Slugger

by Martin Holmén

  I have wanted to get stuck into you for years, you bastard.

  Everybody has a wicked streak inside them. On seeing a cat playing with a vole, most people will stop and stare awhile, aroused by the cat’s cruelty. Nobody holds it against the cat; it’s animal instinct. Brutality both seduces and upsets. Otherwise why had folk paid hard-earned cash to watch me beat another man half to death? When that brick was thrown through Herzog’s window, and later when I gave that pimp a thorough seeing-to in the square, the public emerged from the shadows. It was even worse at the National Socialist rally in the square. The average man loves blood, even if it is best kept at a distance, on a movie screen or in the pages of a book.

  The power station of a man turns his body to follow his head and is soon nearly facing me.

  My fist draws its force from the hip and ploughs through the muggy July evening air. A breeze finds its way into my shirtsleeve and wraps my sweaty flesh in coolness. My forearm is positioned at an angle to my upper arm with my wrist dead straight. Rickardsson’s eyes enlarge; a bizarre little peep manages to escape from his thick lips; the corner of my mouth twitches. Just then, the jazz boy can’t keep up the tempo and slips on the valves. Accompanied by a shrill, unholy note, my left smashes into Rickardsson’s powerful chin. A thick string of snuff-mixed saliva whips out of his gob and gleams down to the dusty pavement. The gangster tumbles onto his back, the trumpet dies and everything goes very quiet.

  For one second I think I can hear the stone heart beating in my hand.

  The unica box containing ammunition and a jar of gun oil rattles when I shake it. I put a cigar in my mouth, open the lid and take out a single shell. I am sitting in the armchair at my oak writing desk and humming the occultist’s jazz ditty. I roll the shell between my fingers.

  It only takes one bullet to get the job done.

  If that.

  I have thrown my sweaty shirt into the corner and am sitting in my singlet. A gentle breeze billows through the thin curtains and cools my clammy neck. Rickardsson weighs as much as two men and my muscles are aching from my neck to my calves. The final heave to get the bastard on the writing desk was almost more than I could handle.

  ‘Lucky there’s schnapps for strength and spunk.’

  I flick open his wallet in one movement. I rummage through the contents, take out eighty kronor in cash and a photograph. The notes rustle as I shove them in my pocket.

  The portrait shows a wrinkly old dear with staring eyes and a high-buttoned dress. I turn it over. A single word in curling letters: ‘Mum’. I chuckle.

  Rickardsson sighs. I have bent him over my oak writing desk with his chest and stomach against the wood and his arse in the air. His face is in front of me. I have lashed his hands to the table legs with a pair of hemp-rope ends and a couple of brutal knots. No chance that he will get free. I insert the barrel of the Husqvarna into his mouth.

  ‘Time to wake up.’

  A fly sits on Rickardsson’s well-shaven cheek. He blinks twice and it buzzes away. I push the end of the pistol as far as it will go to encourage him to come round. He makes a few half-choked noises.

  There is something special about making a man fellate the barrel of a gun.

  I have always liked it.

  ‘Was it you who visited Katarina with the Reaper?’

  Rickardsson’s physique is inconsistent with the Bumpkin’s testimony that referred to two men on the thin side, but it fits with the police statement in the newspaper. I remove the barrel. The shiny black steel glints. He coughs. A few slimy strings tremble from his fat lips. He raises his blood-filled head. How fitting. I bring the gun to his forehead and cock it with my thumb.

  ‘Was it you who nailed Gabrielsson to the floor?’

  Rickardsson’s red face looks about ready to explode. He presses his lips together and breathes heavily. I take a deep puff on my cigar and blow the smoke in his face.

  I pull the trigger.

  The Husqvarna clicks. Rickardsson comes to. I hold the shell up in front of him, feed the magazine and press the muzzle against his forehead.

  ‘What days and times do Ploman and the Reaper drive shipments to Söder?’

  ‘Leave me somewhere I’ll be found.’

  Rickardsson’s voice is heavy: breathless and sombre. He spits the rest of his pinch of snuff out onto the linoleum floor.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Leave me somewhere my body will be found. And don’t let Ploman take care of Anna and the kids.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Oskar, my boy, has an apprenticeship waiting at the manufacturer Enquist. Make sure it works out.’

  ‘How in the hell would I do that?’

  ‘Kvisten owes me that much.’

  ‘I am not planning on killing you.’

  ‘Bollocks. You know what will happen if you let me go.’

  The occultist slams his door above us and runs down the stairs. I recognise his steps. He is probably going out on the town. I knock the steel against Rickardsson’s forehead.

  ‘You are going to tell me what you know.’

  ‘It’s no use. Just get it over with.’

  I ease down the hammer with my thumb and put the Husqvarna on the desk. I give Rickardsson a loud smack. I hold a threatening forefinger in front of him and lower my voice.

  ‘I’m going to go at Rickardsson so hard that he won’t have any choice.’

  The armchair scrapes against the floor. I walk around the desk and into the kitchen, then return with the straight razor, paddle strop and vanity mirror. I sit back down in the chair. Soon the room fills with the rhythmic scraping of steel against strop.

  ‘They say that Ploman took a shine to a whore he won in a poker game. And now she rarely leaves his side. Someone cut out her tongue to stop her blabbing. According to rumour you were the one who held the knife.’ I put down the strop, grab hold of Rickardsson’s face and squeeze my fingers so hard against his cheeks that it forces his mouth open. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  A helpless bestial whine escapes his mouth. I test the razor’s edge with my thumb and then caress its flat side against his cheek, from ear to upper lip.

  ‘I won’t be so kind.’

  I put the razor down, pull off one of my socks and force it into his mouth. I take the white-striped tie hanging over the back of the armchair, hook it in the corners of Rickardsson’s mouth and knot it hard around the back of his neck.

  ‘We have the whole evening ahead of us. Tough blokes call for tough measures, wouldn’t you say?’

  I place the vanity mirror in the armchair and angle the mirror towards him. I lean the portrait of his mother against the glass of the mirror.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready to talk you just need to look over at mummy dearest. And Rickardsson isn’t going to want to let slip a damn word about this evening to anyone. That I am sure of.’

  I close the window, secure the hasp and pull down the blind.

  With razor in hand I go around the table. My fingers close hard around the mother-of-pearl shaft. My hand is trembling with excitement. I test the edge again with my thumb.

  ‘Sharp enough to castrate piggies. Boars too, if you had to.’

  Rickardsson stops breathing. Then he starts again, intensely, through his nose.

  ‘There is a rumour in this town that I have lost my spark. That I have changed.’ I laugh shortly. ‘Have I, fuck.’

  I drag the knife up slowly along his inner thigh. It sounds like a caress as it scrapes against the fabric. When I get all the way up I turn my hand and let the back of the razor stroke his groin painstakingly slowly. Rickardsson freezes still and stops breathing again.

  I angle the blade between Rickardsson’s belt and clothing, and quickly slice off the belt. In one movement I pull both his trousers and underpants down to his knees.

  I back up a step to inspect the goods. Rickardsson’s muscular thighs and buttocks look genuinely appealing. It must be all that walking.

&n
bsp; With my head cocked to one side I start humming the occultist’s melody again. Rickardsson pulls at his ropes so hard that the whole mighty oak desk shakes. His seed-bag dangles, plump and inviting, between his thighs. A robust man, as I said. I drag the flat side of the knife over his hairy scrotum.

  ‘I think Rickardsson needs to shave a little down here.’ I snort. ‘Neck and chin, and the fucking balls to boot.’

  I go to the windowsill, fetch the half-full litre of Östgöta Sädes and take a swig directly from the bottle on the way back. I put the bottle down on the desk, followed by the razor, and I undo my trousers.

  ‘Now we are going to commit some proper sins, so that Our Saviour didn’t die on the cross for nothing.’ I drop my trousers and underpants to the floor. ‘It’s been months since I last had a man.’

  I spank Rickardsson’s backside with a crack. I tentatively squeeze one buttock. He is stock-still and trying to get out some strangled words. Bit late for that. I clear my throat deeply and drop a glob of spit between his buttocks.

  ‘Has Rickardsson heard the story about the bull that refused to mount heifers? The baffled farm boys presented him with one after another, each prettier than the last. He wouldn’t even look at them. Then the head farmer came up with the idea that they should try to cover one of the heifers with mud. The bloody bull immediately came running. And the farmer invited all the farm boys to three drams each, which was spoken about in the parish long after.’ I laugh. ‘Or it might have been a stallion.’ I clear my throat. ‘In which case it would be mares, of course.’

  Out in the courtyard a blackbird is singing with a sort of rippling joy in its song. The dusky half-light shimmers through a fold in the tattered blinds.

  ‘No fucking idea what I am trying to say with that. Maybe that birds of a feather flock together.’ I spank his buttock so hard it sets the whole thing aquiver. ‘You’re going to feel this. The body heals quickly, but the memory will lodge for ever like a rift in your soul.’

  Rickardsson is a tad shorter than me and I have to bend a little at the knee. I pull his shirt up high. He has a tuft of black hair in the curve of his back. The strands tickle my palm as I stroke my hand over it carefully. It is as soft as the stuffed hummingbird on the windowsill.

  All I brought back from Buenos Aires was Gabrielsson’s friendship, that little bird, a coconut and gonorrhoea. I hope I don’t have the same bad luck now.

  I cup Rickardsson’s balls with my left hand and drive my cock decisively towards his arsehole. I look him in the eye in the mirror. His eyes are veiled in hatred and redness is spreading across his cheeks. I smile, grasp tightly around his nuts and pull him closer to me.

  ‘Kvisten, Rickardsson. Rickardsson, Kvisten. A pleasure.’

  My voice is as thick as porridge. I feel his considerable body shivering under my hands, and I press down. I swallow hard.

  ‘Isn’t this what it’s like for her? Ploman’s whore? Silent but forced to open her legs when required?’

  I prepare to ram my cock inside him. I hear a thin snort as I slide in a couple of centimetres. He curves his back slightly in a barely noticeable movement. In the mirror I see him close his eyes. His nostrils flare, sending his breaths as shudders through his flesh.

  I let go of his balls and slip my hands between the desk and his thighs. He is rock hard. I lean forward over him and smell his scent of Aquavera and snuff. I loosen his gag and pull the sock out of his mouth.

  Tough blokes like it rough.

  I tear the gag off with my front teeth, turn his face towards me and kiss him deeply. With a drip of blood running down my chin, I whisper in his ear.

  ‘Oh, you fucker.’ I reach for the jar of gun oil. ‘So this is why you have been watching me all these years.’

  TUESDAY 21 JULY

  I hold a cigar in one hand and Rickardsson tight against me with the other. Every millimetre gap between our bodies is sealed with sweat. As I take a puff the glowing tip illuminates our flesh: shiny, bloody, languid and aching after the act. The bed springs creak as he moves and caresses my chest with his hands. Here, shrouded in darkness, we have no secrets.

  ‘Foul play then?’

  I bend my arm to reach his hair to stroke it.

  ‘Like hell.’

  That knock I gave Rickardsson in the jaw earlier in the evening is making him slur his words. He traces the inky outline of the full-rigger on my chest with his forefinger.

  ‘The Reaper?’

  ‘We’ve worked together for twenty-five years. Shared Ploman’s cut fairly. Now all those years aren’t worth an öre.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  My heart leaps. Out on the street a handcart rumbles past. The bed squeaks as Rickardsson swings his shaggy legs over the edge. He picks up the bottle from the floor, knocks back a mouthful and wipes his plump lips with the back of his hand.

  ‘How the fuck did this happen?’

  I fill my lungs with smoke once more. He looks slumped, a little deflated and even more naked than he is, if that’s possible. This great big bloke, vulnerable as a baby bird. His oiled hair has fallen forward and he brushes it away from his eyes. The light of the burning cigar highlights two wide white scars on his fuzzy back. One peeks out from between his two lower ribs, the other runs along his spine, about ten centimetres long from the base of his neck downward. Close call, both times.

  A robust man, as I said.

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Liquor?’ he shrugs his shoulders and blows through his lips. ‘I don’t fucking know. I think they’re doing deals under the table with the Söder boys.’

  He reaches for the ashtray and spits in it. Maybe his mouth is coated in the taste of me like a greasy film.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Ploman and the Reaper drive there a couple of times a week with a van and come back a few hours later.’

  ‘Maybe Rickardsson can tag along on the next pick-up?’

  ‘I would never come back. I know how it goes. I know how a story like this begins, and how it ends up. First they shut me out, soon I’ll be for the chop, whatever I do.’

  ‘I can help.’

  ‘Lord knows I was under no illusions as to how this life would end. I’ve been putting something away every week for Anna and the kids. No idea if it’ll be enough though. How in hell did it come to this?’

  Rickardsson gets to his feet and punches his right fist into his left palm with a smack that resounds between the walls. He stomps hastily to the window, and back and then stops and stands in front of me in all his glory. His eyes burn with rage in the dim light. I feel my muscles contract as if before a fight, but I remain still. He brandishes his finger in front of me, which pleases me somehow. He continues with a tremulous voice.

  ‘What the fuck choice do people born into poverty have? What obligation do us poor bastards have to follow the law? We are stamped down by the educated class, morality is imposed on us and the only thing the damned police are good for is hounding the weak and protecting the rich. And how in the hell is a man supposed to get a real job to support himself honestly when his reputation is blemished by prison sentences?’

  ‘Calm down.’

  My voice is still, but inside I am trembling. I don’t know why. It is not from fear, not after what we just shared. I take a puff, trying to dispel the feeling with smoke.

  The springs complain when Rickardsson slumps on the edge of the bed again. He is staring straight ahead but gropes along my forearm and grips his fingers tight around my wrist. He slides his jaw from side to side to stretch out his swollen mouth.

  ‘Those bastards violate you in every possible way. Throw you behind bars, keep you tethered like a fucking animal, shave your hair so closely you can see the scars on your scalp and cudgel you bloody. Have they ever put you in the isolation cages, in the dark?’

  ‘Too damned right.’

  I sink my head into the pillow. It is filled with real down, not sawdust like in the cells of Långholmen.

  ‘You hav
e to fight the rats day and night for your corn gruel and it’s as black as a chimney sweep’s arsehole.’

  ‘Those were the days.’

  ‘And then comes the prison chaplain preaching that one can have inner riches in the midst of suffering.’

  I flinch at his words. I have been listening as though spellbound for half a minute, but now I am reminded of the reason we ended up here in the first place: Gabrielsson. Rickardsson turns to me.

  ‘Instead violence grows inside you like brushwood. Thorny and miserable. They twist injustice into justice. You start to look at life in a different way. Kvisten understands what I mean.’

  ‘I sure do.’

  He nods.

  ‘We are cut from the same fucking cloth, Kvist and I.’ He combs his thick fingers through his hair and sighs. ‘Take a young man scarred by poverty, anyone at all, treat him like that and see what happens. Most go to pot, but those of us who survive are not to be messed with.’ He wipes his mouth again with his wrist. In the corner of his mouth a little blood remains. He sighs. ‘Maybe it’s no excuse.’

  Rickardsson leans forward again and his fringe falls back over his forehead. He fumbles for my hand but takes hold of my wrist instead.

  ‘Probably all over now in any case,’ he mumbles. ‘The end of the line.’

  ‘Like I said, I think I can help Rickardsson.’

  ‘No point. What would you do?’

  ‘Tail the van and see where they go. At least then you’d know what’s going on. Maybe you could give me something? Just the day and time is enough.’

  I hold my breath. Rickardsson stares at me for a moment. The grip around my arm tightens, cutting off the blood flow, making my hand throb and my little finger stump ache before he releases it. The scar along his spine stretches as he bends forward and roots around among the clothes on the floor. I take a few deep puffs on my cigar, and his gold pocket watch glints in its glow. The case clicks open.

  ‘Tonight. In fifty minutes.’

  *