Lazarus

‘This all sounds crazy,’ she says simply, fixing her eyes on him.

‘I’d stay with you if it wasn’t for Lumi, I have to look after her,’ he says.

‘It’s OK, I understand, Joona.’

‘I’ve got to go now,’ he whispers. ‘If you want to come with me, you’ll have to come as you are, in boots and dirty trousers … I’ll go back to the car and wait twenty seconds.’

She doesn’t answer, just looks at him and tries to hold back the tears and swallow the lump in her throat.

Joona walks out of the greenhouse and gets in his car, reverses to the turning circle and stops.

He looks at his watch.

Snowflakes are falling through the glow from the big greenhouses.

The seconds tick past, he should have left by now.

He leans against the cold seat and puts his right hand on the gearstick.

Everything is quiet and still.

He starts the engine again and the headlights form a swirling tunnel down towards the edge of the forest.

The fans whirr as the car heats up.

Joona stares ahead of him, then glances at his watch again, changes gear and drives slowly round the turning circle. He looks at the greenhouses in the rear-view mirror and he drives slowly away from Valeria’s nursery.

20

Erica Liljestrand is sitting on her own at the counter in the Pilgrim Bar, waiting for a friend from her biotechnology course.

Sleet is running down the window facing the street.

She puts her phone down beside the glass of wine and looks at the fingerprints on the screen before it goes dark.

She and Liv agreed to meet here at ten o’clock to discuss the New Year’s Eve party, but Liv is over an hour late now, and she’s not answering her phone.

There are hardly any customers in the Pilgrim Bar this evening, probably because the building’s being renovated and the façade on Regeringsgatan is covered up. The entrance is hidden by scaffolding and dirty white nylon netting.

The three guys at the table at the back have started glancing in her direction, so she sticks with the bartender, chatting to him and checking her phone.

Weird that a woman sitting alone in a bar has to think of herself as fair game, she thinks.

Erica knows she isn’t exactly pretty, and she’s a long way from being a flirt. Even so, the simple fact that she’s there on her own is enough for them.

The bartender, who says his name is Nick, seems to assume that he’s irresistible. He’s a suntanned, wrinkled man in early middle-age, with blue eyes and a fashionable haircut. His short-sleeved shirt is tight across his bulging biceps, and only half covers the fuzzy tattoo on his neck.

So far Nick has told her about mountain-climbing in Thailand, skiing in the French Alps, and the jittery stock market.

Erica glances surreptitiously at the older, pink-cheeked couple chatting over at one of the corner tables. They look happy with their bottle of wine and nachos with salsa and guacamole.

She calls Liv again, and lets it ring for a ridiculous amount of time.

Dirty water is dripping from the scaffolding outside.

She puts her phone down and traces a scratch in the polished wood of the bar counter with her fingernail, then stops when she reaches the foot of her glass and takes a sip.

The bell jangles as the door opens.

Erica turns to look.

It isn’t Liv, but a man the size of a bear. He brings cold air from the street in with him, then takes off his black raincoat and squeezes it into a plastic bag.

The man is wearing a dark blue knitted sweater with leather patches on the elbows, cargo trousers and military-style boots.

He says hello to the bartender and sits down a metre or so away from Erica, with one chair between them, and hangs the plastic bag from a hook under the bar.

‘It’s a blowy night,’ he says in a deep, soft voice.

‘Looks that way,’ the bartender replies.

The large man rubs his hands together.

‘What vodkas have you got?’

‘Dworek, Stolichnaya, Smirnoff, Absolut, Koskenkorva, Nemiroff,’ Nick says.

‘Black Smirnoff?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll have five doubles of Smirnoff, then.’

Nick raises his eyebrows.

‘You want five glasses of vodka?’

‘Room temperature, if that’s OK,’ the man smiles.

Erica looks at the time on her phone and decides to wait another ten minutes.

The bartender places five shot glasses in front of the large man, then fetches a bottle from the shelf.

‘And refill her glass, seeing as we’re celebrating,’ he says, nodding in Erica’s direction.

Erica has no idea what he’s talking about. Maybe it was just a joke that didn’t quite work. She looks at him, but he doesn’t look back. His face looks sad, and his thick neck has settled into folds, his hair is cropped and he has beautiful pearl earrings in each earlobe.

‘Do you want another glass of wine?’ the bartender asks Erica.

‘Why not?’ she replies, stifling a yawn.

‘Seeing as we’re celebrating,’ Nick says, then fills a fresh glass.

The large man has taken out a book of matches and is now chewing on one of them.

‘I used to have a bar in Gothenburg,’ he says, then gets to his feet.

He stands still, as if he can no longer understand where he is. Slowly he turns to look at the bartender, then Erica. His pupils are dilated, and the match falls from his lips. He keeps turning, looks at the older man at the corner table, then one of the young men, before licking his lips and sitting back down again.

He clears his throat and empties the first glass of vodka, then puts it down on the bar.

Erica looks at the flat matchbook lying next to the line of glasses. The black cover is decorated with what looks like a small white skeleton.

‘Are you spending Christmas in Stockholm?’ Nick asks, putting a bowl of large green olives in front of Erica.

‘I’ll be going to my parents’ in Växjö,’ she replies.

‘Nice, Växjö’s a good town.’

‘You?’ she asks politely.

‘Thailand, as usual.’

‘I don’t think so,’ the large man says.

‘Sorry?’ Nick says in surprise.

‘Not that I can see into the future, but—’

‘Can’t you?’ the bartender interrupts. ‘That’s a relief, you almost had me worried there for a moment.’

The large man has lowered his gaze and is looking at his stubby fingertips. The young men get up noisily and leave.

‘It’s complicated,’ the large man says after a while.

‘Isn’t it just,’ Nick says tartly.

The man doesn’t answer, carries on picking at his matchbook. The bartender stands and looks at him for a while, waiting for him to look up, then he starts wiping the counter with a grey cloth.

‘Nice earrings,’ Erica says, and hears the bartender let out a laugh.

‘Thanks,’ the man says in a serious voice. ‘I wear them for my sister, my twin sister, she died when I was thirteen.’

‘That’s terrible,’ she whispers.

‘Yes,’ he says simply, and raises his shot glass towards her. ‘Cheers … cheers, whatever your name is …’

‘Erica,’ she says.

‘Cheers, Erica …’

‘Cheers.’

He drinks, puts the empty glass down, and licks his lips.

‘They call me the Beaver.’

The bartender turns away to hide his smile.

‘It’s a shame your friend’s late,’ the Beaver says after a pause.

‘How did you know that?’

‘I could say it’s deduction, a logical conclusion,’ he says. ‘I watch people, I saw the way you’ve been looking at your phone, the way you turned towards the door … And I’ve also got a sixth sense.’

‘A sixth sense, like telepathy?’ she asks, forcing herself not to smile.

Nick removes her first wine-glass and wipes the counter.

‘It’s hard to explain,’ the Beaver goes on. ‘But in layman’s terms I should probably call it precognition … Along with claircognizance, intrinsic knowledge.’

‘That sounds pretty advanced,’ Erica says. ‘So you’re some sort of medium?’

She can’t help feeling sorry for him. He seems completely unaware of how weird he comes across.

‘My abilities aren’t paranormal … there’s a logical explanation.’

‘OK,’ the bartender says sceptically.

They wait for him to go on, but instead he empties the third shot glass with very precise movements, then sets it down beside the others.

‘Almost every time I’m with other people, I know the order in which they’re going to die,’ he says. ‘I don’t know when it’s going to happen – in ten minutes or fifty years … but I can see the order.’

Erica nods. She regrets having encouraged him to talk. She only felt obliged to be a bit friendlier because Nick was starting to act like a bully. She’s wondering how soon she can leave without it looking like she’s trying to get away from him when her mobile buzzes.

21

Erica turns her phone round, hoping it will give her an excuse to leave the bar at once. It’s a text from Liv, apologising for not showing up, and saying she had to help a friend who’d drunk too much get home.

Erica’s thumbs feel oddly numb when she replies that she understands and that they can meet up tomorrow instead.

‘I have to go,’ she says, pushing her almost untouched glass of wine away.

‘I didn’t mean to scare you,’ the large man says, looking at her intently.

‘No, it’s … I believe everyone has abilities that they don’t use,’ she replies rather vaguely.

‘I’m aware it sounded overdramatic, what I said, but I never seem to be able to find the right words to describe it.’

‘I understand,’ she says, looking at the screen.

‘Sometimes I only have time to count everyone, but sometimes I can do everyone in a room … It’s like I see a big clock-face with Roman numerals, and when the hand points to the number one, I find myself looking at the first person in the room who’s going to die, I don’t know how, but it’s just what happens. Tick tock, the hand moves to the number two, and I’m looking at another person … often I catch sight of my own face in a mirror before I lose contact.’

‘Can I settle up?’ Erica says to the bartender.

‘I scared you,’ the Beaver says, still trying to catch her eye.

‘Can you leave her alone, now?’ Nick says.

‘Erica, I just want to say that your number wasn’t the first to come up in this room.’

‘Stop it,’ the bartender says, leaning across the bar.

‘I’m stopping,’ the Beaver says calmly, and tucks the flat little matchbook in the chest pocket of his sweater. ‘Unless you’d like to know who number one was?’

‘Excuse me,’ Erica says, and heads off towards the toilets.

The bartender watches her go, and sees her wobble and hold one hand out to the wall to steady herself.

The Beaver empties his fourth glass of vodka, then puts it down silently next to the last one.

‘OK, who’s going to die first?’ the bartender asks.

‘You … which isn’t really surprising,’ the Beaver replies.

‘Why isn’t it surprising?’

‘Because I’m here to cut your throat,’ the Beaver replies calmly.

‘Am I going to have to call the police?’

‘You’ve already dosed her glass with Xyrem, haven’t you?’ the Beaver asks.

‘What the hell do you want?’ Nick hisses.

‘Did you know that one of your girls died in the ambulance?’ the Beaver says, turning the last glass on the bar.

‘You’re mentally ill,’ Nick tells him. ‘You may not be aware of it yourself, but …’

He falls silent when Erica returns to her stool. Her cheeks are pale and she sits quietly for a while with her eyes half-closed.

‘I’m fairly sure I’m going to succeed, seeing as you’re number one, and I’m number five,’ the Beaver says quietly.

The older couple call out their thanks, put their coats on and leave the bar. Now there are just the three of them left in the room.

‘I should probably go,’ Erica says, slurring her words. ‘I’m not feeling too good …’

‘Would you like me to call a taxi?’ Nick asks amiably.

‘Thanks,’ she manages to say.

‘He’s only pretending to call,’ the Beaver says. ‘That’s his way of getting you to stay here until the bar’s empty.’

‘Drink up and leave,’ the bartender says.

‘When my sister died, I—’

‘Shut up,’ the bartender says, getting his phone out.

‘I want to hear,’ Erica says, and feels a fresh wave of tiredness wash over her.

‘I had a permanent stomach ache when I was a child,’ the Beaver says. ‘It felt swollen and heavy … and when I was thirteen it had got so big that I couldn’t hide it any more. They took me to see a doctor who concluded that it was a tumour … not an ordinary tumour, though, but my twin sister, a so-called “foetus in foetu”.’

He pulls up his knitted sweater and white vest to reveal a long, pale scar across the side of his fat, hairless stomach.

‘Bloody hell,’ Erica murmurs.

‘Behind my peritoneum was a sort of capsule of tissue, twenty-five centimetres long … that was where she was,’ he says. ‘I saw the pictures afterwards, when she was dead: thin arms and big hands, stomach, small, stick-like legs, her spine and a bit of her face … but no brain. My blood was the only thing keeping her alive.’

Erica feels nausea rising in her gullet, and stands up and tries to put her coat on, but one of the sleeves is inside out and she stumbles, and only just manages to grab the bar in time.

‘They also found parts of her in my brain,’ the Beaver goes on. ‘But they were too difficult to remove … so they’ll have to stay where they are as long as they don’t metastasise … I can feel her most of the time. You can’t exactly see it on an MRI, but I think I’ve got her tiny brain inside mine … that’s why I’ve got an extra sense.’

Erica drops her handbag on the floor, and her glasses case and eyeliner roll out and disappear under the barstool. She feels like she’s about to be sick, and wonders if she’s eaten something that’s disagreed with her.

‘God,’ she whispers, and feels that her back is wet with sweat.

She sinks to the floor to put her things back in her bag, but she’s so tired she has to lie on her side and rest for a moment before she can get back up again.

The floor feels cool against her cheek. She closes her eyes but starts at a sudden noise. It’s the bartender, shouting at the Beaver.

‘Get out!’ he roars.

Erica knows she has to get up, she has to go home. She forces her eyes open and sees the bartender backing away with a baseball bat in his hands.

‘Just fuck off!’ he shouts.

The large man who said he was known as the Beaver sweeps several bottles off the bar, then moves quickly towards Nick.

Erica hears thuds and deep sighs.

The bartender hits the floor hard and rolls over, sending two chairs flying before he crashes into the wall.

The Beaver follows him with long strides. He grabs the baseball bat from Nick and hits him over the legs three times, yelling something in a ragged voice before he smashes a table. He tosses the broken bat at Nick, then stamps on the remains of the table, kicking the pieces away.

Erica tries to sit up, and looks on as the Beaver drags Nick to his feet again before shoving him hard in the chest and screaming into his face.

‘OK, just calm down,’ Nick pants.

He can’t put any weight on his right leg, and there’s blood running down his face from a cut above one eyebrow. The Beaver grabs him by the neck with one hand and punches him in the face with the other. He pushes Nick down onto a table, knocking glasses and a candleholder to the floor, then shoves the table into the wall, knocking it over and sending Nick sprawling across the floor.

Erica has to lie down again, and watches as the Beaver stands astride the bartender, hitting him in the face.

Nick is trying to get away from the big man. Blood sprays from his mouth as he coughs and begs him to stop. The Beaver grabs him by one hand and breaks his arm at the elbow.

Nick lets out a shriek of desperation as the Beaver yanks at the arm and tries to break it again.

The Beaver is panting heavily as he takes hold of Nick’s neck with both hands, then squeezes so tightly that his face turns white, and he roars and thuds the bartender’s head against the floor, before suddenly letting go and stepping away from Nick, who splutters and tries to catch his breath.

The Beaver staggers backwards.

When he pulls something from his pocket, the little matchbook falls out and lands on the floor.

He flicks open a broad-bladed knife with a click, then walks forward again, yelling so hard that his uneven teeth glint in the glow of one of the wall lights.

‘I’m sorry I was rude to you, I didn’t mean it,’ Nick groans. ‘You don’t have to kill me, I promise …’

Erica feels heavy steps across the floor against her cheek.

The Beaver reaches Nick, holds his raised hand aside and stabs him with the knife.

The blade penetrates deep into his chest.

Blood sprays up into the Beaver’s face as he pulls the knife out.

He lets out a roar of rage and stabs again.

Nick has almost lost consciousness, and is merely whimpering weakly now.

The Beaver spins him round, grabs hold of his hair and sets about trying to scalp him. He cuts off a large chunk of skin and tosses it aside.

It’s as if he’s taken some sort of terrible drug.

The Beaver drops the knife, lets out a roar, then drags the lifeless body over towards the door by one leg.

Nick must surely be dead by now, but the Beaver goes on beating him and stamping on his stomach. He pulls a framed photograph of John Lennon off the wall, smashes it, sending pieces of glass flying in all directions, then tosses the remnants of the frame onto the bloody body.

He tips a table on top of Nick, then backs away gasping before turning round and looking at her.

‘I’m not involved in this,’ she says weakly.

He walks towards her and picks the flick knife up from the floor. A string of congealed blood is hanging from the blade.

‘Please …’

Erica doesn’t even have the energy to lift her head from the floor as he walks over to her and grabs her by the hair.

The pain really isn’t that overwhelming as the blade cuts through tissue, sinews and blood vessels. Far worse is the ice-cold storm wind in her face, combined with the feeling of being asphyxiated from within.

22

When Saga wakes up she can hear Randy moving about in the kitchen. He often spends the night at hers, and sometimes sleeps in the old photographic studio he rents. Randy comes in with a cup of coffee and a croissant with jam for her.

He’s five years younger than Saga, and has a shaved head, calm eyes and a sceptical smile. He’s a police inspector, and is part of a team investigating online hate crimes.

‘Whenever I go home to Örgryte, Mum brings me breakfast in bed,’ he says.

‘You’re spoiled,’ Saga smiles, and sips the coffee.

‘I know your mum was—’

‘I don’t want to talk about her,’ she interrupts.

‘OK, sorry,’ he says, lowering his eyes.

‘It doesn’t do me any good, which is why I’ve got this rule. It’s better to avoid the subject altogether, I’ve already said that.’

‘I know, but—’

‘This isn’t about you.’

‘But I’m here,’ he says quietly.

‘Thanks,’ she replies curtly.

When he’s gone she wonders if she might have sounded too dismissive. There’s no way Randy could know what she’s been through. She texts him to say sorry and thank him for breakfast.

After work Saga collects her half-sister from school and takes her to see her hearing consultant. On the way home she asks her about the clown girls.

‘Dad says they’re not real,’ Pellerina says.

‘That’s right, they’re not,’ Saga tells her.

‘I still don’t want them to find me.’

Their dad isn’t in when they get home. Saga hopes he’ll be back soon, she wants to talk to him about the present she couldn’t accept because it reminded her too much of her mum’s illness.

Now Pellerina is standing at the kitchen worktop wearing a polka-dot apron and whisking cake mixture while Saga greases the tin.

The doorbell rings and Pellerina squeals that it’s their dad.

Saga wipes her hands on some kitchen roll, then goes into the hall to answer the door.

It’s Joona Linna.

His face is serious, his grey eyes icy cold.

‘Come in,’ she says.

He looks over his shoulder, then walks into the hall and closes the door behind him.

‘Who else is in the house?’

‘Just me and Pellerina,’ she replies. ‘What’s happened?’

He looks over at the wooden staircase, then the door to the kitchen.

‘Joona, I realise that you really believe Jurek’s still alive,’ she says.

‘At first it was only a theoretical possibility … but now I’ve identified the pattern,’ he says, peering through the spyhole in the front door.

‘Wouldn’t you like to come in and have coffee?’ she asks.

‘I haven’t got time,’ he replies, looking back at her again.

‘I know recent events have stirred up loads of old memories,’ she says. ‘But I honestly don’t think Jurek’s behind this. Look at the level of violence; it’s aggressive in a way that Jurek never was … and yes, I know you’re going to say it was his accomplice. I hear what you’re saying, I know that so far as you’re concerned there’s a clear pattern, but I just can’t see it.’

‘Saga, I’m only here to say you need to go into hiding, you need to find a safe place for yourself and your family … but I’m starting to realise that you won’t be doing that.’

‘I’d never manage to get Dad and Pellerina to come with me … I’m not even going to try, I don’t want to frighten them.’

‘But—’

A door slams in the kitchen, and Joona’s hand reaches instinctively for the pistol under his jacket before he hears Pellerina laughing.

‘If Jurek’s alive, it’s my fault,’ Saga says in a low voice. ‘You know that, I was the one who let him out … so it’s my responsibility to stop him.’

‘It isn’t worth it,’ he says. ‘You’re like a sister to me, I don’t even want you to try to stop Jurek, I just want you to hide.’

‘Joona, you’re doing the right thing from your point of view, you’re convinced about all this and you need to protect Lumi,’ she says. ‘But for me, the right thing is staying and trying to find the person who’s behind these murders … and I’m not ruling anything out, not even Jurek Walter.’

‘Then work with Nathan … I’ve sent everything I’ve got to him.’

‘OK, I’ll talk to him.’

‘Saga!’ Pellerina calls from the kitchen.

‘I need to get back to her,’ she says.

‘Don’t think Jurek’s like everyone else,’ Joona goes on. ‘He didn’t treat you differently because you’re so beautiful …’

‘And there was I thinking you’d never even noticed,’ she smiles.

‘I’ve noticed, Saga,’ he says. ‘But Jurek doesn’t care about how you look, he’s interested in your mind, your soul … your darkness, what he likes to call your catacombs.’

‘You do know I’ve spoken to Jurek Walter, don’t you? More than you have, actually,’ she reminds him.

‘But back then you were merely a tool for him, a Trojan horse—’

‘OK, fine,’ she says, raising her hands to get him to stop.

‘Saga, listen to me … if you stay, you’re going to see him again.’

‘That’s just an idea you’ve got into your head,’ she says.

‘You don’t have to listen to me, but I can’t go without giving you three pieces of advice first.’

‘I’m listening.’

She leans against the doorframe and folds her arms over her chest.

‘One … don’t try to talk to him, don’t try to arrest him, don’t worry about any ethical considerations if there aren’t any witnesses – you need to kill him at once, and make sure he’s dead this time.’