Slugger

by Martin Holmén

  There were a few years when I managed not to give a fuck about people and hold my head high, but Lord knows they got to me in the end. Time to turn it all around now.

  I know this feeling. I have been burdened with it for over half a year. It’s like the state of mind that comes from being arrested and locked up in a musty custody cell. At first you are occupied with tobacco cravings, but then you start thinking too much. Your nerves tangle together like a fucking skein of wool, and you spook yourself like a stallion. After a few days in custody you long for the connections and company of prison. Between push-ups and self-flagellation, you sit and listen to the hollow silence in your head, and wait. You resign yourself.

  ‘Never again. You hear what I said, you ugly fuck? Not another second at the hands of their brutality.’

  If my blood spills over these sun-warmed cobblestones in half an hour, at least I will die with dignity. Nobody can take that away from me. I agree with Ma on that point.

  My reflection dissolves in a heavy cloud of cigar smoke. I close my eyes and picture Ida again, as she looks now. Almost old enough to get married. It is impossible to fathom.

  I have been striving for this moment for fifteen years. I must admit that I have veered wrong countless times, and I have wasted my money on suits, schnapps and boy-whores, but I believe that was partially down to the loneliness inside me that I was trying to lance. A poor excuse, but now I have a chance to redeem myself.

  I think of the housekeeper, Evy Granér, who was willing to leave everything behind her to save her unborn child. I think about the sailor in Malaga who had the stupidity and the nerve to go into the ring against a circus bear. I think of all my victories inside the ropes. A verse I learnt as a child echoes in my ears. It sounds like a prayer.

  Sharpen up the knives,

  The farmers go to slaughter,

  Display the bloody shirts,

  Four fresh carcasses in the hall.

  The car door opens and shuts again behind me and I know it is time. I shove a cigar in my mouth, pull the elasticated strap off my wallet and take out the folded photograph.

  God only knows how something so pure and beautiful could have come from me. I hold up the picture, and tilt it back and forth, letting the evening sun play in the creases.

  We walk.

  We don’t speak.

  Not now.

  Nothing to say.

  Ma is pushing a wicker pram along Fridhemsgatan. One of the wheels needs oiling and is squeaking shrilly and rhythmically between the run-down façades. The sound sears through my consciousness, dragging images along with it: a copper with a crowbar, Gabrielsson’s corpse lying gaunt and ashen on the floor, the rail spikes with their nebulous bouquets of coagulated blood.

  The shotgun is poking out from under a blanket in the pram. The butt has been sawn off and taped up and now resembles a revolver handle. The barrels have been shortened too, to get a wider blast.

  We drift along with lingering steps, much like when one enters a church. The street lies empty. We have the sun on our back, casting long shadows over the grey stones of Fridhemsgatan. Ma is limping and we are walking slowly. I have the double shoulder holster tight across my back and a load of ammunition rattling in my trouser pocket. My heart is beating so hard I can feel the pulse in my skull, and my legs are restless and shaking. I want to get this over with.

  We have made it halfway to the junction with Alströmergatan, where we are supposed to separate the police car from Ploman’s convoy. I take out my pocket watch.

  ‘We should have another quarter-hour. I’ll drive the van from here afterwards,’ says Ma.

  The heels of her shiny shoes are clacking quietly. A steady breeze makes the heat bearable. The perfume factory is several blocks away but I can still smell the dense scent of hair lotions and cosmetics. I take a deep puff on my cigar to fend off the sickly smell. I try to recall the lust for revenge I felt the evening after Hasse’s defeat, but the occultist’s premonition will not leave me in peace.

  ‘Today is the day I die. Fall at the finish line. Like I always do.’

  Ma chuckles.

  ‘Better than dying of booze and bad humour.’

  ‘The clairvoyant at home had a premonition.’

  ‘Nonsense. You need a snifter.’

  ‘It’s a fine day to die.’

  ‘You drink, Harry, I’ll drive.’

  Industry code of conduct: co-conspirators to murder are on a first-name basis. I get out my hip flask and take a hefty swig.

  ‘Take another, you’re a little pale.’

  When the most powerful woman in the city gives you advice, it’s best to do as you’re told. The spirit trickles into my stomach and spreads warmth. I clear my throat and spit.

  ‘One time I saw a film called Duel at Dusk.’

  ‘Who won?’

  ‘I don’t bloody remember.’

  Ma chuckles. She looks and me and takes a breath.

  ‘Maybe we’ll get a few drops of rain at last.’

  She is standing ten or so metres from the Alströmergatan junction and points at a vaulted doorway on her left. It is next to the window where the same radio is blasting out music again. I peek in as we walk past: a typical Kungsholm flat with peeling wallpaper and tatty furniture. If I survive the night, it’ll be a pleasure to leave this impoverished shithole of a country behind.

  ‘We conclude this broadcast with the latest news from Spain,’ says a throaty radio announcer. ‘The French government have decided not to provide the Republican forces with fighter aircraft.’

  It is cool in the doorway. The space between the pavement and the oak door is at least half a metre deep and provides good cover. Ma remains on the pavement.

  ‘You stay back as they approach, but as soon as the van has passed you move out here.’ Ma points to the left at the uneven stone walls. ‘Do we need to go over everything one more time?’

  ‘Nothing to it.’

  ‘And now: Brahms’s Requiem,’ rasps the voice on the radio. There are two seconds of silence before the slow violin notes flow out onto the street. Someone turns up the volume even more.

  ‘How fitting.’ Ma smiles with her unpainted lips. ‘How unbelievably fitting.’

  The choir join in, first the women, then the men. Ma closes her eyes and nods her head. My pulse slows.

  ‘Brahms worked for years on this piece, abandoned it, then only completed it on his mother’s passing.’ She opens her eyes. ‘Denn alles Fleisch, ist wie Gras.’

  I take the cigar out of my mouth and raise one eyebrow.

  ‘All flesh is grass.’ Ma pats me on the arm. ‘Georg never understood music either.’ She glances down the street and shades her eyes with her hand. ‘Today I am delivering justice. I have waited for a dozen years.’

  ‘Long time.’

  ‘Georg isn’t Sture’s father.’

  Ma gazes at the Cadillac. I take a drag that’s deep enough to paint my lungs black.

  ‘I never told Georg,’ she continues. ‘But Sture is very well aware of my transgression. It eats him from the inside out. To be honest, I am worried about what will happen when I am gone.’

  She turns to face me and examines me with her blue eyes.

  ‘That is also one of the reasons why Kvisten is standing here with me now instead of either of my sons. I’m glad it turned out this way.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Something must be very wrong when you cannot truly trust your own flesh and blood.’ I cough to conceal my confusion, and Ma raises her voice again. ‘Finish your flask now.’

  I nod and unscrew the lid off the hip flask. I offer some to Ma but she shakes her head. Instead she takes the little brown jar out of her uniform pocket, digs out a couple of decent spoonfuls and snorts one in each nostril.

  ‘Follow the plan and everything will go splendidly,’ she says in an unwavering voice.

  I attempt a smile as I raise the flask, but my nerves won’t allow it. A small trickle of blood leaks from Ma’s right nostril, follows the
groove down to her Cupid’s bow and then the contours of her lips. A few white grains sail along the red liquid. She takes the church handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and wipes it off. She takes hold of the pram handlebar.

  ‘Good luck.’

  The pram wheels start squeaking again and Ma hobbles off to her position near the junction. Outside the florist on the corner is a display of zinc buckets filled with roses, carnations and white lilies.

  I pour the dregs of aquavit down my throat and stare at Lundin’s engraved initials before putting the hip flask back in my pocket. Anxiety is tightening its hold on me. The tempo and intensity of the music increase.

  I am so damned alone. I undo my tie, take the timepiece out of my waistcoat pocket, unhook the watch chain and add it to the jangling collection of ammunition in my trouser pocket. If Ma’s calculation is correct we have five minutes to go. If everything goes according to plan I will be sitting in my getaway car within the hour, and after the petrol station on Vallhallavägen, it’ll be straight west.

  I peek out of the doorway in the direction of the Cadillac. Ma’s words have hardly allayed my concerns about Nix, the volatile bastard. His doolally giggles echo in my mind. A shudder runs through me. It is so intense that it makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

  The choir dies away with one long final note, followed by a few harp chords, and then the radio goes quiet. A whistle cuts through the evening air. My muscles tense, my breathing catches in my throat, my little finger stump aches.

  The time has come.

  I think again about the occultist’s prophecy and spit three times just in case. The orchestra on the radio starts up the second movement. I stick my head out and scan the dead-straight street. Far away, I spot the convoy approaching in a yellow cloud of road dust, backlit by the sunset. I pull my head into the shadows and unfurl my green rag. I hold it over my mouth and nose like a mask, and inhale as hard as I can to try to get the scent.

  I can’t smell anything.

  Someone pokes out of the opposite doorway. Above the door is a crescent-shaped red-glass window. It looks like a segment of a blood orange.

  A golden-blond little boy of about ten steps out onto the pavement. He is wearing short trousers and long socks that are falling down. He has purple bruises on his knees and a grubby mouth. In his hand he is holding a half-metre piece of steel reinforcing bar. I feel sweat break out on my forehead.

  In two steps he reaches the edge of the pavement and sets about hitting it with the steel. He makes little impression but at least he has rhythm, and the blows strike in time with the increasing tempo of the radio symphony.

  ‘Go inside to your mum!’

  The idiot child doesn’t seem to hear. The strikes continue to emit their monotonous musical accompaniment. Ma peeks out of her doorway near the crossing.

  ‘Go inside for God’s sake!’

  ‘I don’t live here.’

  I peek out from the doorway and can clearly see the cars coming towards us. Dust is dancing around the tyres. I have fifteen seconds, if that.

  My scrabbling shoes clatter on the pavement. My shoulder holster chafes with my hasty movements. I grab hold of his collar and the steel bar crashes to the ground. The door creaks open. The boy whimpers as I throw him into the stairwell.

  ‘Come out again and I will beat you to a pulp.’

  I push myself flat against the wall and pull out both revolvers.

  The humming of the engines can be heard over the ominous music that swells with emotion and intensity. I resist the impulse to take out my wallet and look at Ida’s photograph one last time. My breathing is unsteady and I am clutching the guns so hard it’s making my hands sweat. A warm trickle runs down my spine. At the same time it feels as though I have put my little finger stump in a glass of ice water.

  The warm summer air flows through the scrap of fabric. Maybe there is a little sweet scent left in it after all.

  I used to soak this rag in sugar water and give it to Ida to suck on when she needed comforting or when I couldn’t afford to go to the toffee women in Mariahallen on a Saturday. It works as a mask.

  The black squad car drives past the doorway. Berglund’s chiselled profile is a metre from me: the grey, well-combed hair, the waxed tips of his moustache, the wattle hanging below his chin, and that scrawny neck, adorned by a shimmering green, knotted silk tie. Fucking filth. My nerves dissipate like mist. My index fingers itch.

  This is fucking it, Kvisten. It is about damn time to reclaim yourself.

  The van is following about ten metres behind the Volvo. They have left the bonnet slightly open to keep the engine cool in the heat. I slam into the opposite wall with the long-barrelled revolvers at the ready. I lean out and extend the left one.

  The police car disappears around the corner to Alströmergatan. The rusty pram wheel squeaks on its axle as Ma rolls it out into the street. Tyres screech. A bloke sticks his head out of a window on the second floor.

  The radio orchestra rears up like a spooked stallion, inflamed with drums and violins. The van has skidded somewhat askew on its sudden braking. Ma’s face breaks into a smile. It looks as though all the rays of the evening sun are converging on her, making her white headscarf dazzling bright. The black double barrel of the shotgun glints. The polyphonic choir fires first, disciplined as a German artillery regime. I hide my head in the doorway.

  Everything explodes. The shotgun emits a double bang, the symphony bursts into a crescendo, a boy screams in one of the flats overhead.

  I leave my hiding place and move quickly in an arc around the van. I reach the door of the driver’s seat. The windscreen is perforated with small holes. Ploman is coughing and clutching at his body. He turns his square head to face me. He has blood in his moustache. I raise both revolvers. Fear glitters in his eyes. Now I am smiling under my makeshift mask.

  Finally.

  With straight arms I pump six bullets into the driver’s cab. The recoil hammers against my wrists and shoulders, the revolvers flash and the body closest to me jolts and twitches. Red slop dances around the cab and splatters over the windows. The dampened orchestra tones flow out through the window behind me, leaving their home to be crushed together between the house fronts and forced up towards the sky, taking the echoing gunshots with them.

  The smoke stings my nose; the bangs hurt my ear canals. I back up a couple of steps, turn around and hurry back around the rear of the car. Ma limps forward as she reloads her shotgun. The passenger door opens and the Reaper clambers down over the running board. Below him hangs a monocle on its chain. He tumbles onto the street and falls on his back. His white shirt is red with blood. My bullets had probably hit both men. I am glad he is alive. With arms outstretched I aim my left revolver towards his head and the right one down the street.

  The Reaper hugs himself a little and reaches one shaking hand for the gun in his belt holster as his right foot scrapes against the paving stones, trying to get some purchase. The choir on the radio eases off. The smoke has cleared and I can smell hair lotion again.

  The bastard’s finger reaches the butt of the pistol. I cock the hammer with my left thumb. The Reaper manages to pull his shooter out, but the weight is too much for him. His hand opens and the weapon clatters onto the street. His head is shaking uncontrollably. Bubbles of blood ooze from his mouth with each exhalation. They catch the last of the sun’s rays, glitter and diverge.

  All this beauty.

  Ma arrives in time to witness a hint of life in his mangled body. The fingers of his right hand seek the pistol. She steps on his forearm, pins it down and pushes the shotgun barrels into his hand. The first shot slices the radio music in two. Everything goes quiet. A bald old man sticks his head out the window. I aim my right-hand revolver at him. He jerks his head back in.

  The Reaper raises his bloody stump of a forearm to the sky. There is a click as Ma cocks the hammer for a second time. Her bottom lip is quivering but she is smiling. Her eyes shine as she pushes the gun
barrels into his forehead. A single tear runs down her cheek.

  ‘Denn alles Fleisch, ist wie Gras.’

  Little more than greasy red mincemeat remains where the Reaper’s head once was. His skull has been crushed from the tip of his nose up, forming a sludgy swamp hole, with his brain lying splattered in the gutter. All is quiet.

  My heart is beating so hard it feels like it might burst. I hurry to the passenger side of the van, place my shoe on the running board and open the door. Ploman has leaked everywhere. It looks as though most of his blood has already been pumped out. His head leans back on the headrest, his face ashen. His mouth forms a grinning rift in the pallid skin. One shot has ripped open his thick neck. I stare at the flesh hole for a few moments. It gapes back at me.

  Bullet holes never stop staring back. You can’t escape them.

  Ma sweeps bloods and laminated glass from the sunken driver’s seat.

  ‘The dog has pissed himself.’ She leans in, sets her shotgun on the floor and gives the robust dead body a shove. ‘Get to it, Kvisten.’

  I take hold of the corpse’s upper arm and wrap his tie around my other hand. I pull and Ma pushes. The cadaver’s head hits its shoulder and the brown hat drops off.

  The ravaged body hits the ground with a muted thump. The front seat is drenched in blood and covered with glass shards. The steering wheel and dashboard are sodden and the windscreen looks like a red-stained sieve.

  I get in. Crushed glass crunches under the weight of me. Ma clicks open her shotgun, passes it to me and sits down in the driver’s seat. She tosses four cartridges into my lap.

  ‘Break the window and reload.’

  She starts the car and I bash the windscreen with the taped shotgun butt. The gearbox vibrates, the car jolts forward and the engine dies.

  ‘God damn it.’

  Not like her to swear. I bash again and the rest of the windscreen gives in, scattering over the gleaming bonnet that still isn’t fully shut. Ma repeats the procedure, gets the engine going and finds the right gear. Looking in the side mirror, she begins to reverse. The van bounces as we drive over the Reaper’s leg.