I’m thrown off Grim, and fall on my back. My neck jerks backwards, followed by a cracking sensation inside it, a shooting pain that reaches up towards my ears and down across my shoulders.
Grim is standing over me, the barrel of the pistol like a never-ending black tunnel, just darkness followed by darkness. I strain to keep my eyes open, not to blink.
The shot is like a heartbeat. It’s a weird sound, not one but two, which are bound together and follow one another. For some reason, Grim misses. There’s a great bang on the concrete right by my ear, searing pain, and then the world goes quiet. I’m deaf in one ear. Grim stiffens, and grabs his arm before his leg collapses underneath him to the sound of another explosive bang that seems weirdly disorientating because I only hear half of it.
Someone screams — I don’t know who — and as he falls, Grim pushes off with his good leg and grabs my shoulder; his eyes are glossy and wide. I smell his odour, the sweat and the aftershave in a sharp, sour mix, and I don’t understand what he’s trying to do until I realise that he is falling and I’m being dragged outwards, towards nothing, only thin air. He releases the pistol mid-movement, and it flies past me, out over the edge.
THE EDGE OF THE ROOF is cutting into my ribcage. I’m lying flat, pressing against it. My arms are outstretched, one in his armpit and the other on his injured shoulder. He stares at me, hanging there, his face contorted and purple-red. Grim is holding on tight, and gravity is pulling my jacket tighter and tighter around my neck.
‘Let go,’ he hisses. ‘Let go of me.’
But, as if he realises that he’s lost, that I’m not going to fall, he lets go himself, and the only thing stopping him from falling is me. He is too heavy. I’m going to drop him.
‘Let me go now,’ he screams. ‘Let me fall …’
I try to lift him, pull him back up, but it’s impossible. I’m starting to get cramp in my hands, and I’m struggling to breathe. With his uninjured arm, he tries to make me let go. When it doesn’t work, he throws his head forward and bites my wrist. A shadow appears in my peripheral vision and crouches down. Two arms reach out, and a voice tells me not to let go.
Grim’s bite breaks the skin. I can’t see the wound, but the area around his mouth is spattered with a shiny red colour which is smeared over his lips. I feel nothing, no pain. The two arms grab hold of Grim, start pulling him up.
‘No,’ he screams, and his voice cracks, sounds erratic, like he’s a teenager again. And then: ‘No. No,’ until the noises coming from his throat become meaningless, just sounds.
On one of the dark-clothed arms I read the word POLICE, embroidered in gold capital letters.
XXX
The first unit to arrive at the scene by the water tower was made up of an unlikely and — considering the task in hand — unsuitable pair: Dan Larsson and Per Leifby. Larsson comes from Vetlanda, and was sent to Stockholm by his father, a retired superintendent. He couldn’t stand having his waster of a son around Vetlanda, and Larsson has been in Stockholm ever since. As if that isn’t enough, he’s also scared of heights. His partner Per Leifby, who, unlike Larsson, actually comes from Stockholm, supports Hammarby and isn’t racist, but has expressed concerns about immigration — something widely known throughout the force. In addition to that, he is also scared of using firearms.
The vertigo sufferer had wanted to stay on the ground by the water tower. The one who was scared of guns, on the other hand, was on his way up the spiral stairs when the first shot rang out, the one Grim had fired to scare me. The sound made him go stiff and pale, and he turned around and headed straight back down again. They decided they would wait for the next unit to arrive. The opportunity to intervene had been, they would later plead with Birck, unsafe. Not only that, but their bulletproof vests were still in the car, which was behind a badly parked Volvo a little way away.
Larsson and Leifby were beat officers in Huddinge, and were a bit lost in Rönninge after exiting at the wrong junction when the call came through. The officer raising the alarm was Gabriel Birck of the city police, who claimed there was a hostage situation at the water tower in Salem.
Car after car was sent, all under orders from Birck to drive with blue lights but no sirens, for fear of scaring the suspect. The SWAT team were preparing for deployment, although they were unlikely to get there in time. Larsson and Leifby were at the foot of the tower in less than two minutes, and there they remained.
The second unit to arrive was, in marked contrast to the first, made up of two robust, competent inspectors from Södertälje: Sandqvist and Rodriguez. Both have backgrounds in the Stockholm force. They’d just finished a shift at a Salem school, where they had been involved in a drug-and-crime-prevention day for the pupils. They reached the base of the structure three-and-a-half minutes after the call went out. Larsson and Leifby explained the situation, and Sandqvist and Rodriguez scaled the spiral steps with their weapons drawn. It was Rodriguez who reached the top first, and fired live ammunition at Grim. He might have made it sooner, if he hadn’t had to test the rope to make sure it would take his weight. He was also the one who, along with me, pulled Grim back up. Rodriguez’s shot caused Grim’s to miss me and hit the concrete instead, because it was fired a fraction of a second earlier. Together they sounded like that heartbeat I’d heard. Birck himself was down on the ground, well placed to hear the shots being fired from up on the tower, but not knowing who was holding the weapon.
All this is information that I find out later, when Birck tells me about it. When I wake up, I just remember relaxing and rolling onto my back, how the pain returned to my head, and how a veil fell over my eyes.
I’M LYING IN A LARGE BED, wearing a white shirt that isn’t mine, with a pale-orange blanket covering my feet and up to my thighs. Above me, the lights are off, but there is some light coming from somewhere. I turn my head, and the pain seizes my neck. A desk-lamp is on. I’m in a hospital. I turn my head and look out the window. Södertälje, I think. I haven’t been here since Julia died. Birck is sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, engrossed in a file full of notes.
‘I …’ My mouth is parched.
Birck lifts his head, and looks at me with surprise.
‘Eh?’
Outside the window, the country lies in the ambivalent gloom of bluish darkness. It could be dawn, or it could be dusk.
‘What time is it?’
‘Half-four.’
‘Morning?’
Birck nods. He puts the file down, stands up, and walks over to the table next to the bed. He pours water into a plastic cup and gives it to me.
‘Serax,’ I say, and Birck shakes his head.
‘Afraid not. You’ve had morphine. You can’t go mixing them.’
I drink from the plastic cup. The water feels clean and smooth.
‘What day is it?’ I ask, unsure.
‘Relax. You’ve been asleep for a little over twelve hours. You’re going to be all right, don’t worry. In spite of your gross stupidity.’
Birck’s voice is lacking its usual blunt bass. Instead it is unexpectedly soft and low. It could be my hearing playing tricks on me. I can hear on both sides again, but a thick lid covers one ear. I lift my hand, and the bandage feels rough and dry against my fingers.
‘For your head injuries,’ Birck says, and takes the cup off me. ‘Why the hell didn’t you wait?’
‘I didn’t have time,’ I manage. ‘Where’s Sam?’
‘In the next room. She’s going to be okay. Physically, I mean. Apart from the finger. We found it, but by then it was too late. Far too late.’
‘How long?’
Birck looks away.
‘At least an hour. She’s going to be okay, Leo, but … she’s in shock. So, mentally, it might well take a while. Her boyfriend is here somewhere, if you want to talk to him.’
Even t
hough it really hurts, I turn my head away from Birck. I don’t want to hear any more. Birck stands there next to me, as though he knows.
‘And Grim?’ I say, still facing away from him.
‘He’s not here.’
‘Where?’
‘Huddinge. Under constant supervision. I chose the officers myself, so they’re good. He was operated on, and will be moved to Kronoberg Remand Centre as soon as he’s discharged from hospital.’ He clears his throat. ‘Your family were here. They sat with you for a while. Levin came about eleven, and he’s only just left. Everyone has been informed.’
‘My … my dad, too?’
‘Him, too.’
I look at him, and wonder if he knows. If he’s worked it out. Maybe.
‘Your psychologist was here,’ says Birck, tentatively. ‘He was called in because his name was in your diary. I sent him away.’
‘Thanks.’
One corner of his mouth is twitching, but he doesn’t say anything.
‘Tired,’ I say, instead.
‘You need more sleep.’
‘No, you. You look tired.’
‘I’ve had a few reporters to deal with. As well as the preliminary investigation to go through.’
‘My phone.’
I want it for some reason. I don’t really know what I plan to do with it, but I want it. I think I want to see the picture of Rebecca Salomonsson’s face again.
‘I can’t give it to you yet, because Berggren, or Grimberg, or whoever the fuck he is, used it to communicate with you, and furthermore he had the good taste to record the injuries that he caused Sam. It’s evidence now. And,’ he adds, ‘are you sure you don’t want a new one?’
‘Save the pictures,’ is all I say.
‘Carry on sleeping.’ His eyes flicker, as though he is hesitating. ‘Levin says he’s going to try and get you back in the force. On my team.’
‘With you?’ I think I grimace. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘I thought you might feel like that.’
He smiles slightly.
‘Thanks,’ I force out.
Birck leaves the room.
NEXT TIME I WAKE UP, it’s lunchtime, I think. They move my drip out of the way, and I have a sandwich, drink some juice, go to the toilet. My footsteps are cautious but surprisingly steady. Later in the day, I get a visit from Pettersén, head of the preliminary investigation. He’s a short, pear-shaped man who chews gum incessantly in order to distract himself from the fact that what he actually wants is a cigarette.
‘I need to ask you a few questions,’ he says quietly. ‘If that’s okay.’
‘I want Birck to do it.’
‘That’s not possible. This is my job. And Gabriel needs to rest.’
He puts a dictaphone down between us. The few questions he poses multiply the more I tell him, and Pettersén excuses himself to go to the toilet, changes chewing gum once, then twice, and then three and four more times.
I GET DISCHARGED that evening. I’m able to put on my own clothes, which have been washed in the intervening twenty-four hours. In spite of this, just the sight of them makes me uneasy. The bandage around my head has been replaced with a big white plaster on my forehead and something similar over one ear. Apparently my nose isn’t broken; it’s just a hairline fracture, an injury that will take care of itself. I get some morphine for the first few days. Then I ask if I can see Sam.
‘She’s asleep,’ says the nurse.
‘Is anyone else there?’
‘She’s alone. Her partner just went back to their place.’
Their place? They live together?
I am given permission to sit with her for a little while. Sam is lying in a bed identical to my own, with the same orange blanket over her legs, and she’s wearing a white shirt that’s the same as the one I had on. Her hair is down now; the plait is gone. Her breathing is deep and regular. The visitor’s chair is placed right next to the bed, and I lower myself onto it.
A thick bandage is wrapped around the injured hand. Her good hand is lying open with her palm facing the ceiling, her fingers slightly bent. The sight of them makes everything start swaying, and I wonder why that should be, until I realise.
I did this. No matter how odd that seems, how far back the chain of events goes, and regardless of how many coincidences had to align themselves in a straight line to bring about the events of the last few days, it still started with me. With me destroying Tim Nordin, pushing him over the edge. With me pulling the wool over Grim’s eyes. Maybe he was right; maybe I did make Julia fall for me. But she wasn’t the only one who fell. I wasn’t the only one to blame. If anyone fell, it was me.
I reach out my hand and lay it carefully in Sam’s. She is warm. The touch seems to slowly bring her back to the surface, because before long she turns her head towards me.
‘Ricky?’ she asks, sluggishly, apprehensively, still asleep and her eyes still closed.
‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘Leo.’
‘Leo,’ she repeats, as though testing how it feels in her mouth. I think she’s smiling. She squeezes my hand carefully.
REBECCA SALOMONSSON’S PARENTS have once again been informed, and this time with the real reason for their daughter’s death. Whoever robbed her near Kronoberg Park is still at large — most likely somewhere in Stockholm, maybe even on Kungsholmen. It’s unusual for offenders to cover a lot of ground.
As far as I can tell, the media don’t know the background to the bizarre events that took place on the roof of the water tower. That drama fills the front pages, but my involvement has been covered up. Despite this, I know that interest will soon turn to me again, unless something more interesting happens. Maybe the whole story, starting with my friendship with Grim and my relationship with Julia, will come out sooner or later. I don’t know. Right now, I don’t care. I think about Anja, the woman Grim had once loved. She died, just like so many others seem to.
I might one day come to understand the man who was once my friend, work out what it was he was actually trying to do. Maybe not. That’s so often the way, with things that turn out to be crucial; we just don’t understand.
ONCE I’VE BEEN DISCHARGED from the hospital in Södertälje, I head north using public transport. It feels good, to just be a lonely individual among thousands of other equally lonely people. I’m wearing a hat to hide the bandages. Nobody seems to notice. The only odd thing about my appearance is my swollen, red nose, but nobody looks in my direction. On the commuter train, I pass the tower blocks of the million-homes project. Somewhere close by, someone is throwing firecrackers on the platform. The sound scares me; I stiffen up, and I can feel my pulse racing. I’m under doctor’s orders not to take Serax. They’ve given me Temazepam instead, for emergencies. I don’t know if this is one, but it feels like it. I pull the packet out of my inside pocket and pop a tablet on my tongue. It dissolves by itself, fast.
Instead of getting the bus from Rönninge, I decide to walk it. I pass a poster featuring the prime minister’s face. Using black spray-paint, someone has embellished it with a swastika.
I remember how, on my way back from trips into town when I was growing up, I would always look out for the water tower as a marker for how much of the journey was left. You see it from miles away. This time, I avoid it. I keep my eyes fixed on the ground, on my shoes, and wonder how many times I’ve walked this stretch. I wonder who still lives here, of all the people I used to know. It’s probably not that many, but I don’t know. People have a tendency to get stuck in places like this. People from concrete satellite towns like Tumba, Salem, and Alby. Either you make your way out and disappear, or something keeps you there.
Rebecca Salomonsson. I see her as Peter Koll must have seen her, above and from a slight angle, how she hobbles down the street, high as a kite and with her hand to her
mouth, not knowing that she has only a few minutes left to live. Koll thought it was nausea, but perhaps she was crying about just having had her bag stolen.
I am going to have to see Grim, again. I know it, but at the moment I am trying hard to suppress any thoughts of him. I try to remember exactly what I was doing on this day, at this time, sixteen years ago, but it’s impossible. I realise that I can no longer recollect what her face looked like when she laughed, but for a second I can almost feel it, Julia’s skin against mine. My skin remembers.
In my inside pocket, I’m still carrying Grim’s diary entries, and as I feel the envelope with my fingertips, I notice something else: a sheet of paper, stiff and folded in half. I know of only one person who communicates like this. Levin must somehow have sneaked it into my pocket during his visit to the hospital.
I’m glad I can sit at your bedside and hear your breathing. Hear that you’re alive, just as I did after the events on Gotland. Events which, no matter how you look at it, can be traced back to me, not you.
I was given a memo. It instructed me to put you on our unit: someone who could be held to account if necessary. They’d done a search and considered you an eligible candidate. Everything was hypothetical, ‘if’, ‘in the worst case’, and ‘in the event of one of our operations being compromised’.
It came from above, from the paranoid people, and I had no choice. They were threatening to leak details from my past. They still are. I can’t say any more. Not now.
Forgive me, Leo.
Charles.
I TRY TO ESTABLISH what I’m feeling, now that I actually know. The knowledge ought to come with some relief; perhaps it does, but that means nothing right now. I feel nothing. Everyone betrays everyone, and everything falls down. I know surprisingly little about Levin’s background, and I wonder what they’ve got on him, what made him obey.
I stand near the Triad, on the other side of the road. The blocks look like they did last time I was here, and the time before that, and the time before that. Time swooshes past inside my head, until I’m sixteen again and I’m standing in front of our block, on my way home from somewhere. It looks exactly like this. Certain things only change on the inside.
The Invisible Man from Salem Page 27