Stallo

by Stefan Spjut

  ‘Then I have the right number. My name is Gudrun Myrén and it so happens that I’ve just been speaking to Fredrik Dahllöf’s daughter. I don’t know her name, but anyway she said you and Sven visited Björkudden in 1979 in relation to Magnus Brodin and the fact that Sven thought he had been taken by trolls. Is that correct?’

  ‘Are you a journalist?’

  ‘No, we’re trying to track down the so-called Vaikijaur man. The police suspect he is involved in the kidnapping of Mattias Mickelsson. Have you heard about that?’

  ‘I’ve read about it in the newspaper, yes.’

  ‘We’re lending a hand, you might say. It was my daughter who took the photograph of this person. The Vaikijaur man, that is. So we’re trying to find out who he is. And it seems as if there could be a connection between the disappearance of Magnus and Mattias. You see, the Vaikijaur man visited Björkudden in 1980.’

  ‘He was at Björkudden?’

  ‘Yes. We know he was there, but not why.’

  ‘What has Dahllöf told you?’

  ‘He doesn’t know this person at all. Or so he says. But we definitely know he was there, so we think perhaps Dahllöf is keeping something from us.’

  ‘No, I don’t think he’s doing that.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you think then?’

  There followed a moment’s silence, and just as I was about to say ‘Hello?’ Barbro added:

  ‘I think I have an idea who he was looking for.’

  The dark-red mobile swivelled and buzzed on the table.

  ‘MUM,’ it said in the oblong window.

  And below: ‘Answer?’

  Seved picked up the phone and held it uncertainly for a moment before pressing the key.

  ‘Hello! Can you hear me?’

  It was a woman’s voice. It was loud.

  Seved waited quietly, not even daring to breathe in case it would be heard.

  ‘Hello? Cecilia?’

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘I can hardly hear you. Listen, we’re in Stockholm.’

  Seved kept silent. Stockholm. He had been expecting an address in Gränna. This was better, but Lennart would not be happy with the news. There was a risk the woman would hang up, so he made a humming sound.

  ‘Do you know where we’re going? You’ll never guess!’

  ‘No,’ he whispered.

  ‘We’re going to Sven Jerring’s home. To see his widow, Barbro Jerring.’

  Seved hung on. Was she going to say anything else?

  ‘I’ll have to tell you about it later. Hello? Can you hear me?’

  *

  Oh yes. He had heard all right.

  He dug about in his bag and brought out the phone Börje had given him, followed by the slip of paper with Lennart’s number on it.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me. Seved.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I know where they’re going now. Where they’re heading.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘To someone called Barbro Jerring, I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what she said.’

  ‘Barbro Jerring? Jerring? As in Sven Jerring?’

  ‘Yes. It’s his widow, that’s where they’re going. She lives in Stockholm.’

  ‘So what was all that crap about them going to Gränna then?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  It was clear from Lennart’s voice that he was unsure whether to be satisfied or annoyed.

  ‘Can … can I drive home now?’

  ‘No, you stay where you are! Until I’ve got hold of them.’

  *

  When the conversation ended he sat staring at the mess on the table in front of him. He had left a few stumps of hard, overcooked fries and some onion and the remains of the dressing in the sticky hamburger wrapper, but now it was all gone, every last scrap, and the polystyrene container that had held his burger had been shredded into pieces the size of rice grains.

  The feeling of disgust that welled up inside him was so strong he gagged.

  To think it had been sitting there, eating in the darkness, while he had been sleeping.

  He looked around the room because he had no idea where the little shapeshifter could be. Not in the cage. That was shut.

  It was probably on the bed. He looked up at the top bunk, then walked over and gently lifted the duvet that was folded next to the pillow, but it was not there. He looked under the duvet on the lower bunk as well and then kneeled down and looked underneath the bunk bed, but saw only his empty can of cola, which the lemmingshifter had presumably knocked from the table.

  Where the hell had it gone?

  Could it have escaped somehow?

  His eyes scanned the room to check for any openings, and there, right above the door, was a round hole that had probably once had a cover. Could it have climbed all the way up there? The wall was covered with shiny textured wallpaper, so that seemed unlikely. But perhaps there were other gaps? A few millimetres would be enough for it to force its way out.

  The thought that the creature had taken itself off filled him with an overpowering sense of relief. Now there would be absolutely no reason for him to stay in Kiruna. He could set off for home immediately. It was not his fault the little being had decided to run away. It probably did exactly as it chose. Lennart had to know that.

  Seved put on his jeans, sank into the chair and quickly pulled on his socks. He was in a hurry now. It might have just slipped outside for a while to have a look around. If he hurried, he would be away before it came back.

  He picked up his shirt and pushed his arms into the sleeves, glancing at his watch as his left wrist appeared through the cuff. It had just turned ten. Quickly he fastened the buttons. Then he put on his down jacket, pushed both mobiles into a pocket and zipped it closed. He tied his boots, hurried over to the bed and began rolling up the sleeping bag. He knew he would not be able to get it into its case unless he rolled it up properly, getting out all of the air, so he dragged it to the floor and knelt down beside it.

  Then he felt something inside.

  A small lump.

  He straightened up immediately, staring at it.

  The creature had crept into the sleeping bag and had slept by his feet. All night it had been curled up there, enjoying the warmth from his body. He stood up and noticed a small movement making a crease in the dark-green synthetic fabric. It had woken up and was on its way out.

  Now, he thought. I’ve got to do it now.

  And he lifted his foot and stamped as hard as he could.

  Tessin Park was ringed by tall chestnut trees with spreading black branches. A woman was pushing a pram on the gravel path bisecting the park, but otherwise there was no one in sight, which Susso thought was odd. To think it could be so deserted in the middle of Stockholm, in the middle of the day, and in such a large and lovely park.

  They followed the pavement along De Geersgatan, nobody saying a word. Gudrun’s hand gripped the metal ring linking her handbag to its plaited shoulder strap. Her other arm swung up and down as she walked ahead, fast. She had taken a pair of brown leather shoes from her suitcase and their heels were clicking and scraping against the gritted paving stones. The smudges of blusher on her cheeks looked like bruises.

  Susso had stuffed her hands deep into her pockets and one of them found an old receipt that she crumpled between her fingers as her eyes ran over the facades of the apartment blocks. They were light yellow with balconies of corrugated steel, and were mottled with the shadows of the trees in the park.

  During breakfast Gudrun had told them about Magnus Brodin, the boy who had disappeared in the summer of 1978 in Dalarna. For some reason, Sven Jerring had been convinced that the boy had been taken by trolls.

  Gudrun had the door code on her mobile. She pressed the buttons with her index finger, and when the lock buzzed she opened the heavy door.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, waving th
e hand that was still clutching her phone.

  The walls of the stairwell were painted with horses and naked people. There was no board listing the names of the residents, so they had to go from floor to floor looking for the right apartment. The curved bannister was made of copper that slid shining and cold under Susso’s palm as she jogged up the stairs. When, breathless, she reached the top floor and started reading the name plates on the doors, she heard Torbjörn’s voice from below. He was trying to whisper but it sounded like a loud hissing:

  ‘Susso! It’s here.’

  It was a solid panelled door of gleaming wood, with the name JERRING in ornate lettering on an oval brass plate above the letterbox.

  The doorbell was attached to the frame on a level with the handle and its button was as small and black as a liquorice cough drop. Gudrun pressed it and straightened the apricot-coloured scarf tied around her neck. Susso could see she was nervous.

  No one opened, so she rang again, longer this time. When she removed her thumb the sound remained in their ears because it was noticeably silent in the stairwell.

  ‘Isn’t she supposed to be at home?’ Susso asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Gudrun answered, taking out her mobile. ‘I thought so.’

  She scrolled to Barbro’s telephone number, and soon a muffled ring was heard from inside the apartment. She let it ring about ten times before flipping her phone shut.

  Susso sighed.

  ‘And of course she has no mobile?’

  Gudrun opened her bag and took out her lip salve. After rubbing it over her lips she replaced the stick in her bag and zipped it shut.

  ‘We’ll just have to wait,’ she said, unperturbed.

  They sat down on the stairs, Susso and Gudrun on the bottom step, the soles of their shoes resting on the floor of shiny marble slabs with their scattering of fossils, and behind them in the darkness Torbjörn, his eyes narrowed and alert.

  In the car on the way into the city Gudrun had told them all about Sven Jerring and his radio programme Children’s Letterbox, how it had broken the record for the world’s longest series with the same presenter. There was probably no one of her generation who had not at some point fantasised about walking into Sven Jerring’s studio to sing or play an instrument.

  Gudrun explained that the people of Sweden had taken Uncle Sven closer to their hearts than any public figure who had come before him, and it seemed unlikely he would ever be replaced. He was the first man on the radio and his voice had reached out to the entire country. It was almost impossible to describe how loved he was by the population, how familiar he seemed to them. It was as if everyone thought of him as a dear old friend.

  This was precisely what made Susso suspicious.

  She found it hard to understand how such a person – in his time the most famous and perhaps most popular in Sweden – could be involved in the mystery surrounding the disappearance of Mattias Mickelsson. It was implausible, quite simply, that the trail should lead to him, of all people.

  Somewhere along the line there had to be a misunderstanding.

  Or a lie.

  She just could not work out where.

  They had been waiting for about half an hour when there was a clanking in the lift shaft and the cables started to move. Then the lift cage slowed down and shuddered to a halt, the gates slid apart with a rattle, the doors opened and an elderly woman wearing a beret and a mushroom-coloured poplin raincoat stepped out.

  Gudrun immediately stood up.

  ‘Barbro?’

  Her voice echoed out harshly but the woman did not appear to be disturbed by it. She looked at Gudrun, taking stock of her with her clear light-blue eyes, which were tucked into the pockets of wrinkles covering her face. When she registered that two other people were sitting on the stairs, her face took on a more quizzical expression.

  ‘We spoke earlier on the phone,’ Gudrun said softly.

  From her coat pocket the old woman drew out a bunch of keys and studied them intently. It looked as if she had forgotten what to do with them.

  ‘You had better come in,’ she said.

  *

  Radio personality Sven Jerring had been dead for a quarter of a century, but the strong smell of his tobacco smoke still lingered in the apartment. It was not particularly clean or tidy, either. The grey layer of dust on top of the television, the coffee cup on the windowsill and another perched precariously on the edge of the table, the trail of potting compost below the radiator, the shapeless pile of newspapers. Susso felt sorry for the old woman. Why was there no one to help her? Did she not have any children?

  While Torbjörn and Gudrun stood at the windows looking out over the park, Susso examined a disorderly pile of carved wooden figures. She was standing looking at these when Barbro came out of the kitchen. In one hand she held a pair of reading glasses and in the other a black leather briefcase.

  ‘Sven was an incorrigible collector,’ she said, smiling at Susso.

  Susso nodded. She carefully picked up one of the figures. It was wearing glasses.

  ‘It’s him, right?’ she asked, and Barbro smiled.

  She stood the briefcase on the floor beside an armchair and sat with her hands in her lap.

  Susso, Torbjörn and Gudrun sat in a row on the sofa, and the old woman regarded her guests steadily, which soon made them feel uncomfortable. Susso grinned slightly as her eyes wandered around the room, looking for something to fix on. She settled for the decorative roller blind pulled down over one of the windows.

  On the greyish-blue fabric was a painting of a castle with towers and spires and a drawbridge. The moat’s wavy outline blended with the sea beyond, and the castle appeared to be floating, rather like a mirage.

  ‘That’s Vadstena Castle,’ Barbro said.

  ‘Oh yes!’ exclaimed Gudrun, taking a look at the blind. ‘I’ve been there, I think.’

  Barbro twisted her head to look at the castle.

  ‘That is not a particularly realistic impression,’ she said, adding: ‘My cousin painted it.’

  ‘Oh, was he an artist?’ Gudrun asked.

  ‘I don’t know if you could call him an artist,’ Barbro replied. ‘But he painted. And he painted that for Sven. Vadstena was where Sven grew up, of course. Erik thought he could look at the roller blind and take himself back in time, or something like that.’

  Then she fell silent. Judging from the small movements of her thin lips she did not know how to continue.

  ‘I have carried this story for such a long time,’ she said. ‘Now that I have the opportunity to unburden myself I hardly know where to start. It is all so incomprehensible and awful. And you will never believe me.’

  ‘We’ll believe you,’ Susso said, nodding.

  Gudrun agreed immediately and said:

  ‘When it comes to the Myrén family, our belief is limitless. That goes for Torbjörn too.’

  Barbro was wearing a gold bracelet around her right wrist which she twisted and turned and pushed up and down her arm. It was as if she could not decide where it fitted best.

  ‘Limitless enough to believe in trolls?’ she said.

  Torbjörn gave a laugh, a snort of air through his nostrils, and when Susso heard the word it was as if a leak had sprung open inside her and was beginning to seep out. She pressed her upper lip between her teeth, tearing off a shred of skin, and glanced sideways at her mother’s face, which had frozen in a serious expression. The corners of Gudrun’s mouth drooped and lines ran down from them to her chin.

  ‘Haven’t you told her anything, Mum?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know quite how to put it …’

  ‘My mother’s father saw a troll,’ said Susso. ‘And he took a photo of it. That was in 1987, in Rapadalen. Up in Sarek.’

  Barbro changed position in her chair, listening attentively as Susso went on:

  ‘The troll, or whatever it was he saw, was riding on the back of a bear that was running across the marshland. So trolls are nothing to scoff at in our family. In f
act, I have a website where I collect evidence and pictures people send me of trolls and shapeshifters or other things.’

  ‘The troll was riding on a bear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you have a photograph of it?’

  ‘An aerial shot, so it’s not very detailed. Have you got a computer?’

  Barbro shook her head.

  ‘You can see it isn’t an animal, anyway,’ Susso said, ‘although I don’t know what kind of animal would ride on a bear. So we call it a troll for lack of a better name.’

  ‘And how much do you know about the stallo people?’ Barbro asked. ‘Since you come from up there.’

  ‘Stallo?’ answered Susso, hesitantly. ‘It’s … well, what can I say? In Sami mythology they are giants, a kind of troll. But people think there is some truth in the tales, or rather to the creatures in the tales, and that they were a kind of foreign tribe the Sami people often clashed with. There are various cultural relics – graves and dwelling sites and so on – that are known as stallo graves and stallo land. But no one really knows.’

  ‘And they took Sami children too, didn’t they?’ said Barbro.

  Susso nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s the kind of thing trolls do, generally.’

  It looked as if Barbro had drifted far away in her thoughts, but then suddenly she took a deep breath and rested her hand on her pearls.

  ‘I think you know about Magnus Brodin? The boy who disappeared? Well, I would understand if you don’t,’ she said, turning to Susso and Torbjörn. ‘You weren’t even born then. Anyway, he was abducted. It happened when he was in a cabin with his mother, somewhere near Färnebofjärden, if you know where that is. It is a national park now.’

  ‘I remember,’ Gudrun said. ‘It was frightening that a child could disappear like that in this country. Every time I saw a person in a trench coat I thought it was a kidnapper.’

  Barbro reached for her glasses, but as soon as she had fitted them over the bridge of her nose she took them off again. Instead she picked up the black briefcase and rested it on her knees. The initials ‘SJ’ were engraved in the shiny leather.

  ‘In this briefcase’, she said, ‘I keep everything relating to Magnus Brodin. You could say I have pushed him down inside here to allow myself to shut it all away.’