killed him, I killed him, oh my God.
The wound on his neck is throbbing dully. He turns to the mirror above the desk. Sees his own wildly staring eyes, the eyes of a madman. Blood is no longer trickling from the puncture wounds that form a perfect imprint of the boy’s teeth.
Self-defence. They are going to think the boy bit him in self-defence.
But what about the blood? The blood inside the boy’s body is his; the boy had none of his own. They have to be able to prove that … tests …
Tomas tries to imagine how he is going to tell the on-board security about this. He can’t even believe it himself.
He dashes into the bathroom and throws up into the sink, liquid vomit consisting only of curdling beer and stomach juices. The saliva continues to dribble out of the corners of his mouth while it dawns on him just how insane it all is.
So insane it can’t actually be true, so insane I must have imagined the whole thing because I AM insane. I was seeing things, I was drunk and worked up and my psyche snapped like a dry twig and now I’ve murdered an innocent CHILD and I’m stuck on this boat—
The boy had clearly not been well, but there must have been a way to help him.
Instead of killing him.
Tomas spits, but the string of saliva is so thick he has to pinch it off with his fingers. He watches it slowly disappear down the drain. He knows he is not crazy. He knows what he saw.
But isn’t that what all crazy people think?
He forces himself to peek out of the bathroom door.
The body on the floor is motionless. The blond hair gleams.
No one saw me go into this cabin. I can leave now, pretend like everything’s fine. No, there are security cameras everywhere. They’re going to find the recording.
He has to get out of here. His head is spinning; he leans against the sink until it passes. He washes his hands, but the blood has found its way under his nails. Tomas splashes freezing water on his face, trying to clear his head.
The blood is practically invisible on his black shirt and jacket. He wets a towel, wipes off a sticky stain from his chest. The blood that dripped from the boy’s wound. The wound he made with a broken bottle.
Tomas almost vomits again. He pulls out his phone. No reception, but he wouldn’t know who to call anyway. It is only just past nine o’clock. How is that possible? How can everything change so quickly?
Suddenly, he remembers the high-heeled boots in the cabin. Somewhere on the ship is a woman who could show up at any moment.
I killed her child.
Tomas wipes down the tap and sink with loo roll and staggers out of the bathroom, picks the bottleneck up from the floor and wipes it clean with the edge of his shirt. Where else might he have left fingerprints?
The body is still completely motionless.
He walks to the door, takes a deep breath and opens it. There is no one in the corridor.
He needs to find one of his boys. Peo, maybe. He has to talk to someone he can trust, before informing security.
Or you keep your mouth shut until the ship docks in Åland, a voice inside him says. Get off there. Get away. Escape on a different ship.
It is a tempting idea, but this is not some fucking American action flick. There is no Mexican border to make a run for. He has nowhere to go, no hidden stash of cash.
The wound on his neck is throbbing and burning. His back is soaked with sweat. He has to lean against the wall to walk. A couple of long-haired blokes come out of a cabin, glancing at him briefly before moving on. Tomas watches them. Wonders if he just looks like a drunk, any old drunk, or if you can tell what has happened, if they are going to go and alert security. Maybe they even heard something through the wall?
He needs to get far away from this corridor. He needs to find a place where he can think in peace.
Dan
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Charisma Karaoke! My name is Dan Appelgren and I will be your host tonight!’
Scattered applause. It is still early. Mostly old people are slumping on the sofas. One geezer has fallen asleep with his pint glass resting on his enormous gut.
Dan is sweating in the spotlight. His senses are sharpened by the coke: it makes him more present, while at the same time sheltering him from the hideousness that surrounds him. He can see it, but it doesn’t bother him.
‘Who knows, we might discover a new star here tonight!’ he says.
A few people giggle. An old woman playfully nudges her husband’s arm. Dan can tell who wants to sing but is too scared. They are the ones glancing around at everyone else. And they are the ones who will never want to stop later, who will get off the stage and march straight over to Johan’s booth to sign up for another song.
‘I figured I might warm you up with something I think you’ll recognise,’ Dan says with a wink. ‘Sing along now, everybody! And if you need help with the words, the lyrics are up there!’ He points to the widescreen television on the wall. The screen is an empty blue that tints the old faces closest to it, making them look like wrinkly Smurfs.
‘Are you ready?’ Dan says, throwing the microphone in the air and letting it spin a few times before catching it. He looks at Johan. ‘Then let’s go!’
The spotlights go brighter. Hotter. He closes his eyes. Plants his feet wide apart. Turns his head to one side. His hand clutches the microphone.
And then the strings fade in to the song he sings at least twice a night on board the Charisma. The song he once sang to millions of viewers in a sold-out arena during the grand final of the Swedish Eurovision competition.
One of the old people in the audience coughs, wet and phlegmy. The bartender drops a bottle. The drum machine kicks in. Someone starts clapping along. Someone else joins in. The strings build to a crescendo. Dan raises the microphone to his mouth, opens his eyes and stares straight ahead. Lets the spotlights blind him.
For a moment or two, all he sees is light.
‘Like fever in my heart, your love has got me burning. I’m dying when we’re apart, on fever clouds of yearning.’
Two older ladies smile at him. Some people are whispering and giggling to each other. The old man with the big belly twitches and looks around drowsily.
‘Your body is so hot. Your smile sets me on fire,’ Dan continues, working up to the chorus. ‘There’s no cure for what I’ve got, I’m burning on your pyre.’
The text scrolls across the screen, yellow capitals against a backdrop of people splashing each other with water on a beach, swinging in a sunny playground, trying on zany hats at a fair.
‘Come on now! Everybody sing along! I know you know this one!’
A couple of the old biddies obey him, bellowing out the lyrics that have netted the fucking faggot who wrote them millions in royalties. The bald little bastard likes to brag about how it only took him fifteen minutes to write ‘Like Fever in My Heart’. Dan has been stuck with it for twenty years, singing it thousands upon thousands of times at company functions and in gay clubs and small-town city squares, and he no longer even has a savings account.
‘Don’t want no doctor, don’t want to be healed. You are my malady, the fever I feel. Like fever in my heart, you know you are my fire. I’m burning for you, baby, your love can take me higher.’
New verse, chorus, modulation and chorus, and the song is finally done. Dan smiles from ear to ear, bows deeply from the waist. The old people clap politely.
‘Amazing! Loving it! For those of you who want more, you can buy my latest album at the bar and in the tax-free shop!’
Five more hours to go. He looks at Johan, who gives him a tired nod.
‘And now I think Johan has had his first request of the night,’ Dan says. ‘Who is brave enough to be the first one on stage?’
An ancient fatso in tight-fitting clothes comes waddling across the room like something out of Jurassic Park. She smiles nervously at Dan, who holds out an arm for support when she steps onto the stage.
‘Hey there,�
� Dan says with all the enthusiasm he can muster. ‘And what is this young lady’s name?’
Scattered laughs.
‘Birgitta,’ the woman says quietly in a sing-song regional accent. ‘Birgitta Gudmundsson.’
‘And where are you from, Birgitta?’
She squirms. She is clearly so nervous she can barely hear him. He is just about to ask again when she opens her mouth.
‘Grycksbo.’
‘A lovely place, from what I hear.’
It is a miracle she doesn’t catch the sarcasm. Where the fuck is Grycksbo?
Her face has taken on a deep shade of red that matches her dress. Dan can almost feel the heat from her blushing cheeks.
‘Well, yes,’ Birgitta says. ‘We like it there. We do.’
‘Is there a special someone you will be singing for tonight?’
‘That would be my man.’
Birgitta lights up when she turns to a deflated, desiccated thing in a shirt and sweater-vest. The man beams back at her. No wonder he looks so malnourished: Birgitta probably scarfs down all the food they have at home.
‘And what are you going to sing for him tonight?’ Dan asks.
‘Well, it’s going to be “Jolene” by Dolly Parton. It brings back a lot of wonderful memories.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Forty years,’ Birgitta replies proudly. ‘We’re here to celebrate our ruby wedding and all.’
‘Is that right? Well, then I think we should all give Birgitta and her very lucky husband a warm round of applause,’ Dan says.
Birgitta laughs nervously while the applause rings out. Dan can’t help noticing that they sound a lot more enthusiastic now than after his performance.
Marianne
It is already past ten and at Charisma Starlight they are doing the four-step under the flashing lights. In the thick and humid air they bump into other bodies as warm as their own. Marianne is covered in a thin film of perspiration that makes her blouse cling to her skin. The hair at her temples is dripping. She has no clue how many glasses of white wine she drank at dinner. At the buffet, you could just top up your glass from a tap; she guzzled it like squash without it slaking her thirst one bit. It was much too sweet for her taste, but she didn’t want to switch to red wine and have to discover later on that her teeth were blue.
Göran holds her hands in a firm grip and his eyes lock on hers. It no longer makes her uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. His gaze seems to make her less invisible. More real. Almost beautiful.
She feels free for the first time in years: free from the other Marianne, the one who always hovers by her shoulder, judging her.
Göran only knows the most basic steps, but he leads with confidence nonetheless. From time to time, they improvise together. When Marianne stumbles, he makes sure she doesn’t fall.
The singer of the band is beautiful in her red dress. The red velvet curtain behind her hangs in heavy folds.
Marianne dances this way and that, glimpsing snapshots of other couples whenever a coloured light illuminates them, hands resting on backs, caressing waists and bums, wrapped around a partner’s neck. Eyes closed in pleasure, eyes looking around as though they want to leave. Mouths unabashedly kissing one another, laughing, shouting something in someone’s ear. So much life happening. And Marianne is in the midst of it.
Göran pulls her closer; suddenly, they are in an embrace. His neck is wet against her cheek. The song ends and a new one starts, but they stay where they are, completely still. Everything is so overwhelming.
‘I know what you want,’ he whispers in her ear.
Marianne is about to reply that he can’t possibly know that, because she doesn’t know herself. But that would probably be a lie by now, and not a very convincing one either.
‘And what might that be?’ she says.
She holds her breath and waits to hear what he will say next.
‘A beer, of course.’ He relaxes his grip enough so he can look at her and smile mischievously. ‘What did you think I meant?’
Marianne looks away, embarrassed.
Göran is constantly on the verge of turning the whole thing tawdry. But she likes how he makes everything seem so easy. He is leading her through this game she has long since forgotten how to play.
‘Come on,’ he says.
They walk across the dance floor, hand in hand. Other couples bumble into them from every direction, drunkenly staggering into their path. An elbow hits Marianne between the shoulder blades, almost knocking the wind out of her.
She takes up position next to the dance floor while Göran goes to buy them a pint each. She studies the seething cauldron of dancing couples. A lonely middle-aged man is swaying back and forth with his arms above his head, his eyes closed under the brim of his cowboy hat like he is in a trance.
A big group of people are sitting at one of the tables close to Marianne, talking in Finnish. She glances furtively at them, unable to judge their mood on account of their strange language. She thinks about the old factory town she grew up in, all the Finns who came there in the sixties to work. They were the only immigrants the town had ever seen and there was no end to the talk about how strange the Finns were, how loud they were and how ugly their language sounded, how much they drank and how uninterested they were in getting to know any Swedes. People said the Finns bought new cars every time they went back to Finland, so they could brag to their families back home. It seems so long ago now. Almost picturesque. Yet at the same time, people don’t appear to have changed at all.
Marianne realises the band on stage are singing yet another song and she starts wondering what is taking Göran so long. She turns around and is relieved to spot his back. He is standing calmly at the bar, holding up a couple of hundred-kronor notes to show he is both ready and of means.
A man in a suit reeking of sweat sidles up to her. She reluctantly glances at him. His round face has big, heavy jowls and his head is crowned with flimsy tufts of hair. He looks like an oversized baby. A baby that moves in close until his body is pressing against hers. She steps to the side, staring intently at the dance floor. She just wants him to leave. Can’t he see that?
But no, he is pressing against her again, moving his pelvis back and forth.
‘Pardon me,’ she says, and turns on her heel, striding off in the direction of the bar and Göran’s back.
‘Place is full of dried-up cunt tonight,’ the man shouts after her.
She stiffens.
‘Come on, dance with me,’ the man demands, catching up to her, grabbing her.
Marianne shakes her head and stares at the floor.
Göran is finally by her side. The baby-man mutters something and slouches off.
‘Already making new friends?’ Göran says with a grin. ‘What did he say?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Her voice is trembling.
But Göran just shrugs, hands her a pint and points to a couple of armchairs that have just opened up near the bar. ‘I think I need a quick breather,’ he says. ‘God knows I’m not as young as I used to be.’
‘Yes,’ Marianne says, ‘God does know.’
She looks around while they walk. The baby-man is nowhere to be seen. They sit down in the upholstered armchairs and she takes several big swigs. It is wonderfully refreshing. The bubbles scratch away the thirst from her parched throat. Göran was right: a beer was exactly what she wanted.
‘Have you seen your friends around?’ She shouts to make herself heard over a group of girls who have started screeching along to the music with their arms around each other’s shoulders.
‘No, but who cares about them?’ Göran says. ‘I’m here with you now.’
Filip
The group of girls is going to give him tinnitus. Filip has to lean across the counter to catch the other patrons’ orders. He wipes his brow with a paper napkin. A bit of sweat has found its way into his eyes, making them sting. It is at times like these he wonders how he ever put up with h
is first bartending job, back when smoking was still allowed in bars and cigarette smoke infused his hair and clothes, made his eyes and lungs burn.
He meets a pair of eyes across the bar. A woman with red metal glasses: two Malibu and Diet Cokes. He serves the drinks. Wipes his forehead again, takes the next order. An older man whose eyebrows are so bushy several hairs hang down into his eyes. He pays for his beer with crumpled notes. One of the members of the shrill gaggle of girls orders a bottle of bubbly and five glasses.
A bearded guy in a white T-shirt is standing next to the bar, staring intensely at Filip; when their eyes meet, Filip is stunned. It is hard to believe it is him; he looks so different.
Calle.
It is suddenly brought home to him just how long it’s been since they last saw each other, and how much he has missed him.
Filip gives him a big hug. Calle smells of fresh air and the outside. His beard is soft but cool. He stands stock-still.
‘Congratulations, man!’ Filip says. ‘Pia told me you nailed it! I’m so bloody chuffed for you!’
Calle
Calle lets himself be hugged, have his back slapped a few times. Not even that shakes him out of this dreamlike state.
‘So you decided to come out and celebrate after all?’ Filip says, releasing him. He is glancing around, clearly searching for the husband-to-be.
Filip’s uniform is the same: white shirt under a red waistcoat, small brass name tag on his chest. His hair hasn’t changed either, though the light-brown tangle is thinner.
The dark-haired girl working the other end of the bar gives Calle a happy wave. ‘Congratulations!’ she mouths.
Filip looks back at Calle, grinning like a lunatic.
Calle seriously contemplates not telling him, to not have to hear himself say the words.
‘So, where’s the fiancé?’ Filip asks.
Calle shakes his head. ‘I think he’s in our cabin,’ he says. ‘My God. Nothing’s changed here.’
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