Inertia, page 16
‘It’s probably the junkies over at the campsite,’ Rachel mumbles and her mouth turns into a thin line. ‘I guess they have to finance their habit somehow. But when you live this isolated, with a disabled child, the last thing you want is a visit from some high hippie in the middle of the night.’
The bars in front of the window are thick and rusted. Two screw holes gape emptily where the bottom attaches.
I lean forward to get a better look.
There are holes in the wood under the holes in the metal. Splintered holes – it almost looks like someone pulled the screws out.
I screw the bars back on and give them a tug to test. They don’t budge.
‘There,’ I say. ‘Now it should be solid.’
Rachel’s face lights up.
‘Thank you so much! You are so good at this stuff. The fence also turned out well!’
‘Nooo,’ I say, looking down at the grass.
‘Yes,’ Rachel insists and laughs. ‘I would never have managed this without you. You’re strong and technically minded.’
My cheeks burn and I hope she doesn’t notice. Mum would never have said that. Even if she thought it, she would never have said it.
I turn my gaze away from Rachel, down toward the peonies growing underneath the window. The stalks shoot like spears out of the tall grass. The swollen deep red buds have freed themselves from the sepals and look ready to burst at any moment. A vine clings to the wall. The light green leaves seem to grow as I watch them.
There is a smell of grass and damp soil, and of Rachel’s perfume. The insects buzz and hum around us. Birds sing. Butterflies flutter by. Everything is so verdant, so juicy, so full of vigour and life.
Rachel leans in. A strand of her dark hair falls across her face. She moistens her lips with her tongue and the saliva glistens at the corner of her mouth.
Now, I think.
Now.
Now I am about to die. Now it will happen.
She reaches her arm towards my face. But instead of stroking me she hits me hard in the face.
‘A mosquito,’ she says and shows me the palm of her hand.
I see a bloody smear, as big as a portion of snuff.
My skin burns like fire after the slap and from the fact that she actually touched me. That her pale hand met my cheek – OK, she hit me, but still.
Part of me wishes she’d do it again.
*
I’m lying in bed trying to sleep, but can’t get my thoughts to shut up. They are doing their best to drown each other out in my head, like starving, blind chicks in a bird house.
I can’t stay here.
Anything is better than sitting with zombie-Jonas in that room that smells like old farts.
And this thing with Rachel – her face and body that show up in my head at the weirdest moments. Despite her being at least forty years old and having a partner who is about to return from Stockholm.
Despite her looking like Mum.
Despite everything being so wrong I can’t help but think of her. Of her pale skin, the heavy breasts and the fine lines that frame her eyes when she laughs. And of her smile when she said I was ‘strong and technically minded’.
You’re trying to look good in front of a forty-year-old bitch because you dream of fucking her. That’s pathetic. And bloody perverted.
I turn over on my side and puff my pillow a bit under my head. The summer night is dusky and endlessly long, like one of those French films we watched in school. In the bluish half-light I can make out the silhouette of the wardrobe and the small chair next to it. My dirty clothes lie thrown across the seat.
Sooner or later I’ll have to wash them, but I have nothing else to wear. And I can’t spend a whole day naked while I wait for my clothes to dry.
But I have bigger problems than dirty clothes.
I try to assess my options.
Going to the cops is out of the question. First off, I don’t want to end up in jail and second, that would make it necessary to snitch on Igor, which would be like signing my own death warrant.
Because they can’t get at Igor.
I always thought that compared to Igor the cops were no more dangerous than a paper tiger, but now that they’re after me, I’d certainly rather avoid them. The problem is – I can’t reach out to Igor or Malte to explain that everything is a mistake. Too much time has passed for me to have any kind of credibility crawling back to apologise. I should have been in touch immediately, told them where I hid the money and that I borrowed the bike.
The money.
I sit up in bed and catch my breath violently. The pillow falls onto the floor with a rustle.
The money.
Why didn’t I think of that sooner?
There is at least two hundred thou under that rock in the woods by the industrial area. If I borrow a little I can lie low for a while, at least until all of this has died down.
I know Igor has talked about moving to Miami.
If he does it’ll just be Malte left and even if he is a real arsehole he isn’t as insane as Igor. Plus, I have something over him. I saw him give Igor’s money to a chick who was supposed to be due for a beating.
A chick we paid a second visit to.
I recall the words Malte hissed in my ear at the redhead’s apartment.
Not a word about this to anyone, do you understand? I’d be dead. And you too.
My heart beats faster in my chest.
I pick the pillow off the floor, lie on my back and stare at the ceiling.
How to get hold of the money? I can hardly go home to Fruängen on Igor’s bike and get it, the risk is too great that someone from the company will see me.
Could I ask Alexandra to get it?
No.
Not a chance in hell.
She hates everything to do with Igor. She would refuse to get involved in this mess.
I reach for my phone on the bedside table. Surely it can’t hurt if I turn it on for a few seconds?
I wait for a second as the screen lights the room up.
I scroll through Instagram.
Jeanette has uploaded a backlit close-up. Her shiny lips are pouting and her eyes are open wide. The wind is catching her hair and the light from the sun is making a halo glow around her head. Her facial expression is both provocative and startled.
‘So sad that we have buried my sister’s hamster Snuff. Everyone was really upset,’ reads the caption.
Four hundred and eleven likes.
Dead hamster combined with horny pouting lips is apparently just the thing on Instagram.
My mobile dings and I am so scared I almost drop it on the floor.
The message is from Liam.
Stop messaging me, for fuck’s sake. The cops have let Igor go. There was no evidence. He wants to KILL you. Lie low. Don’t call. I do NOT want to be fucking involved.
I close my eyes and let the phone fall onto my blanket.
Hopelessness grows inside until I feel like my chest is about to explode, as if someone or something is in there trying to claw its way out.
The tears come, even though I don’t want them. They fall and fall as if I were a snot-nosed little kid who lost his security blanket and not a grown guy who put himself in this shit by being so fucking retarded.
You are nothing. You know nothing. You may as well lie down and just die, because nobody will care anyway.
I blow my nose into the sheet.
There is one person left to contact. Just one.
Pernilla
I
have just arrived at the congregation hall when I get the call.
I take off the backpack I packed for the hike with the congregation’s child and youth group. The shift in weight almost makes me lose my footing.
I am so sure it will be Karl-Johan, the pastor, calling to check something off, that I don’t even look at the screen.
I have been agonising about the hike for the past few days. Stina didn’t think I should go. She felt everything the pastor had said was out of order and I should tell him to go hang himself and not show his hypocritical arse in church ever again.
But how could I do that?
After all, he is the pastor of the congregation, he has helped me countless times and he has supported Samuel. Besides, I have to think of the children. Because without me there will be no hike. No real hike anyway.
But when I answer it isn’t the pastor. I hear his voice on the other end.
My heart skips a beat and I send a silent thanks to God.
‘Samuel?’
My voice is so small that I’m not sure he can hear me.
‘Hi, Mum. How are you?’
Words get stuck in my throat, but I feel a familiar warmth spread across my chest and my pulse quickens.
‘Mum?’
It is a few seconds before I have gathered myself enough to answer.
‘Where are you?’ I ask and hear how curt I sound. ‘Why haven’t you been in touch? I’ve been so worried.’
I direct my gaze towards the group of children already gathered on the street.
The clouds have lifted and patches of pale blue are growing in the sky. The ground is still wet from the rain.
‘Sorry,’ Samuel says and then goes quiet again.
I can hear his breath through the phone.
Darling Samuel. Darling hopeless kid.
‘Sorry,’ he says again. ‘You see, something really fucked-up happened.’
‘Don’t swear,’ I say reflexively and immediately regret it.
I don’t want to scare him off now that he has got in touch. But I also don’t want my son to swear, at least not when he is talking to me.
‘Sorry,’ he says a third time. ‘Something . . . happened. I had to stay away.’
‘Does it have anything to do with those bags?’ I ask, though I already suspect I know the answer.
‘Yes. But . . . that wasn’t my stuff, and when you threw them out the owner got really fucking, sorry, very mad at me.’
My stomach contracts when I recall how I pushed those strange little plastic bags into the rubbish. Not in my wildest imagination would I have thought that I was putting Samuel in mortal danger by doing so.
I thought I was helping him. That for once I was laying down a firm boundary.
‘I-I didn’t know,’ I stutter.
‘Of course you didn’t. Listen, I have to go. Work starts at ten.’
Samuel’s breath sounds laboured, like he is out for a walk.
‘Work?’
‘Long story. Found a job out on Stuvskär online.’
Samuel tells an incoherent story about how he found a job in the archipelago with a woman named Rachel and her partner, Olle, who apparently is an author. The woman’s son, Jonas, is brain-damaged and needs company and supervision.
‘The thing is, I can’t stay here,’ he says. ‘I just can’t take it. But I need to lie low for a while, until the guy who is out to get me leaves the country.’
When he tells me the last part, the bit about the guy who is out to get him, I remember the man who showed up in our stairwell.
I still have a red mark where he held onto my arm.
‘That person,’ I say. ‘Does he have a shaved head and an accent that sounds like Polish or—?’
‘Igor,’ Samuel says quickly. ‘His name is Igor. The stuff you threw out was his. How do you know what he looks like?’
‘He came here asking for you.’
‘Dammit.’
‘But Samuel—’
‘Fucking shit piss.’
‘Please, Samuel!’
I can hear him pant between the swear words. It sounds almost like he is walking uphill.
‘Mum, he is dangerous. I don’t want you to talk to him.’
‘But I didn’t seek him out. He came here looking for you.’
‘And what did you say?’ Samuel asks.
‘The truth. That I didn’t know where you were.’
I lift my backpack up and take a step to the back of the pavement to let a woman with a pushchair and a dog pass. In front of the congregation hall some of the boys are playing football with what looks like a rubber boot. One of the girls is haplessly trying to get hold of it.
I really should go over to them and make sure they calm down, but I can’t. Not now that Samuel has finally got in touch.
‘Please, Mum, listen to me. There’s something you need to help me with.’
‘Of course I want to help you. If I can. I mean, I don’t know what this is about. What you want help with, that is.’
‘You know the small, wooded area – the one along the bike path between the industrial area and the plant nursery?’
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a large rock a couple of yards to the right of the path. You can’t miss it. It’s kinda huge.’
I don’t answer because I have an uneasy feeling about where this is going.
‘Underneath the rock there is a cavity. You can get at it if you dig alongside the rock, on the side that faces the birch tree. There’s a duffel bag in there. And in the bag—’
‘Samuel,’ I say using my strictest voice.
‘There’s money in there,’ he continues, as if he hadn’t heard me. ‘Can you get me a couple of bundles of hundreds?’
‘Samuel! Do you understand what you’re asking? Money? In a bag in the woods? Stacks of hundred-kronor bills? Where have they come from? Drug sales? Over my dead body will I get involved in something like that. You have to go to the police, Samuel. It’s the only right thing to do. If you’ve done something illegal you must confess and accept your punishment.’
‘You can forget that, for sure,’ he mumbles.
‘Why would you say that? The only right thing is to accept your punishment.’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘Easy? Are you joking? Who told you life was easy? And what makes you think the easy way is the right way?’
‘Mum, listen to me—’
‘No. I am done listening. I will not sit idly by as you ruin your life. And mine. I’m going to the police and asking for help. Yes, I am.’
‘Please, listen. If I go anywhere near Stockholm again I’m dead. Do you understand? Dead, Mum. For real. And then it will be your fault.’
‘But Samuel! How can you even say such a thing? After all I’ve done for you.’
‘Because it’s true!’ he screams. ‘Igor will find me and he will kill me. You have met him yourself. You saw what he was like, didn’t you? What he was? He is a monster. He would not hesitate for an instant to kick my head in.’
I close my eyes.
Why can’t he get it together? Why must he always get himself into trouble?
‘You would have been welcome to borrow from me,’ I say, struggling to maintain the calm I am already about to lose. ‘But I don’t have any money. I had to pay off some of your grandfather’s bills and now I barely know how I’ll make it through the month.’
‘Get the money,’ he says in a shrill voice. ‘It’s just lying rotting away.’
I glance over at the congregation hall.
‘I couldn’t help you if I wanted to,’ I say. ‘I am about to go on a hike with the congregation’s youth group.’
‘On a hike? Are you serious? Are you going to be grilling sausages and reading the Bible with a bunch of retarded Christian kids while Igor beats the crap out of me? Seriously?’
I can hear the tears in Samuel’s voice, but I can’t determine if he is telling the truth or if he is exaggerating.
He is always so dramatic.
But he is my child, my everything. The only person other than Father that I truly love.
‘Help me, Mum,’ Samuel whispers. ‘You have to help me.’
‘I-I . . .’
A hand lands on my shoulder and I turn around, still with the phone pressed against my ear.
‘I’ll call you right back,’ I mumble and end the call.
Karl-Johan looks troubled and has a deep furrow in his brow.
‘I couldn’t help hearing,’ he says. ‘Pernilla, don’t do anything you regret. You do remember your promise to me?’
I nod and lift the backpack.
‘You didn’t call him again, did you?’ he continues.
I shake my head like an obedient child. Like a sheep.
‘Good,’ he says.
In his hand he has a small backpack.
‘Where’s your tent?’ I ask.
‘It’s broken,’ he says. ‘I think it’s best I use yours.’
My stomach contracts and a cold feeling spreads across my chest.
‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s not possible.’
But the pastor just scoffs.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he says, and takes my arm, a bit too hard, pulling me over towards the congregation hall.
‘Come now,’ he says. ‘We have to go.’
In that moment something inside me breaks.
I think about how obedient and compliant I have been all these years. How I first obeyed Father and then the congregation.
And the congregation is Karl-Johan, the man who is tugging at my arm as if I were a disobedient child. The man who doesn’t think I should be alone anymore and thus probably would like to sleep with me even though he is married and a man of God.
Suddenly, I feel sick. I’ve had enough of my simple-minded compliance.
What good has it done me?
None. Absolutely none.
And the lies?
The image of Father’s emaciated body and Mother’s yellowed letters flicker past my inner eye. And I think of Isaac who was so keen to get to know his little boy. Who wanted so much and got so little – a couple of hours twice a year at most.
All those lies.
All the years we denied each other the closeness that was our right, the closeness we so badly needed.
I brace against the pavement with my feet and Karl-Johan looks at me in surprise. Out of the corner of my eye I see how some of the kids stop mid-play and watch us with wide eyes.
‘Come on,’ he says and pulls so hard it hurts.
But I resist, don’t budge an inch.
‘You are embarrassing us,’ he hisses.
I look him in the eye. See the mix of frustration and anger in his face, but also genuine fear, as if my new-found strength frightens him.
That makes me even angrier.
‘Come!’ he insists and shoots a concerned glance at the group of children outside the congregation hall.
