As we waited for the train Thomas opened his rucksack and pulled out a piece of white material. He held it up in front of his chest, and I could see that it was a T-shirt.
‘I found this in the boy’s room. There was a pile of Moderate Youth League stuff, flyers and a load of other crap. And this.’
I had read about the T-shirt, but never seen it in reality. Palmebusters. A paraphrase of the Ghostbusters logo, with a long-nosed, evil-looking Olof Palme inside the red ‘Stop’ sign instead of a ghost.
‘Terrible,’ I said.
‘Isn’t it?’ Thomas shook the T-shirt, making Palme’s nose waggle. ‘They’ve made him just like one of those caricatures of the Jews. Stolen our idea. I hate the bastards. Do you want it?’
He threw the T-shirt at me before I had the chance to answer, and I stuffed it into my pocket. Thomas unzipped one of the side compartments of his rucksack and took out a thick bundle of hundred-kronor notes. He counted off fifteen and handed them to me. ‘They had cash. I’ll give you the rest later.’
The train was approaching the platform and there was no one else around, so I folded the notes and tucked them in my inside pocket. I couldn’t quite work out how I’d earned the money.
‘Why did you want me to come along?’ I asked as the train pulled in.
Thomas shrugged. ‘What was it you said? It seemed appropriate. Although I could have done without that business with the tree. Then again…Maybe those fuckers deserve the odd setback.’
The doors opened and we stepped on board. During the journey to Ropsten I wanted to ask some of the many questions I had, but was prevented by Thomas’s inaccessibility as he sat there staring out at the snow. We crossed Lidingö Bridge and I remembered my birthday, how Sofia and I had sat in exactly the same way. A train, a bridge, falling snow. It felt like a very long time ago.
Thomas got off at the central terminal, and I decided to keep him company and walk the last part of the way home. When we emerged into Sergels torg the snow was falling more heavily, flakes whirling all around us as we climbed the broad steps up to Drottninggatan. Thomas raised a hand in farewell, turned his back on me and headed towards the Old Town.
It felt pretty abrupt, but what had I expected? A big hug and the promise of eternal friendship? I shoved my hands in my pockets and set off in the opposite direction. Suddenly my fingers touched something: the walkie-talkie. I took it out and stared at Donald’s cheerful face, spattered with snowflakes. Then I pressed the button and said, ‘Thomas?’
After a couple of seconds he replied, ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve still got the walkie-talkie.’
‘No shit, Sherlock.’
I pulled a face. I’d never met anyone with such a talent for making me feel stupid, but in spite of that, or possibly because of it, I said, ‘Shall we have a beer? Celebrate?’
Thomas said something I couldn’t make out, so I stayed where I was. After a little while his dark figure materialised against a backdrop of falling snow. I gave him the walkie-talkie; he slipped it into his pocket and said, ‘Where to?’
*
We ended up in Monte Carlo. I went to the bar while Thomas sat down at the same table I’d shared with Lars two nights ago. When I put down the glasses and saw Thomas in the same light and from the same angle, the resemblance was clear. The slightly crooked mouth, the shape of the chin, the way the bridge of the nose curved into the eyebrows.
‘I was sitting here with your dad the day before yesterday.’
‘Okay.’
‘He told me a few things.’
Thomas took a swig of his beer and ran his hand roughly across his mouth. ‘He usually does.’
He didn’t say any more, and we sat opposite each other in silence, gazing out at the falling snow. I had drunk half my beer when Thomas spoke again. ‘He was my best friend—the Moderate Youth League idiot. When we were kids. Magnus. I could have been walking around in one of those T-shirts now.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Do you need to? You say you’re a monster. In which case you don’t need to understand. Anything. That’s the advantage.’
Something large and black loomed in my peripheral vision. An enormous man of Slavic appearance positioned himself at the end of our table and pointed at Thomas.
‘You,’ he said. ‘Out. We don’t want your sort here.’
Thomas blinked as if he suddenly felt weary. He only got out ‘I could say the same—’ before the man grabbed hold of him and yanked him to his feet. For a moment I thought he was going to headbutt Thomas, but he settled for half-dragging, half-carrying him to the door. I picked up Thomas’s jacket and my rucksack and duffel coat and followed them. The rucksack was heavy; there was something metallic clanking inside it.
I reached the exit just in time to see the man slam Thomas down, spin him around and give him a kick in the small of the back, sending him flying headfirst into the street. He landed with his face in the snow, to the sound of laughter and applause from the bar. The man pointed a threatening finger at me before returning to his friends.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked Thomas.
He scrambled to his feet, brushing the snow off his jumper. ‘That guy is a dead man,’ he said, taking the jacket I was holding out to him. He spoke without conviction.
He shrugged on his rucksack and we ambled down Kungsgatan. There weren’t many people around, and the Christmas lights swayed in the wind that was driving the snow into our faces. We were passing Café Mon Chéri when Thomas asked, ‘So what did my dad say to you?’
I couldn’t tell him what Lars had said without revealing what was in the shower room, and I didn’t think I had the authority to do that. I also didn’t want Thomas to know, so I said, ‘That he misses you.’
Thomas snorted and shook his head. We reached Stureplan and walked underneath the Mushroom, where several people moved aside when they saw Thomas striding along with a murderous look on his face. When we had gone about a hundred metres along Birger Jarlsgatan, he stopped in front of the Riche bar’s huge window and glared at the yuppies who were babbling away and stuffing their faces beneath the crystal chandeliers.
His face was inches away from the glass, and within less than a minute the atmosphere inside the restaurant had changed. People glanced furtively at Thomas, and their movements became smaller, more subdued, as they suddenly felt the need to concentrate on their food. They tried to avoid attracting attention, as if the Angel of Death was standing there weighing them up. The laughter and the hum of conversation died away, and the party atmosphere was ruined. Thomas gave a nasty smile and turned away.
We walked up towards Kungsträdgården in silence. When we had crossed Hamngatan, Thomas stopped, folded down the hem of his jeans and pulled on his woolly hat, so that he looked perfectly normal. It was hardly likely that any of the gangs who owned Kungsträdgården during the summer would be hanging out there on a cold and snowy Christmas Day, but it wasn’t completely out of the question, and a skinhead on his own would be a real treat.
There was hardly anyone around and our footsteps squeaked through the empty space as we passed frozen fountains and elm trees; the wind had forced them to shake off the snow as soon as it landed on their bare branches. I began to suspect that I knew where we were going.
With his hands buried deep in his pockets, Thomas gazed up at the statue of Karl XII, the patina on its bronze surface shining faintly in the glow of a street lamp. Skinheads and National Socialists staged an annual march starting from this spot. Maybe Thomas usually took part. A cloud of vapour emerged from his mouth as he sighed and said, ‘Why Karl the Twelfth? Such a useless fucking king. He messed everything up. Sometimes I’m so tired of all the crap.’
‘What crap?’
Thomas didn’t answer. Instead he dug into the pocket of his jeans and brought out a gold ring, which I assumed was the one I’d seen in the laundry room. He handed it to me and said, ‘Give that to my dad,’ then he left me standing under the statue and cut ac
ross Kungsträdgården, heading back towards Sergels torg. I stayed there for a little while, looking up at the king as he pointed into the falling snow, his expression blank. Then I went home.
You say you’re a monster. In which case you don’t need to understand. Anything. That’s the advantage.
When I got back I could see that the light was on in Lars’s window. I thought about going up to give him the ring, but decided to wait until the following day. I was chock-full of confused impressions, and I needed to rest.
*
Something happened on 26 December which at the time seemed unimportant, but came to have a crucial significance. It will probably lead to my being contacted by the police once this book is published, provided they believe what is written here. On reflection I’m thinking the risk isn’t that great.
The sales began that day, and with money in my pocket I went out to buy or steal a new winter coat. After checking out a couple of stores I finally found what I was looking for.
It was more like an overcoat than a duffel, but it did have a hood. It was reduced from 2500 kronor to 990, and was a perfect fit. The lining was warm without feeling or looking bulky, and I don’t think I’ve ever found a garment I was so certain that I wanted.
All that was irrelevant really; the key element was the colour. No one has heard of the man in the duffel coat or the man in the overcoat in connection with the assassination of Olof Palme. However, anyone who followed the story has heard of the man in beige—the only eyewitness who was never identified.
So the coat was a dark shade of beige. I should add that it had a magnetic tag, so I paid cash (albeit stolen money) for the item that would have the police searching for me in vain for months. Years, in fact. Here I am. You can call me if you like, but everything I know will be set out on these pages, little by little.
*
As I walked up the marble staircase in my lovely new coat, for the first time I felt as if I had the right to be there. I was no longer a scabby slum rat with matted fur, but a well-dressed young man on a mission. I rang Lars’s doorbell, and as I listened to his approaching footsteps I tried to find a way of standing that matched the coat. Lars took no notice of my changed appearance, but when I said I had something for him, he hesitated briefly and then invited me in.
The apartment was spotless. The rugs looked freshly washed, and anything that could shine was shining. The draining board, which I could just see from the hallway, was so clinically clean that a surgeon could have operated on it.
Lars looked unhappy as I took off my coat and hung it on a hook. In spite of the fact that it was so clean, the hallway was quite cluttered, with clothes piled on every hook and heaps of shoes on the stand. Most of these items belonged to a woman and a child, and it wasn’t hard to draw certain conclusions. As I draped my coat over a little denim jacket, I was sabotaging a carefully planned display in a museum. I pulled off my boots and placed them next to a pair of Sami boots before following Lars into the kitchen.
The window faced west, so there was no tarpaulin to stop the sun from flooding in, making the metal and lacquered surfaces shine with such intensity that I had to narrow my eyes when I sat down on the chair Lars pulled out. I unbuttoned my shirt pocket, took out the ring and gave it to him. His eyes widened, and he read the inscription on the inside.
‘How did you get hold of this?’
‘From Thomas. He told me to give it to you.’
Lars sank into contemplation of the ring, twisting and turning it in his fingers. I noticed a copy of Dagens Nyheter lying on the table; there was something odd about it. The headline referred to Watergate, which I didn’t understand until I saw the date: 18 April 1973.
With a ceremonial air and an acquisitive glow worthy of Gollum, Lars slipped the ring onto the third finger of his left hand, and I said, ‘So tell me about the ring.’
In a voice thick with emotion, Lars replied, ‘It’s my grandfather’s wedding ring. Marianne had her grandmother’s. We wanted time to…’ He didn’t get any further before a sob prevented him from continuing, and once again silent tears coursed down his cheeks as he gazed down at the ring on his finger.
I felt uncomfortable. ‘Could I use your bathroom, please?’
He waved in the direction of the hallway and I got to my feet. As I passed a room with the door standing open, I peeped inside.
The walls were adorned with posters of Chip ’n’ Dale, Baloo and Mowgli, plus, rather unexpectedly, a large picture of the entertainer Povel Ramel in a brightly coloured cap. On the floor were finished or half-finished Lego constructions, and from the ceiling plastic model planes were suspended on fishing line. A boy’s room, Thomas’s room, also preserved like a museum.
It didn’t make sense. Thomas’s mother had died when he was eleven, and he had continued to live with his father while Lars began to hate life, and everything fell apart. But this was not a teenager’s room, or even that of an eleven-year-old. If I had to guess, I’d go for eight. Lars was not preserving, he was re-creating.
I went to the toilet, and now I was aware of the situation I recognised the rhomboid pattern on the bathroom mat from my childhood. The Pepsodent toothpaste tube on the side of the washbasin had a different design from the current one. I flushed the toilet and headed back to the kitchen.
Lars was still sitting at the table, totally absorbed in his own hand.
‘When’s Thomas’s birthday?’ I asked.
‘The eighteenth of April.’
Lars looked at me, his expression telling me that he knew I understood. I nodded towards the newspaper. ‘How long have you been working on this?’
‘A couple of months.’
The same length of time as Lars had been associating with whatever was in the shower room, I assumed. When he was in there he returned to that special moment in his life, and he was simultaneously trying to re-create it in the real world.
‘What’s the goal?’ I asked.
Once again that flickering veil of insanity passed over his eyes as he replied, ‘I’m almost there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know what I mean.’
He obviously had no intention of passing on this information, but continued to stare at the ring. I couldn’t help feeling a little irritated as I said, ‘Thomas cares about you.’
Without looking up, Lars said, ‘I think you should go now. Thank you for your trouble.’
*
Later that evening I would come to understand more clearly the significance of Lars’s project, but before I write about that I must say something about my magic.
I had a performance to deliver on New Year’s Eve. Buying the overcoat had severely depleted my resources, and I couldn’t be sure I would receive more money from Thomas, so the 1500 kronor was not to be sniffed at.
When I came back from visiting Lars, I got out my equipment to practise. It was a long time since I’d had a corporate gig, and the eight minutes my street routine lasted wouldn’t do. I needed at least fifteen, and preferably something adapted to fit the context.
The Boilermakers’ Association—what the hell was that? Stupidly I hadn’t asked the person who called and booked me, but pretended I was fully up to speed. I assumed they didn’t sell boilers, so what did they do? Were they some kind of freemasons’ group? Dedicated boiler enthusiasts? I decided to ignore that aspect and focus on the concept of New Year instead. A presentation based on the idea of something old disappearing, only to be magically replaced by something new. Something to do with time.
We wanted time to…
What was the word that Lars had swallowed? Stop? Stretch? Was he trying to create a kind of magic, to draw a particular moment to him by staging that moment, just as the huntsman sets out a decoy?
Concentrate.
The Chinese Rings? One year linked to another? Maybe. It’s just such a dull trick. The Cigarette in the Jacket always worked, especially if you used one of the bosses. Something about the fact that the company was going t
o do so well in 1986 that the boss would be able to afford a new suit, so it wouldn’t matter if we burned the old one. If it was a company, of course.
I tried out different tricks, varied my presentation. This was the part I had always really enjoyed—the opportunity to be creative, to dress the old tricks in new clothes—but as the hours passed I realised that my thoughts were elsewhere, and soon I was so bored that I was sitting yawning at my desk.
In the field I had tasted what real magic can look and feel like; I had made things disappear, metamorphose and hover in the air; I had manipulated the hidden mechanisms of physical reality. Which is why sitting there saying Look, there’s smoke coming from the jacket, but hey presto—no burn! felt dry and pointless.
I gritted my teeth and carried on. I couldn’t afford the luxury of living only through the times when I was in the field, just as a relationship cannot be built on the limited time a couple spends having sex. But I longed for the field, longed for the orgasm of being present in my monster’s body.
I don’t know the reason for what happened next. Perhaps I had become more receptive through associating with the others, or perhaps it was because I was thinking about the field. I could hear the distant roaring of the burned, running creature. I opened the blind and looked out. The light was on in the laundry block, and I knew the roaring man was in there now. I moved my chair over to the window and waited. The noise came and went in waves, and after ten minutes it stopped completely. A shadow passed across the floor, then the light went out and the door opened.
A man with a bottle in his hand emerged into the courtyard, and I recognised him. The circlet of grey hair framing the bald pate. It was the man who had gathered up the dead birds, but he had changed. The beer belly and the puffy cheeks were gone, and he was virtually emaciated. His clothes hung loosely on him, because they belonged to his former body.
I assumed he was about to take a swig from the bottle, and that alcoholism was to blame for his new appearance. So I didn’t understand why he scraped away a patch of snow with his foot, then poured some of the contents of the bottle onto the ground.