by Stefan Spjut
After saying this she turned round and barked:
‘Torbjörn!’
This time he looked up.
‘Where does she live then?’ he said quickly.
‘Who?’ asked Gudrun.
‘Magnus’s mum.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, resting her hands on the steering wheel. ‘We’ll just have to find out. Didn’t Barbro say she lived on one of the Mälaren islands? It can’t be far away.’
‘If she’s still there,’ Susso said, leaning back against the headrest.
‘Torbjörn,’ Gudrun said, ‘find the number.’
‘So we’re going to phone this time?’ asked Susso.
‘Yes, I think so. This is different.’
‘Three Mona Brodins,’ said Torbjörn after a while. ‘One in Askim, one in Sundbyberg and one in Svartsjö.’
‘Askim is to the south,’ Gudrun said. ‘Did you say Svartsjö?’
‘Svartsjö, yes. It’s got a Stockholm code.’
‘Then that’s probably the one.’
‘You can ring,’ Susso said.
‘It’s so close,’ Gudrun said, moving the gear lever to check it was in neutral. ‘We might as well go there.’
Its eyes shone like small peppercorns and its mouth was wide open, giving the little face a nervously curious look. Did the creature know what to expect? Seved felt the occasional movement of the tail against his hand. It was like being stroked, and there was something almost beseeching about it.
He tried to summon up the liberating feeling of disgust that had filled him when he had stamped that evil creature in the sleeping bag to death, but he did not succeed and for a few seconds he almost let the thing go. He opened his fingers slowly, thinking how tiny it looked. But then he checked himself and squeezed his hand shut again. The very fact that he felt that way could only mean that the thing had wormed its way into his consciousness to weaken him.
Shocked by this realisation, Seved walked over to the sink. He had to do it straight away. He scraped out the strands of spaghetti forming a slippery border around the plughole, pushed in the plug and turned on the tap. While the sink was filling with water he glanced at the creature. It was looking in curiosity at the running water. He turned off the tap. It had to be done faster. If the being possessed even a fraction of the persuasive power the other one had shown, it would probably resist in a way he could never imagine. And the smallest ones could be dangerous if they were caught in a tight situation. On one occasion Ejvor had been almost blinded in one eye after sitting on a mouseshifter that was sleeping underneath a cushion on the sofa. Her sight returned after a week or so but she had blurred vision in that eye for the rest of her life.
He considered hurling the thing onto the stone slab in front of the stove. It was so tempting that he actually walked over there and lifted his hand, but there was no certainty it would die or even be knocked unconscious, giving him the opportunity to stamp it to death. Especially if he missed the stone slab, which he might well do if he threw it as hard as he could.
He had no idea how much the little thing suspected, so he dared not loosen his grip and change hands because then it might seize its chance and wriggle free. Neither did he want to squeeze it to death in his hand. That would be messy and take too long.
It had to happen quickly. Without warning.
He pushed a chair aside and crouched down beside the kitchen table, pretending to look for something on the floor. When the creature began to show an interest in what he was doing, he slammed its protruding head against the underside of the table with all his strength. A glass fell over and there was a clatter as the cutlery jumped on the plates.
The little body seemed to crumple up in his hand. The blow had pushed it down and only a greyish-brown flap showed above his clenched fist. He saw no signs of life so he opened his hand a little. Immediately there was a jerking movement, and Seved wrapped his left hand around his right to tighten his hold.
He had not hit it hard enough, but the thing had probably made itself smaller. It had turned into a forest mouse, and he stared it straight in the eyes.
At least now they understood each other.
There was no going back. If the mouse slipped out of his grasp, he would never catch it and it would be only a matter of time before Skabram came lumbering across the yard. There were plenty of places where the mouse could hide in the cracks between the skirting board and the cork flooring, and around the stove, so it was pointless shutting the door to the hall. But he did anyway.
There was a knife in the sink, so he picked it up. It had a serrated edge and a black plastic handle. He was pretty sure the little being could no longer influence him. Generally forest shifters lost their persuasive powers when they shifted shape into animals. Still, he wanted it done as soon as possible.
A high-pitched wail escaped from its mouth as Seved pressed the mouse’s head against the edge of the draining board, and one paw with outspread claws scratched desperately at the zinc surface. He raised the knife, but he could not use it. He could not bring himself to do it.
The boiler room. He would have to go down to the boiler room. Why had he not thought of that earlier?
His footsteps echoing with determination, Seved went into the hall and put on his boots. Then he ran outside and down the snow-covered concrete stairs to the cellar. When he pushed open the door he could hear the boiler burning at full force. Börje must have loaded more logs into it a short while ago. The ceiling was low, so he walked with his head bent towards the heat of the boiler.
He opened the iron lid and raised his hand to drop the mouse into the fire. He was not entirely sure what happened next. He threw, he knew that, but somehow the mouse did not leave his hand. Instead it shot up his sleeve and from there jumped down to the floor. In his haste to get the killing over with as quickly as possible Seved had not bothered to close the cellar door behind him, and he watched as the little creature ran over the high threshold and was gone.
Susso had pulled out the yellowing newspaper articles and spread them over the envelope to get them in order.
Gudrun gave her a quick glance.
‘The fact that the squirrel exists and is sitting here in our car after all these years suggests that what Esther told Sven was true. It doesn’t prove it but it suggests it. Doesn’t it? In which case there is no reason to doubt Magnus’s mother when she says a giant came out of the forest and took her child.’
‘I want to know what happened to the Vaikijaur man,’ Susso said. ‘I mean, that’s why we came down here. It was for Mattias’s sake. I don’t actually care about Magnus. That was twenty-five years ago.’
‘But it could be the same kidnapper.’
Susso sighed and pulled off her hat.
‘Are you sure Dahllöf’s daughter doesn’t know something else? Something she’s not telling us?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘But he can’t have just disappeared!’
‘What do you mean?’
Susso thumped her thigh with the side of her hand.
‘Where did he go after he ran out onto Björkudden?’
‘I don’t know. But perhaps the squirrel does. Or Mona?’
They had driven out of the city. The sky had sunk lower and sleet was striking the windscreen. In the ditches framing the farmland, rushes had sprung up in tight clumps and Susso thought it was weird seeing rushes growing like that in the middle of a field. She looked down at the mosaic of newspaper articles on her lap but had little desire to read them, and soon her eyes returned to the window. A feeling of nausea was building up inside her.
‘Phone Cecilia again,’ Gudrun said, pressing one nostril closed with a knuckle and blowing air out of the other one.
‘I’m sure she’s all right,’ Susso said weakly.
‘But why doesn’t she answer then?’
‘There are probably lots of customers. Maybe she hasn’t got time.’
‘She always answers her mobile.’
�
��Can you stop for a minute . . .’
Gudrun glanced at her and then took a second look. Immediately she slowed down and swung into a lay-by.
Susso gathered together the cuttings, pushed the envelope behind the briefcase, opened the door and climbed out. She filled her lungs with fresh, damp air. They had just driven across a bridge. There was open country on all sides and the pine forest was keeping its distance like a dark, watchful army. In the withered and flattened grass on the roadside lay a cracked hubcap, and an angelica plant looking like a charred spire had snared a plastic bag that was rustling in the wind.
Torbjörn also got out but he left the squirrel in the car. He zipped up his hooded sweatshirt and looked at her, his eyes narrowed in the wind.
‘Not feeling so good?’ he asked.
Susso shook her head and stepped aside to avoid being splashed by a large white car that roared past them.
‘I don’t know what it is.’
‘Do you think it’s the squirrel? Because I don’t feel too good either.’
‘Don’t you?’
He shook his head as he swallowed. Then he leaned forwards and spat on the tarmac. Susso opened the car door and bent in to ask her mother if she was also feeling ill, but Gudrun was talking on the phone, and judging from her sharp, animated voice it was not a good time to interrupt her. No doubt she had got hold of Cecilia and had one or two things to tell her.
‘I felt like this the night I was followed in the park, and when we were out with the snowmobile at Holmajärvi, right before those guys leapt on us. I thought it was a migraine or something.’
‘You never told me.’
‘I didn’t know what it was, did I?’
Torbjörn took out his snus tin. He twisted off the lid, took out a pouch and lifted his upper lip in preparation, but then he stopped. A thought had occurred to him and he stood for a moment, holding the snus before finally inserting it in his mouth.
‘The bat,’ he said.
‘Oh yes,’ Susso said. ‘That makes sense. But where did it come from?’
Torbjörn looked at her.
‘Have you still got the film you took?’
He started hunting for his phone as the car door slammed. Gudrun came running round the bonnet of the car. She was holding the collar of her down jacket together to keep out the cold wind.
‘The shop has been closed all day and Ella hasn’t been to nursery! And Tommy hasn’t been able to get hold of Cecilia either.’
‘Do you feel ill?’ asked Susso.
‘Tommy’s going round to her place now,’ Gudrun said, and held up the phone as if to double check it was not ringing. ‘Oh God, think if something’s happened? And what about Ella!’
Susso folded her arms.
‘She’s probably just not well.’
‘But why isn’t she answering her phone!’
‘What about you? How are you feeling?’
‘Well, I’m worried of course!’
‘Yes, but how are you? Have you got a headache? Do you feel sick? Because both me and Torbjörn feel ill, and we think it’s because of the squirrel.’
‘Oh yes, blame the squirrel. You’ve both just got hangovers.’
‘Do you remember I asked you if you had ever had a migraine?’ Susso said. ‘After I had been followed in the park? This is something similar, and Torbjörn feels it too.’
‘That’s not so strange,’ said Gudrun, ‘if it’s true what Torbjörn says about the squirrel talking inside his head.’
‘He doesn’t talk exactly . . .’
‘Communicate then.’
‘But haven’t you noticed anything?’ asked Susso. ‘That it hurts?’
Gudrun shook her head.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said, turning out of the wind. ‘Maybe a little. It’s hard to say what’s causing it, after everything that has happened. It gives me a headache just thinking of everything Barbro told us, and that the squirrel, that squirrel in our car, is supposed to be the same one John Bauer brought back with him from Lapland a hundred years ago.’
She took out her lip balm and rubbed it over her lips.
‘It’s not easy to take it all in. So of course my head aches.’
At first Seved thought it was the boy standing at the top of the steps, short and with narrow, sloping shoulders, legs pressed tight together. Then he saw the ancient face like a pale speck in the hood’s opening. The sharp yellow eyes.
Seved stopped momentarily and then backed up and almost tripped over the threshold. He knew only too well what was being held in the hand hidden in the sleeve of the anorak and pressed up against the old man’s chest. Now he was in trouble.
The old man stared at him. His grey lips were parted and the canine teeth of his lower jaw pointed upwards like two spikes. They looked worn. Between them protruded the tip of his tongue. He was wearing canvas shoes and he placed the old battered soles carefully in the snow that lay thick on the flight of steps.
‘What do you want?’ asked Seved from inside the gloom of the boiler room, where he had taken refuge. He tried to sound harsh but his fear of the foxshifter had a stranglehold on his vocal cords.
‘Flee. You must flee.’
The cracked voice sounded so strange that it was impossible to tell if this was an accusation or an order. He had heard the forest folk talk, listened to their squeaky chattering, but it was only a lot of nonsense. Bits of words he hardly understood. But this was directed at him.
‘You flee. And then he will destroy. He will tear down.’
The words had been spoken inside Seved’s head and nowhere else, and that frightened him. He had never experienced forest folk talking like this before. The old man drilled deeper and deeper inside him, and he had nowhere to run.
‘Kills. He kills.’
Seved backed up until his shoulder came up against the enamelled curve of the hot-water tank. He could go no further in the cluttered cellar.
The old foxshifter had come to a halt. He was standing motionless in the doorway, watching him. His tail had found its way out of the long jacket and was moving freely and furtively behind his legs. It was not red exactly, more a grey colour, but the tip was as white as if he had dipped it in a pot of paint.
‘But we’re not running away.’
‘You flee. And he kills.’
Not until then did it occur to Seved that the old man might not have come to hurt him, or even rebuke him. If that was the case, he would have done it already. Instead it seemed as if he was trying to help. But it could be some kind of mischief. Skabram could have sent him.
‘Then what shall we do?’ he mumbled.
There was no answer. The old man had shuffled up to the boiler. He tilted his head to one side and knocked on the green-painted casing as if to test it, whispering something only the forest mouse could hear. It had dug its claws into the old man’s shoulder and was hanging on, its tail dangling like a hook, and it was also looking at the boiler.
‘There’s burning.’
Seved took a step sideways. He was not thinking of escaping exactly but he wanted to be in a position to do so if the old foxshifter turned nasty. He knew how cunning they could be.
‘See how it burns. When it burns.’
What did he mean?
‘See how the fire bites at your fur. Biting, biting.’
I was scared to death of meeting Mona Brodin. I imagined a wreck, a person eaten up with guilt and suppressed grief. She must have had to distance herself from all her memories to be able to go on—buried them, more or less like Jerring had done. In one way it was surprising she was still alive. If it was true she had been abusing prescription drugs at the time of her son’s disappearance, then it was not difficult to work out how she would have chosen to deal with his loss and the doubt in her own mind about what she had experienced.
What happens to you if you can no longer trust your own eyes? Dad had asked that question often, but at least he had his camera with him. What had Mona Brodin had? What pr
oof did she have to challenge the disbelief she faced? The suspicions directed at her? With a burden like that there was only one thing to do, and that was to betray herself and try to create someone new.
How would she react when we appeared and raked it all up again?
However, my fear of meeting Mona Brodin was put aside when I found out the shop had been closed all day. Instead I sat there trying to work out what could have happened to Cecilia. What if the people who had attacked Susso were not driven by a hatred for her but for our whole family? Maybe they thought we were all involved in the website—which in a way we were. I was on the point of calling the police in Kiruna to make them aware of that when I heard my mobile’s ring tone. It was Tommy, saying that Cecilia was at home watching a video with Ella and wanted to be left alone. She’d had all her hair cut off and Tommy thought she was unhappy about it and didn’t want to show herself in public. My relief was so great that I wasn’t at all nervous by the time we pulled up outside Mona Brodin’s house.
It looked neat and very ordinary: painted red wood panelling, black concrete roofing tiles and house plants on the windowsills. Behind a fence were apple trees with bird feeders, a small greenhouse and a vegetable garden. There were two cars, one big and one small, a guest cottage, a flagpole with a faded pennant catching the wind, and a couple of bird boxes on an oak tree on the slope leading to the edge of the pine woods.
A man wearing blue overalls came out of the cellar door and stared at us.
Torbjörn wondered if he should bring the squirrel.
‘I think we’ll save that for later,’ I said, and opened the door.
He greeted them by imperceptibly lifting his chin, and when Gudrun asked if Mona was home he walked slowly towards them on the gravel, wanting to know what it was about. He was in his fifties and had light-grey hair combed in a centre parting. He seemed more suspicious than hostile. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his fleece.