The Silver Road, page 12
He made it sound like something he was looking forward to. His voice quivered with a kind of suppressed tension. Several times he nudged Göran, who was sitting like a silent shadow beside him. Göran didn’t appear to be listening. He was hardly present as he sat staring into the fire. From time to time he scratched his chest and his arms viciously, as if he could hardly bear his own skin.
Pär drew a black cross on the ground with a charred barbecue skewer.
‘I don’t agree with the old man,’ he said. ‘All his talk about killer viruses and sickness. Yeah, stuff like that will happen, but not enough to bring an end to all humanity. A virus is simply a way of keeping the population down. Total downfall needs all-out war.’
Meja felt brave in Carl-Johan’s arms. She looked up at Pär and challenged him. ‘Do you really believe in all that?’
‘All what?’
‘That there’s going to be a war.’
‘Of course there will be a war. Look at the history of mankind. We have always fought. The problem now is that we’ve got weapons that can destroy the whole world. No one will escape.’
He stroked his stubbly chin and looked at Meja confrontationally through the flames.
‘How long would you last if society collapsed?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Without electricity, running water, supermarkets. How long would you survive?’
Meja looked down at Carl-Johan’s hand in hers and stroked the rough callouses. ‘No idea.’
‘Do you know how long we would survive out here at Svartliden?’
She shook her head.
Pär held up one hand and spread his fingers wide. ‘Five years. At least. Maybe forever.’ He turned to Carl-Johan. ‘Are you going to show her?’
Carl-Johan had his nose in Meja’s hair.
‘Show me what?’ she said.
‘Tomorrow,’ he murmured. ‘We’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘That’s enough of this bollocks,’ Göran said suddenly and stood up. He grabbed a bucket, filled it with water and flung it on the fire. He extinguished the last embers with his foot. A few of the sores he had torn open with his scratching were bleeding, but if he was aware of that he didn’t show it. He fumbled with his flies and walked in among the trees. Pär dropped his skewer into the ashes.
‘Only those who are prepared will survive,’ he said and looked at Meja. ‘The rest can only hope for mercy.’
They lay beside each other in the dark and the quietness, free of the midnight sun and the mosquitoes and with only the sound of Carl-Johan’s breathing in the room, deep and throaty in sleep. His arm lay warm and heavy over her hip, but she didn’t want to move it. She wanted to keep the loneliness at bay. She thought of her old city life, the high-rise flats she and Silje had lived in. The lifts that sighed between floors and the smell of cooking that never came from their flat. The hum of voices from people who lived their lives so close together. Close but never touching. On the nights Silje didn’t come home, the voices were all she had.
She was woken by her mobile vibrating beside her. Carl-Johan had slid away from her, but she felt his warmth against her back. She peered at the display and saw it was Silje. She considered not answering, but then felt her pulse start racing. It wasn’t even eight o’clock. Silje was never awake this early. Something must have happened.
‘Hello?’
‘Meja, you’ve got to come home.’
‘What’s happened?’
Silje’s breathing hissed in her ear. ‘It’s Torbjörn. Please, Meja, I don’t want to be alone with him a minute longer. You’ve got to come home as soon as you can.’
The poor signal cut short her words. It sounded as if she was holding the phone right up to her lips as she spoke, as if she didn’t want to be overheard.
Lelle was standing in his underpants frying potato dumplings when the police car pulled up in the drive. He hurried into the bedroom to put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, leaving the spatula greasy-side down on the bedside table. The legs of his jeans were still wet and stained after his night’s search, but he didn’t notice. Through the gaps in the blind he watched the police officer walk up the gravel path, his uniform jacket tight over his shoulders. Thick black hair showed from under his cap.
‘What the hell is it now?’ he whispered to himself. As usual the familiar hope surfaced and the blood raced through his veins. Perhaps they had found her. Perhaps it was over now. Or else it had only just begun. He flung open the door with such force that Hassan staggered back.
‘What’s going on?’
Hassan held up his hands in their leather gloves. ‘It’s not about Lina. Not this time.’
The disappointment – or was it the relief? – made him slump heavily against the doorframe.
‘So what is it about, then?’
‘Are you going to let me in?’
Lelle stepped aside and as he did so he felt Hassan’s eyes on him.
‘You really need to do something about your hair, mate.’
Lelle lifted his hand to his head. The hair felt stiff, oily and a mess.
‘When did you last have a shower?’
‘We can’t all be as well-groomed as you.’
Hassan looked at him reflectively. ‘I can smell food.’
‘I’m frying potato dumplings. Want some?’
‘You know very well I don’t eat pork.’
‘You eat potatoes, don’t you?’
‘There’s pork inside them, isn’t there?’
‘You can pick it out. A little pork won’t kill you.’
Hassan removed his dark police jacket and was about to hang it over the back of a chair when Lelle shouted: ‘Not that chair! We don’t use that chair. It’s Lina’s.’
Hassan jerked the jacket away from the chair without a word and chose another one. His eyes looked concerned, but he said nothing. He sat down, rested his hands on the table and looked at Lelle. It was as if he could see every thought that churned in his head.
Lelle piled the dumplings in shiny heaps on two plates and spooned out the lingonberry jam. Hassan looked sceptical.
‘Can you tell me what this is all about?’
‘I really just wanted to drop by.’
‘Drop by. In work time?’
Hassan stuck his fork into a piece of gleaming dumpling and contemplated it before putting it in his mouth. ‘I know this has been a difficult time for you,’ he said, between bites. ‘But I just want to reassure myself that everything is OK with you.’
‘You can cut the crap,’ Lelle said.
Hassan grimaced as he swallowed. He put his fork down and looked at Lelle. ‘OK, let’s cut the crap. Where were you on the night between Saturday and Sunday?’
‘Driving.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Up and down the 95.’
‘Were you by any chance in the vicinity of Arjeplog?’
‘I drive through Arjeplog every night.’
‘What time were you there?’
Lelle shrugged. ‘I guess between three and four a.m. Maybe a little later.’
‘Did you stop at the Kraja campsite?’
‘Not that I can recall. Not on Sunday.’
‘For God’s sake, Lelle.’
Lelle drew circles in the lingonberry jam. It might be because they had suspected him earlier, but he didn’t feel any fear now, just more weariness. He had been the last person to see Lina at the bus stop before she went missing and now he had been in the area when Hanna Larsson disappeared. Naturally that could be misinterpreted.
‘You told me the other day that we are never going to find her,’ said Hassan. ‘What did you mean by that?’
Lelle pushed his plate away from him. ‘It’s just a feeling. She is so like Lina it can’t be chance. There has to be a connection.’
‘Three years is a long time for there to be a connection.’
Lelle picked his teeth with his fingernail. He wasn’t going to let himself be put off. ‘How much do the police really know about Hanna Larsson?’
‘Nothing I can discuss with you.’
‘In other words you know fuck all.’
‘I’d watch out if I were you, Lelle,’ Hassan said in a voice Lelle didn’t recognize.
‘And the boyfriend, what have you done with him?’
‘The last I heard he was released. While Hanna is still missing we haven’t got a lot to go on. You know that.’
‘But you don’t seriously think I’ve got anything to do with this?’
Hassan ran his hand over his face and rubbed his tired cheeks. ‘I’d like to take a look at your car.’
‘Help yourself. The key’s hanging in the hall.’
Hassan carried his plate and cutlery to the sink, scraped off what was left of the dumplings and rinsed the plate before putting it in the dish rack. Lelle regarded the thick neck and bulky arms. The same arms that had lifted him from the floor when he had been lying in his own vomit, and carried him upstairs and put a bucket by his bedside. It was Hassan who had stayed with him all night even though that went above and beyond the duties of a local police officer. Who had emptied the plastic container full of hooch, and broken every single bottle in the drinks cupboard after Anette left. His eyes began to sting at the thought of it.
‘Do you know there are war veterans living in the forests round here?’
Hassan turned off the tap. ‘Did you say war veterans?’
‘Yes. I came across an ex-UN soldier in a forest one night when I was looking for Lina. He had set up home in a deserted farmhouse. You should have seen him. Long hair, filthy, like some kind of wild creature.’
Hassan dried his hands on the kitchen towel and he looked at Lelle sadly. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you took a break from all of this?’
‘A break?’ Lelle’s voice echoed round the room. ‘My daughter has been missing for three years – three years without a single trace. How the hell can I take a break?’
‘You’re running yourself into the ground.’
Lelle dismissed this with a wave of his hand, but the stinging in his eyes grew worse. ‘Do you want coffee?’
‘No time, but thanks for the chow.’
Hassan disappeared into the hall and Lelle heard the rattle of keys as he took the keyring from its hook. He watched through the sitting-room window as Hassan pulled on a pair of blue disposable gloves and walked towards the Volvo. The door was unlocked. He saw Hassan reach in with both arms and search through the rubbish, sending old cigarette ash whirling around his head.
He turned around and threw a fleeting glance at Lina, still smiling from the mantelpiece.
‘Can you believe your ears?’ he said out loud. ‘They’re going to put the blame on me again.’
He was sitting in the kitchen listening to the coffee brewing when Hassan came back in. He stood in the doorway and held up a stained piece of cloth. Lelle peered at it and saw it was the top he had been wearing last evening.
‘The whole front seat is covered in blood. What the hell’s going on, Lelle?’
‘You don’t have to come in with me.’
‘Don’t be silly, of course I’m coming with you.’
Carl-Johan pushed his arm under the driving seat and pulled out a knife.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What do you know about Torbjörn, exactly? How long have you known him?’
Meja swallowed. There was a sour taste in her mouth. ‘I don’t know. Silje found him on the internet.’
Carl-Johan grimaced and he looked towards the house. ‘I want you to keep behind me.’
He pushed the knife up his sleeve before climbing out of the car. Meja had words of protest on the tip of her tongue, but couldn’t make a sound. All she could hear was the thudding of her heart. She followed him hesitantly. Dew glittered on the uncut grass and soaked into their shoes. Carl-Johan stood on the veranda and knocked. He held an arm in front of Meja to keep her back.
Torbjörn opened the door. He was holding a blood-soaked kitchen towel to the side of his head. His eyes darted about and finally fixed on Meja.
‘The woman’s raving mad! There’s no talking to her.’
Carl-Johan pushed past him and called out Silje’s name. Meja hurried after him and caught a glimpse of the knife in his hand. Silje was sitting on the kitchen floor in a pool of glossy magazines. Her hair clung in sweaty strands round her skinny throat and her mascara had run in black lines down her sunken cheeks. She held up a couple of shiny pages to Carl-Johan and Meja. On them were images of swollen-breasted women with parted legs and bare, jutting backsides.
‘A whole cellar full of this garbage,’ Silje said. ‘Young girls, hardly eighteen years old. It’s enough to make you want to throw up!’
Meja felt the vinyl flooring give under her feet. The shame burned in her cheeks.
Carl-Johan closed the knife and dropped it into his pocket. His neck was as red as if he had been sunburned. Behind them they heard Torbjörn’s gruff voice.
‘I’ve been a bachelor for over forty years. Those magazines were all I had. I meant to get rid of them, but somehow never got round to it. I’m not proud of myself.’
‘A whole outhouse full!’ said Silje. ‘And he tells me he’s going out there to do some carving. Carving!’ Her laughter turned into rasping sobs. She hid her face in her hands, sobbing and convulsing as if she were about to collapse. They stood and watched, helplessly, too embarrassed to do anything. Eventually Carl-Johan turned to Torbjörn and said: ‘I can help you burn the stuff.’
It took all morning. They lit a bonfire on the slope by the stable block and emptied wheelbarrows full of magazines and old VHS tapes on to the flames. Sordid black smoke rose up into the innocent summer sky. Meja packed her bag and waited. She went and stood in the bathroom and looked herself in the eyes. Her fingers ached as she gripped the rust-stained porcelain. The shame had etched itself into her cheeks and her face was flushed. Then she went to the kitchen and drank coffee until her hands shook. She saw the two men sweating outside as they shovelled porn with long-handled spades as if it were cow dung. Carl-Johan’s muscles reflected the sun as he ran up and down with the wheelbarrow. She wondered how she would ever be able to look him in the face again.
Silje was engrossed with her pencil, sketching with surprisingly steady hands the fire that was burning outside. Meja rolled the words around in her mouth for a long time until she found her vocal cords.
‘You’ve gone too far this time.’
‘I hit him with a log. That’s why he’s bleeding.’
‘You call me and ask me to come home because your bloke’s got a collection of porn in the outhouse. Do you get how sick that is?’
‘I didn’t know what to do. I had a shock! He says he’s going to do some carpentry and when I go out there it’s like walking into a jungle of filth! Floor to ceiling with young girls – your age, Meja. I was so stunned I screamed out loud. You should have heard me scream.’
‘Well perhaps you should have thought about that before you moved in here. Done some research. Then you would have known the whole village calls him Pornbjörn.’
‘You’re having me on.’ Silje hid her face behind the sketchbook for a long time, as if she were going to start crying again. But then Meja heard the laughter.
‘It isn’t funny. You embarrass me. You embarrass us. Why can’t you act like a normal person?’
Silje lowered the paper and dried the tears of laughter with the back of her hand. ‘I knew there was something wrong with him, that was clear straight away. He isn’t like other men when it comes to the sexual side of things, I could tell that…’
‘I don’t want to hear this!’ Meja reached for her backpack and went out on to the veranda. It sounded as if the entire decrepit place would collapse when she slammed the door behind her.
She walked straight up to Carl-Johan, pushed aside the wheelbarrow and locked her fingers around his wrist. She heard the words come from her mouth: ‘Take me away from here. Now.’
At Svartliden the Midsummer pig was still on the spit, smiling up at the white sky. The smell of burned flesh floated in the mist that had forced its way between the trees and settled in an ethereal cloud over the gravel drive. Carl-Johan and Meja sat in the car with the windows down, breathing in the dense air. Carl-Johan had replaced the knife under the driver’s seat.
‘I don’t think we should have left your mum like that,’ he said, abruptly.
‘She’s known worse, believe me. All she wants is attention.’
He sighed deeply. ‘Did you see that collection of crap he had? The guy must have bought every single porn mag in the country.’
The laughter felt liberating and shifted the lump of shame from her throat.
‘Don’t tell anyone, will you?’ Meja asked, when they had stopped laughing. ‘Not your parents or Göran or Pär. It makes me feel so embarrassed.’
‘I promise.’
He made circles on her knuckles with the tops of his fingers, sending small shudders through her body and giving her goosebumps. At the forest edge Anita moved in and out of the mist. Her white hair had taken on a supernatural lustre in the watery light. Her shoulders were stooped and she wasn’t looking in their direction. Meja felt a flutter of anxiety.
‘Do you think Birger and Anita will mind if I stay here for a while?’
‘No, they’ll be only too happy.’
Despite this, he stayed where he was in the car. Meja could see his heart beating under his T-shirt.
‘Maybe you don’t want me to stay?’
‘Of course I do! But it’s a big step. I want you to know what you’re letting yourself in for. My family isn’t like other people’s.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We work hard.’
Meja reached out and pushed his fair hair from his face. She could feel the heat rising from his pores and thought that she had never met anyone so alive, so full of vitality.
