The Blood Spilt

The Blood Spilt - Asa Larsson



AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Rebecka Martinsson will get back on her feet, I believe in that little girl in her red Wellington boots. And remember: in my story I’m God. The characters might make a fuss about their free will from time to time, but I invented them. The places in the book are also mostly invented. There is a village called Poikkij?rvi by the river Torne, but that’s where any resemblance ends, there’s no gravel track, no bar, no priest’s house.
Many people have helped me and I would like to thank some of them here: jur. kand. Karina Lundstr?m, who sniffs out interesting characters within the police authorities. Senior doctor Jan Lindberg who helped me with my dead bodies. PhD candidate Catharina Durling and deputy judge Viktoria Edelman, who always checks the statute book for me when I don’t understand something or I’ve run out of energy. Dog handler Peter Holmstr?m, who told me about Clinton the superdog.
Any errors in the book are mine. I forget to ask, misunderstand, or make things up against my better judgment.
Thanks also to: publisher Gunnar Nirstedt for his opinions. Elisabeth Ohlson Wallin and John Eyre for the cover. Lisa Berg and Hans-Olov ?berg who read and had opinions. My mother and Eva Jensen, who always manage to press the repeat button and say wonderful! Really! My father, who sorts out maps and can answer just about any question and who saw a wolf when he was seventeen and laying nets beneath the ice.
And finally: Per, for absolutely everything.


1

FRIDAY JUNE 21

Iam lying on my side on the kitchen sofa. Impossible to sleep. At this time of year, in the middle of summer, the nights are so light they allow you no rest. The clock on the wall above me will soon strike one. The ticking of the pendulum grows louder in the silence. Smashes every sentence to pieces. Every attempt at rational thought. On the table lies the letter from that woman.
Lie still, I say to myself. Lie still and sleep.
My thoughts turn to Traja, a pointer bitch we had when I was little. She could never settle, walked round and round the kitchen like a restless soul, her claws clicking on the lacquered wooden floor. For the first few months we kept her in a cage indoors to force her to relax. The house was constantly filled with the sound of “sit” and “stay” and “lie down.”
Now it’s just the same. There’s a dog in my breast who wants to jump up every time the clock ticks. Every time I take a breath. But it isn’t Traja who’s inside me ready to pounce. Traja just wanted to trot around. Get rid of the restlessness in her body. This dog turns her head away from me when I try to look at her. She is filled with evil intent.
I shall try to go to sleep. Somebody should lock me in. I ought to have a cage in the kitchen.
* * *

I get up and look out of the window. It’s quarter past one. It’s as light as day. The long shadows from the ancient pine trees along the edge of the yard extend toward the house. I think they look like arms. Hands stretching up out of their restless graves and reaching for me. The letter is lying there on the kitchen table.
* * *

I’m in the cellar. It’s twenty-five to two. The dog who isn’t Traja is on her feet. She’s running around the edges of my mind. I try to call to her. Don’t want to follow her into this untrodden territory. My head is empty on the inside. My hand takes things off the wall. Different objects. What do I want with them? The sledgehammer. The crowbar. The chain. The hammer.
* * *

My hands place everything in the trunk of the car. It’s like a puzzle. I can’t see what it’s meant to represent. I get into the car and wait. I think about the woman and the letter. It’s her fault. She’s the one who’s driven me out of my mind.
* * *

I’m driving the car. There’s a clock on the instrument panel. Straight lines with no meaning. The road is carrying me out of time. My hands are clutching the wheel so tightly that my fingers are hurting. If I kill myself now they’ll have to cut the steering wheel out of the car and bury it with me. But I’m not going to kill myself.
* * *

I stop the car a hundred meters from the shore where she keeps her boat. I walk down to the river. It’s shining and quiet, waiting. There’s the faint sound of lapping water beneath the boat. The sun is dancing on the ripples caused by a salmon trout coming to the surface to eat flies. The mosquitoes are swarming around me. Whirring around my ears. Landing round my eyes and on the back of my neck and sucking blood. I don’t take any notice of them. A sound makes me turn around. It’s her. She is standing no more than ten meters from me.
* * *

Her mouth opens and forms itself around words. But I hear nothing. My ears are sealed up. Her eyes narrow. Irritation springs to life in them. I take two tentative steps forward. I still don’t know what I want. I am in the territory beyond all sense and reason.
She catches sight of the crowbar in my hand. Her mouth stops moving. The narrow eyes widen once again. A second of surprise. Then fear.
I catch sight of the crowbar myself. My hand whitens around the steel. And suddenly the dog is back. Enormous. Paws like hooves. The hair is standing up from the back of its neck all the way down to its tail. Teeth bared. It’s going to swallow me whole. And then it’s going to swallow the woman.
* * *

I’ve reached her. She looks at the crowbar as if she were bewitched by it and so the first blow strikes her right on the temple. I kneel down beside her and lay my cheek against her mouth. A warm puff of air against my skin. I haven’t finished with her yet. The dog rushes out like a mad thing, straight for everything in its way. Its claws rip the earth, leaving great wounds. I am rampaging. I am racing into the far country that is madness.
And now I am lengthening my stride.