“Break a leg,” said Karlstad, smiling as he left the room. He wasn’t wishing him good luck or issuing a command. It was simply a credible prediction.
* * *
She came to him that evening after Tina had gone to bed. They made love everywhere in his bedroom, tumbling off the bed, squirming across the floor. He pulled her by the arms over to the wall, grabbed her thighs and pressed her against the wallpaper his wife had once put up. She twisted out of his grip and shoved him so he landed on his back on the carpet. Then she threw herself at him, dripping with sweat. Now she did everything as he lay there, his body rubbing against the floor. She moved as if they were fighting, a wild and furious dance. There was a madness about her that he didn’t understand. It had been so long since he’d been with a woman. Afterward they slept on the floor, and he dreamed that they were still making love. This time against the wall and on the ceiling, their bodies intertwined like spiders.
* * *
“This job you have. Does it mean you have access to explosives?”
They got into bed when they woke up early in the morning. He had to go to work, and she needed to go back to her daughter. But they had time for coffee in bed.
“I work as a blaster, but that doesn’t mean I can just fill up a bag with C-4 before I go home in the afternoon.”
“What about dynamite?”
“Nobody uses dynamite anymore. Too unstable.”
“Exactly. I’ve heard that old dynamite is supposed to be especially bad news. Causes accidents.”
Sving gave her a long look. Took a sip of his coffee.
“It’s not all that easy for me to get hold of dynamite.”
That wasn’t true. He had a box at the cabin. Much too old and dangerous. He should have turned it in long ago.
“My sister has a house on Hitra that she never uses. There could be old explosives stored in the house. We could get him to go there. An accident might happen.”
“Why are you talking about your husband now? Why not enjoy your coffee and this nice, quiet morning?”
She rested her head on his shoulder.
“I’m not going to do it,” he said. “I refuse to kill anyone. I’ve never done that before, and I’m afraid it might destroy me.”
“A pacifist? You? Don’t make me laugh.”
“I mean it, Ane.”
“Do you like me?”
He had an urge to tell her that he loved her. But it was much too early to say that, let alone feel it.
“You’re unique,” he said.
“Your son. Does he go to school?”
“No.”
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“See you tonight?”
“There’s something I have to do after work. Could you come over late tonight?”
* * *
Sving knew people who could help him. They weren’t stable, but they were cheap, and they knew how to keep their mouths shut. They were called the Lars Brothers. Both of them were named Lars, but they weren’t really brothers. Lars #1 was nearly six foot six. Lars #2 was shorter than Sving, which meant under five foot nine. In the summer they both rode motorcycles. Neither of them had been allowed to join the Hells Angels at Trolla. Apparently they were too crazy. But they weren’t known to blab. Everything they said was pure bullshit, but nothing that could ever get them in trouble.
Sving watched as they tied Said to the coffee table with his arms crossed underneath and his feet bound to the table legs at one end.
“The table doesn’t look very sturdy. The legs are rickety.”
The Lars Brothers turned to Sving. They always got frustrated when he used words they weren’t used to.
“Turn it upside down!”
They did as he said.
Said was now lying on his stomach on the carpet with the table on top of him. He tried to kick and flail, but the table stopped him from rolling onto his side. The knots were tied tight. The Lars Brothers were good with their hands.
“Go fill up the bathtub!”
They both left, as if it would take at least two to fill the tub. After they left, Sving stood on what was the underside of the table. It was made of teak. A flea market find from the ’70s. He jumped up and down. The wood creaked. Said whimpered. That was a sound Sving couldn’t stand, to tell the truth. Whimpering infuriated him. He leaned down and peered under the table. Said stared at him, his eyes looking like those of a newly caught deep-sea fish.
“Are you sure you don’t have anything else to tell me?”
Sweat spurted from his brow as he shook his head.
“You need a bath,” said Sving, and he hopped onto the floor.
Said gasped for breath.
The Lars Brothers came back to get him. They picked up the table by the legs and carried him into the bathroom. There they set him down on the tiles. They probably looked quite comical as they stood there, three guys wearing winter coats, crowded into the cramped space of the bathroom with a table between them.
“Hope it’s cold enough for him,” said Sving as they watched the tub filling with water. He was sweating inside his wool coat.
“We’re saving on hot water,” said Tall Lars, pointing at the tap.
“Very sensible,” said Sving.
When the tub was full, they lifted the table and lowered him into the water. The tabletop fit perfectly between the sides of the tub. Some water splashed over the sides as he struggled.
When they lifted the table again, he gasped and vomited water.
“He doesn’t look clean enough yet,” Sving decided.
They lowered him into the tub again. Held him there a little longer this time, but not too long. When they brought him up, there seemed to be more life in him than ever.
“Feel like talking?” said Sving, leaning down to the table.
Said spat out water, his words mixed with gurgling sounds.
“What do you want me to say? Just tell me. I’ll say whatever you want. But I don’t think it will help you. I was just at the party. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t do anything.”
Sving sighed and straightened up.
“Nothing for us here, boys. Put him back in the tub. Maybe he’ll have more to say the next time we come here.”
The Lars Brothers exchanged glances.
“Do what I said,” Sving told them.
They put the table back in the tub. Screaming, Said disappeared into the ice-cold water.
Sving took off his coat and rolled up his sleeve. Then he leaned down and stuck his arm in the water.
“You guys could have added a tad more hot water,” he said resignedly as he fumbled for the plug. He found it, pulled it out, and tossed it on the floor.
“Time to go.”
On his way out, Sving wrote a note that he left on the kitchen table: You have a week to get the money.
He didn’t have much faith in Said. But he planned to leave the same message for all of them. As he saw it, it didn’t matter whether he got the money from the one who was guilty or from someone else on the list, as long as he got the money.
* * *
She came to him that night, and their lovemaking was even rougher than the night before. In the morning she asked him:
“Can you watch Tina for me this afternoon?”
“I’m busy.”
“You’re busy a lot.”
“I have something to do every afternoon this week, and probably next week too.”
“Can’t you take this afternoon off? There’s something I need to do. And Geir is busy.”
“How well do you know Karlstad?”
“We dated in junior high.”
He sighed.
“Does it matter? That was a long time ago. Another lifetime. Another body. Another face. That wasn’t me back then. We were just kids.”
He nodded.
“It’s just that I feel like I know a little more about your exes than I really want to know.”
“You have
nothing to fear from either of them. Geir and I are good friends. And my husband? Well, you know how I feel about him.”
“You’re scared of him?” said Sving, though he wasn’t sure. She hadn’t come right out and said as much.
“He’s a shithead. That’s all there is to say about that.”
It occurred to him that Ane Fagerhus was not someone who showed much fear. Again he wondered what he’d gotten himself into.
* * *
They were hitting him with pillows. He lay curled up on the floor, whimpering as if they were wielding sledgehammers and not pillows from the bed. But truth be told, there was a certain vigor to their blows.
Sving let the Lars Brothers keep at it for several more minutes before he told them to stop. A strange silence settled over the place. The junkie lay on the floor, blubbering like a baby. Sving noticed there were red stripes on his bare back, as if he’d actually been whipped. Feathers drifted through the air, looking like they’d come from imploded angels.
Then Sving used the bat on the man for a while until they finally left the filthy dump, not having learned anything new.
* * *
“What were all of you doing in there?”
Tina was sitting in the car. Sving had relented and brought her along. Having her here made him feel like shit, and that had affected his performance inside. He’d been too soft on the bastard, and hadn’t put enough power into the blows he delivered with the Slugger.
“We had a pillow fight,” he said.
“Grown-ups don’t have pillow fights.”
“Grown-ups do everything that kids do, with one big difference.”
She looked confused.
“We’re not playing when we do it,” Sving said.
“But you play with me. Pappa plays with me too.”
He gave her a surprised look.
“Oh, right. What about your mother? Does she play with you?”
“No, not Mamma. She doesn’t like to play.”
“Shall we go over to the playground?”
Sving watched the Lars Brothers disappear around the side of the building.
“There’s too much snow. And it’s too cold. I don’t want to play outside.”
“What about Pirbadet, the indoor water park? Do you like to swim?”
The little girl nodded.
* * *
“Fucking brat!”
Sving gave a start. It was so unexpected. Out of the blue like that. The afternoon spent at Pirbadet had been so much fun. Tina had made him forget himself, taking him along to all the different pools. He’d even gone on the waterslides. It almost felt like when Sondre was small. When they both lived in the light.
“It’s just an ordinary glass,” he said now.
“I’ve told her a hundred times. No, a thousand times before. How hard can it be to hold a glass to drink?”
Ane’s voice sounded like the screeching of brakes.
“She’s five years old.”
“About time she learned, damn it.”
Ane picked up the biggest piece of broken glass from the floor and then threw it down again. He’d never seen that look on her face, not even during the wildest of their lovemaking. Tina stood there, howling, so Sving took her by the hand and led her into the living room. Told her to sit on the sofa.
“Wait here. I’ll take care of this. It’s just a glass,” he said, and he went back in the kitchen.
Tina smiled as if she wanted to apologize. But why should she need to apologize for anything?
Ane was still standing in the same place. Her face was white. She shook her head when he came back into the room.
“You don’t need to stand up for her,” she said.
“She’s five. It’s my glass. And I don’t care about it breaking.”
“She needs to learn to pay attention. Sometimes I get so mad at her.”
Then the tears came.
“I’m sorry. Things have just been so awful lately.”
She gave him a quick look before she buried her face in her hands and sank down onto a chair at the kitchen table.
“I shouldn’t have lost my temper. It’s all the stress.”
“You mean it’s him. You’re thinking about him all the time, aren’t you?”
“It’s hard not to when I know he’s out there.”
* * *
They put Tina to bed in Sondre’s old room.
After the child fell asleep, Ane went to work on him. That was the only way he could describe it. She threw herself at Sving the minute they closed the bedroom door behind them. She pushed him down on the bed and tore off his clothes. After they were done, he wanted to hold her in his arms as they fell asleep, but she wouldn’t let him. It made him feel so lonely. A crazy thought passed through his mind. If I do it for her, if I help her get rid of her husband, will she hold me then? He knew it was too early to have such foolish ideas. He shouldn’t have such strong feelings for her. But he did.
* * *
He called in sick, explaining that he’d hurt his back.
Then he got in the car and drove all the way out to the cabin in Lierne. It had actually belonged to his wife. He’d inherited it from his in-laws, but he’d kept it after she died, mostly for Sondre’s sake, or so he told himself. He liked the drive. All the evergreen trees. It was best in the summertime, when it never got completely dark up there, and the ground wasn’t covered with big snowdrifts, like now.
The last part of the drive passed through a ravine where with a little patience it was possible to find gold in the river. He’d gone there on many summer days with Sondre to pan for bits of gold, which were precious treasures for the boy. All those tiny little pieces they had collected were stored in a tin box in a shed near the cabin.
Since it was winter, Sving had to park near the main road and put on his skis. Like most people who hadn’t learned to ski until adulthood, he didn’t feel entirely steady. He’d grown up in Gdańsk, Poland, which really wasn’t that far away, but he still regarded skiing as somewhat exotic. In his uncle’s big, ramshackle house, where the kids had been allowed to run as free as stray dogs, they’d hardly even known that skis existed. Even so, it took Sving only half an hour and three falls to reach the cabin, which stood among the last of the birch trees before the bare rock slopes of Storfloa began.
There he took a shovel out of the sack he’d brought and dug through the snow in front of the shed. When he’d cleared enough away to open the door, he went in and found an old sled, which he dragged outside. Then he made his way over to a crate that stood between the shelves of tools and the woodpile. He picked it up cautiously. It weighed over twenty pounds, and he was glad that he hadn’t actually hurt his back. A man suffering from back pain shouldn’t be lifting twenty pounds of dynamite. He set the crate on the sled.
Then he went inside the shed one last time. He took down the tin box that held the bits of gold from where it hung on the wall. When he peered inside, he saw the tiny glittering flakes. The color reminded him of summer nights up here. He put the box in his knapsack, climbed out of the shed, closed the door, and fastened the strap of the sled around his waist. Then he stood still and listened. It was almost like he could hear the earth rotating. When he closed his eyes for a moment, he felt outer space ruffling his hair.
To think we were once so free, he thought, looking at the sun, which was at its zenith right now at midday. It wasn’t very high in the sky, not this far north.
Then he looked at the dynamite on the sled. This doesn’t mean I’ve decided to do it, he told himself, registering again how reluctant he was to take on this assignment. But he could use the money. And it was a way of protecting Ane. Her husband could be dangerous to her. And of course Sving would rather see a stranger die than risk that same man killing Ane. There were plenty of reasons for him to do it, but he still felt hesitant.
No matter what, it’s good to have the dynamite, he thought. If I decide to do it, this would be the only way. Then I won’t have to look
him in the eye. He’ll still be a stranger to me.
But would that make it easier for him to live with what he’d done?
He had no answer to that as he headed back.
* * *
The flickering blue light made it seem like he was dreaming.
“Turn that shit off!”
Tall Lars let go of the poor guy and did what he was told. He turned off all the grow lights.
Short Lars was still holding on to the guy’s other arm.
Darkness settled over the room. Only the desk lamp was on. The marijuana plants looked like the shadows of dead trees.
“Cut them down!”
“No! Don’t do it, damn it!”
The guy growing dope at home tried to squirm out of Short Lars’s grip.
Tall Lars had a Sami knife. It looked newly sharpened. He worked quickly, gathering the hemp plants in a sort of rack above the headboard of the bed that was covered with a brown quilt. After finishing the job, he wiped his knife on the thigh of the grower. That made the idiot stop moving.
“Okay, let’s bake,” said Sving.
For over an hour they went at it with a crummy electric mixer and an even worse oven. But the result was usable. Cannabis brownies. Sving had tasted them before. His uncle had made them a few times back in Gdańsk. All the crazy kids he was trying to take care of had sampled the baked goods.
But today Sving wasn’t planning to eat any of them.
He told the Lars Brothers to start feeding the stupid jerk, who was number three on their list. After four brownies, they had to threaten him with the knife to make him keep eating. At the seventh brownie, Sving had to get out the baseball bat. The poor guy started spitting up blood as he chewed on the eighth one. After twelve, Sving handed him the telephone.
“Here. You should be glad cannabis is only slowly absorbed into the intestines. You can still formulate your words clearly enough to explain that you need your stomach pumped ASAP. But if you tell anybody about all this, you’re dead. The next time we come here, I want to see half a kilo of snow or twenty-five hundred hundred-krone bills. Do we understand each other?”
The guy nodded, his mouth full of brownies and the pupils of his eyes huge.
* * *
As Sving drove home, he was lost in his own thoughts, lending only half an ear to the conversation in the backseat.
The Fifth Element Page 20