The Best Book in the World

CHAPTER 31

The Law of Happy Endings


There is a cup of steaming-hot herbal tea beside Titus’ computer. He has slept a long time and now feels rested and strong. He isn’t afraid of Eddie X any longer. Eddie and Lenny are just a couple of clowns, they can’t get at him now. It’s too late. When this summer started, he was a pathetic wretch. Now he is strong. And he is going to retain that strength.

The autumn sun sits lower and lower in the sky each day. A few rays find their way across the rooftops and into Titus’ dark flat. He blows into the breathalyser lock and the computer welcomes him in just as friendly a tone as usual:

Hello Titus! According to my calculations you only have three pages left to complete your manuscript. Contact your publisher as soon as you have finished. Congratulations!

Titus feels as if he has been reincarnated. He is going to complete the project of his life. A crazy project in which he has had 250 pages to pack in lots of handy facts and practical lists, and a knockout blow to the jaw of hair-raising tension. A straight right from the left side of his brain and a left hook from the right.

Before he writes the final chapter, he must make a list of the ten best revolutionary songs in the world, which he will let Chief Inspector H?kan Rink have as his ‘Revolt’ playlist on his iPod: Titus takes a deep breath. Now he is getting close.

There is really only one thing that publishers, manuscript experts and reviewers all agree upon: a book must have an end that gives rise to hope. Even if the story is dark and dismal, there must be a grain of a happy ending that gives nourishment to life’s optimists. If a book doesn’t have a happy ending, it will die a natural death. Un-reviewed, un-read and un-sold. The Law of Happy Endings is an ancient truth that can’t be challenged.



The Revolution Will Not Be Televised Clampdown



Imagine Eve of Destruction



Get Up, Stand Up Blowin’ in the Wind



We Shall Overcome Minority



Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream Diamonds From Sierra Leone

But Titus refuses to deviate from his perfect sense of pitch. He has decided to turn his back on all the experts who think they can judge his work of art better than he can himself. He will leave it to the readers to decide what is consolation or despair. Over-explicitness kills and he is certainly no murderer: quite the contrary. Hope is strong and distinct in all the lists, recipes, tips and facts that run through the book. He hands out lots of matchboxes, but never pokes his finger in the reader’s tummy. It is up to each and every reader to decide which candles they will light in their lives. But if you follow all the advice there is every possibility of becoming a complete human being, of that he is certain. It is, after all, The Best Book in the World that he has written. The actual plot around Chief Inspector H?kan Rink and Serial Salvador, however, has an uncompromising brutality to it. Because that is what life looks like too.

He who has seen the darkness, will be the first to see the light, he thinks.

Oh, how he delights in his own ability to express himself. Today, he is really good.

He has long since abandoned the idea of letting his personal vendetta against Eddie X blemish the end of the book. He has come further in his personal development. For a long time, revenge provided good motivation to write, but now he chooses to stand above the instinctive desire to defend himself. He is hardly aware any more that Serial Salvador has borrowed characteristics from Eddie X.

The Best Book in the World is not a meta project, disguising itself as a story about another story with complicated and obscure subtexts. The Best Book in the World is a simply narrated and well put-together reference work about life. It is exciting, useful and helps to develop the reader’s personality. And yet the whole work rises above the level of everyday life and reality. Together, the disparate texts form a pattern. They become – literature.

I have bared my soul, thinks Titus. I have turned the other cheek. Now I am empty.

The tears splash onto the keyboard while he slowly and solemnly types the very last chapter.

The big Entrepreneurs’ Gala is to be broadcast live as usual on TV4.

Cool as ice, H?kan Rink counted on the information being correct. The source seemed highly credible even though the tip-off came late.

Serial Salvador would come to the Entrepreneurs’ Gala. He had purchased an unnumbered ticket the day before the gala. Unfortunately that meant that he couldn’t be checked against a list. The only thing the police knew at the moment was that he would most likely sit somewhere on the ten rearmost rows which were not reserved. Also, the old description was no longer valid. He had altered his appearance again. But the source was absolutely certain that his information was correct. You couldn’t mistake those eyes. Brown velvet.


There had been little time but the Stockholm police force had managed to arrange it all. The effort was planned down to the tiniest detail. Rink’s men were posted on every second row in a zigzag pattern. When they had identified him, they could nab him easily. As soon as the prizes had been awarded and the cameras turned off, that would be the end.

H?kan Rink himself was invited to present the prize in the most prestigious category – Entrepreneur of the Year. He had considered whether it was suitable to mix his roles. On the one hand, a hard-working detective chief inspector who needed peace and quiet to be able to focus on his task; on the other, a public security alibi from a pressured police force which was forced to deliver very soon. The sand in the hour-glass of patience was running out. But the triumph of being able to stand on the stage and perhaps even establish eye-contact with Serial Salvador moments before he would be rendered harmless had got the better of him. It would go well. It usually did.

When the spotlights were pointed towards him, he could immediately feel the heat. The audience cheered.

From the loudspeakers: ‘A warm applause for H?kan Rink, Sweden’s toughest detective chief inspector!’

He took some quick and light steps up to the podium at the front of the stage. His leather jacket glowed in the light. He screwed up his eyes against the spotlights and waited for the applause to die down, raised his hand and leaned over the microphone. Bass voice.

‘This is the most important prize in Sweden. I am extremely proud to have been entrusted with this presentation. It is you entrepreneurs who shall make the future more secure for our children. It is you who shall save the planet from pollution. One can summarise what you do in five letters: G-R-E-A-T. As in a great job!’

The audience was familiar with H?kan Rink’s predilection for combinations of letters, and they had a good laugh at his hearty self-irony. The mood was the very best.

H?kan Rink smiled at the spotlights.

He took hold of the rope which controlled the curtain in front of the big screen where the nominations in the very best class would be presented.

‘And the nominated are…’

All cameras and spotlights were pointed at the stage. The lighting was excellent.

H?kan Rink gave the rope a firm tug.

With a crash, something large and heavy fell from the ceiling above the stage. The chief inspector ducked quick as a flash and shielded his face. A short murmur came from the audience before the terrified screams broke out.

A man hung from an enormous upside-down crutch suspended from the ceiling. He had a thin rope around his neck which was tied across the arms of the crutch. The body jerked in severe spasms. The large brown eyes stared hard at H?kan Rink. A long mane of black hair hung like a curtain from his face, weirdly dyed strands of hair. His wrists were tightly handcuffed and the man beat his arms wildly against his own stomach. Perhaps he wanted to free himself. Perhaps he was trying to get his body to swing even more.

The volume of the screams lessened a little when the spectators realised that there were no explosions or shots in a second shock wave. This wasn’t a terror attack. This was something else.

The man swayed slowly above the stage in the glow of the spotlights. His feet jerked violently for a further few seconds. The most clearheaded members of the audience tried to get their breath back and leave the rows of seats to reach the exits. Others held their hands in front on their eyes in a naive attempt to avoid being there. Panic vibrated in the air. The police had to struggle with the fleeing audience to approach the stage.

His eyes stared. His mouth smiled. There were no more jerks.

A beautiful corpse in a well-lit setting.

Serial Salvador’s final work of art was a fact. Death had finally made him immortal.

H?kan Rink too became historic. The national hangman. The man who re-introduced the death penalty on one occasion.

Live on TV. During peak viewing hours.