The Blood Spilt

40

Rebecka Martinsson walks into Micke’s. Three people are having breakfast in the bar. Elderly men who look at her appreciatively. A real live beautiful woman. Always welcome. Micke’s mopping the floor.
“Hi,” he says to Rebecka, putting the mop and bucket aside. “Come with me.”
Rebecka follows him into the kitchen.
“I’m really sorry,” he says. “Everything turned out wrong on Saturday. But when Lars-Gunnar told us, I just didn’t know what to think. Were you the one that killed those pastors in Jiekaj?rvi?”
“Yes. Although it was actually two pastors and a…”
“I know. A madman, wasn’t it? It was in all the papers. Although they never said what your name was. They never put Thomas S?derberg’s name or Vesa Larsson’s either, but everybody around here knew who it was. It must have been terrible.”
She nods. It must have been.
“On Saturday, I thought maybe what Lars-Gunnar said was true. That you’d come here to snoop. I did ask you if you were a journalist and you said no, but then I thought well, no, maybe she isn’t a journalist, but she works for a newspaper all the same. But you don’t, do you?”
“No, I… I ended up here by mistake, because Torsten Karlsson and I were looking for somewhere to eat.”
“The guy who was with you the first time?”
“Yes. And it isn’t something I usually tell people. Everything that happened… then. Anyway, I ended up staying here, because I wanted some peace, and because I didn’t dare go out to Kurravaara. My grandmother’s house is out there and… but in the end I went there with Nalle after all. He’s my hero.”
The last remark is accompanied by a smile.
“I came to pay for the cabin,” she says, holding out the money.
Micke takes it and gives her change.
“I’ve included your wages as well. What does your other boss think about you working in a bar on the side?”
Rebecka laughs.
“Oh, now you’ve got a hold over me!”
“You ought to say good-bye to Nalle, you’ll be passing his house on your way. If you take a right up toward the chapel…”
“I know, but it’s probably a really bad idea, his father…”
“Lars- Gunnar’s in town and Nalle’s on his own at home.”
No chance, thinks Rebecka. There are limits.
“Say good-bye for me,” she says.
Back in the car she rings M?ns.
“I’ve done it,” she says.
M?ns Wenngren answers her the way he used to answer his wife. He doesn’t even need to think about it.
“That’s my girl!”
Then he quickly adds:
“Well done, Martinsson. I’ve got to go to a meeting now. Talk to you soon.”
Rebecka sits there with her cell phone in her hand.
M?ns Wenngren, she thinks. He’s like the mountains. It’s raining and it’s horrible. Howling wind. You’re tired and your shoes are soaked through and you don’t really know who you are. The map doesn’t seem to match the reality. And then all of a sudden the clouds part. Your clothes dry out in the wind. You sit on the side of the mountain looking down over a sun-drenched valley. Suddenly it’s all worth it.
She tries to call Maria Taube, but gets no reply. Sends a text: “Everything fine. Call me.”
She drives away down the main road. Tunes the car radio to some kind of background music.
By the turning off toward the chapel, she meets Nalle. A shiver of guilt and sorrow runs down her spine. She raises her hand and waves to him. In the rearview mirror she can see him waving back at her. Waving like mad. Then he starts to run after the car. He’s not very fast, but he won’t give up. Suddenly she sees him fall. It looks bad. He tumbles down into the ditch.
Rebecka stops the car by the side of the road. Looks in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t get up. She moves fast now. Jumps out of the car and runs back.
“Nalle!” she shouts. “Nalle!”
What if he’s hit his head on a stone?
He’s lying there in the ditch, smiling up at her. Like a beetle on its back.
“Becka!” he says when she appears.
Of course I have to say good-bye, she thinks. What kind of person am I?
He gets to his feet. She brushes him down.
“Bye then, Nalle,” she says. “It was really good fun…”
“Come with,” he says, tugging at her arm like a child. “Come with!”
He turns on his heel and lumbers away up the road. He’s going home.
“No, really, I…” she begins.
But Nalle keeps on going. Doesn’t turn around. Is confident that she’s following him.
Rebecka looks at the car. It’s parked tidily by the side of the road. Clearly visible to other drivers. She could go with him for a little while. She sets off after him.
“Wait for me, then!” she calls.