“Are you out of your fu—bloody . . . out of your bloody mind, you stupid kid? You know what that telephone cost?” yells Kent, and then he tells her it bloody cost eight thousand kronor.
Elsa informs him that she couldn’t give a damn what it cost. And then Kent informs her with a sadistic gleam in his eye exactly what he did with Renault.
She runs up the stairs to fetch Dad, but stops abruptly on the penultimate floor. Britt-Marie is standing in her doorway. She’s clasping her hands over her stomach, and Elsa can see that she’s sweating. The kitchen behind her smells of Christmas food, and she’s wearing her flower-print jacket with her large brooch. The pink paintball stain is hardly visible at all.
“You mustn’t let Kent kill it,” pleads Elsa, wide-eyed. “Please, Britt-Marie, it’s my friend. . . .”
Britt-Marie meets her eyes, and for a single fleeting second there’s some humanity in them. Elsa can see that. But then Kent’s voice can be heard, calling to Britt-Marie from the stairwell that she has to bring more poison, and then the normal Britt-Marie is back.
“Kent’s children are coming here tomorrow. They’re afraid of dogs,” she explains firmly.
She straightens out a wrinkle that isn’t there on her skirt, and brushes something invisible off her floral-print jacket.
“We’re having a traditional Christmas dinner here tomorrow. With some normal Christmas food. Like a civilized family. We’re not barbarians, you know.”
Then she slams the door. Elsa stays where she is and realizes that Dad is not going to be able to solve this, because tentativeness is not a very useful superpower in this type of emergency situation. She needs reinforcements.
She has been banging on the door for more than a minute before she hears Alf’s dragging footsteps. He opens it with a cup of coffee in his hand that smells so strong that she’s sure a spoon would get stuck in it.
“I’m sleeping,” he grunts.
“He’s killing Renault!” sobs Elsa.
“Killing? Nothing’s going to be killed around here. It’s only a bloody car,” says Alf, swallows a mouthful of coffee and yawns.
“It’s not just a car! It’s RENAULT!”
“Who the hell has told you he’s going to kill Renault?”
“Kent!”
Elsa hasn’t even had time to explain what’s in Renault’s backseat before Alf has put down the coffee cup, stepped into his shoes, and set off down the stairs. She hears Alf and Kent roaring at each other so terribly that she has to cover her ears. She can’t hear what they’re saying, except that it’s a lot of swearwords, and Kent shouts something about leaseholds and how one can’t have “rust-heaps” parked in the garage because then people will think the house is full of “socialists.” Which is Kent’s way of saying “bloody idiots,” Elsa understands. And then Alf shouts, “Bloody idiot,” which is his way of saying exactly that, because Alf is not big on complicating things.
And then Alf comes stamping up the stairs again, wild-eyed, muttering:
“The bastard got someone to tow the car away. Is your dad here?”
Elsa nods. Alf storms up the stairs without a word, and a few moments later Elsa and Dad are sitting in Taxi, even though Dad doesn’t want to at all.
“I’m not sure I want to do this,” says Dad.
“Someone has to bloody drive the damned Renault home,” grunts Alf.
“How do we find out where Kent sent it, then?” asks Elsa, at the same time that Dad does his best not to look completely tentative.
“I’ve been driving a damned taxi for thirty years,” says Alf.
“And?” hisses Elsa.
“And so I bloody know how to find a Renault that’s been towed away!”