by Lars Kepler
‘Sammy, what’s going on?’
Rex can’t hear what his son says, his voice is swallowed up by the noise, then there’s the sound of dishes breaking, and a man starts shouting.
‘Sammy?’ he says. ‘Tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.’
‘You don’t have to …’
There’s a loud noise, as if Sammy has dropped his phone on the floor.
‘Sammy?’ Rex shouts. ‘Tell me where you are!’
A lot of crackling, then Rex hears someone pick up the phone again.
‘Come and get him before I get really sick of him,’ a woman with a deep voice says.
With his heart pounding, Rex makes a note of the address, calls a taxi and runs downstairs. When he gets outside in the cool air he tries calling Sammy again, but there’s no answer. He tries at least ten more times before the taxi pulls up in front of the building.
The address the woman gave him is on Östermalm, the wealthiest part of Stockholm, but the building on Kommendörs Street turns out to be public housing from the 1980s.
Loud music is streaming from a door on the ground floor. There is a strip of tape across the letterbox that says ‘More ads, please’.
Rex rings the doorbell, then tries the handle, opens the door and stares into a small hallway full of shoes. Loud music reverberates off the walls. The flat smells like cigarette smoke and red wine. There’s a pile of coats on the worn hardwood floor in the hall. Rex goes into the dimly lit kitchen and looks around. The counter is littered with empty beer bottles. The remains of a bean stew have dried onto a pan, and the sink is overflowing with plates and improvised ashtrays.
A man dressed in black wearing heavy makeup is sitting on the kitchen floor drinking from a plastic bottle. A young woman in denim shorts and a bright pink bra stumbles over to the counter, opens one of the cabinets and takes out a glass. The cigarette between her lips wobbles as she concentrates on filling her glass from a box of wine.
She taps her ash onto the pile of dirty plates as Rex pushes past her. She slowly exhales a plume of smoke, following him with her eyes.
‘Hey, chef, could you fix up an omelette?’ she says with a smile. ‘I’d love a fucking omelette right now.’
‘Do you know where Sammy is?’ he asks.
‘I think I know pretty much everything,’ she replies, handing him the glass of wine.
‘Is he still here?’
She nods and gets another glass from the cabinet. A black cat jumps up onto the counter and starts to lick bits of food from a kitchen knife.
‘I want to sleep with a celebrity,’ she jokes, and starts giggling to herself.
He moves a chair so he can get past the kitchen table, and feels the young woman wrap her arms around his waist. The weight of her body makes Rex lurch forward.
‘Let’s go in and wake Lena up, then we can have a threesome,’ the woman mumbles, pressing her chin against his back.
Rex puts the glass down on the table, removes her hands, turns around and looks at her drunk, smiling face.
‘I’m just here to pick up my son,’ he explains, and turns to look at the living room.
‘I was only joking anyway. I don’t really want sex, I just want lurve,’ she says, and lets go of him.
‘You should go home.’
Rex squeezes between a highchair and a folded cot. Two glasses clink against each other in time to the music.
‘I want a daddy,’ he hears her mutter as he goes into the living room.
On a checked sofa a man with long grey hair is helping a younger man snort cocaine. Someone’s brought out a box of Christmas decorations. There are mattresses on the floor around the walls. A heavyset man with his trousers unzipped is sitting with his back to the wall, picking at an acoustic guitar.
Rex walks through a narrow hallway with deep scratches in the floor. He glances into a bedroom where a woman is sleeping in just her underwear, her tattooed arm across her face.
Back in the kitchen a man laughs, and calls out in a loud voice.
Rex stops and listens. He can hear thuds and sighing from nearby. He looks into the bedroom again and finds himself staring between the woman’s legs. He turns away.
The door to the bathroom is ajar, its weak light spilling out into the hallway.
Moving sideways, Rex catches sight of a mop and bucket in front of a washing machine.
He hears the sighing again as he approaches the bathroom. He reaches out his hand and gently pushes the door open, and sees his son kneeling in front of a man with a large nose and deep lines around his half-open mouth. Sammy’s face is sweaty and his mascara has run. He’s holding the man’s erect penis with one hand as he guides it into his mouth. A black pearl earring is bouncing against his cheek.
Rex steps back as he sees the man run his fingers through Sammy’s bleached hair and grab hold of it.
He hears crying from the hall.
Rex turns away and goes back into the living room, trying to catch his breath as waves of conflicting emotions crash through him.
‘Oh, God,’ he sighs, and tries to smile at his own reaction.
Sammy is an adult, and Rex knows he doesn’t want to be defined by his sexuality. Still, he’s extremely embarrassed that he stumbled upon such an intimate situation.
On the checked sofa the man with long grey hair has tucked his hand under the younger man’s T-shirt.
Rex needs to go home and get some sleep. He waits a few seconds, wipes his mouth, then heads towards the bathroom again.
‘Sammy?’ Rex calls out before he gets there. ‘Are you in there?’
Something topples over in the bathroom, clattering against the sink. He waits a few seconds before calling his son’s name again.
Shortly after that the door opens and Sammy comes out, dressed in a pair of tight jeans and an unbuttoned floral shirt. He’s leaning against the wall with one hand. His eyelids are drooping, and his gaze is unfocused.
‘What are you doing here?’ he slurs.
‘You called me.’
Sammy looks up but doesn’t seem to understand what Rex is saying. His eyes are lined in kohl, and his pupils are dilated.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ the man in the bathroom calls out.
‘I’m coming, I just … just …’
Sammy loses his footing and almost falls.
‘We’re going home,’ Rex says.
‘I have to get back to Nico. He’ll get angry if—’
‘Talk to him tomorrow,’ Rex interrupts.
‘What? What did you say?’
‘I know you have your own life, I’m not trying to play at being your dad. I can give you money for a taxi if you want to stay,’ Rex says, trying to make his voice gentler.
‘I … I should probably get some sleep.’
Rex takes his jacket off and wraps it around his son’s shoulders. He starts to lead him out of the block of flats.
When they reach the street the sky is starting to brighten and the birds are singing loudly. Sammy is moving slowly. He’s alarmingly weak.
‘Can you stay on your feet while I call a taxi?’ Rex asks.
His son nods and leans heavily against the wall. His face is extremely pale. He sticks his finger in his mouth and leans his head forward.
‘I … I’m …’
‘Can’t we just try to get through these three weeks together?’ Rex suggests.
‘What?’
Sammy swallows, sticks his finger in his mouth again and looks like he’s about to throw up.
‘What’s going on, Sammy?’
His son looks up, breathing in laboriously. His eyes roll back and he collapses on the pavement, hitting his head against an electricity box.
‘Sammy!’ Rex yells, and tries to help him up.
The boy’s head is bleeding and his eyes are swimming behind half-closed eyelids.
‘Look at me!’ Rex shouts, but his son is unresponsive. His body is completely limp.
Rex puts him down
again and listens to his chest. His heart is beating fast, but his breathing is far too slow.
‘Fuck,’ Rex mutters as he fumbles for his phone.
His hands are shaking as he tries to call an ambulance.
‘Don’t die, you can’t die,’ he whispers as the call goes through.
20
His mobile phone rings, making Rex jump so hard that his arm jerks and he hits his hand against the back of the couch. He stands up and wipes his mouth. The sky outside the hospital window is as pale as parchment. He must have dozed off.
He isn’t sure how many times they pumped Sammy’s stomach. Over and over again they poured water through a tube down his throat, and sucked it out again using a huge syringe. Sammy kept flailing his arms weakly in an attempt to remove the tube, and whimpered as the remains of the red wine and pills poured out of him.
Rex’s mobile phone is still ringing, and when he picks the jacket up his phone slips out of the pocket and bounces onto the floor.
He crawls after it and answers on all fours:
‘Hello?’ he whispers.
‘Please, Rex,’ the programme’s producer says, sounding stressed and angry. ‘Tell me you’re sitting in a taxi.’
‘It hasn’t arrived yet,’ Rex manages to say.
It’s Sunday. He cooks live on TV4 every Sunday. He can’t possibly have missed it, but he has no idea what time it is.
The lino floor and electric lights fade into darkness as Rex stands up. Leaning against the couch, he tries to explain that he wants a picture of the raw ingredients on the Barco wall, and a close-up when he stir-fries the shrimp.
‘You should be in make-up right now,’ the producer says.
‘I know,’ Rex agrees. ‘But what can I do if the taxi doesn’t show up?’
‘Call another taxi,’ she sighs, and hangs up.
A nurse gives him an inscrutable look as she passes him in the hallway. Rex leans against the wall, looks at his phone to see what time it is, then calls a taxi.
He thinks about the look on Sammy’s face when he drank the charcoal solution that breaks down toxic substances in the intestines. Rex sat with him, wiping his clammy forehead with a damp towel, telling him the whole time that everything would be OK. Around six o’clock in the morning they put Sammy on a drip, tucked him into bed, and assured Rex that he was out of danger. He went and sat down on a couch in the hallway so that he’d hear Sammy if he called for him.
He woke up forty minutes later when his phone rang.
Rex walks quickly to the door and looks in at his son, who’s still fast asleep. His make-up has washed off, and his face is very pale. The bandage over the cannula in his arm has folded over. The tube and the half-full infusion bag are glinting in the morning sun. His stomach is rising and falling with his breathing.
Rex jogs to the lifts and presses the green button as the purchasing manager of the TV4 group calls.
‘I’m sitting in the taxi now,’ he replies, just as the lift machinery whirrs into action.
‘Should I be worried?’ Sylvia Lund says.
‘No need – they just got their bookings mixed up.’
‘You were due in make-up twenty minutes ago,’ she says warily.
‘I’m coming. I’m on my way now. We’re already on Valhallavägen.’
He leans his forehead against the mirror and feels jagged exhaustion catch up with him.
The taxi is waiting outside the entrance to the emergency department. Rex gets in the back seat and closes his eyes. He tries to have a quick nap during the short drive, but can’t stop thinking about what’s happened. He’s going to have to call Sammy’s mother, Veronica.
As Rex understands it, Sammy will be referred to a psychologist, who will evaluate him for signs of substance abuse and suicidal tendencies.
The car turns and pulls up in front of the TV4 building. Rex pays, not bothering to wait for a receipt. He hurries in through the glass door.
Sylvia hurries over to him. Her face is neatly made-up, her hair blow-dried so that it curls in towards her neck and jawline.
‘You haven’t shaved,’ she says.
‘Haven’t I? I forgot,’ he lies, feeling his chin.
‘Let me look at you.’
She studies his crumpled jacket, messy hair and bloodshot eyes.
‘You’re hungover,’ she says. ‘This can’t be happening.’
‘Leave it, I can handle this,’ Rex says tersely.
‘Breathe on me,’ she snaps.
‘No,’ he says with a smile.
‘You may be having a hard time, but that won’t make any difference … TV4 will walk away from their contract with you if you make a fool of yourself again.’
‘Yes, so you said.’
‘I’m not letting you into that studio unless you breathe on me.’
Rex blushes as he breathes into his boss’s face, looks her in the eye and then walks away.
A young woman comes running over to hold the door open for Rex and Sylvia.
‘We’ve still got time,’ she says breathlessly.
Rex starts walking towards the dressing rooms, but feels sick on the steep metal steps. He has to stop and cling onto the handrail before moving on.
He passes the green room where this week’s guests are waiting and quickly goes into his dressing room. He hurries over to the sink and rinses his face and mouth with cold water, spits and then wipes himself with a paper towel.
His hands shake as he changes into his pressed suit, then the chef apron.
The young woman is waiting in the hallway and follows him as he half-runs towards make-up.
He sits down on the chair in front of the mirror and tries to get a grip on his stress by watching the news. One make-up assistant shaves him and a second blends two types of foundation on a palette.
At regular intervals the presenters announce that ‘superstar chef Rex will be here soon to share some of his best hangover tips’.
‘I didn’t get any sleep last night,’ he manages to say.
‘That’s OK, we can fix that,’ one of the make-up assistants assures him, holding a damp sponge to his swollen eyes.
He thinks about when Sammy was little and said his first words. It was a frosty autumn day, and his son was playing in the sandpit when he suddenly looked up, patted the ground beside him, and said ‘Daddy sit’.
He never wanted children. Veronica’s pregnancy wasn’t planned. All he wanted was to drink, cook and fuck.
The make-up artist runs her fingers through his hair one last time to get it to lie flat.
‘Why are people so crazy about chefs?’ she asks rhetorically.
He just laughs, thanks her for making him look human again, and hurries off to the studio.
21
The soundproof door closes behind Rex. He creeps into the studio and sees that the host, Mia Edwards, is sitting on the sofa talking to a writer with pink hair.
Rex steps carefully over the cables and takes his place in the kitchen on one side of the group of sofas. A sound technician fixes his microphone while he checks that all the ingredients for his pasta dish are in place, that the water is simmering and the butter is melted.
He watches the large monitor as the author being interviewed laughs and throws her hands up. The ticker along the bottom of the screen talks about growing criticism of the UN Security Council.
‘Are you hungry?’ Mia asks the author after getting a prompt through her earpiece. ‘I hope so, because today Rex has prepared something extra special.’
The lights come up and as the black lenses of the cameras swing towards him he’s drizzling oil into the beaten-copper pan.
Rex increases the heat of the gas burner, starts picking basil leaves from a large pot, and smiles straight into the camera:
‘Some of you may be feeling a little worse for wear today … so this morning we’re focusing on the perfect hangover food. Tagliatelle with fried shrimp, melted butter and garlic, red peppers, olive oil and fresh herbs. Imagine a
really lazy morning … waking up next to someone you hopefully recognise … and maybe you don’t really want to remember what happened last night, because all you need right now is food.’
‘Forget all about dieting,’ Mia says expectantly.
‘But only for this morning,’ Rex chuckles, and runs his hand through his hair, messing it up. ‘It’s worth it though, I promise.’
‘We believe you, Rex.’
Mia comes over and watches as he chops a chilli pepper and garlic with lightning-fast flicks of the knife.
‘Take extra care if you’re feeling fragile …’
‘I can do that just as fast,’ Mia jokes.
‘Let’s see!’
He throws the knife in the air, and it spins twice before he catches it again and puts it down next to the chopping board.
‘No,’ she laughs.
‘My ex always called me a schmuck … I’m still not quite sure what she meant,’ he grins, and stirs the deep-rimmed frying pan.
‘So you’ve dried the shrimp on paper towels?’
‘And because they’re not pre-cooked, you may need to add a little more salt than usual,’ Rex says as he lowers the fresh pasta into the simmering water.
Through the cloud of steam his eyes take in the latest news on the ticker at the bottom of the monitor: Swedish Foreign Minister William Fock has died after a short illness.
His stomach lurches with angst and his head suddenly goes empty. He forgets where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing.
‘You can get organic shrimp these days, can’t you?’ Mia asks.
He looks at her and nods, without actually understanding what she’s saying. His hands are shaking as he picks up the tea-towel from the counter. He dabs slowly at his forehead so as not to spoil the make-up.
It’s a live broadcast. Rex knows he has to get through this, but all he can think about is what he did three weeks ago.
This can’t be true.
He holds onto the edge of the counter with one hand as he feels sweat trickling between his shoulder-blades.
‘In the past you’ve talked about saving some of the pasta water to pour on the cooked pasta afterwards if you want to cut down on the amount of oil,’ Mia says.