The Blood Spilt

44


Lars-Gunnar and Stefan Wikstr?m are sitting in the car on the way to the lake. Lars-Gunnar has said he’s going to lift the boat out of the water for the winter and chain down the oars.
Stefan Wikstr?m is whining about Bertil Stensson like a baby. Lars-Gunnar is listening with only half an ear. It’s all about the hunting permit and the fact that Bertil doesn’t appreciate the work Stefan does as a priest. And then Lars-Gunnar has to listen to his unbearable infantile babble about hunting. As if he understood anything about it. The little boy who got his place on the team as a present from the parish priest.
The constant babbling is confusing Lars-Gunnar. What does he want, the priest? It feels as if Stefan is holding the parish priest up to Lars-Gunnar as a small child holds up its arm when it’s fallen over. Kiss it better.
He has no intention of being under the thumb of this little runt. He’s prepared to pay the price for his actions. But that price is not going to be paid to Stefan Wikstr?m. Never.
Stefan Wikstr?m keeps his eyes on the section of the road that can be seen in the headlights. He gets carsick really easily. Has to keep looking ahead.
A sense of fear is beginning to steal over him. He can feel it writhing in his stomach like a slender snake.
They talk about all kinds of things. Not about Mildred. But her presence is tangible. It’s almost as if she were sitting in the backseat.
Stefan Wikstr?m thinks about the night before midsummer’s eve. How he stood by the bedroom window. He saw somebody standing next to Mildred’s boat. Suddenly the person took a few steps. Disappeared behind a little log cabin on the museum’s land. He didn’t see anything else. But he thought about it afterward, of course. That it was Lars-Gunnar. That he’d had something in his hand.
Even now, he doesn’t think it was wrong not to tell the police. He and Lars-Gunnar are among the eighteen members of the hunting team. That makes him Lars-Gunnar’s priest. Lars-Gunnar is part of his flock. A priest lives by different laws from normal citizens. As a priest, he couldn’t point the finger at Lars-Gunnar. As a priest, he must be there when Lars- Gunnar is ready to talk.
This was another burden laid upon him. And he accepted it. Placed it in God’s hands. Prayed: Thy will be done. And added: I cannot feel that thy yoke is gentle, thy burden light.
They’ve arrived, and get out of the car. He is given the chain to carry. Lars-Gunnar tells him to walk in front.
He sets off along the path in the moonlight.
Mildred is walking behind him. He can feel it. He’s reached the lake. Drops the chain on the ground. Looks at it.
Mildred climbs into his ear.
Run! she says inside his head. Run!
But he can’t run. He just stands there waiting. Hears Lars-Gunnar coming. Slowly he takes shape in the moonlight. And yes, he is carrying his gun.
* * *

Lars-Gunnar looks down at Rebecka Martinsson. After the trip down the stairs she’s stopped shaking. But she’s still conscious. Staring at him all the time.
* * *

Rebecka Martinsson looks up at the man. She’s seen this image before. The man who is an eclipse of the sun. The face in shadow. The sun coming in through the kitchen window. Like a corona around his head. It’s Pastor Thomas S?derberg. He is saying: I loved you like my own daughter. Soon she will smash his head.
When the man bends down over her she grabs hold of him. Well, grabs hold is putting it a bit strongly; the forefinger and middle finger of her right hand creep in under the neck band of his sweater. Only the weight of the hand itself draws him closer.
“How can a person live with that?”
He detaches her fingers from his sweater.
Live with what? he wonders. Stefan Wikstr?m? He felt a greater sorrow that time when he shot a female elk over in Paksuniemi. That was over twenty years ago. The second after she fell, two calves emerged from the trees. Then they disappeared into the forest. He thought about his mistake for a long time. First the female. And then the fact that he hadn’t reacted in time and shot the calves as well. They must have faced an agonizing death.
He opens the trapdoor in the kitchen that leads down to the cellar. Grabs hold of her and drags her toward the hole.
Nalle’s hand is knocking on the kitchen window. His uncomprehending gaze between the plastic pelargoniums.
And now the woman comes to life. When she sees the hole in the floor. She begins to wriggle in his grasp. Grabs the leg of the kitchen table, the whole table is dragged along with her.
“Let go,” he says, unclasping her fingers.
She scratches his face. Writhing and lashing out. A silent, jerky struggle.
He lifts her by the collar. Her feet leave the floor. Not a word comes out of her mouth. The scream is in her eyes: No! No!
He hurls her down like a bag of garbage. She falls backwards. A thud and a bang, then silence. He lets the trapdoor fall shut. Then he gets hold of the cupboard that stands over by the southern wall and drags it over the trapdoor with both hands. It weighs a ton, but he has the strength.
* * *

She opens her eyes. It takes a while for her to realize that she’d lost consciousness for a little while. But she can’t have been out for long. A few seconds. She can hear Lars-Gunnar dragging something heavy over the trapdoor.
Her eyes are wide open, and she can’t see a thing. Pitch dark. She can hear the footsteps and the dragging noise up above. Up onto her knees. Her right arm is dangling uselessly. Instinctively she places her left hand over her right arm at shoulder level and pulls the arm back into joint. It makes a crunching sound. A bolt of pain shoots from her shoulder down her arm and her back. Everything hurts. Apart from her face. She can’t feel anything there at all. She touches it with her hand. It’s somehow numb. And something is hanging off, loose and wet. Is it her lip? When she swallows she can taste blood.
Down on all fours. Earth beneath her hands. The dampness soaks through the knees of her jeans. It stinks of rat shit.
If she dies here. Then the rats will eat her.
She begins to crawl. Gropes ahead of her with her hand, looking for the staircase. Sticky cobwebs everywhere, winding themselves around the hand as it fumbles its way. Something rustles in the corner. There’s the staircase. She’s on her knees, with her hands resting on a step a bit higher up. Like a dog, up on its hind legs. She listens. And waits.
* * *

Lars-Gunnar has dragged the cupboard into place. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand.
Nalle’s “What?” has stopped. Lars-Gunnar looks out of the window. Nalle is out in the yard, walking round in a circle. Lars-Gunnar recognizes the signs. Whenever Nalle is unhappy and afraid, he starts walking around like that. It can take half an hour to calm him down. It’s as if he loses the ability to hear. The first time it happened, Lars-Gunnar felt so frustrated and powerless that he hit him in the end. The blow still burns inside him. He remembers looking at his hand, the one that had delivered the blow, and thinking about his own father. And it didn’t make Nalle any better. Just worse. Now he knows you have to have patience. And time.
If only there were time.
He goes out into the yard. Tries, although he knows it won’t work:
“Nalle!”
But Nalle doesn’t hear anything. Round and round he goes.
Lars-Gunnar has thought about this moment a thousand times. But in his thoughts Nalle has been sleeping peacefully. He and Lars-Gunnar have had a wonderful day. Maybe they’ve been in the forest. Or been on the river on the snow scooter. Lars-Gunnar has sat by Nalle’s bed for a while. Nalle has fallen asleep, and then…
This is too much. It couldn’t be any bloody worse than this. He runs his hand over his cheek. It seems as if he’s crying.
And he sees Mildred in front of him. He’s been on his way to this point ever since then. He realizes that now. The first blow. At the time he was full of rage toward her. But afterward. Afterward it was his own life he smashed to bits. Hung it up for everyone to see.
To the car. The rifle is there. It’s loaded. It has been all summer. He releases the safety catch.
“Nalle,” he says thickly.
He still wants to say good-bye. He would have liked to have done that.
“Nalle,” he says to his big lad.
Now. Before it gets to the point where he can’t hold the gun. He can’t be sitting here when they arrive. Can’t let them take Nalle away.
He raises the gun to his shoulder. Takes aim. Fires. The first bullet in the back. Nalle falls forward. The second bullet in the head.
Then he goes in.
What he’d like to do most of all is to open the trapdoor and kill her. What is she? Nothing.
But the way he feels at the moment, he hasn’t the strength to shift the cupboard.
He slumps down on the kitchen sofa.
Then he gets up. Opens the door of the wall clock and stops the pendulum with his hand.
Sits down again.
The barrel in his mouth. It’s been torture for as long as he can remember. This will be a relief. It will be over at last.
* * *

Down in the darkness she hears the shots. They come from outside. Two shots. Then the outside door slams. She hears footsteps across the kitchen floor. Then the final shot.
Something old wakes up inside her. Something from times past.
She scrambles up the steps to get away. Bangs her head on the trapdoor. Almost falls back down, but grabs hold of something.
It’s impossible to shift the trapdoor. She bangs on it with her fists. Her knuckles are torn open. She rips off her nails.