance at Elna, who sat down at the back of the kitchen on a sofa with tartan cushions.

  He pulled out a chair and sat opposite Patrik, who was resting his elbows on the table and looking out of the window, where it was slowly getting light. He was wearing a black cap with something written on it in small lettering. On the windowsill was a green ceramic plant pot. Its uneven rim made it look handmade. There was nothing in it.

  ‘Perhaps you’re hungry. Are you hungry?’ Torsten asked. Seved shook his head.

  ‘No, I’m all right.’

  ‘What about the little fellers?’ Torsten asked. He reached out and chose a thin slice of crispbread from the basket on the table. ‘You’ve got them with you?’

  He spread a thick layer of butter on the slice and took a bite. Crumbs rained down on the tabletop, and he brushed them aside.

  Seved nodded.

  ‘Well, five or six, at least. Lennart was going to bring the rest.’

  ‘Where are they then? Did you leave them in the hall?’

  ‘They’re on the back seat of the car.’

  The old man stared at Seved, his eyes round and blue.

  ‘Have you left them in the car? It’s thirty below out there! They’ll freeze.’

  ‘Well, shall I bring them in here? Is that okay?’

  ‘No!’ shouted Elna from the sofa. ‘You’ll have to put them in the garage. It’s been so quiet and peaceful in here. And the floors are clean for once.’

  Torsten’s shoulders dropped. He stroked the table with his little finger, moving the crumbs, gathering them in a pile.

  ‘Bring the box in,’ he said.

  Seved stood in the hall. The cold air was wrapped like a membrane around the box and it was worryingly quiet inside. He tried shaking the box a little as he moved his ear towards it. A very faint, high-pitched sound came from inside.

  ‘Shall I leave it here then?’ he called.

  ‘You can bring it in,’ Torsten answered, putting down his coffee cup with a clink. ‘I want to see which ones you’ve brought with you.’

  Seved walked into the kitchen and after Torsten had pushed the bread basket and the linen tablecloth aside, he placed the box on the table.

  ‘There, there,’ said the old man. His voice had an odd tremble as he opened the small metal tabs that kept the lid in place. ‘Here we are. Calm down. You’re home now. Back home again.’ He opened the lid and looked down into the box.

  They hissed and chirped like hungry baby birds in a nest.

  ‘It’s only the shrews,’ he said. His fist rummaged about in the straw. ‘And two wood mice,’ he added.

  ‘It’s so hard getting hold of them all,’ said Seved, pushing his hands into his jeans pockets. ‘They didn’t all want to be together.’

  ‘You have to have more boxes,’ said Patrik. ‘It works better that way.’

  ‘And this one is dead,’ said Torsten, holding up a tiny shrew by its tail. ‘Seved, this isn’t the right way to do it!’

  ‘Watch out,’ said Patrik and Bodil simultaneously, and Bodil pointed to the tail, which was so damaged in places it was barely in one piece.

  Elna had hurriedly opened the cupboard under the sink. She took out the green metal dustpan and brush, which she conveniently held out, but Torsten shook his head.

  The shrew lay in his broad calloused hand and he prodded it with his index finger, rolling the little body over to examine it. Its eyes glittered, its mouth was wide open in surprise, and on its dark-brown, slender back there was a shiny stripe, as if the fur was damp.

  ‘We were in a hurry, that’s all,’ Seved said. ‘We might have put it in there even though it didn’t want to. It just happened.’

  ‘“Just happened”,’ said Torsten, looking at the shrew with heavy, half-closed eyes. ‘It’s dead. It could be twice as old as you, Seved, and now it’s dead. What have you got to say to that?’

  There was sorrow in his voice.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. It’s a pity.’

  ‘“A pity”,’ repeated Torsten. ‘Didn’t I say that if you borrowed the creatures, you had to take care not to throw them in together on long journeys? I was very clear on that point.’

  ‘I know,’ said Seved. ‘We didn’t think. Sorry.’

  Sorry? He heard how stupid that sounded and immediately regretted saying it. To erase the feeble word that hovered over the kitchen table he said:

  ‘I’m sure Lennart can compensate you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Torsten, glowering at him. He banged his elbows hard on the table as he leaned forwards.

  ‘With money?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

  ‘I don’t want any money,’ muttered the old man, shaking his head from side to side as if to demonstrate he wanted nothing to do with the idea. ‘What he can do instead is bring us more little creatures. If he’s got any to spare. You can tell him that from me!’

  Seved nodded, knowing that was one message he would not be passing on; at the same time, he knew that Torsten was only being sarcastic.

  ‘And now you’re going to take Jirvin from us as well?’

  Torsten had closed th
e lid of the box, but his hands were still resting on it.

  ‘Only for a while,’ Seved said. ‘Until everything’s calmed down.’

  ‘Until it’s calmed down,’ muttered Torsten. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see how that turns out then, won’t we?’

  They had decided to meet Magnus Ekelund at a pizzeria called Opera in central Jokkmokk. A dump, according to Torbjörn, who had been there once and knew how to find it. They left the car in a car park across the street and walked quickly through the snowfall and into the warmth.

  Magnus sat in a far corner with his back to a plastic Christmas tree, reading an evening paper. There was a pizza in front of him and his hand was wrapped around a half-empty glass of beer. He was younger than Susso had expected: not yet twenty, she guessed. And short, no taller than she was. That was obvious even though he remained seated. Lap blood, she thought. Strands of hair hung down over his square face, and on the lapels of his grey military jacket with its outsized insignia was a cluster of badges: KISS, she read on one. RAMONES. Wrapped around the fingers of his left hand were white plasters, which she thought strange. Was that because he played guitar? He seemed to have finished with the pizza. The two pineapple rings and the slivers of ham looked colourless, as if they had been under water.

  ‘Pizza for breakfast?’ said Torbjörn, pulling out a chair.

  ‘Too right, man,’ said Magnus, grinning widely. ‘So fucking rock and roll, that’s me.’

  He had a surprisingly deep voice.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, grinning again. ‘But allow me to say I haven’t got a hangover, I’m just wiped out. Stayed up far too late. Don’t even know if I went to bed.’

  Susso walked over to the counter and the globe-like coffee jugs. There were fifty-öre coins welded to the hotplate and she wondered what the coffee would taste like. Cat piss, probably. The man by the till waved his hand: she could help herself.

  She put the cups on a tray and carried them to the table.

  ‘I didn’t know if you wanted milk,’ she said. Magnus shook his head.

  ‘Black,’ he said. ‘Black, like my heart.’ He gave a hoarse little laugh. It was as if he was incapable of being serious for any length of time, and Susso wondered whether what he had said about the Vaikijaur man and the sect was some kind of joke. What if Torbjörn had misunderstood everything?

  ‘Magnus,’ she said, ‘tell me again. Do you know anything about the Vaikijaur man, who he is or where he lives?’

  ‘Not me,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Mum. She says he lives out Kvikkjokk way. With the Laestadians.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘If you want to know exactly, you’ll have to ask my mum,’ he said. ‘She’s shopping in ICA but she’ll be here soon.’

  Jirvin had come out of the barn and was standing there in his mildew-green jacket, as small as a child. Elna slid the bar into place behind him and then hurried back across the yard. Before she went into the house she said softly to Seved:

  ‘It’s not a good idea to talk to him.’

  Talk to him? What the hell would he talk to him about? The very idea brought on a shudder that quickly spread through his body. Driving him all the way down to Jillesnåle would be absolute torture.

  The little old man approached the car slowly, stopping often. It looked as if he was considering turning back to the barn. His yellow, deep-set eyes could barely be seen below the rim of his hood, which was drawn in tight. He was wearing snowjoggers on his feet. They were a bad fit.

  The dogs were barking frantically and continuously. Seved was sure it was because of him and the little old man. But the dogs at home did not usually bark like that. Börje must have better control over them. It was hardly because their dogs were more used to the shapeshifters. He had no idea how many of them were in Hybblet, but he was sure there were more here at Torsten’s. If you counted them, that is. Except they would not let themselves be counted. He and Signe had tried once but had given up.

  He held the door open for the little man, who climbed up onto the seat without looking at him. He curled up in the furthest corner, twisted his head and looked towards the dog enclosure. I expect he is sad, thought Seved, and slammed the door shut. Who knew how long he had been here? How old was the farm? Two hundred years, certainly – agricultural buildings this far west of the cultivation boundary were usually pretty ancient. The old house did not even have exterior cladding and the barn’s guttering was made of wood.

  He knew the shapeshifters disliked being moved. They attach themselves to places, Börje said, not to people. Maybe he had been there for generations? Seen Torsten grow up, and perhaps Torsten’s father. And grandfather.

  Of course it was painful for him.

  To the extent he could feel emotional pain, that is. Ejvor had frequently told him he should not allow himself to be fooled. They have faces, but that is all. Any other human attribute you think you can see comes from your own imagination.

  Suddenly Patrik came running out onto the veranda and leaned over the railing.

  ‘It’s the police!’ he shouted.

  Instantly Torsten was there with his binoculars. ‘You didn’t lock the barrier behind you!’

  Seved felt his stomach sink into a gaping hole. His mouth quickly filled with saliva and he swallowed, uncertain what to do next. Now he really had dropped them in it. He did not dare think of the consequences. He let go of the car door handle and cast an indecisive glance at the veranda, but Torsten was no longer there. Only Patrik stood there, with his hand held against the peak of his cap. He looked scared, like a child. Defeated and pale, with no trace of his arrogant, squinting gaze.

  ‘Patrik!’ There was a roar from the interior of the house, and the next instant Patrik had run inside. Then Torsten came out. He had pulled on a large fur hat and Bodil was behind him, swathed in a dense, grey woollen coat.

  ‘Quiet!’ Torsten yelled at the dogs, who obeyed instantly. It was like flipping a switch.

  The police car rolled into the yard.

  Behind the wheel was a man in uniform, and beside him a white-haired man in an unbuttoned down jacket bisected by the black strip of the seat belt. The car came to a halt and Seved could see that both men were talking. Then they drove up slowly, stopping as close to the Merc as they could possibly get.

  ‘This is Anette,’ said Magnus with a grin. ‘My mum.’

  Susso stood up and took Anette’s hand. Her eyes shone blue behind her glasses and her blonde hair was cut to ear-lobe level and combed in a side parting. She had on a low-cut top in a flimsy dark-grey fabric. On the front a black tree spread its branches across her chest, where a silver pendant in the form of a snake was hanging. The chain ran right through the snake’s head.

  Anette had not contacted the police, but she was absolutely sure they knew. There might not have been many who had seen the dwarf with their own eyes, but after his photograph had been in the newspaper people had started to talk. And they all seemed to know where he belonged: a few miles west, in the direction of Sarek, on a farm.

  ‘Are they Laestadians?’ Susso asked. Anette nodded.

  ‘The silent kind,’ she said. ‘If you know what I mean.’

  ‘Where do they live?’ Susso asked.

  Anette unfolded the map she had brought with her. Leaning over the vast area she ran her finger along the lakes which fed the river, and carried on up in a northwesterly direction.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘It’s up here, along this road. But as I say, I’m fairly sure the police already know he lives up here.’

  ‘Årrenjarka,’ Susso read.

  ‘Årre-njarka,’ Anette said. ‘“Njarka” means promontory in the Sami language. I’m not sure I know what “Årre” means.’

  ‘It’s maybe twenty kilometres from Vaikijaur,’ said Susso, looking at Torbjörn.

  ‘Well, you might as well go there and have a look,’ said Magnus. ‘Do a bit of spying.’

  ‘I wouldn�
��t do that,’ Anette said, giving her son a reprimanding look. He rolled his eyes.

  ‘They could easily shoot at you,’ she went on. ‘I remember that from when I was a child. There was someone from school who had been chased off their land, and they had fired a rifle at him. It might only be gossip, but I wouldn’t go snooping around up there. Leave that to the police.’

  Ivan Wikström was the name of the plain-clothes police officer. He was a detective chief inspector with the local CID. His colleague’s name was Police Constable Tony Kunosson.

  Seved tried to smile but his face was not complying, as if it had set rigid from the fear that had flooded his body like an icy fluid. The only thing he managed to force out was a parody of a smile that was hard to remove afterwards. He wanted to wipe it off with his hand.

  ‘And you are?’ said Wikström.

  ‘I … I don’t live here,’ mumbled Seved. ‘I’m only visiting.’

  ‘But you have a name?’ the chief inspector said, leaning closer. Seved nodded.

  ‘Jola,’ he said.

  Jola? He had no idea why he had said that. How stupid. He noticed straight away that the lie only heightened his nervousness. What was he going to do if they asked about Jirvin? If he lied and then they caught sight of him sitting in the car, that would be it. What the hell should he do?

  His eyes flitted about, seeking support from Torsten, whose face had twisted into a hard expression, the downturned corners of his mouth framing his jutting chin. To prevent the detective chief inspector’s gaze coming anywhere near the old man in the back seat, Seved glided one step sideways to hide him from view.

  ‘Are you Holmbom?’ Wikström asked, turning to Torsten, who nodded. His eyes had narrowed to thin lines under the fluffy rim of his fur hat.

  ‘Can we be of assistance in any way?’

  The chief inspector put his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.