by Jens Lapidus
He’d had the shivers. Diarrhea. His arm was still hurting like hell where the bastard dog had bitten him. He’d thought about using his belt to do something drastic, but they’d taken his belt away.
Simon Murray had been back. He looked like Matthew McConaughey—all taut mouth and intense eyes.
He said: “You’re going to be remanded, you know that don’t you?”
Nikola’s feelings: I won’t last a few more weeks in a cell.
Simon: “I think it’d be tough for you, spending months in isolation.”
Nikola’s mind was spinning: he hoped Chamon could handle the pressure; he’d always been the cooler one.
Simon: “You know Chamon’s started talking, right? He says you were the one who needed the money.”
Nikola shivered. Thought he needed to see someone who cares about him. Mom, Grandpa, Teddy, anyone.
Simon: “If you talk to me now, I’ll fix it so Linda can visit you at the very least, and soon.”
Nikola’s thoughts drifted to Ashur. The guy Chamon had talked about, who’d refused to go to his dad’s funeral in handcuffs.
He cleared his throat. “Simon, I might look a bit rough, but I’m not your whore. Get lost, and don’t come back.”
He was curled up in the fetal position on his mattress. A month out—that was all he’d managed. A big fat loser. A dude who wasn’t good enough for the game.
His head: full of crappy thoughts. He tried to sleep. Tried to whack off. Sweated and froze at the same time. He had to bang on the door to go to the toilet once an hour.
He wondered what Chamon had said. The cells in the other hallway—he was here, too, somewhere. Unless he’d already had his hearing and been moved on.
Nikola couldn’t even focus on what he was going to say at the hearing. Nikola: total ADHD behavior. Freak.
He considered asking the guard to call Simon Murray after all. Tell them he was ready to squeal.
Emelie had been to see him, too. She looked like he remembered. Long, dark blond hair; kind eyes. Black pants and jacket.
She got straight to the point: no bullshit from her. That was fine by him.
“What have they said to you?”
“I just had a short interview. They’re saying I broke into an ICA Maxi.”
“And what did you say?”
“I denied it. I was going to Teddy’s. You know who he is. I was on the way there when their fucking dog attacked me and tore my arm to pieces. Look.” He held up his arm and showed her the bandage. “I’ve got nothing to do with any robbery.”
“Why do they suspect you, then?”
“I mean, I was nearby, like, in the woods, but I haven’t been in that shop. I just got lost.”
During the hour when Emelie was there, everything felt a bit better. They talked about the hearing and the process going forward. She seemed strong.
There was a knock at the door. The sound of a key in the lock.
It was the guards. They cuffed him and started to lead him down the hallway.
He tried to smile. “Which cell’s Chamon in?”
One of them said: “We can’t tell you that kind of thing, you know that.”
They pushed him into a car: a V70 with mesh over the windows.
It rolled up and out of the garage.
Outside, it was a bright summer’s day. In the front seat, the guards were talking about what they were doing over the holidays. Nikola thought back to the first time he’d smoked weed: in a stretch of woodland on the hill behind the school in Ronna. The leaves on the trees had been pale green; he’d felt like nothing in the world could go wrong, like everything could start over.
—
The judge looked grumpy. Gray dress. Gray hair. Gray face.
The prosecutor was wearing a sweater, jeans, and a corduroy jacket. Nikola didn’t see why they couldn’t wear a tie, not even when they were planning to lock up an as-yet-innocent person for an indefinite amount of time.
Emelie walked slowly into the courtroom and sat down.
The other door opened, and a few people came in and sat down on the other side of the plexiglass. The reflection made it difficult to see who was there.
Nikola squinted. Tried to see. He could make out Linda. Teddy.
Then the door opened again. One more person came in. Shit—it was Chamon.
That snake Murray: he’d been lying the whole time. Chamon wasn’t in a different cell in another hallway at all. Chamon: not even arrested. Chamon: free as a fucking bird. Murray had been trying to catch Nikola out. Put pressure on him. Give him even more stress, even more panic. But he hadn’t counted on Chamon being ballsy enough to turn up to the remand hearing.
The prosecutor said: “I’d like to request closed doors.”
Emelie shut her notebook. The request was entirely expected when an additional, as-yet-unknown offender still hadn’t been apprehended. “No objection,” she said.
The judge spoke in an authoritative voice. “In that case, we’ll proceed behind closed doors, which means the remainder of the hearing will not be public. Could I please ask the public to leave the room?”
Nikola turned his head. Chamon held up a thumb. Smiled a big smile.
A day later: remanded, of course.
The cell was a hundred times better than before. There was a bed, a little desk. A wooden stool. There was even a toilet. But above all: there was a TV. Still, he’d be there for weeks unless Emelie could work her magic.
He was at the top of the building—it must’ve been the eighth or ninth floor. Through the bars over the window, he could look out over Flemingsberg. See the commuter train station, the high school, the colorful Million Programme housing in the distance.
Nikola: grandchild of the Million Programme. Nikola: watched TV all day. He was climbing up the walls less than before. But still a hell of a lot. Wondered what the cops had on him. What Isak would say. What Murray had planned.
An hour a day in the exercise area on the roof. Mesh everywhere, but he could make out the sky through the metal railings. He bought Marlboro Reds from the cart and puffed his way through eight of them the first time they took him up there. The nicotine kick was just like a weed high. Everything started spinning. The bars shook. He swayed.
The second day up there on the roof, he took it easier with the cigs.
After a minute or two, he heard someone shout, “Yo, man, what’s your name?”
He tried to see who it was: the bars were tightly packed. A guy on the other side, in another fenced-off area. Nikola replied with his name.
“What ’bout you?”
“Kerim Celalî. Where you from?”
“Södertälje. Ronna. You?”
“Axelsberg. But Västerås, really. What they wanna do you for?”
“Aggravated robbery. You?”
“Ehh…load of shit, man.”
“C’mon…”
“They said I was sellin’ blow from a warehouse by Axelsberg Square.”
“How much?”
“Couple kilos.”
“Abbou.”
“Yeah, y’know, but it’s just what they’re saying.”
“Still…how old’re you?”
“Twenty-eight. Fuck…lookin’ at ten, maybe fourteen years if they want to do me for smuggling, too.”
“Shit.”
The guy on the other side laughed. “Eh, it’ll be fine. Gotta believe it, anyway. Honestly, though, it’s actually really fucking nice to be inside every now and then, y’know? Bit of peace and quiet. Don’t gotta worry about undercover cops and Abdi’s guys all the time. It’s been such a fucking pain lately, you know?”
“I heard.” Nikola had heard the talk. The Kurds controlled huge chunks of the coke trade along the red line of the metro, but lately, people from Västerort and Black Scorpions had started trying to take it back.
“Nice day today though,” said Kerim. “Enjoy the sun, the blue sky. Could be worse. Coulda just as easily been where my cousin’s at, in Kobane.�
�
“Ko-where?”
“Doesn’t matter, man. I just mean enjoy what you got here. All I’m missing’s licorice, can’t buy that from the cart. But the sun’s shining, so I’m not gonna think about that.”
Nikola was watching more TV than ever. The Mentalist, Ex on the Beach, Lyxfällan, Paradise Hotel. Hard to comprehend: how could they cram so much shit into so few hours?
He asked to borrow the PlayStation—there was one per hallway—and was surprised when it arrived so quickly. Until he saw it, that was—it was a PS2. They weren’t allowed the newer consoles; they had built-in Wi-Fi. But a PS2, Christ—Nikola had been four or something when they came out—it was an antique, pre-flat-screen era. They should send some archaeologists over: this was what people did in the early 2000s. Put the thing in a museum, for God’s sake.
He borrowed two books from the library cart instead. Three Seconds by Roslund & Hellström and one called The Stranger by some other dude. He didn’t know why he’d picked it up, there was just something about the title. It suited him. That’s what he was. Slav among Syrians. Swede among Serbs. The guy who was always on some kind of platform.
The next day, Kerim shouted over to him again.
“Yo, Nikola, that you?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Weather’s not so good today, man, but y’know what?”
“Nah?”
“Doesn’t matter. Can hardly see the fucking sky through these bars anyway.”
“How long you been in for?”
“Thirteen months.”
Nikola swallowed. The guy on the other side of the fence hadn’t been convicted of anything—but they’d still taken over a year of his life.
Kerim continued. “Full restrictions, too. And guess what?”
“What?”
“You’re the first person I’ve talked to the whole time, apart from my lawyer and the cops. They must’ve done something wrong, putting me in a cage next to you, forgotten they’re meant to keep me away from all living beings.”
“Shit, man. How the hell d’you manage?”
“Listen, it’s like I said yesterday: could be worse.”
Nikola thought. Could it, really?
Kerim said: “They got anything on you?”
“No idea, other than a dog that got my scent. I’m innocent.”
“Everyone’s innocent in here. But serious, if that’s all they got, then you just gotta do one thing.”
“What?”
“Shut your mouth, breathe through your nose. Keep shtum, y’know? They’ll have to show their colors eventually—you’ll get to see which cards they’re keeping close. Stay cool, man. Think of Kobane.”
43
Meeting with Magnus Hassel, the partner. Teddy was pretty surprised it had taken him so long to react.
The walls were covered with paintings, and the low bookshelves were full of more or less cryptic pieces of art: a human skull spattered with oil paint, cubes that looked like they were made from dried paint, a bird’s skeleton, and a yellow tennis ball in a glass box. Magnus really did like contemporary art—which he always referred to in English. But he’d changed the big canvas behind his desk. From a distance, it looked completely black: an enormous expanse of darkness. But when Teddy moved closer, he could see small, dark tablets, pills and capsules embedded in the piece. Raining down, almost. He wondered what it meant.
Magnus could see him thinking. “Like my latest find? It’s a Damien Hirst. Cicutoxin, that’s its name, just three years old. I never thought it’d go on sale, but I got lucky a few weeks ago, good straw men.”
Teddy sat down opposite Magnus. His desk looked messier today, but the man seemed calmer than last time they spoke.
“Let me get straight to the point, Teddy. What happened, it’s not good.”
Teddy knew what he meant: he’d called Magnus to let him know that someone had stolen all the evidence from the McLoud case. “I’m really sorry, but someone broke into the car. I had everything in there, the photographs, all my surveillance reports. My phone’s gone, too. So that’s all the pictures gone.”
Magnus’s face looked tense.
The canvas behind him was radiating darkness.
“Look,” he said. “There won’t be any more jobs for the firm unless you sort this out. Do you realize how much that information was worth to our client?”
“Yeah, you said. Two hundred million.”
“Am I just supposed to tell them the evidence has vanished, or what? You need to sort this out, Teddy. It’s that simple. Find the material. That’s it.”
Magnus got to his feet: a clear signal—as far as he was concerned, the meeting was over.
Screw you, asshole, Teddy thought—I’d counted on this. There won’t be any evidence for your client—because I’ve given it all to McLoud.
All the same: this was the end of his first real job ever. What the hell was he going to do now? Who would he become?
Next day.
It was like everyone was moving back and forth inside the church. The huge icons above the altar. The candles. The red carpet on the floor. People kissing the icons’ hands, Jesus’s feet, lighting candles, crossing themselves over and over.
The last point: Bojan was a master—crossed himself twice, bowed twice, kissed the image of the saint in front of him. And then he did the same thing again—his dad was acting like his grandmother had. Teddy thought back to when he was ten and he’d visited her in Vinča, the village outside Belgrade. The priest’s beard, purple robes, the thick smell of smoke.
But today: Dad.
Today: Saint Sava’s. Sweden. Stockholm. Enskede gård. Just a few miles from the huge Globen arena.
Teddy’s feet were tired. Another thing about this duty to God he remembered from his childhood. You were standing pretty much the whole time. He waited. Swayed along with the song. There was a small choir somewhere, singing a cappella.
Bojan glanced at him. Teddy tried to cross himself. Right hand. “Press—don’t pull,” his grandmother used to say. Thumb and index finger together. The others squeezed against his palm.
His father: “Aren’t you going to honor the priest?” Teddy knew what he meant. He wanted him to go forward and kiss the edge of the priest’s vestment.
“It’s too crowded, Dad.” It was true; the place was packed. But it was also a lie: he didn’t want to kiss anything right now. But he did want to please his father. Show he cared. He had a bigger reason. A real purpose.
Sara had been discharged from the hospital and was being protected by the police. Linda was in a hotel, staying away from her job. Teddy had managed to get his father to go to a hotel, too, but it wasn’t enough. They both needed to get away, leave the country. For a few weeks, at the very least. Until Teddy could make Kum understand. From that perspective: he was glad Nikola was locked up. At least they couldn’t get to him.
He tried to relax. His dad would have to understand eventually—it wasn’t like he had anything better to do, and Teddy could send him on an all-inclusive holiday anywhere he wanted with the money from McLoud.
He’d been trying to get in touch with Lillan the past few days, but she never answered her phone, and Cecilia said she didn’t know where she was. But Lillan knew that Mats had faked his suicide, and with any luck, she was in better shape than her brother.
From the outside, the church didn’t look like much. But inside, it was beautiful. Iconostasis in walnut, frescoes in bright colors and gold. “Our Byzantine tradition,” Bojan explained.
Teddy stretched his neck. “I know, Dad. I know. I want you to say you’ll go away now. Just for a few weeks. Linda’s moved out.”
Bojan turned around. “Why do you always have to cause trouble? I thought you’d finally changed.”
Teddy froze. What had his father done to help out all these years? During his childhood? What had he done when social services, teachers, counselors, and support workers had been on the phone? When the cops knocked on the door that f
irst time—Teddy had been twelve—and told him he’d been arrested outside Teknikmagasinet with seven airsoft guns in his bag.
He’d always wanted Teddy to be like Darko; he didn’t understand a damn thing. And now—now that Teddy was trying to live life on the right side of the law, now that he was working—he started moaning. His dad had to realize—the past caught up with you sometimes. Stupid old fool.
Outside the church, people loitered around, making small talk for a while. His father wanted to introduce him to his friends. Teddy wanted to leave.
Eventually Teddy and his father started walking toward the metro station. The tunnel up to the ticket gates was covered in scrawls: bad graffiti and shady words. Ugly is beautiful. Animal Liberation Front. Kill a citizen.
Teddy said: “Have you made up your mind? I want you to leave as soon as possible.”
Bojan was moving slowly.
They reached the station.
High above them, on a metal bar stretching across the ceiling, there was a silver-colored sculpture of a person, balancing.
Bojan pointed up at it. “Have you seen the new art SL brought in? It’s nice, I think.”
“What about the question I just asked you?”
Bojan held his monthly pass against the ticket gate. The glass barriers slid open. The new system still surprised Teddy every time—it was part of the new Stockholm.
“I’ve got an idea. I’ll get you tickets to Herceg Novi. I’ll come down in two weeks; Linda too. We can spend some time together for a while,” he continued.
His father looked up. “Herceg Novi. Montenegro? I always used to go there as a boy.”
Teddy tried to look kind. “I know,” he said. “I know.”
They separated at Slussen. Bojan changed to take the red line. Teddy knew where he was going now.
He went down, beneath the station: sub-Slussen—darkness, dirt, and noise from the buses. Someone was trying to sell bread and cinnamon buns from a little table under the information screens. Someone else was trying to sober up on a bench next to Pressbyrån. Up there, in the daylight: a bright summer’s day. Down here, below the surface: a chill, a feeling of abandonment, and the stench of piss by the pillars.