‘Aren’t I any good at laughing?’
‘That’s one way of putting it. No.’
At the till Teresa took out her wallet; she didn’t recognise it, because it was so fat. Then she remembered. The takings. The metal box they had broken open with a screwdriver. Seven thousand eight hundred kronor, mainly in five-hundred-kronor notes.
But it wasn’t real money. You worked for real money, or you were given it, as a gift or as pocket money, a little bit at a time. This was a bundle of bits of paper that had been lying in a drawer, and had ended up in Teresa’s wallet. She was disappointed when the assistant told her, after scanning and tugging off the security tags, the amount she had to pay for the clothes. She would have liked to give away more of the bits of paper, got rid of them.
Drottninggatan was packed. Street vendors were demonstrating battery-driven toys and rubbish made of plastic and glass. They were all made of flesh and blood. A well-placed blow could make the flesh burst and the blood pour out.
Teresa didn’t feel too good. She would have liked to hold hands with Theres for support. The feeling of being so light that she might blow away was starting to become acute. It was just like when she had had a high temperature; perhaps she still had it. She felt hot and dizzy.
In a side street Teresa stopped outside a shop window. It was a shoe shop, and in the window there were a couple of dozen different designs of Doc Martens, heavy boots with a high lace-up. A bright red pair with thick soles had caught Teresa’s eye.
She had never been interested in clothes, never had any style. When the girls in her class sat sighing over the latest magazine and some jacket that was just ‘sooo cool’, she didn’t understand it at all. It was a jacket, it looked more or less the same as any other jacket. She had never seen an item of clothing and simply known that it was right.
But now she was standing here, and the boots were glowing at her. They were hers, to the point where she could have stuck her hand through the glass and taken them. Going through the normal procedure of making a purchase felt unnatural, but she did it. When it turned out that they didn’t have any in her size, she asked if she could try on the pair in the window, and they fitted perfectly. Of course. They were made for her feet, and cost only three bits of paper.
When they got outside, the world looked different. As if the extra height the soles gave her changed her perspective totally, even if it was only two centimetres. Teresa walked differently, and therefore she saw differently. The boots gave weight to her entire body, and whereas before it had felt as if people could pass right through her, now they stepped aside, the crowds parting before her.
A plump woman in folk costume was playing a reedy tune on a recorder. Teresa went and stood directly in front of her. The woman’s eyes were weary, and she was so small that Teresa could have swallowed her with one bite. Instead she placed one of the bits of paper in the hat that was on the ground in front of the woman. Her eyes opened wide; a long harangue of gratitude in some East European language came pouring forth. Teresa stood motionless, unmoved, tasting the moment and her own weight.
‘Now you’re happy,’ said Theres.
‘Yes,’ said Teresa. ‘Now I’m happy.’
They took the subway to Svedmyra. The weight of the boots worked even when Teresa wasn’t standing up. Sitting there next to Theres, who had settled deep in the corner as usual, a protection zone was formed around them, and no one came to sit in their square.
‘Those girls,’ she said to Theres. ‘The ones who come to visit you. What are they like?’
‘At first they’re happy. Then they say they’re unhappy. And scared. They want to talk. I help them.’
Teresa looked around the carriage. Mostly adults. A few girls and boys of their own age were sitting with earphones in, tapping away on their mobile phones. They looked neither unhappy nor scared. Either they were hiding it well, or they were just a different kind of person from the ones who found their way to Theres.
‘Theres, I want to meet those girls.’
‘They want to meet you.’
Two police cars were parked outside the local shop; blue and white tape between the lamp posts cordoned off the street. As Theres and Teresa went past they could see there was an ambulance round the back, by the loading bay. Teresa resisted an impulse to try to peer in through the window-the perpetrator always returns to the scene of the crime-and carried on with Theres towards her apartment. When they were out of earshot, she said, ‘You do realise we can’t say anything about this, don’t you? Not to those other girls either.’
‘Yes,’ said Theres. ‘Jerry said. You go to prison if you get into trouble. I know.’
Teresa glanced back at the shop. The loading bay was hidden from view, and she didn’t think anyone had seen them going to or from the shop. But she wasn’t sure. If it hadn’t been for the boots, her knees might well have given way. Instead she kept on walking, her footsteps firm and steady.
She didn’t have much time if she was going to catch her train after saying goodbye to Theres, but she stopped dead when they got to the apartment.
Something was wrong.
She looked around the hallway. The clothes hangers, the rug, Jerry’s clothes, her own bag. She had a distinct feeling that someone had been here. Perhaps the rug was slightly out of line, perhaps a pen had been moved on the hall table. Something. They had left the door unlocked, and anyone could have got in.
And could still be here.
Something that would have felt horrible just a couple of days ago now happened quite naturally. Teresa went into the kitchen and fetched the biggest carving knife, then marched through the apartment with the knife held in front of her, ready to attack. She opened every wardrobe, looked under the beds.
Theres sat on the sofa with her hands on her knees, following Teresa’s movements as she secured the area. Only when Teresa was convinced no one was hiding anywhere and came back to the living room did she ask a question: ‘What are you doing?’
‘Someone’s been here,’ said Teresa, putting the knife down on the coffee table. ‘And I don’t understand why. It bothers me.’
Her train was leaving in twenty-five minutes, and she would need to be lucky with the subway if she was going to catch it. But still she stood absolutely motionless for ten seconds, breathing in through her nose. Sniffing the air. There was something there. A scent. Something she couldn’t place.
She grabbed her bag and told Theres to lock the door behind her. Then she raced down the stairs and ran all the way to the subway station. She saw a train coming in, and just managed to slip through the doors before they closed.
The train to Österyd was full, and she got on two minutes before it was due to leave. Since she didn’t have a seat reservation, she pushed her way through to find an empty space. As she moved into the next carriage, she became aware of the same scent again. She stopped and sniffed, looked around.
A group of men in their forties and fifties were sitting on one side of her. There were a few beer cans on the table, and they were talking loudly about someone called Birgitta on reception, and whether she had fake tits or not. The scent of aftershave was coming from the men, and suddenly she knew.
There was an empty seat in the buffet car, and the counter hadn’t opened yet. As soon as she sat down she heaved her bag up onto the table so that she could get out her mobile and ring Theres. She found her phone, and at the same time discovered that something else was missing. With gritted teeth she hit speed dial, and when Theres answered she said, ‘It was Max Hansen who was in your apartment. And he’s pinched my MP3 player.’
Max Hansen was on a steep incline. He had lost his grip, and he was sliding. Downwards. It didn’t matter to him, because there was a conscious decision behind it. He was being carried to the bottom of his own free will; he was completing his downhill race in slow motion, as if he were enjoying a skiing holiday. There was pleasure along the way, and he hoped he would be able to brake before the crash came.