The Blood Spilt

32


SUNDAY SEPTEMBER 10

It is Sunday evening. Rebecka Martinsson is sitting on the floor in her grandmother’s house in Kurravaara. She’s lit a fire in the stove. A blanket over her shoulders, her arms around her knees. From time to time she takes a log out of the wooden box from the Swedish Sugar Company. She is gazing into the fire. Her muscles are tired. During the day she has carried rugs, blankets, quilts, mattresses and cushions outside. She’s beaten them and left them hanging out there. She has scrubbed the floor with yellow soap and cleaned the windows. Washed all the china and wiped out the kitchen cupboards. She’s left the ground floor at that. She’s had the windows wide open all day to air the place, get rid of all the old, stale air. Now she’s lit a fire in both the kitchen stove and the other room to drive out the last of the damp. She has kept the Sabbath day holy. Her mind has rested. Now it is resting in the fire. In the age-old way.
* * *

Inspector Sven-Erik St?lnacke is sitting in his living room. The television is on, but with no sound. Just in case there might be a cat miaowing outside. It doesn’t matter, he’s seen this film before. It’s Tom Hanks, falling in love with a mermaid.
The whole house feels empty without the cat. He’s walked along the side of the road, looking in the ditch and calling quietly. Now he feels very tired. Not from walking, but from listening so hard all the time. From keeping going. Although he knows there’s no point.
And no sign of life from the priest who’s vanished. Both evening papers had got hold of it on Saturday. Center page spread on the disappearance. A comment from the national police profiling team, but nothing from the female psychiatrist who did actually help them with a profile. One of the evening papers had found some old case from the seventies, where some lunatic in Florida had murdered two revivalist preachers. The murderer had been killed himself by a fellow prisoner while he was cleaning the toilets, but during his time in jail he’d boasted that he’d committed other murders he hadn’t gone down for. Big picture of Stefan Wikstr?m. The words “priest,” “father of four,” “despairing wife” appeared in the text under the picture. Not a word about possible embezzlement, thank the Lord. Sven-Erik also noticed that it didn’t say anything about Stefan Wikstr?m being opposed to women priests.
There were, of course, no resources for the protection of priests and pastors in general. His colleagues had felt their hearts sink when one of the papers wrote: “Police Admit: We Cannot Protect Them!” The Express offered advice to those who felt under threat: Make sure you’re always with somebody, change your normal routines, take a different route home from work, lock the door, don’t park next to a delivery van.
It was a madman, of course. The sort who would just carry on until his luck ran out. Sven-Erik thinks about Manne. In a way, his disappearance was worse than if he’d died. You couldn’t grieve. You were just tormented by not knowing. Your head like a cesspit, full of horrible speculation about what might have happened.
But good God, Manne was just a cat. If it had been his daughter. That idea is too big. Impossible to grasp.
* * *

Bertil Stensson is sitting on the sofa in his living room. A glass of Cognac stands on the windowsill behind him. His right arm is resting along the back of the sofa, behind his wife’s neck. With his left hand he is caressing her breast. She doesn’t take her eyes off the TV, it’s some old film with Tom Hanks, but the corners of her mouth turn up approvingly. He caresses one breast and one scar. He remembers how upset she was four years ago, when they took it off. “A woman still wants to be desired even though she’s turned sixty,” she said. But he’s come to love the scar more than the breast that was there before. As a reminder that life is short. Before your pots can feel the thorns, he shall take them away as with a whirlwind, both living, and in his wrath. That scar puts everything into perspective. Helps him to maintain a balance between work and leisure, duty and love. Sometimes he’s thought he’d like to preach a sermon about the scar. But of course that isn’t really an option. Besides, it would feel as if he were overstepping the mark in some inexplicable way. It would lose its power in his life if he put it into words. It is the scar that preaches to Bertil. He has no right to take over that sermon and pass it on to others.
It was Mildred he spoke to, four years ago. Not Stefan. Not the bishop, although they’ve been friends for many years. He remembers that he wept. That Mildred was a good listener. That he felt he could rely on her.
She drove him mad. But as he sits here now, his wife’s scar beneath his left forefinger, he can’t really remember what it was that used to provoke him so. Even if she was a bluestocking who didn’t really appreciate what did and didn’t fall within the remit of the church.
She disqualified him from his role as her boss. That bothered him. Never asked for permission. Never asked for advice. Found it very difficult to keep in line.
He almost gives a start at his own choice of words, keep in line. He really isn’t that kind of boss. He prides himself on giving his employees freedom and responsibilities of their own. But he’s still their boss.
Sometimes he’d had to point that out to Mildred. Like that business with the funeral. It was a man who’d left the church. But he’d been attending Mildred’s services the year before he got ill. Then he died. And he’d made it known that he wanted Mildred to officiate. And she’d conducted a civil funeral. Of course, he could have turned a blind eye to that little infringement of the rules, but he’d reported her to the cathedral chapter, and she’d had to go and see the bishop. At the time he’d thought it was the right thing to do. What was the point of having rules and regulations if they weren’t followed?
She came back to work and behaved exactly as she always had. Didn’t even mention the interview with the bishop. Didn’t seem upset, didn’t sulk, didn’t seem to feel she’d been treated unfairly. This gave Bertil a sneaking feeling that the bishop might have been on her side. That he might have said he had to speak to her and rap her knuckles because Bertil had insisted, something along those lines. That they’d been in silent agreement that Bertil was easily offended, insecure in his position and perhaps even slightly jealous. Because he hadn’t been asked to officiate at the funeral.
It isn’t often people really take a close look at themselves. But now he’s sitting before the scar, as if he were in the confessional.
It was true. He had been a bit jealous. A bit irritated by that simple love she drew from so many people.
“I miss her,” Bertil says to his wife.
He misses her, and he will grieve for her for a long time to come.
His wife doesn’t ask who he means. She abandons the film and turns the sound down.
“I didn’t support her as I should have done when she worked here,” he goes on.
“That’s not true,” says his wife. “You gave her the freedom to work in her own way. Managed to keep both her and Stefan in the church, that was quite an achievement.”
The two troublesome priests.
Bertil shakes his head.
“Support her now, then,” says his wife. “She’s left so much behind. She used to be able to take care of it all herself, but maybe now she needs your support more than ever.”
“How?” he laughs. “Most of the women in Magdalena regard me as their greatest enemy.”
His wife smiles at him.
“Then you must help and support without receiving either thanks or love in return. You can have a little love from me instead.”
“Maybe we should go to bed,” suggests the priest.
* * *

The wolf, he thinks as he sits down to pee. That’s what Mildred would have wanted. Use the money in the foundation to pay for her to be protected this winter.
As soon as the idea occurs to him, it’s as if the whole bathroom is almost electrified. His wife is already in bed, calling out to him.
“Won’t be a minute,” he answers. Almost afraid to shout out loud. Her presence is so tangible. But fleeting.
What do you want? he asks, and Mildred comes closer.
It’s just typical of her. Just when he’s sitting on the toilet with his trousers down.
I’m in the church all day, he says. You could have come to find me there.
And at that very moment he knows. The money in the foundation won’t be enough. But if the hunting permit is renegotiated. Either the hunting club can start paying the proper rate. Or they find a new lessee. And that money can go to the foundation.
He can feel her smiling. She knows what she’s asking of him. Every one of the men will be against him. There’ll be trouble, letters to the paper.
But she knows he can do it. He can get the church council on his side.
I’ll do it, he tells her. Not because I think it’s the right thing to do. But for your sake.
* * *

Lisa St?ckel is out in the yard, tending a bonfire. The dogs are shut in, sleeping in their beds.
Bloody gangsters, she thinks lovingly.
She’s got four now. For most of her life she’s had five.
There’s Bruno, a short-haired pure brown pointer. Everybody calls him the German. It’s his air of self-control and his slightly military stiffness that have earned him the nickname. When Lisa gets out her rucksack and the dogs realize they’re off on a long trip, bedlam breaks out in the hallway. They scurry round and round like a carousel. Barking, prancing, yelping, whining, giving little yaps of happiness. Almost knocking her over, trampling all over the packing. Looking at her with eyes that say: We can come with you, can’t we? You won’t go without us?
All except the German. He sits there like a statue in the middle of the floor, apparently unmoved. But if you lean forward and look at him carefully, you can see a trembling beneath his skin. An almost imperceptible quiver of suppressed excitement. And if it all gets too much for him in the end, if he has to let his feelings out before he breaks in two, he might just stamp with his front paws as he sits there, twice. Then you know he’s really excited.
Then there’s Majken, of course. Her old Labrador bitch. But she’s slowing down nowadays. Gray muzzle, tired. Majken’s looked after them all. She really loves puppies. The newcomers to the pack have been allowed to sleep on her stomach, she’s been their new mummy. And if she didn’t have a puppy to look after, she had a phantom pregnancy instead. Until only two years ago Lisa would come home and find the sheets on her bed raked up and completely reorganized. Majken would be lying there among the pillows and covers, with her little pretend puppies: a tennis ball, a shoe, or one time when Majken had been really lucky, a soft toy she’d found somewhere in the forest.
And then Karelin, her big black Schaefer/Newfoundland cross. He’d come to Lisa as a three-year-old. The vet in Kiruna had phoned and asked if she wanted him. He was going to be put down, but the owner had said he’d rather see him re-homed. He just didn’t fit in in town. “I can well believe it,” the vet had said to Lisa, “you should have seen him dragging his master along after him on the lead.”
And finally Sicky-Morris, her Norwegian Springer spaniel. Show champion and award winning hunting stock. Talent completely wasted out here with the rest of the rogues. And Lisa doesn’t even hunt. He loves to sit by her side and have his chest stroked, plonks his paw in her lap to remind her he exists. A nice, gentle man. Silky coat and curly hair on his ears like a girl, suffers badly from car sickness.
But now all four of them are lying inside. Lisa is throwing everything possible onto the fire. Mattresses and old dog blankets, books and some furniture. Papers. More papers. Letters. Old photographs. It makes a real blaze. Lisa gazes into the flames.
It became such hard work in the end, loving Mildred. Creeping about, keeping quiet, waiting. They quarreled. It was like a bad sitcom.
* * *

They’re arguing in Lisa’s kitchen. Mildred closes the windows.
That’s the most important thing, thinks Lisa. That nobody hears.
Lisa lets it all out. All the words are the same. She’s sick of them before they’ve been uttered. That Mildred doesn’t love her. That she’s tired of being something to pass the time. Tired of the hypocrisy.
Lisa is standing in the middle of the floor. She wants to throw things around. Her despair makes her shrill and wordy. She’s never been like this before.
And Mildred is kind of cringing. Sitting on the sofa with Sicky-Morris pressed against her. Sicky-Morris is cringing too. Mildred is patting the dog as if she were consoling a child.
“What about the church, then?” she asks. “And Magdalena? If we were to live together openly, that would be the end of it. It would be the final proof that I’m nothing but a bitter man-hater. I can’t test people’s tolerance beyond their capability.”
“So you prefer to sacrifice me?”
“No, why does it have to be like that? I’m happy. I love you, I can say it a thousand times, but you seem to want some kind of proof.”
“It’s not a question of proof, it’s a question of being able to breathe. Real love wants to be seen. But that’s the problem. You don’t want that, you don’t love me. Magdalena’s just your bloody excuse for keeping your distance. Erik might fall for that, but not me. Get yourself another lover, I’m sure there’s plenty who wouldn’t say no.”
Mildred begins to cry. Her mouth tries to hold back. She buries her face in the dog’s fur. Wipes her tears with the back of her hand.
This is where Lisa wanted her. Maybe what she really wanted to do was hit her. She longs for her tears and her pain. But she isn’t satisfied. Her own pain is still hungry.
“You can stop crying,” she says harshly. “It means nothing to me.”
“I’ll stop,” Mildred promises like a child, her voice cracking, her hand still wiping away the tears.
And Lisa who has always accused herself of her inability to love delivers her verdict:
“You just feel sorry for yourself, that’s all. I think there’s something wrong with you. There’s something missing inside you. You say you love me, but who can open up another person and look inside and see what that means? I could leave everything, put up with anything. I want to marry you. But you… you’re incapable of feeling love. You’re incapable of feeling pain.”
Then Mildred looks up from the dog. A candle in a brass holder is burning on the kitchen table. She puts her hand over the flame, it burns right into her palm.
“I don’t know how to prove I love you,” she says. “But I’ll show you I’m capable of feeling pain.”
Her mouth narrows to a thin line of agony. Tears pour from her eyes. A horrible smell fills the kitchen.
In the end, it feels like an eternity, Lisa takes hold of Mildred’s wrist and pulls her hand away from the candle. The wound on her palm is burned and fleshy. Lisa looks at it in horror.
“You’ll have to go to hospital,” she says.
But Mildred shakes her head.
“Don’t leave me,” she begs.
Now Lisa is crying too. She leads Mildred out to the car, fastens the seat belt around her as if she were a child who couldn’t do it herself, fetches a pack of frozen spinach.
It’s weeks before they quarrel again. Mildred turns the inside of her bandaged hand toward Lisa from time to time. By chance, as it were, pushing her hair behind her ear or something like that. It’s a secret love sign.
* * *

It’s dark now. Lisa stops thinking about Mildred and goes to the henhouse. The chickens are asleep on their perches. Pressed close together. She takes them one by one. Lifts the chicken down from the perch. Carries it out to the fence. Keeps it pressed close against her body so it feels safe, clucking quietly. There’s a stump of wood over there that she uses when she’s chopping wood.
Grabs the legs quickly, swings it against the stump, a blow that stuns it. Then the axe, held with one hand right next to the axe head, one single chop, just hard enough, in exactly the right place. She keeps hold of the legs till it stops flapping, closes her eyes so she doesn’t get feathers or anything else in them. Altogether there are ten hens and a cockerel. She doesn’t bury them. The dogs would just dig them up straightaway. She chucks them in the garbage can instead.
* * *

Lars-Gunnar Vinsa is driving home to the village in the darkness. Nalle is asleep in the passenger seat beside him. They’ve been out in the forest all day picking lingon berries. Lots of thoughts. Coming into his head now. Old memories.
All of a sudden he can see Eva, Nalle’s mother, standing in front of him. He’s just got home from work. He’s been on the evening shift and it’s dark outside, but she hasn’t put the lights on. She’s standing quite still in the darkness right next to the wall in the hallway when he walks in.
It’s such peculiar behavior that he’s forced to ask her:
“What’s the matter?”
And she replies:
“I’m dying here, Lars-Gunnar. I’m sorry, but I’m dying here.”
What should he have done? As if he weren’t tired to death as well. At work he was dealing with all kinds of misery day in and day out. Then he came home to take care of Nalle. He still can’t work out what she did all day. The beds were never made. She hardly ever cooked dinner. He went to bed. Asked her to come up with him, but she didn’t want to. The following morning, she was gone. Took nothing more than her handbag. She didn’t even think he was worth a letter. He had to clean her out of the house. Packed her bits and pieces in boxes and put them in the attic.
After six months she phoned. Wanted to speak to Nalle. He explained that it just wasn’t on. She’d only have upset the boy. He told her how Nalle had looked for her, asked about her and cried at first. But things were better now. He told her how the boy was getting on, sent her his drawings. He could see people in the village thought he was being too soft. Too indulgent. But he didn’t wish her any harm. What would that achieve?
The old biddies from social services kept on about Nalle going to a residential center.
“He can stay there from time to time,” they said. “It’ll give you some respite.”
He’d gone to have a look at their bloody residential center. Just walking through the door made you depressed. Everything was depressing. The ugliness of it all, every single object screamed “institution,” “storeroom for loonies, the retarded and the crippled.” The ornaments that had been made by the inmates—plaster casts, tiles covered in beads, vile pictures in cheap frames. And the way the staff chattered on. Their striped cotton overalls. He remembers looking at one of them. She can’t have been more than one meter fifty. He thought:
Are you going to intervene if there’s a fight?
Nalle was big, that was true, but he couldn’t defend himself.
“Never,” Lars-Gunnar said to social services.
They tried to insist.
“You need respite,” they said. “You’ve got to think about yourself.”
“No,” he’d said. “Why? Why have I got to think about myself? I’m thinking about the boy. The boy’s mother was thinking about herself, tell me what good came of that.”
* * *

They’re home now. Lars-Gunnar slows down as he approaches the entrance to his property. He checks out the yard. You can see quite well in the moonlight. In the trunk of the car is his elk rifle. It’s loaded. If there’s a police car in the yard he’ll just keep on going. If they notice him, he’ll still have a minute. Before they manage to start the car and pull out onto the road. Well, thirty seconds anyway. And that’s enough.
But there’s nothing in the yard. Highlighted against the moon he sees an owl on a low reconnaissance flight along the riverbank. He parks the car and lowers the back of his seat as far as it will go. He doesn’t want to wake Nalle. The boy will wake up anyway in an hour or so. Then they can go in and go to bed. Lars-Gunnar is just going to close his eyes for a little while.


YELLOW LEGS

Yellow Legs trots out of her own territory. She can’t stay there. Over the border into another pack’s territory. She can’t stay there either. It’s extremely dangerous. A clearly marked area. Fresh scent markings are like a barbed wire fence between the tree trunks. A wall of scents runs through the long grass sticking up through the snow; they’ve sprayed here, scratched with their back feet. But she has to get through, she has to go north.
The first day goes well. She’s running on an empty stomach. Urinates low, pressing herself to the ground so the smell won’t spread, maybe she’ll make it. She’s got the wind behind her, that’s good.
The next morning they pick up her scent. Two kilometers behind her, five wolves are sniffing at her trail. They set off after her. They take turns to lead, and soon make visual contact.
Yellow Legs senses their presence. She has crossed a river, and when she turns she can see them on the other side, less than a kilometer downstream.
Now she’s running for her life. An intruder will be killed immediately. Her tongue is hanging outside her mouth. Her long legs carry her through the snow, but there is no well-trodden track to follow.
Her legs find the tracks of a scooter, going in the right direction. The others follow it, but not so quickly.
When they are just three hundred meters behind her, they suddenly stop. They’ve chased her out of their territory, and a little bit further.
She’s escaped.
One more kilometer, then she’ll lie down. Eat some snow.
The hunger is gnawing at her stomach like a vole.
* * *

She continues her journey northward. Then, where the White Sea separates the Kola peninsula from Karelia, she turns northwest.
The early spring keeps her company. It’s hard to run.
Forest. A hundred years old and older. Conifers halfway to the sky. Naked, spindly, bare of needles almost all the way to the top. And right up there, their green, swaying, creaking arms build a roof. The sun can hardly penetrate, can’t manage to melt the snow yet. There are just patches of light and the drip of melting snow from high in the trees. Dripping, trickling, dribbling. Everything can smell spring and summer. Now it’s possible to do more than merely survive. The beat of heavy wings from the birds in the forest, the fox out of its den more and more often, the shrew and the mouse scampering along the icy crust of the snow in the mornings. And then the sudden silence as the whole forest stops, sniffs and listens to the she-wolf passing by. Only the black woodpecker continues his constant hammering on the tree trunks. The dripping doesn’t stop either. The spring is not afraid of the wolf.
* * *

Bog country. Here the early spring is a torrent of water beneath a mushy, sodden covering of snow that turns to gray slush under the slightest pressure. Every step sinks deep. The she-wolf begins to travel by night. The icy crust on the snow will bear her weight. She settles in a hollow or under a pine tree during the day. On her guard even when she’s asleep.
* * *

Hunting is different without the pack. She catches hares and other small wild animals. Not much for a wolf on a long journey.
Her relationship to other animals is different too. Foxes and ravens are quite happy to be with a pack of wolves. The fox eats the pack’s leftovers. The raven prepares the wolf’s table. He shouts from the trees: There’s prey over here! It’s a rutting deer! Busy rubbing his antlers against a tree! Come and get him! A bored raven can sometimes plump down in front of a sleeping wolf, peck its head and take a few hops backwards, looking slightly ridiculous and clumsy. The wolf snaps at it. The bird takes off at the very last second. They can entertain each other like this for quite some time, the black and the gray.
But a lone wolf is no playmate. She doesn’t turn down any prey, doesn’t want to play with birds, isn’t willing to share.
One morning she surprises a vixen outside her earth. Several holes have been dug in a slope. One of the holes is hidden beneath a tree root. Only her tracks and a little bit of soil on the snow outside gives away its location. The vixen emerges from the hole. The wolf has picked up the acrid scent and taken a slight diversion from her route. She moves down the slope into the wind, sees the fox poke her head out, the spindly body. The wolf stops, freezes on the spot, the fox has to come out a little bit further, but as soon as it turns its head in this direction it will see her.
She pounces. As if she were a cat. A fight through the bushes and the branches of a fallen young spruce. Bites the fox right across her back. Snaps the spine. Eats her greedily, holding the body down with one paw as she rips the flesh, gulping down what little there is.
Two ravens immediately appear, working together to try to secure a share. One risks its life, coming dangerously close to make her chase it so that its companion can quickly steal a morsel. She snaps at them as they dive-bomb her head, but her paw doesn’t leave the body of the fox. She gobbles every scrap, then trots around all the other holes, sniffing. If the fox had cubs and they’re not too far down, she can dig them out, but there’s nothing there.
She returns to her original route. The legs of the lone wolf move restlessly onward.