Stallo

by Stefan Spjut

  The lemmingshifter had found a place in the top bunk bed. It was impossible to know what was going on up there. Every so often there were minute, indeterminate sounds, and Seved had seen yellow flakes fall to the floor. They were pieces of foam rubber that the thing was tearing from the mattress. Either it was a kind of vandalism or just something to pass the time.

  The phone had rung four times – ‘TOMMYBOY’, it said on the screen – and every time the twittering signal cut through the silence the creature came out to have a look. It seemed very interested in the sound, standing there with its little wrinkled face half hidden behind the metal frame and staring expectantly.

  From beneath his floppy hair Seved peered at the little object, but he had to be careful not to catch its eyes. They were a kindly brown but he had noticed a nasty piercing gleam in them, something hard and sharp that wanted to force its way inside him.

  Evil beings, Börje had said.

  Seved realised now what he meant.

  It was nine by the time they stepped out of the car, stiff and tired. They had found their way to the Scandic Hotel at Järva Krog on the northern outskirts of Stockholm. As soon as they entered their room Gudrun collapsed on the bed, still wearing her clothes and shoes, her neck creasing into more than one double chin. She groaned, and Torbjörn, who was sitting in a small armchair with his legs splayed, grinned at her.

  Susso sat down on the bed beside her mother and began to lever off one of her boots.

  ‘What are we going to do then?’ she said.

  ‘Sleep!’

  ‘Are we going to Helsingborg? We’ll fly, surely. Won’t we?’

  ‘I’ve got to call Cecilia,’ said Gudrun, yawning again.

  *

  Susso and Torbjörn went down to the restaurant. Lamps cast a cold light over the bar and its dark wooden counter, and there was low music coming from the loudspeakers, but there were no people about.

  ‘Perhaps it’s closed,’ Susso said.

  A man appeared wearing a white shirt and a waistcoat. His sideburns grew down to his beard and the top of his head was bald. He was carrying a plastic crate full of washed glasses.

  ‘Are you open?’

  The man nodded without looking at them.

  They each bought a large glass of draught beer and sat down at a round table at the back of the restaurant. Through the window they could see the motorway and the cars rushing past in an unbroken stream.

  ‘So, are you coming with us if we go to Helsingborg?’

  Torbjörn took a mouthful of beer and set his glass down carefully.

  ‘No, I think I’ll wait here.’

  ‘You understand now that I’m not mad.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘No, but you’ve thought it.’

  He shook his head as his eyes wandered around the room, indicating that he would prefer to avoid the subject, and that in itself meant they were halfway to an argument. Susso filled her mouth with beer. After she had swallowed, she said:

  ‘But you can’t deny he’s not … human.’

  ‘He does look flipping weird, I agree with you there. But that’s not the same as saying he’s not human.’

  ‘But you saw’, Susso said, leaning forwards with her elbows on the table and gesticulating, ‘his eyes. They’re not human.’

  Torbjörn shrugged.

  ‘It was an old film. Colours go a bit strange.’

  ‘But you saw it!’

  ‘He’s deformed, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s what I thought at first. But not any more.’

  ‘You said yourself that could be the reason why people started believing in trolls in the past,’ said Torbjörn. ‘People saw some poor sod who had been driven out into the forest because of some defect and they thought it was a troll, because what else could it be?’

  Susso smiled down at the froth on top of her beer, which had thinned to a ring around the edge of the glass. She had tried to have an objective conversation about trolls and folklore with Torbjörn before, but he always kept his mouth shut because he hated it when she got irritated. This time, however, he was not backing down, so she wanted to take it slowly.

  ‘As I said,’ she went on, ‘I used to think the same way. Poor people, I thought. But when I add up everything I know and everything I’ve seen, I’m not so sure. The Vaikijaur man could actually be a real troll and connected in some way to the thing in Granddad’s photo.’

  ‘Yes, but that could have been something totally different,’ Torbjörn said.

  She looked at him for a long time, studying his face.

  ‘You’ve never actually said what you really think about the photo.’

  ‘I have.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Do you think it’s a fake?’

  Now he was on dangerous ground, and it showed because he did not move a muscle. He sat still, holding his glass. Soft footsteps could be heard as the barman made his way over to them, a tea towel thrown over his shoulder, and asked if they wanted anything else.

  They ordered two more beers. Torbjörn paid from the small bundle of notes he had in his jeans pocket. He asked the barman if he had any snus, but he said no.

  ‘It could be a troll,’ he continued. ‘Or at least some strange animal no one has discovered yet. I can go along with that. But I don’t think the Vaikijaur man is one of them.’

  ‘And so he is …?’

  ‘A freak of nature.’

  ‘But what about John Bauer then?’ Susso asked him. ‘Why did he go to his old house, of all places?’

  Torbjörn took a drink, and after replacing the glass on the table he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Like I said, maybe he felt it was some kind of sanctuary. I get that. I’m sure he believes he’s a troll himself, if that’s how people have treated him all his life. That was the place he wanted to see. For reasons we can’t understand. Maybe he thought he could find others like him in the area. What would you do if you were so like a troll you actually thought you were one? A changeling.’

  ‘Drown myself. Swallow poison and then drown myself through a hole in the ice.’

  ‘Well,’ said Torbjörn, leaning forwards, ‘perhaps that’s what he did. He might have decided to do away with himself somewhere close to Bauer’s house. Or in Lake Vättern. To follow him down into the depths, so to speak.’

  There was a gleam of amusement in Torbjörn’s eyes, but she ignored it.

  ‘Clearly that is not what he did,’ she said, a fixed expression on her face. ‘Because he was in Jokkmokk just before Christmas. I have photographic evidence of that.’

  *

  They went up to their room. The fitted carpet muffled their footsteps and Susso heard from Torbjörn’s breathing that he was trying to come up with something to say to placate her, or even cheer her up, but he was uncertain what her reaction would be. So he kept silent.

  She took out the keycard, pressed it into the slot and opened the door. Then she walked straight to the bed and ripped off her jumper, but it fastened in her hair slide, so she had to pull that out at the same time.

  Gudrun was asleep, curled in a heap under the duvet, her face to the wall lined with wardrobes. Her glasses lay on the bedside table. There was a faint shimmer from the little glittery butterfly on the frames. Beside them was her mobile. It was flashing green.

  The springs of the extra bed gave a groan as Torbjörn lay down on his back. He put his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, which pulsed with the light from passing cars. Susso stepped out of her jeans and looked at him, because she knew he was about to say something.

  ‘Shit, it’s so …’ he began.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sensitive. These things.’

  She could only sigh.

  ‘I ought to be able to say what I think,’ he said softly.

  ‘But you never do. You only hint at things. It’s the same old story. All you do is grin and make jokes.’

  She imitated his grin for
an instant before looking at him angrily. He had turned onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow.

  ‘It’s just that I don’t think this has anything to do with your troll. It’s probably some paedophile who has taken Mattias.’

  ‘Why do you have to keep on joking about it then? Saying he could have drowned himself and all that. Why can’t you be serious?’

  ‘It was … it was only a theory,’ he said, slurring his words.

  She waited for him to go on, but there was silence.

  ‘A theory?’ she asked.

  He did not answer, and she knew he had fallen asleep.

  *

  When Susso came down to the dining room the following morning Gudrun and Torbjörn were already there eating breakfast, bent over their newspapers. Torbjörn was wearing his white beanie, and when he caught sight of her his mouth widened into a thin smile which was gone in an instant.

  The room was full of chatter from the people at the tables, and the sun was shining through the large windows. She filled a mug with coffee and sat for a while looking at Torbjörn and Gudrun’s plates before going over to the breakfast buffet. After queuing behind a fat man with a greasy plastic comb sticking out of the back pocket of his baggy jeans she piled scrambled egg onto her plate. It had grey layers and left behind a pool of water. She helped herself to shiny chipolatas and crumpled bacon slices, white bread with ready-sliced cheese and rings of red and yellow pepper. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and started drinking as she walked to the table. She had a slight hangover, strangely enough, that manifested itself only in a raging thirst.

  Torbjörn was sitting with his spoon in his hand, staring at the newspaper. He was eating a bowl of yoghurt with muesli and raisins. She couldn’t work him out: eating so healthily when there was so much tasty food. He lowered his head as he spooned in the cereal, and there was a crunching sound as he ate.

  ‘Shall we fly there, or what?’ she said, cutting into her sausage.

  Gudrun cleared her throat.

  ‘You haven’t heard anything from the police?’

  Susso took a bite of her sandwich.

  ‘Me?’ she said. ‘They’ll phone your mobile in that case, because that’s what I told them to do.’

  ‘No,’ Gudrun said. ‘We won’t be flying.’

  ‘We won’t?’

  A piece of pepper dangled from Susso’s mouth and she pushed it between her lips before going on:

  ‘Why did we come to Stockholm then? It’s in completely the wrong direction.’

  ‘You never know,’ Gudrun said, licking her fingertips before turning the page of her paper. ‘Might give us time to collect our thoughts.’

  ‘We could just as easily have done that in Gränna,’ Susso retorted, looking at her mother in bewilderment. ‘It’s significantly closer to Helsingborg from there. Now we’ve driven two hundred kilometres in the wrong direction!’

  She suspected that Gudrun had slowly begun to plan their return journey. That made her angry. As if she was in charge of everything! It might be her car and her money, but this was so important that she had no right to make all the decisions about what they were going to do. Soon she would be saying something about the shop, that Cecilia had phoned to complain. Or that Roland was having trouble with the dog, or that he had to go somewhere and did not want to leave the dog alone.

  ‘So we’re driving to Helsingborg from here?’ Susso asked.

  She wanted confirmation. Possibly she could get her mother where she wanted her by waiting and leading her gently along, and pretending that she did not know she thought it was time to go home, but by now she had lost patience.

  Gudrun sat cradling her coffee cup. It was white and some coffee had dribbled down the side, like a brown tear.

  ‘Are we?’

  Gudrun looked up and gave Susso an irritated look before returning to her newspaper.

  ‘No,’ she said, distractedly. ‘We aren’t.’

  ‘Well, what are we going to do then? Are we going home?’

  ‘No, I don’t think we will.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I thought we might drive into town.’

  ‘To do what? A bit of shopping?’

  ‘We’re going to visit someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone called Barbro. Barbro Jerring.’

  ‘Really? And who’s that?’

  ‘Barbro Jerring,’ Gudrun said in a low voice, ‘the widow of Sven Jerring.’

  That made Torbjörn look up.

  ‘And he is?’ said Susso, taking a mouthful of coffee.

  ‘Honestly, Susso,’ Gudrun said. ‘Don’t you know who Sven Jerring is?’

  Susso shook her head.

  Then Gudrun turned to Torbjörn.

  ‘Torbjörn, surely you know who Sven Jerring was?’

  ‘He got some kind of prize,’ he began doubtfully. ‘Didn’t he?’

  Gudrun was amazed and she gaped at them.

  ‘He’s only one of the most famous people in Sweden!’

  ‘Obviously not,’ Susso said, ‘because otherwise we would have heard of him.’

  ‘Before that! When I was young. Uncle Sven! Have you never heard anyone talk about Uncle Sven and his Children’s Letterbox programme?’

  Susso shook her head and Torbjörn kept quiet.

  ‘That’s absolutely shocking,’ Gudrun said. ‘Cecilia was on Children’s Letterbox. Not on the actual programme, of course, but she was invited to Stockholm. Susso, you must have heard about the invitation?’

  ‘I know there was something about a radio programme, but that’s all.’

  Gudrun stared at them, astonished.

  ‘Fancy not knowing who Sven Jerring is …’

  The phone had started ringing as soon as I had put the tray on the table and taken a bite of my bread roll. It was a mobile number I did not recognise. I swallowed the mouthful before answering. At the other end was a woman speaking very fast in a southern Swedish accent.

  ‘You phoned yesterday and spoke to my father.’

  I considered the situation for a moment. I was about to be on the receiving end of a slap on the wrist and I wondered whether it would be simpler to deny that it was me who had phoned. But then I felt a sudden surge of irritation that someone wanted to tick me off for making a phone call about a kidnapped child – and at the fact that my own daughter had been attacked and her life had actually been in real danger.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said.

  ‘Dad doesn’t want to talk to you, but I think you ought to know that you are not the first person to ask about that boy Magnus.’

  ‘Don’t you mean Mattias?’

  ‘No, Magnus. Magnus Brodin.’

  I tried to explain to her that there must have been some kind of misunderstanding, but she interrupted me.

  ‘In 1979,’ she said, ‘Sven Jerring came to see us at Björkudden and he talked about that boy, the one who disappeared.’

  I said nothing. Had I heard correctly?

  ‘Children’s Letterbox,’ the woman said. ‘Uncle Sven!’

  ‘Yes, I know who it is. But the boy we are looking for went missing this Christmas just gone. Mattias, he’s called. Which boy are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, I see. I thought you were asking about Magnus Brodin …’

  ‘Magnus Brodin,’ I said. ‘I recognise that name. He was kidnapped, wasn’t he? In the seventies?’

  ‘Seventy-eight. The summer of ’78.’

  ‘And you’re saying Sven Jerring came to your house on Björkudden and asked about him? What did he ask?’

  ‘He said he had come because of Magnus. He had an idea that the boy had been abducted by trolls. Dad didn’t know what to believe. He thought it was all a joke because the house had belonged to John Bauer and that perhaps it was going to be part of a radio programme, but he’s realised since that it was no joke.’

  ‘But did he say anything about a very small man? Did Sven Jerring say anything about a dwarf?’
/>
  ‘A dwarf? I was only little then, I don’t really remember …’

  It was starting to sound vague. I cleared my throat.

  ‘You’ve probably read in the papers that the police are looking for a person known as the Vaikijaur man,’ I said. ‘We drove to Björkudden because we had heard that he had been there. In 1980.’

  ‘The little old man who was in the papers?’

  ‘Exactly. The Vaikijaur man.’

  ‘And he was supposed to have been living at Björkudden in 1980? Well, I can tell you he wasn’t, most definitely.’

  ‘I don’t know about living there as such. We only know he visited the place. That he had some kind of business there.’

  ‘It sounds strange. No, I don’t believe that’s right.’

  ‘And you’re completely sure about that?’

  ‘Yes, of course. What is all this, for God’s sake?’

  ‘What did your parents say to Sven Jerring?’

  ‘Nothing! They hardly believed him! And I don’t think his wife did either.’

  ‘So she was with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  I sat for a while wondering what to do next, before calling directory enquiries and asking for Barbro Jerring.

  ‘I believe she’s living in Stockholm,’ I said. ‘If she’s still alive.’

  She was. Or at least, she had a phone number.

  *

  I looked around. The dining room had started to fill, with people gathering around the breakfast buffet, so I got up and went over to a small group of sofas where I could sit hidden behind a pillar and a palm.

  There were seven or eight rings and then a rustling noise.

  ‘Jerring.’

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Is that Barbro Jerring speaking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I ask if you were married to Sven Jerring?’

  ‘Yes, I was.’