Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All

‘We were talking about injustice,’ said the reporter, who had never before seen anyone down a bottle of beer so fast.

‘Oh, right, and how I hate it, right?’

‘Yes … but what kinds?’

During all of their practising, the priest had learned that the hitman’s sense of reason came and went of its own accord. Right now it was likely out for a stroll, all on its own.

And she was right about that. Hitman Anders could not for the life of him remember what it was he was supposed to hate. Plus, that last beer had really hit the spot. He was very close to just sitting there and loving the whole world instead. But, of course, he couldn’t say so. All he could do was improvise.

‘Yes, I hate … poverty. And terrible diseases. They always get the good people in a society.’

‘Do they?’

‘Yes, the good people get cancer and stuff. Not the bad people. I hate that. And I hate people who exploit ordinary folk.’

‘Who are you thinking of?’

Yes: who was Hitman Anders thinking of? What was he thinking? Why was it so terribly difficult for him to recall what he was supposed to say? Just take that part about killing. Was he supposed to claim that he didn’t kill people any more, or was it the other way around?

‘I don’t kill people any more,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Or maybe I do. Everyone on my hate-list should probably watch out.’

Hate-list? he asked himself. What hate-list? Oh, please, don’t let the reporter ask a follow-up question about …

‘Hate-list?’ said the reporter. ‘Who’s on it?’

Dammit! Hitman Anders’s brain was spinning fast and slow all at once. Have to gather my thoughts … What was it again? He was supposed to appear … insane and dangerous. What else?

The priest and the receptionist did not pray to any higher power for their hitman to find his way: they considered themselves to have far too poor a relationship with the power in question. They did, however, stand there hoping. Hoping that Hitman Anders would land on his feet somehow.

Over the shoulder of the Express’s reporter and through the window, Hitman Anders could make out the neon logo of the Swedish Property Agency on a building a hundred yards down and across the street. Next to it was a small suburban branch of Handelsbanken. He could hardly see it from where he sat, but he knew it was there, because how many times had he stood there smoking in the bus shelter outside, waiting for the bus that would take him to the nearest den of iniquity?

In the absence of sufficient order inside his head, Hitman Anders allowed himself to be inspired by what he saw before his eyes.

Estate agent, bank, bus stop, smoker …

He had never owned a rifle, or a revolver, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t shoot from the hip. ‘Who’s on my hate-list? Are you sure you want to know?’ he said, lowering his voice, speaking a little more slowly.

The reporter nodded, his expression grave.

‘I don’t like estate agents,’ said Hitman Anders. ‘Or bank people. People who smoke. Commuters …’

With that, he had included everything he’d seen and remembered across the street.

‘Commuters?’ the reporter said in surprise.

‘Yes – do you feel the same?’

‘No. I mean, how can you hate commuters?’

Hitman Anders seemed to settle into playing the role of himself, and he made the most of what he’d happened to say. He lowered his voice a bit more and spoke even more slowly: ‘Are you a commuter-lover?’

By now, the reporter from The Express was truly scared. He assured the man that he did not love commuters: he and his girlfriend both biked to and from work and, beyond that, he hadn’t given a lot of thought to what sort of attitude he ought to have towards commuters.

‘I don’t like cyclists either,’ said Hitman Anders. ‘But commuters are worse. And hospital workers. And gardeners.’

Hitman Anders was on a roll. The priest thought it best to break in before the reporter and his photographer realized he was messing with them, or that he had no idea what he was saying, or a little of both.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse us, but Hitman Anders, I mean Johan here, needs his afternoon rest, with one yellow and one orange pill. It’s important to make sure that nothing goes wrong later this evening.’

The interview hadn’t gone as planned, but with a little luck they could still make it work in their favour. The priest was just sorry that the most important part hadn’t been said, the part she had repeated twenty times to her hitman. The advertisement, so to speak.

And then a miracle happened. He remembered! The photographer was already sitting behind the wheel in the Express car and the reporter had one foot in the car, but Hitman Anders hailed them: ‘You know where to find me if you need a kneecap broken! I’m not expensive. But I’m good.’

The Express reporter’s eyes widened. He thanked him for the information, pulled his other leg into the car, rubbed his right hand across his uninjured kneecap, closed the door, and said to his photographer: ‘Let’s go.’

* * *

The Express’s posters the next day read:

Sweden’s most dangerous man?

HITMAN

ANDERS

In an exclusive interview:

‘I WANT

TO KILL AGAIN’

The quote was not an exact reproduction, but when people couldn’t express themselves in a manner that worked on a poster, the paper had no choice but to write what the interviewee had probably meant instead of what he or she had actually said. That’s called creative journalism.

In the four-page spread, the newspaper’s readers discovered what a horrid person Hitman Anders was. All the atrocities he had confessed to in the story but, above all, his potentially psychopathic tendencies: the way he hated everyone from estate agents to hospital workers to … commuters.

The hatred Hitman Anders harbours for large parts of humanity seems to know no bounds. In the end, it turns out that no one, absolutely no one, is safe. For Hitman Anders’s services are for sale. He offers to break a kneecap, any kneecap at all, on behalf of The Express’s reporter, for a reasonable fee.

Besides the main article about the meeting between the brave reporter and the hitman in question, the newspaper included a supplementary interview with a psychiatrist who devoted half of the discussion to emphasizing that he could speak only in general terms, and the other half to explaining that it was not possible to lock Hitman Anders up because, from a medical perspective, he was not documented to be a danger to himself or others. Certainly he had committed crimes but, from a legal perspective, he had atoned for them. It was not enough just to talk about the further atrocities one could imagine committing in the hypothetical future.

From the psychiatrist’s argument, the newspaper inferred that society’s hands were tied until Hitman Anders struck again. And it was probably just a matter of time.

By way of conclusion, there was an emotional column by one of the paper’s best-known faces. She began: ‘I am a mother. I am a commuter. And I am scared.’

After the attention from The Express, requests for interviews streamed in from all imaginable quarters of Scandinavia, and the rest of Europe. The receptionist accepted a handful of international papers (Bild Zeitung, Corriere della Sera, the Daily Telegraph, El Periódico and Le Monde) but nothing more. The questions were posed in English, Spanish or French, and went through the linguistically gifted priest, who didn’t bother to respond with what Hitman Anders had said but with what he ought to have said. Letting him loose in front of a TV camera or a journalist who understood what he was saying was out of the question. The trio would never be able to recreate the luck they had had with The Express. Instead, by allowing other Scandinavian media outlets to reproduce quotes from Le Monde, for example (formulated by the hitman, distorted and refined by the priest), the right material got out.

‘There certainly isn’t anything wrong with your talent for PR,’ said Johanna Kjellander to Per Persson.

‘It would never have worked without your gift for languages,’ Per Persson offered in return.

CHAPTER 8

The man who had now become Hitman Anders to a whole people and half a continent woke up at around eleven each morning. He would get dressed, in the event he had undressed at bedtime, and walk down the hallway for breakfast, which consisted of the receptionist’s cheese sandwiches with beer.

After that he would rest for a while before he started to feel true hunger around three in the afternoon. Then he would make his way to the local pub for Swedish home-cooking and more beer.

This was assuming it wasn’t a workday, and workdays had become more and more frequent since all the media attention. The business he ran with the receptionist and the priest was going as well as could be expected. There were jobs on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; Hitman Anders had no desire to work any more than that. In fact, he didn’t really have any desire to work as much as he did, especially since there ended up being so many more broken kneecaps than planned. Of course, that was what he’d accidentally offered in the newspaper, and it seemed that most of those who ordered sundry limb-maimings had imaginations too limited to come up with something of their own.

The hitman tried to arrange his assignments to take place immediately after the home-cooking but before he had got tanked up for the evening. With the taxi ride there and back, a job was often completed within about an hour. It was important to keep the balance of drunkenness steady. If he had too many beers before work, things would go awry. A few beers more, and he risked a mess of a more dramatic nature. Though not as dramatic as it would have been if he had added spirits and pills to the menu. He could tolerate the idea of eighteen additional months in prison. But not eighteen additional years.

The hours between breakfast at eleven and lunch at three were best in the event that the priest and the receptionist had something to tell their business partner. Around that time, Hitman Anders had recovered from the troublesome hangover, while the current day’s excesses had not yet taken hold.

The meetings might occur spontaneously, but they kept a regular appointment on Mondays at eleven thirty in the hotel’s small lobby, which happened to have a table with three chairs in one corner. Anyway, Hitman Anders would appear at the Monday meeting as long as he hadn’t passed out in some strange place in the city and therefore couldn’t make it.

The meetings all followed the same routine. The receptionist would serve a beer to Hitman Anders and a cup of coffee each to himself and the priest. Thereupon followed a conversation about newly scheduled orders, upcoming activities, financial development, and other such matters.

The only real problem with their business was that the hitman, despite all the good advice he had received, was seldom correct about which was left or right when it came to broken arms and legs. The priest tried new tips, such as: right was the side you used to shake hands. To this, however, the hitman responded that he wasn’t very used to shaking hands. He was apt to raise a glass if the atmosphere was friendly and find both of his hands busy at the same time if it wasn’t.

Then it occurred to the priest that they could write a big L on Hitman Anders’s left fist. Surely that would solve the problem. The hitman nodded in approval, but he thought that to be on the safe side they might as well follow up with an R on the other.

This idea turned out to be both brilliant and stupid: what was L for Hitman Anders, of course, was R for the person who had the great misfortune to be standing in front of him. So the plan didn’t work until the hitman’s left fist was misleadingly marked with an R and vice versa.

The receptionist was pleased to be able to say that their client network was broadening, that client complaints had nearly ceased since left and right fists switched places, and that they had received orders from Germany, France, Spain and England. Not Italy, however: they seemed capable of handling things on their own down there.

The question was whether they should expand their operations. Was it time for the company to enlist some new recruits? Might Hitman Anders know of a suitable candidate, someone who could break arms and legs but knew where to draw the line? Assuming the hitman himself planned to stand firm on his decision not to work more than one or two hours per day, three days a week.

Hitman Anders perceived a tone of criticism in those words and responded that it was possible he was not as interested in accumulating piles of money as the receptionist and priest were, and that he had the good sense to value meaningful free time. Working three days a week was plenty, and he absolutely did not want any rowdy youngster going around windmilling his arms and disgracing Hitman Anders’s good name while the hitman enjoyed time off.

And speaking of all those countries they had just rattled off, he had just one thing to say: not on your life! Hitman Anders was no xenophobe, that wasn’t the problem – he firmly believed in the equal worth of all people: he wanted to be able to say ‘hi’ and ‘good morning’ and behave politely in front of whomever he was about to beat to a pulp. After all, wasn’t that the very least a fellow human being could expect?

‘That’s called respect,’ Hitman Anders said sulkily. ‘But maybe you two have never heard of it.’

The receptionist made no comment on the hitman’s view of the amount of respect it took to exchange pleasantries with someone you were about to beat half to death. Instead he said acidly that he was aware that Hitman Anders was not amassing piles of money. After all, a few nights ago a jukebox had ended up flying through the window of the hitman’s favourite pub just because it happened to be playing the wrong music. ‘How much did that meaningful free time cost you? Twenty-five thousand? Thirty?’ Per Persson asked, feeling a degree of satisfaction in daring to pose the question.

Hitman Anders said that thirty was pretty close to the truth and that that had not been the most meaningful incident of his life. ‘But what kind of person puts money into a machine to listen to Julio Iglesias?’

CHAPTER 9

To Per Persson, it was an objective truth that he had been cheated by life. Since he didn’t believe in a higher power and since his grandfather was long dead, he had no one and nothing specific at whom or which to direct his frustration. So, early on, from behind his reception desk, he had decided to dislike the entire world, everything it stood for, and everything it contained – including its seven billion inhabitants.

He had no immediate reason to make an exception for Johanna Kjellander, the priest who had initiated their relationship by trying to cheat him. But there was something about her misery that reminded him of his own. And before their first day together was over, they had hastily broken bread (that is, the priest had eaten all of the receptionist’s sandwiches) and on top of that had had time to become partners in the torpedo industry.

They’d shared an affinity from day one, even if the receptionist had had a harder time seeing it than the priest did. Or maybe he’d just needed more time.

When they had been in business for close to a year, the receptionist and the priest had earned about seven hundred thousand kronor, while the hitman had made four times that. The receptionist and the priest had eaten and drunk well together now and then, yet just over half their earnings remained, neatly hidden in a pair of shoeboxes in the room behind the reception desk.

The rather squarely inclined Per Persson complemented the daring, creative Johanna Kjellander, and vice versa. She liked his aversion to his existence; she saw herself in it. And in the end he, a man who had never loved anyone, including himself, could not defend himself against the insight that another person on Mother Earth had realized that the rest of humanity was completely useless.

After a visit to Södermalm to celebrate the advance payment for contract number 100 – an extra-lucrative one, for a double leg-and-arm fracture, an unspecified number of cracked ribs, and a rearranged face – the duo returned to the hotel. The mood was such that Per Persson found himself asking whether Johanna remembered the time a number of months earlier when she’d suggested they round off the evening in his room.

The priest remembered her question and his negative response.

‘I don’t suppose you’d consider re-asking the question, here and now?’

Johanna Kjellander smiled and asked in return whether it would be possible to receive an advance ruling before doing so. After all, no woman wanted to be told, ‘No,’ twice in a row.

‘No,’ said Per Persson.

‘No what?’ said Johanna Kjellander.

‘No, you won’t get a “no” if you ask again.’

The summit on the mattress between two of the nation’s potentially most bitter people turned out to be a sheer delight. When it was over, the priest gave a short and, for the first time, sincere sermon on the themes of faith, hope and love, where Paul had considered love to be the greatest of them all.

‘He seems to have had the right idea,’ said the receptionist, who was perfectly giddy over the realization that it was possible to feel as he felt, whatever the feeling was.

‘Well,’ said the priest, drawing out the rest, ‘Paul uttered a lot of nonsense too. Like woman was created for man and shouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and that men shouldn’t lie with other men.’

The receptionist skipped the part about who had been created for whom but said he could only recall a single instance, two at the most, in which it would have been best for the priest to remain silent rather than speak. Regarding who should lie with whom, he preferred the female priest over their male hitman by a long shot, but he couldn’t see what Paul had to do with it.

‘For my part, I’d rather sleep with a bike rack than with Hitman Anders,’ said the priest. ‘But otherwise I’m in complete agreement with you.’

When the receptionist wondered what the Bible had to say about a sexual relationship between a woman and a bike rack, the priest reminded him that bicycles hadn’t been invented in Paul’s time. Neither, probably, had the bike rack.

And no one had anything more to add to that. Instead they began another summit that was just as non-hateful as the one they’d just archived.

* * *

For a while, everything seemed to be heading in the right direction. The priest and the receptionist joyfully and contentedly shared their genuine dislike of the world, including the entirety of the Earth’s population. The burden was now only half as great, since each of them could take on three and a half billion people rather than seven billion alone. Plus (of course) a considerable number of individuals who no longer existed. Among them: the receptionist’s grandfather, the priest’s entire family tree, and – not least! – Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and everyone else in the book that had persecuted (and continued to persecute) Johanna Kjellander.

While the currently newly in-love couple had earned their seven hundred thousand kronor, Hitman Anders had, according to the contract, brought in 2.8 million. But since he could keep a whole pub going for half the night all by himself, he never had more than a few thousand-krona notes in savings. He burned through what came in at approximately the same rate it came in. If his money ever happened to grow into a pile of cash worthy of the name, it tended to be an extra-lively time at the pub, such as when the jukebox had gone through the window.

‘Couldn’t you just have pulled the plug out of the wall?’ the pub owner said, a bit cautiously, to his ashamed regular the next day.

‘Yes,’ Hitman Anders admitted. ‘That would have been a reasonable alternative.’

This sort of incident actually suited the receptionist and the priest quite well, because as long as Hitman Anders didn’t do what they did – that is, fill boxes with money – he would need to dispense justice on behalf of those who could afford to have justice dispensed according to their own definition of the concept.

What the receptionist and the priest didn’t know was that, during the past year, Hitman Anders had been experiencing an increasing sense that life was hopeless. Incidentally, he was barely aware of it. He had spent his whole life reasoning with other people via his fists. It wasn’t easy to talk to oneself in the same fashion. So he sought out alcohol earlier in the day and with greater emphasis than before.

It had helped. But it took constant replenishing. And his situation was not improved by the way the priest and the receptionist had started walking around side by side, smiling happily. What the hell was so damn funny? That it was only a matter of time before he ended up back where he belonged?

Perhaps it was just as well to put himself out of his misery, hasten the process, off the first prize idiot he saw, and move into the slammer for another twenty or thirty years – the exact fate he had resolved to avoid. One advantage would be that the priest and the receptionist would probably have grinned their last grins before he got out again. New love was seldom as new and loving two decades later.

One morning, in an unfamiliar and awkward attempt to gain insight, the hitman asked himself what it was all about. What, for example, had the jukebox incident really been about?

Of course he could have pulled the plug. And then Julio Iglesias would have gone silent while his jukebox fans went on a rampage. Four men and four women around a table: in the best case it would have been enough to slug the mouthiest of the men; in the worst case, he would have had to bring down all eight. With even a tiny amount of bad luck, one wouldn’t have got up again, and there would have been those twenty additional years in prison just waiting for him, plus or minus ten.

A more practical solution might have been to allow the eight fools to choose the music they liked. Unless it was an indisputable truth that a line had to be drawn at Julio Iglesias.

For Hitman Anders, lifting the jukebox and heaving it out of the window, thus bringing the evening to an end for him and everyone else, had allowed his destructive self to take control of his extremely destructive self. It had worked. It had been expensive, but – crucially – it had allowed him to wake up in his own bed, rather than in a jail cell awaiting transport to somewhere more permanent.

The jukebox had saved his life. Or he had saved it himself, using the jukebox as a weapon. Did this mean that the road back to prison was not as inevitable as his inner voice had started harping on about? What if there was life beyond violence, and, for that matter, life with no jukeboxes flying through the air?

In which case – how could he find it, and where would it lead?

He thought. And opened his first beer of the day. And soon the second. And he forgot what he’d just been thinking, but the knot in his stomach was gone, and cheers to that!

Beer was the water of life. The third in succession was almost always the most delicious.

Whoopty-ding!

He thought.

CHAPTER 10

Then came the day when it was time for the group to make good on their debt to the count. The victim this time was a customer who had test-driven a Lexus RX 450h over the weekend and managed to get it stolen.

So he said.

In reality, he had hidden it in Dalarna, at the home of his sister who, instead of thinking carefully, took a photograph of herself behind the wheel and posted it to Facebook. Since everyone on the site knows someone who knows someone who knows someone, it didn’t take the count many hours to learn the truth. The deceitful customer didn’t even have time to work out that he’d been exposed before his face had been ruined and every more or less accessible tooth knocked out. Thanks to the age of the car and its intended price tag (it was new and expensive), one kneecap and one shin were goners as well.