The Kindness, page 17
As Maria became more aware of the effect she had on those around her, she grew more coquettish. She began to wear make-up, and dressed in a feminine way. Johan opened her wardrobe door and ran his fingers over her short dresses, tights and sweaters. Before he knew what he was doing, he had picked out the dress that looked the largest, stripped down to his underpants and pulled the dress over his head. It was tight, but he was still skinny, so it was just about okay.
With his heart pounding and a tingle running through his entire body, he went over to the full-length mirror where Maria would spend hours trying out different styles. If anyone came home, he would die on the spot. His face flushed bright red when he looked at his reflection. He pouted, placed his hands on his hips.
Wearing beautiful Maria’s clothes wasn’t in the least bit exciting – in fact, that part almost made him feel sick; she was a child. Nor was he a cross-dresser, but at long last he fully accepted what it was that he wanted. He wanted Marko to see him like this , like one of those girls he fantasised about at night. He wanted Marko to find him desirable.
The penny had finally dropped, and the tight dress rode up Johan’s back as he dropped to his knees and rested his forehead on his clasped hands.
Please , he prayed. It’s never going to happen, so please make it go away.
A woman is standing in the main square. She has been feeling sad for three days, although she doesn’t know why. She looks at the balcony above the bank, at the railing where the poet Nils Ferlin allegedly once balanced. She thinks about falling from a height, blood flowing, thin nylon ropes. Then a five-year-old girl appears in front of her. ‘Hello,’ says the girl. ‘My name is Matilda. What’s your name?’ The woman just has time to say her name before the child’s mother intervenes and apologises. The girl waves as they walk away, and the woman waves back. She thinks about her name, the name her mother gave her. Such a thing cannot be wasted.
No way back
Harry Boström has told the police, the local newspaper, and anyone who was prepared to listen: he heard a noise from inside the container . A thud, as if something had fallen on the floor. The authorities had given sufficient credence to his account to listen with an electronic stethoscope, but nothing more. The container had remained closed while a collection of idiots all had their say. And now look.
Along with fifty or so other residents of Norrtälje, Harry is standing behind the police cordon with Tosse on the lead, watching as one stretcher after another carrying bodies wrapped in plastic is conveyed from the container to waiting ambulances. Constant camera flashes light up the grey, overcast day, making the yellow surface of the container flash too, like some kind of warning signal. Every newspaper and news broadcaster is there, and right now Norrtälje is the centre of attention for the whole of Sweden – if not the world.
Harry shakes his head as yet another stretcher is carried past. The body in white plastic is so small that it must be a child. The cameras click, the flashes go crazy, and the scene is illuminated as if by strobe lights. Tosse whimpers anxiously at Harry’s feet. He is frightened of thunder and lightning, and is waiting for the crash that is bound to follow. Harry scratches the top of his head and murmurs words of reassurance.
The fact that there aren’t even more people gathered to watch this sensationally horrific performance is down to one thing: the stench. The entire city centre is enveloped in a cloud of death and putrefaction, but it is at its worst in the harbour. Many of those present have handkerchiefs or scarves over their mouths and noses, and are screwing up their eyes as if to prevent the miasma from getting in that way.
‘Are you Harry Boström?’
A suspiciously well-groomed man in a sky-blue shirt under a navy-blue blazer pushes his way through to Harry. He is holding a microphone with the TV4 logo. A couple of steps behind him is a less coiffured individual with a camera on his shoulder. He is grimacing at the stench, which doesn’t seem to bother Mr Sky-blue.
‘I am, yes,’ Harry says.
‘I believe it was you who found the container?’ Harry can’t deny this, and the reporter goes on: ‘You said you heard a noise from inside, but as I understand it, no one took any notice of you. It’s not impossible that lives could have been saved if they had – do you have anything to say about that?’
Harry looks from the man to the container, then over towards the town centre. This isn’t about loyalty to the local council or the police; it’s more a matter of loyalty to the town where Harry has spent his whole life when he answers: ‘Well, I’m not so sure about that.’
The reporter raises an eyebrow in exaggerated surprise. ‘But I checked out the local paper online on my way over here, and you were quoted directly. You said you heard a noise.’
‘Oh, online ,’ Harry says. ‘Reporters. A lot of things get twisted, taken out of context these days.’
‘But surely you can’t deny . . .’
Harry has been so preoccupied with fending off the journalist that he has forgotten about Tosse, who suddenly yanks the lead out of Harry’s hand. With uncharacteristic eagerness the dog races towards the container, his lead dancing behind him.
‘Tosse!’ Harry shouts. ‘Tosse! Come back here!’
Mr Sky-blue gesticulates to the cameraman, instructing him to film this unexpected turn of events instead of the unhelpful old man. Harry hurries over to the cordon, but is stopped by a police officer.
‘No unauthorised personnel.’
‘But my dog . . .’
‘My colleague will deal with it.’
Tosse has reached the doors of the container, where he is causing quite a stir. A well-built police officer wearing a mask over his mouth is heading for the dog, and for a second Harry thinks Tosse is going to be shot. Before anyone can stop Tosse, he lies down in front of the container and starts rolling in the sludge that has come pouring out. Harry groans, his face red with embarrassment. Tosse loves rubbing himself in anything that smells disgusting, particularly rotting animal corpses. Harry should have known this would happen.
The police officer grabs the end of the lead. Tosse refuses to get up, so he is dragged away whimpering, his fur painting a smear of sludge on the pale concrete. A few people laugh and Harry is even more embarrassed, as if he has accidentally performed a sketch in a graveyard.
The lead is slapped into his hand and a pair of angry eyes glare at him above the mask. ‘Keep your dog under control, for fuck’s sake!’
‘I’m terribly sorry, Constable. I do apologise.’
The man snorts ‘ constable ’ and strides away. Harry glances around and sees the bastard from TV4 grinning condescendingly, while his colleague still looks disgusted. Tosse is on his feet now, and Harry sets off for home, his head down.
After about a hundred steps Harry realises that the stench is just as strong, because it is walking along behind him. Tosse looks up at him, as if expecting praise for his achievement, or at the very least a pat on the head.
‘I’m not touching you until you’ve had a bath,’ Harry informs him.
Tosse’s ears droop. He is old enough to understand a number of words, and ‘bath’ is one of them. He gives himself a good shake and a few drops of the sludge fly off his fur. One of them lands on Harry’s hand, and he slowly brings it up to his nose.
Jesus Christ.
If it really was the sound of a human being that Harry heard, then that person must have been surrounded by rotting dead bodies, standing ankle-deep in this sludge. A fraction of a millilitre is enough to make Harry’s stomach start churning. He doesn’t want to have heard anything anymore. But he did. He knows he did. Unfortunately.
Over black waters
2
It is the third day. In this darkness the passage of the hours and the days is abstract. When there is no light and nothing is happening, time has no meaning. We have stopped talking in whispers. We no longer wish to remain hidden, we want to be found, by anyone. Be let out, to face anything. We have banged on the walls of the container, we have screamed. There is not a sound apart from the howling of the wind, and nothing happens apart from the billowing movement, up and down, up and down. If it weren’t for the vibration of the engines, the container could simply be floating on the surface of the sea. We are alone in a pitch-dark universe. The latrine drum in the corner is full. It stinks. My wife is complaining about a terrible headache. I have lifted her up so that she can breathe through the airholes, but the headache hasn’t eased at all. Our daughter is lying curled up on the floor with her hands over ears, her eyes and lips clamped tight shut. I can’t do anything for either of them. I deeply regret the fact that we embarked on this journey. There was nothing left for us in our homeland, but at least we had our bodies, our lives. Now we no longer have control of them. Our fate is in unknown hands, the hands of people whose names we don’t even know. They could just as easily be gods. Indifferent, turning their backs on us. Something unpleasant happened a few hours ago. A little boy started repeating, ‘I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared . . .’ over and over again. I don’t know the others, we have simply been thrown together here, but I assume it was the mother who tried to quieten the child. He refused to shut up, and kept on repeating, ‘I’m scared, I’m scared . . .’ This went on for several minutes, and the boy’s lament became a part of the foul air we breathe, a prerequisite for our lives. Then I heard a roar – I can’t describe it in any other way. It didn’t even sound human, but it must have been a man, bellowing his disgust at the child’s fear from the depths of his chest. It was an ancient, animalistic roar, a threat older than humanity itself, which shut the boy up. He must be even more frightened now, but this time into silence. Whichever gods are ruling us, they must let us out. Soon. Otherwise I fear for how things will go.
From Norrtälje Prison to Lilla Torget
1
Sometimes Anna wishes that the visiting arrangements at Norrtälje Prison were the same as in American movies, with people sitting on either side of a pane of glass speaking via a telephone. Fingers touching the glass, only the most important words being said, or no words at all. You’ve got five minutes!
Anna is by nature a pretty positive person, but those half hours with Acke in the Porridge Room, which is what she calls it because of the colour of the walls, take their toll on her mood. She loves her kid brother, but just under two years in this place have done something to him. A new face has been painted over the old one, his eyes have hardened or rather dried out, so they are no longer capable of lighting the spark that she used to see there. Add about ten kilos of muscle, and her kid brother looks like exactly what he is: a career criminal.
‘I heard they’d opened that fucking container,’ Acke says, his finger tracing a vein in his pumped-up biceps. ‘A pile of Afghans or some other crap came tumbling out.’
‘They didn’t come tumbling out,’ Anna says. ‘And nobody knows where they’re from.’
‘Whatever.’
Anna doesn’t know how deep Acke’s indifference actually goes. Is it a game in order to maintain his image, or a genuine numbness? The clichéd racism is also something he has acquired in jail. In an attempt to change the subject, she says: ‘You’ll be out in ten days. Any idea what you’re going to do?’
Acke shrugs. ‘Sort shit out.’
‘What shit, exactly?’
‘There’s stuff to sort out. Shit.’
‘Is this . . . illegal shit?’
Acke looks Anna in the eye for so long and with such intensity that she drops her gaze to his sinewy hands. One of her earliest childhood memories is helping one-year-old Acke to learn to walk; she was six at the time. She shuffled along behind him with her back bent as his tiny hands clutched her index fingers. He tottered around the living room, and she felt so big. He was so little.
She swallows a lump of nostalgia that threatens to choke her. ‘I have to go. I’m meeting Siw.’
‘To do what?’
It is unusual for Acke to show any interest in what Anna is doing, so she gives a more detailed answer than is strictly necessary. ‘We’ve started exercising. At the gym. Two or three times a week.’
‘Right. Is she still as fat?’
The brief flash of goodwill is gone. Anna smiles stiffly and says: ‘She’s about as fat as you’re stupid, but at least Siw can drop a few kilos, while your IQ is going nowhere.’
One corner of Acke’s mouth twitches. He says: ‘Wham, bam,’ and Anna finishes off with, ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Their meeting ends in relative harmony.
As always when Anna leaves the prison, it is several hundred metres before she stops feeling its walled presence behind her back. She thinks of all the people in there, all the people who once had tiny fingers, trustingly clinging onto other fingers. Those tiny fingers grew bigger and began to carry out the deeds of darkness. Her thoughts are banal, but she can never help thinking them as she leaves all the unquiet souls behind her and walks towards freedom.
2
‘How’s it going?’ Siw asks as they amble alongside the football pitch carrying their sports bags.
‘Same old, same old,’ Anna replies. ‘My brother has the ability to bring me right down. He says he’s got stuff to sort out – no doubt the kind of stuff that will get him sent straight back inside. Fuck him. So have you heard anything from RoslagsBowser?’
Siw opens her mouth to say something, and red roses bloom on her cheeks. ‘Wow!’ Anna yells. ‘What’s going on with you?’
‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’
‘So why are you blushing like a fourteen-year-old who’s been dipping into her parents’ supply of booze?’
Siw carries on opening and closing her mouth as if something is stuck to her palate. For once Anna takes pity on her and allows her to keep her little secrets. They always slip out anyway, sooner or later.
When Anna and Siw enter the changing rooms, two women who are a few years older than them but in considerably better shape are busy wriggling into their tights. Before Siw can move away, Anna drops her bag on the bench beside them.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘How’s things?’
‘Fine,’ one of them says, her lip curling slightly as her gaze sweeps over Anna’s bulk. ‘How about you?’
‘Brilliant, thanks.’ Anna slaps her belly. ‘A few too many chips, that’s all.’
‘Right,’ says the woman, getting dressed as quickly as she can. Siw has her back to them and is studying the lockers as if she is finding it difficult to choose between forty identical doors. When the two women have gone, she says: ‘Do you have to?’
‘What? I was just making small talk. Socialising.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No. You can’t make yourself invisible, however hard you try. So you might as well chat.’
They get changed in silence. Anna is the only person Siw is even remotely comfortable with seeing her naked, but not enough to be able to make small talk. Whenever she and Sören do it she makes sure the light is off, and she is pleased it’s him, because he is mainly interested in kneading her breasts until she feels like an unnecessary appendage to a lump of dough.
When Siw and Anna have changed into their sweat pants and sweatshirts and locked away their bags, they head up to the gym. The twenty-three steps are enough to make Siw start gasping for air. There is a lift, but there are limits.
The weights room is half-full. Slimfit women like those in the changing room, pensioners in rehab lifting the lightest weights with a disillusioned expression, middle-aged men tattooed like old sea dogs, and teenage boys with bulging muscles beneath vests that are little more than bits of string.
Anna and Siw take the bull by the horns and start with the most difficult: the stomach. After hooking on twenty kilos Siw leans back in the seat which bears an unpleasant similarity to the gynaecologist’s chair. She brings down the bar which squeezes her breasts, pushing them out to the sides, then lifts up, back, up, back, puffing and panting with the exertion.
‘Well done, Siw!’ Anna says. ‘You can manage three more!’
Siw does indeed manage three more, then she falls backwards with a groan and they swap places. She spurs her friend on with cries of encouragement, and even if her words of praise are out of proportion to Anna’s achievements, they do help.
After Siw’s second stint in the gynae chair she is so exhausted that she simply lies there gasping like a seal. A young lad in a skimpy vest with a baseball cap pulled well down over his eyes comes over.
‘Have you finished?’
Anna checks out his V-shaped physique. ‘One question. Why are you even wearing that vest?’
He chews on a real or imaginary piece of gum. Judging by his blank expression, the question would have been much too difficult if there hadn’t been a set answer. ‘You have to. You’re not allowed in without.’
‘But that’s what you’d prefer?’
That question clearly doesn’t have a set answer. He shakes his head, says, ‘Er,’ and walks away.
‘Please, Anna,’ Siw pants. ‘Please!’
‘What? It was a perfectly simple question. And I got an answer.’ Anna lowers her voice, imitating the young man’s drawl. ‘ You have to. I’d rather be naked, but you have to . Got it? ’
When they have showered and are alone in the changing room packing their bags, Siw says: ‘Okay, I’ll tell you. And if you laugh at me, I’ll walk out of here and you’ll never see me again.’
‘Fine.’
‘I mean it.’
‘You don’t, but fair enough. Tell me.’
Siw looks around, as if she’s afraid that someone has crept in without her noticing. Lowering her voice, she confides; ‘I checked out his posts. On Facebook.’
‘Perfectly normal – so you found his page?’
