The Kindness, page 53
For the first time since Acke arrived, Siw’s fear and despair gives way to a healthy dose of outrage. ‘You come marching in here, kick out my friend, frighten my daughter, and now you want me to borrow three hundred thousand kronor to—’
Acke holds up his hand to stop her. ‘ Our daughter, let me remind you.’
Siw is so taken aback that she finds it difficult to formulate a sentence. ‘You have never, not for one second have you ever . . . you’ve never given her a thought, have you?’
‘Well, no,’ Acke admits. ‘But maybe I should start? Engage with her. What is it they say? Be present in her life.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Take it however you want, but I need that money.’
Siw gets up, goes over to the worktop and picks up her phone. ‘I’m calling Anna. Or maybe I should call the police?’
Acke runs a hand over his face; he suddenly looks exhausted. He slowly stands up. ‘Call whoever the fuck you like. But think it over, Siw. I need that money, and . . .’ Acke sighs, shuffles uncomfortably. ‘Okay, let’s try it this way: Please? I’m begging you.’
Siw selects Anna’s name from her contacts list. As the signal rings out, Acke adds: ‘I’m going now. But I’ll be back. If you want to take that as a threat, then be my guest.’
Siw follows him into the hallway and cancels the unanswered call. Acke unlocks the door and steps out into the stairwell. Before closing the door behind him, he says: ‘Nice kid, by the way.’
4
‘Mummy, who was that? He was horrible.’
Siw is on her knees outside Alva’s room with her daughter in her arms. Alva is hugging Siw with one arm and Poffe with the other. If Siw had ever considered telling Alva the truth, any such thoughts have just gone out of the window. Better a daddy in heaven who throws down a cuddly fox toy than the ‘horrible’ figure who has just been sitting in her kitchen.
‘Acke. He’s Anna’s little brother.’
‘ Our Anna?’
‘Yes. Our Anna.’
‘He can’t be her little brother – he was big and horrible.’
‘Well, he is.’
‘But why was he here?’
‘Because . . . he wanted to borrow some money.’
‘Did you let him?’
‘No.’
‘No, because we haven’t got any money. Not much, anyway. Not enough to afford . . .’ Alva clamps her lips shut to prevent the word she is thinking of from escaping, then glances towards the kitchen. ‘Where’s Max?’
‘He left.’
‘Is he coming back? With . . . the Switch?’
‘I hope so. I just need to . . .’
Alva’s body has stiffened now that her immediate need for solace has been met. Siw lets her go, takes out her phone and clicks on ‘Max’. She writes:
Sorry about what happened. I had a Hearing. Something terrible would have happened to you if I hadn’t made you leave. I had no choice. Call me.
A few seconds later her phone rings. Siw’s heart leaps, but the display shows ‘Anna’.
When Siw answers, Anna says: ‘Hi, I was in the shower. I thought you were spending the evening with Max.’
‘I was, but . . . Acke showed up.’
‘Acke? At your place? Why?’
‘He wanted money. Three hundred thousand.’
Alva opens her eyes wide and mouths: WHAT? THREE. HUNDRED. THOUSAND?
‘From you ?’
‘Yes.’
‘But . . . but . . .’
Siw feels as if she’s trapped in a corner, and wishes she’d told the truth long ago. However, this is not the time, with Alva right beside her and her heart in bits. She feels a physical pain in her chest, and she is finding it hard to breathe. Is there something wrong with me? For real?
‘I just thought I’d let you know.’
‘Fuck. I’m so sorry, Siw.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I’ve been looking for him, he’s . . . it’s not good if he’s out and about, I think they’re watching him.’
‘The Djup brothers?’
‘Yes.’
Siw shakes her head. ‘But didn’t they . . . that song, “We Live in the Country”, some farmers who . . . weren’t they the Djup Brothers? It sounds a bit ridiculous.’
‘Trust me, Siw – these guys are anything but ridiculous. Did Acke say where he was going?’
‘No.’
‘Fuck. Oh well, at least it’s not your problem. I’d better . . . Speak soon, hun.’
Siw ends the call and listens to Alva’s outraged exclamations on the astronomical sum. She can see something of Acke’s pointed features in her face, the shape of her eyes when she narrows them. A part of him is an ineradicable part of her.
Not my problem? If only that were true.
5
When Acke gets to the bottom of the stairs, he peers out through the glass in the main door. It is hard to see anything with the stairwell light on, and he sinks down with his back to the wall and his head in his hands.
Going to see Siw had been an impulsive act born out of desperation, after he’d tried everything else. He has spent the day hiding in Anna’s storage facility in the basement; he has keys, because she has allowed him to stash a few bits and pieces there. He’s called everyone who might be able to help him, and been given the cold shoulder. They all know his situation.
Acke lowers his head, the ligaments at the back of his neck crunching. The speed he took to help him pluck up courage is still swirling around in his body, turning his bloodstream into ant runs where thousands of eager little feet are scampering up and down, preventing him from collapsing in a state of apathetic terror. He will need more very soon, somehow. Preferably enough so that he can overdose and escape the whole shitty mess, but he’s never heard of anyone snorting themselves to death on speed, which means he’d need to inject and that’s a line he hasn’t crossed yet, but if he got hold of some heroin . . .
His thoughts are spinning, keeping pace with his fizzing blood, and his fingers are drumming on his knees. He isn’t proud of what he did to Siw, or the fact that he frightened the kid, but neither is he ashamed of himself. There’s no room for shame in his current predicament; it’s simply a matter of survival.
He had found out what was expected of him on release while he was still behind bars, and had been given a foretaste to make things clear. He still has bruises on his back following an attack in the shower, when he was beaten with bars of soap wrapped in a towel, and his left thumb is just about usable after being trapped in a vice in the workshop.
Acke has said it hundreds of times by now: he has no idea what happened to those two kilos. They disappeared somewhere between the purchase in Hamburg and customs in Trelleborg, and the most likely scenario is that the seller conned him. Once the deal was done he offered Acke a really good spliff, and somewhere in the fog that followed he must have taken back two packets, and by the time Acke left he was too out of it to notice.
He grinds his teeth and indulges in one of his many fantasies detailing what he would do if he got hold of that German arsehole who called himself Klaus. When Klaus is hanging upside down from a metal swing frame, having been whipped into submission, the stairwell light goes out. Any sudden change makes Acke jerk into life. He is on his feet in a second, peering out into the darkness. Nothing.
The plan right now is to go back to Anna’s. He would never take the risk if the basement didn’t have a separate entrance at the back of the building. He can spend the night there and hope that tomorrow brings a better idea, or a softening on Siw’s part. He doesn’t have much faith in either option, but what else can he do?
Pointlessly hunching over, Acke slips out of the door and tries to stay in the shadows as he turns left and enters the tunnel leading out of the courtyard. He is halfway along when a tall, bulky figure steps out, silhouetted against the lights of Flygaregatan. Acke’s lungs contract and the air is pushed out of him in a squeak. He can’t tell if it’s Ewert or Albert, but it’s definitely one of them. The brothers rarely do their own dirty work, so they must regard Acke as a particularly sore point.
Acke doesn’t think any of these things. He doesn’t think anything. As soon as that familiar shape appears, there is only blackness inside his head. Acke squeaks, turns and runs. After three steps he cannons into an equally tall, bulky figure, barely visible in the gloom.
‘Dearie me,’ says Albert Djup, slapping Acke across the ear with his enormous palm. A shrill ringing noise fills Acke’s head and he staggers sideways and leans on the wall to stop himself from falling. He gropes for the knife in his pocket, but maybe the blow has upset the nerves in his ear that control balance, because he is suddenly overcome by a feeling like seasickness, and throws up over his trainers.
Albert lets him finish before he grabs Acke’s hood, yanks his head back and delivers another blow that numbs half of Acke’s head.
‘Fear not, for the Lord is at hand,’ Ewert intones. A handkerchief wipes the vomit from Acke’s lips before being pushed into his mouth. There is a ripping sound and a length of duct tape is wound twice around his head. Acke is dizzy, barely aware of what is happening. He gulps, swallows and tries not to throw up into the handkerchief and possibly choke.
Albert holds on to him, removes the knife from Acke’s pocket and slips it into his own. Another ripping sound, and Acke’s feet are bound together as if he were standing to attention. Next, his hands are secured with cable ties. Ewert looks him up and down and nods.
‘Ready to go,’ he says before setting off, leaving Acke alone with Albert, who distractedly picks his nose while humming a tune that Acke vaguely recognises. His heart is pounding so hard it must surely be visible, like a clenched fist punching from the inside of his chest. His legs have turned to jelly, and he is only standing up because Albert is holding him under one arm.
Acke says: ‘Mmmfff,’ and Albert replies: ‘Shut the fuck up.’
The sound of an engine, a car reversing up to the tunnel’s entrance. A Volvo 740. The jelly turns to liquid and Acke almost manages to collapse, but Albert tightens his grip and says: ‘Time for a little trip.’ He picks Acke up in his arms as if he were a small child, carries him to the car and drops him in the boot.
‘Nightie night,’ Albert says, slamming the lid. Everything goes black.
6
Acke lies there in the darkness. He can hear the clink of metal objects around him; he can smell oil and 5-56. His attitude to throwing up has changed. He tells himself to do it, in the hope that he will choke and avoid what is to come. He achieves nothing more than a spurt of sour bile that shoots down his nose.
He cries. He shits himself. He bangs his head against the metal floor of the boot in the hope of knocking himself out. He howls in despair and shits himself again.
He doesn’t know how long the drive lasts, he is in that timeless space where pure fear lives, but at some point the sound of the engine changes and the car slows down. The tyres crunch over gravel. The engine is switched off with a final shudder. Heavy footsteps, the boot is opened.
Ewert Djup is standing there. He bends down towards Acke, but stops dead and waves his hand in front of his nose. ‘Jesus Christ, what a stench!’
‘Don’t you remember?’ Albert says. ‘Used to be pretty standard.’
‘Now you come to mention it . . .’ Ewert clicks his fingers. ‘Of course! We always put down newspapers!’
Albert tuts sympathetically. ‘The trouble is, we’ve got rusty.’
‘Yes, but then it’s a while since someone tried to put one over on us.’
‘True. Very true.’
Acke shakes his head, tries to protest, I didn’t, I’d never dream of, I can explain , but all that can be heard are muffled grunts, and his inability to communicate makes fresh tears flow. The brothers heave him out of the boot and chain his bound hands to the towbar, his face looking up at the starless night sky.
Please God, just let me die.
‘Okay,’ Ewert says, studying Acke. ‘Time to go. Coming along for the ride?’ He grins at his own joke, and is on his way to the driver’s seat when Albert says: ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
Ewert clicks his fingers again. A button is pressed, there is a hissing sound, then a lively melody played on the accordion before a group of men start singing about living in the country and buying a horse.
The car starts, the engine roars. The exhaust pipe blows out smoke right next to Acke’s head, but he can’t smell any fumes thanks to the stench of vomit that still fills his nostrils. He stares up at the sky, tries to make his consciousness become one with the darkness. Detach. Disappear. He doesn’t succeed. And so they are off, while the namesakes of the brothers Djup continue to sing about their rural concerns; now they are buying a cow.
Acke groans as sharp gravel tears his skin. He pushes his feet down hard and arches his back. The car accelerates. The soles of his shoes bounce over the uneven surface and gravel chips hit the back of his neck as he tenses his stomach muscles to the utmost in an effort to keep his bottom and back off the ground.
The car veers to the right and Acke’s legs jerk sideways. The ties securing his wrists pinch as he is thrown off balance, and he whimpers in pain as his right hip is dragged across the sharp gravel for a few seconds before he manages to lift himself again. A veer to the left, and the other hip gets the same treatment. He feels warm blood trickling across his stomach.
How long? How long can I hold out?
If Acke was in any way capable of reflecting on his situation, he might feel a paradoxical relief that the fear is gone for the moment, replaced by sheer survival instinct. The only thing that matters is to retain control of his feet, to keep his stomach muscles sufficiently tensed. The tens of thousands of sit-ups he has done in the gym and in his cell will help, thank you very much, but before long those muscles feel like a single taut string that is bound to break.
The Djup Brothers have moved on to the purchase of a pig.
Sweat is pouring over Acke’s body, and his backside is slowly, relentlessly dropping towards the unforgiving gravel. He can also feel it on his feet. His shoes have been worn down, and soon his bare soles will be exposed to the stones.
Snot flies out of his nose and he grunts and pushes himself upwards for one last time, his muscles screaming with pain. He manages a few centimetres, but can’t hold his position. He can hear the fabric of his jeans scraping across the ground. He is just about to give up and let himself be shredded when the car slows and stops.
The singing farmers have now moved on to imitating all the animals they have acquired. Then the song comes to an end, the engine is switched off, and the car door opens. Acke hangs helplessly from the towbar, with sweat pouring into his eyes. Ewert appears, puts his hands on his hips and nods.
‘You did well there,’ he says, unhooking Acke’s hands. ‘Although I think you might need some new shoes.’
Is it over? Have I survived?
Ewert grabs hold of Acke’s legs, swings him around and attaches his feet to the towbar. He nods pensively. ‘Although the second round is worse, of course.’
Acke screams beneath the tape as he pictures the second round . No possibility of escaping the gravel, just the inevitable progression to a torn, bloody mess. He screams and screams. Ewert puts one hand behind his ear, frowns and calls out to Albert: ‘Can you make out what he’s saying?’
‘Same old, same old, I imagine.’
‘I expect you’re right. But let’s check.’
Ewert inserts his fingers under the duct tape and his long nails scratch Acke’s lips as the strip of tape is pulled down. Acke gasps for breath, and can’t form a single word.
‘Did you want to say something?’ Ewert asks. ‘Or shall we get going?’
‘No, no, no,’ Acke pants. ‘It wasn’t me, you have to believe me, I was conned, I . . .’
Ewert sighs. ‘We’ve heard it all before. If there’s nothing else, then—’
‘I’ll do anything,’ Acke says. ‘Anything. Anything you want, as long as you let me go.’
Ewert looks at Albert, then at Acke. He crouches down so that his knees are level with Acke’s head, and leans forward. ‘Anything?’
‘Yes, yes, yes. Anything.’
There is a click as Albert opens Acke’s flick knife and slices through the tape securing his feet, which drop to the ground with a dull thud. ‘Well then,’ Ewert says. ‘We’d better see what we can come up with.’
7
Siw stares at the beautifully laid table, the half-eaten dinner. There is something deeply depressing about the sight, because it is her hopes and dreams that lie there, exposed and abandoned in the glow of the candlelight. She can’t bring herself to clear away and wash up, because she is still clinging to the tiniest spark of hope that Max will come back, so dinner can sit there going cold, a monument to failure.
Acke. Fucking Acke.
Why did he have to choose tonight to show up and ruin everything? Siw would have been happy to see him behind bars for life. She has never told him that Alva is his daughter, but no doubt he has done his sums, and there are certain likenesses. If nothing else, then Siw’s behaviour this evening must have confirmed his suspicions.
Fucking Acke.
Is she going to have to deal with him from now on? Since he attacked her, she has done her best to exclude him from her thoughts. If it weren’t for Alva’s constant questions, Siw might be able to regard her daughter as the result of a virgin birth. Now that has become even more impossible. The bastard is out and about.
Hot tears prick Siw’s eyes as she impotently shakes her fists at the table. She wishes Acke would disappear from the surface of the earth, and indulges in a fantasy where she lures him to Society Park and watches him vanish into a sinkhole. Slurp, slurp, problem solved. As she is visualising Acke’s fingers scrabbling for purchase, her phone rings. The display shows ‘Max’. She swallows her tears, clears her throat and answers.
‘Hi,’ Max says in a neutral tone. ‘I got your text.’
‘I just wanted to . . . I’m so sorry about how things turned out, but I heard . . . You would have been stabbed.’
