by Eva Hudson
Ingrid felt her jaw crumple as she watched the black fingernails of Mare’s right hand grip hold of the component. Ingrid’s breath stalled in her chest.
“Here you go.” Mare rolled it back toward her, and Ingrid snatched at it, immediately pushing it up inside her sleeve. Exhaling, she stood up, one arm pressing against the cubicle wall to stop her from falling. When she finally got her breath back, Ingrid opened the cubicle door. She almost didn’t recognize herself in the mirror opposite.
“What do you think?” Mare asked. “The merch?”
“Sorry?”
“The hoodie?”
“Oh, yes,” Ingrid said, distracted by her appearance. “Very nice.”
Ingrid leaned against the sink unit and peered into the mirror. Her hair was matted and wet. It looked dirty. Maybe it was dust from the rotten wood? Maybe there was blood in it.
“Does it hurt?”
The cut in Ingrid’s eyebrow wasn’t as dramatic as she’d feared, but her right eye was bloodshot. She raised a hand to touch her face and felt just how sore and tender her cheek was. It would be badly bruised in a day or two.
“Not so bad.” She ran the faucet and washed her face. Mare handed her a fist of blue paper hand towels and she dabbed her face dry.
“So your boyfriend’s still here?” Mare asked.
It took Ingrid a second to work out why she would ask such a thing. She nodded. “He is, how you say, controlling.”
“He’s done this before?”
“Yah. Once or twice.” Ingrid made sure her accent was still screwed on properly.
“I gotta ask, honey, why do you stay with a guy like that?”
Ingrid shrugged. “This time I leave him.”
“You don’t sound convincing.”
Domestic violence victims rarely did. “Yes, I get out, go back to Russia.”
Mare tilted her head in sympathy.
“But, you know, first I must escape tonight.” Ingrid pointed to the clippers.
“You sure about this?”
“Yes.” She knew she sounded a little hesitant. She’d actually thought about shaving her head many times, mostly whenever she took her helmet off and couldn’t do anything with her flattened mop. It would take some explaining in London. But if she was fielding questions from co-workers about her buzz cut that meant she had survived or ended up in jail. “I want to look like you.”
There was a rumble of noise out in the corridor. Doors opening and closing. Heavy footsteps. Ingrid shivered. She had taken too long. She should have been on her way by now. She dived back into the cubicle just as the restroom door flung open.
“There you are.” A man’s voice. American accent. Exhale.
“What is it?” Mare asked. “Andy?”
He was panting heavily. “The cops are here. The place is on lockdown.”
Ingrid pressed herself against the cubicle wall and silently screamed.
“Why?” Mare asked.
“Don’t know. Just wanted to check where you were.” There was a pause. “You still with that girl?”A faint rustling of clothes and the quietest of whispers. “Oh, OK.”
Before he closed the door, Ingrid heard shouting in the corridor. She swallowed hard.
“You OK in there?”
She swallowed again. “I… Yes. I guess.”
“It was just Andy. Did you think it was your fella?”
Ingrid unlocked the door, made deliberate and extended eye contact with Mare and nodded.
“Oh, wow, you’re really scared of him, ain’t you?”
Ingrid nodded again, a little alarmed at how fluent she was at role play. “You will help me, yes?”
Mare waved the clippers through the air. “If you’re sure?”
Ingrid stared at herself and pictured striding into a meeting at the embassy with a shaved head. “Yes. Sure.”
Ingrid was taller than Mare, so the best way to do it was for her to bend forward over a basin. She was a little disappointed she wouldn’t get to see her hair fall off like a military conscript at the beginning of a Vietnam movie, but there was a plus side: her hair would fall into the basin and not onto the floor. Easier to dispose of. She knew she couldn’t hide anything from a forensics team, but so long as it wasn’t obvious to the patrol cops that she’d shaved her head, they wouldn’t know she’d changed her appearance. She felt the metal of the clippers against her neck.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
The buzzing was accompanied by a vibration. Ingrid gripped the side of the vanity unit as Mare moved the clippers in short back-and-forth movements over the back of her head. She’d expected long, sweeping strokes like a lawnmower moving through tall grass.
“OK?” Mare asked.
“Yes, OK.”
“So are you going to tell me what really happened to you tonight?”
Ingrid gripped the chipped Formica edge of the unit a little tighter, her face pressed against the ceramic basin.
“I mean, you come to a gig with your boyfriend, who beats you up, now you want to change your appearance…” she tailed off. “Plus,” Mare took the clippers off Ingrid’s scalp and held them in mid-air, “you’re not carrying any Swedish money.”
Ingrid raised her head and stared at Mare in the mirror. She looked at herself. Her hair was like one of those school projects where kids grow cress out of an eggshell. Then she looked back at Mare, whose hand held the clippers aloft, buzzing.
“Because, your story ain’t adding up, honey. Either you tell me what’s really going on, or you’re going home looking like a desk-toy gonk.”
36
“So, let me get this straight. You come up from the city with your boyfriend. He’s a big fan of the Sticks, but you’re really just here because he asked. Or maybe insisted. How am I doing so far?”
Ingrid nodded.
“He’s this big controlling bully, doesn’t let you even have your own money, he gets a bit drunk, then he sees you talking to another guy, sees more than is really going on, and decides to teach you a lesson. He hits you. The other guy looks like tomatoes on toast, and you finally decide that tonight is the night you leave him. You run off, hide outside in the cold, see him prowl about the place, and you know he won’t leave without you. Am I still getting it?”
“Yes.”
“So you think, I know, I’ll change my appearance, maybe hitch a ride back into town with someone else. Am I still right?”
Ingrid nodded again.
“And you didn’t call the cops? You didn’t try and report the assault?”
“No,” she said timidly.
“Well, with any luck the cops have scared him off and you can walk out of here a free woman.” She turned to face the mirror, an eyeliner stick in her right hand. “Take a look. What do you think?”
Ingrid was so stunned by her reflection that she took a sharp intake of air. She kept running her hand over her head, ridiculously pleased at how it felt to stroke her shorn scalp. But now Mare had added dark kohl around her eyes. She looked like a punk Cleopatra.
“Oh, wow. Wow.”
It kind of suited her. It certainly suited her needs right now: no one was looking for a shaven-headed goth. Mare had done a good job covering up her wound. She looked at her reflection, then at Mare’s. There was something missing.
“You like it?”
“Yes, yes I do.” Ingrid leaned in over the sink to get closer to the mirror.
“What is it?” Mare asked.
Ingrid reached up to her left earlobe and unhooked the small silver hoop earring she was wearing. She looked at Mare in the mirror.
“I think…” She held the earring against her nostril. “For here? No?”
“Are you crazy?”
Ingrid shook her head.
“Well, I think I have some peroxide or something back in the dressing room. You don’t want to get an infection.”
“Surely I can just—”
“Wait! I’ll be two ticks.”
&nbs
p; Mare left the bathroom, noise from the corridor briefly echoing its way into the tiled restroom before the door swung shut. Ingrid placed the earring on the countertop and looked at herself again, momentarily mesmerized. If my mother could see me now. In fact, she couldn’t wait to send her mom a picture. Shocking Svetlana Skyberg was a pleasure that was showing no signs of diminishing with age. Then she thought about striding into her boss’s office in the embassy just so she could see his disapproving face. But for that to happen she had to find a way of getting back to London.
She scooped up the hair from the basin—there was less of it than she’d imagined—and tossed a handful down one of the toilets and pressed the flush. She then flushed another handful down one of the other toilets, keen not to create a blockage that would flag up her change of appearance. She winced as she remembered how her DC colleagues had been called in on a murder investigation: the super in an apartment building had been clearing a drainpipe and discovered several toes.
Ingrid grabbed a paper towel and wiped out the last of the hair from the basin. She tossed it in the trash can then picked up the earring and shoved it in her pocket. There was no point in waiting for Mare to come back. She needed to find a way back to the city. She looked at herself one more time; she made sure the hood of the sweatshirt was outside her jacket and pulled the zipper apart to ensure the band’s logo was visible. If she got the chance, she’d sneak into the coat check and swap her jacket for another. Just so long as it had elasticated cuffs.
More footsteps in the corridor. Ingrid turned sharply as the door opened. It wasn’t Mare. It was a man. Dark clothes. Uniform. A cop. Ingrid’s jaw fell open.
“Förlåt,” he said. Sorry.
He barged in, checked the cubicles and ran out as quickly as he’d entered. It was only when the door clanged behind him that Ingrid felt the thunder in her chest. Her ribcage bellowed in and out.
Was that it?
She panted hard. He had looked right at her. In the eye. Had he only seen the scalp and the make-up? Ingrid looked at herself in the mirror and smiled: it had worked. Her smile was short-lived. What if the other cops asked Mare if she’d seen a woman matching her description? What if Mare said something? Or was about to say something? Ingrid needed to get to her before they did.
She yanked open the door to find six or seven uniformed police officers in the corridor. Most of them were huddled, swapping notes; two more were checking behind the other doors. Ingrid quickly shut the door and puffed out her cheeks: they wouldn’t all be as dumb as the cop who had just looked her in the eye. She couldn’t leave. She was trapped.
There were no windows in the restroom, no obvious means of escape. Just in case real life was like the movies, she looked above to see if there were loose ceiling tiles or a ventilation shaft she could escape through. Nothing. The only way out was into the corridor.
Ingrid took a deep, centering breath and tried to put herself in the mind of the officer leading the search for her.
Focus. Come on!
She reasoned that they had come to the music hall because they’d traced the car. And if they had found the car, then they had found the gun. Immediately that would de-escalate the operation, wouldn’t it? And if they had searched the premises and not found someone meeting the description the man from McDonald’s would have given them, they’d move on, wouldn’t they? They might keep a couple of uniforms on site, but that would be it. The danger, she sensed, would eventually pass.
The feelings of panic did not subside because another thought entered her head: CCTV. It wouldn’t be long before the cops would view the footage, see her approach the merchandise store and release an APB for a woman in a River Sticks hoodie. How long, that was the question. If they were smart, the venue obliging and the surveillance was digital, then maybe less than an hour. But if the venue hated the cops—certainly, when she’d worked in the sheriff’s department the Jackson Astoria had never appreciated a visit from uniformed officers—and they recorded onto tape, or the investigating officers were dim-witted and exhausted, then maybe she would get back to Riga before they joined the dots.
Right now, the only thing she felt sure of was that the one place the police weren’t looking for a woman in her thirties, five ten, slim build and wearing a River Sticks hoodie was in the ladies’ restrooms of the Freedom Music Hall. For the first time since she’d gotten off the ferry, Ingrid was exactly where she needed to be.
Ingrid decided to make good use of the facilities. She unzipped her jeans, squelched out of her sneakers and struggled to peel the denim off her cold, wet skin. By the time Mare returned, she had almost dried one leg under the hand dryer.
“What are you doing?” she asked, surprised to find Ingrid bare-legged. “Oh, yeah, makes sense.” Then she looked a little closer. “What’s that on your leg?”
Ingrid gulped hard and looked down. She was relieved to realize Mare had only spotted her ankle pouch. Thank God she couldn’t see the bracelet on her wrist.
“For money, you know?”
“Like runners have?”
Ingrid nodded. “I need to pay you. For this.” She grabbed at the sweater.
“Like a fanny pack for your leg.”
Ingrid hadn’t heard anyone say ‘fanny pack’ for a long while. It meant something different in England. “Two fifty, OK?”
Mare tipped a bottle of hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton pad. Judging by her contorted facial expression she was attempting mental arithmetic. “Do you know why the police are here?”
Ingrid shrugged. “How much?”
“Two fifty is fine.” She held out the cotton pad for Ingrid. “Sorry I can’t give you a discount. The stuff is actually really quite expensive. Antonio won’t let anything get made cheaply. Says it’ll damage the brand.”
Ingrid put the jeans on the countertop and held the cotton pad up to her face. “Which side?” she asked.
It was a question Mare took her time to answer. “Left. I think. Guess they must be looking for drugs. Doesn’t seem to matter where we tour, cops have never heard of straight edge. And when we tell them they never believe us.”
Ingrid wiped the pad over her nostril, then pulled the earring out of her pocket along with the crumpled euros. She put some notes on the countertop then wiped over the earring.
“I might have to give you change in kronor, if that’s OK?”
That would be perfect.
“Like this?” Ingrid asked, inserting one end of the hoop inside her nostril.
“Uh-huh. The thing you need to be careful of, the thing you need to make sure of…”
“Yes?”
“Is you only want to do it once, you know. Quick and hard. I mean, just shove it. Get it over and done—”
“Aah.” Ingrid’s eyes immediately watered. It felt like a wasp had flown up inside her nostril and stung her repeatedly. “Govno!”
“Yup, like that I guess. Let me look.”
Ingrid couldn’t open her eyes. She screwed her face up tightly to try and contain the pain.
“It’s not bleeding. That’s good.”
Ingrid could feel something running down inside her nostril. Blinked-back tears.
“It looks good,” Mare said. “You should open your eyes.”
Ingrid gripped the edge of the countertop, blinked several times and then stared at her almost unrecognizable reflection. She’d be fine if she ever needed to go into witness protection.
The door flew open and they both turned.
“You better come.” It was Andy. Breathless, anxious. He looked down, saw that Ingrid was bare-legged and was suddenly bashful. “They’re, um, they’re evacuating the building.”
Transcript from Riksdag Committee Hearing 23
December 16 2015
BILUNGS: Are you comfortable? [Translated]
GHEDI: [Via translator] Yes. Yes.
BILUNGS: If at any time you do not understand what I am asking you, please say so and I will attempt to rephrase my questions. Is that OK?
GHEDI: [Via translator] Yes.
BILUNGS: Would you please state your full name.
GHEDI: [Via translator] Mohammed Ali Ghedi. Thank you.
BILUNGS: I would like to summarize for the committee, but please do correct me if my information is inaccurate.
GHEDI: [Via translator] OK.
BILUNGS: You have pleaded guilty to your involvement in the events of December 15th and 16th last year, and as such have been sentenced to ten years’ detention after which you will be deported to Somalia. Is that correct?
GHEDI: [Via translator] Yes. Yes.
BILUNGS: You were convicted on charges of kidnap and holding persons against their will. Can you tell us how you came to be involved in this… this operation. Perhaps you would like to start with your association with Abdullah Saladdin?
GHEDI: [Via translator] Yes, yes. OK. Abdullah Saladdin worked at the community center in Husby. He has been very helpful to me when I first arrived. A beautiful man. A peaceful man. He has suffered so much in his country. When I show him my scars, he show me his. But I was a soldier, he was a teacher. A teacher should not have scars like his. And yet, still, he was the kindest man. A man who helps so many people. You must understand, we only want to help him, because by helping him, we help others.
BILUNGS: Go on.
GHEDI: [Via translator] He was to be deported, back to Eritrea, and I was asked if I help him stay in Sweden. We knew what happen to him if he deported. We want to stop that.
BILUNGS: How did you think you were helping him?
GHEDI: [Via translator] His lawyer… [Stops, consults with translator] OK, OK. Yes, I understand. We hear Osberg and Nyquist are best immigration lawyers in Sweden, but they refuse his case. We look for way to make them represent him.
BILUNGS: By kidnapping the loved ones of employees of the firm?
GHEDI: [Consults with translator. Via translator] Um, yes. We did not ask for money. We thought they would say yes very quickly. Abdullah is good man. We thought they help him.
BILUNGS: At what point were you recruited to the plan to kidnap the relatives of employees of Osberg and Nyquist?
GHEDI: [Via translator] I do not understand the question.