When I got back to my house, I sat down on the floor in front of the TV. I picked up one of the tapes, lifted the flap at the front and started pulling out the plastic tape with its magnetic strip. It was longer than I’d expected, and by the time I got to the end there was a big tangled heap on the floor. I moved on to the next one. And the next.
I paused when I reached the very first tape, remembering how I’d got the stirrings of a hard-on when I watched the scene in the shower room. I looked at the tape, then at my desk drawer. But no, it was too dangerous. I ripped it out and the pile grew even bigger.
Finally I pressed the eject button on the video-player and took out the last tape. I sat and weighed that one in my hand for a moment too. It wasn’t that I wanted to watch it again, absolutely not; what made me pause was a certain level of respect for the Dead Couple’s efforts. They had suffered to achieve their goal and the tape was the evidence they had left for posterity.
I pulled myself together. Posterity couldn’t possibly see this film, precisely because it was evidence, and Åke, Elsa and I were all on it. The spools made a whining sound as I ripped out the tape and let it spiral down onto the pile, then I stuffed the whole lot into a supermarket carrier bag.
There wasn’t a soul in sight when I reached St Johannes churchyard, and I tipped out the contents of the bag in a corner between the steps and the wall. I crumpled up a couple of sheets of newspaper I’d brought with me, tucked them underneath and lit them. I waited until I was sure the plastic had caught, then I walked away. As I turned into Döbelnsgatan I glanced over my shoulder and saw a pillar of black smoke rising in front of the stained-glass windows like a sacrificial fire.
*
Why do you care?
I knew exactly why I had poked my nose in, got involved in the relationship between Thomas and Lars. What I had said to Thomas was true: I did care about him. But not that much. After the conversation with Lars I cared about him too, but there were others in the group who were more important to me because I had travelled with them, spent time with them.
Perhaps it was to do with my own father. He and my mother had split up when I was one year old, and we’d had only sporadic contact since then. I went to see him in Södersvik once or twice a year, and occasionally he came to Blackeberg. The visits grew more infrequent as I got older, and since I’d moved into the city centre I hadn’t seen or spoken to him at all. He always used to come to Blackeberg on my birthday, and I had pretty clear memories of my ninth or tenth birthday, when he gave me a typewriter, which I used to write a diary for two years.
Maybe there was a connection, maybe not. At any rate it was a waste for Thomas and his father to be so distant when there was a desire for something else on both sides. That was how I saw it, at least.
When Thomas hammered on my door at ten to seven, he was clutching a bag from the liquor store. ‘The old man likes whisky.’
‘I know. So does mine.’
The fact that Thomas had made the effort to buy a bottle of Scotch suggested that he was in a more conciliatory frame of mind than I’d expected; was it possible that something good might come out of this? That would be nice, after the experiences of the past twenty-four hours. We went over to the main door of Lars’s block, which was a different one from the Dead Couple’s, fortunately. I would probably have picked up the stench even if it wasn’t there.
Thomas had perked himself up with a couple of swigs from the bottle, and was in a good mood. As we walked up the stairs he asked, ‘So your dad was an alkie?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘The way you said, “So does mine.” Maybe that’s why you’re sick in the head. And gay.’
‘You could be right.’
Thomas glanced at me.
‘You’re not gay, are you? For real?’
‘Do you think I’d tell you if I was?’
‘You might be in love with me.’
We were standing outside Lars’s door. I gazed deep into Thomas’s eyes. He couldn’t hold my gaze, and I said slowly, ‘Thomas. I am not in love with you.’
He let out a belly laugh and punched me on the shoulder before ringing the bell. The sound that must have been so familiar since childhood seemed to make him realise how odd the situation was. He looked at me. ‘So what are you doing here? Really?’
I shrugged. As I said, I wasn’t sure myself. Ever since New Year’s Eve, when I had made my promise to Lars, I had felt somehow responsible, and that could have been part of the equation.
The door opened a fraction and Lars peered out. Just like the last time there was nothing in his expression to suggest that he recognised me, and what was worse, he didn’t appear to recognise Thomas either. ‘Yes?’ he said.
Thomas grabbed the door so that it flew open, waved the carrier bag and said, ‘Evening, Dad. Fancy a drink?’
Lars backed into the hallway, obviously terrified. Thomas dealt with his uncertainty in the way that people often do, by becoming even pushier. He grabbed hold of a lined denim jacket that must once have been his and said, ‘So I hear you’re turning this place into a museum!’
‘Leave that alone!’ Lars snapped.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s my jacket! I used to wear it when we went walking in the forest, you and me. You remember that, don’t you?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
I glanced into the kitchen, where five presents were now piled up on the table, the last much bigger than the others, and I suspected it was the Lego fortress Lars had mentioned. The one they were going to build together.
Thomas’s smile was strained as he took a step towards Lars, opened his arms wide and said, ‘It’s me, Thomas. Your prodigal son.’
Lars backed away even further, shaking his head as he pointed to the closed bedroom door. ‘My son is fast asleep in there. You’ll wake him up, making all this noise!’
Thomas blinked, and his face took on an expression I had never seen before, and which I was sure he really didn’t want anyone to see. Sorrow. Pleading, helpless sorrow. His arms dropped and any sign of joviality disappeared as he said, ‘Dad, stop this now. I’m here. Your boy. I’m here now.’
Lars shook his head even more frenetically. ‘Today is my son’s ninth birthday and we’re about to go in and give him his presents. I don’t know who you think you are, pushing your way into my home and disturbing us, but I’d like you to leave right now.’
Thomas’s moment of weakness had passed. His jaws tensed beneath the skin and his fists clenched as he moved towards his father, but Lars went to the chest of drawers and took out the revolver. He pointed it at Thomas and said, ‘Get out of here! Now! Nobody is going to ruin my son’s birthday!’
Thomas stopped dead. There was no mistaking the insanity and fury in Lars’s eyes. I was ready for the shot, but fortunately Thomas decided not to push his luck, in spite of his despair. He raised his hands and stepped back.
‘Okay. Okay, Dad, that’s fine.’
Lars lurched forward, the barrel of the gun shaking as he threatened us: ‘Out! Get out!’
We edged backwards until we reached the landing. Before Lars closed and locked the door, he glanced in the direction of the bedroom as if to make sure that all the noise hadn’t woken his darling boy.
*
I nipped back to my house and pulled on an old padded jacket before joining Thomas out on the street. It was bitterly cold, and we kept our heads down as we walked along Tunnelgatan to Norra Bantorget, where we sat down on the loading bay of a grocery store, passing the whisky bottle to and fro between us.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I really thought that if he saw you…’
‘Shut up and drink,’ Thomas said, passing me the bottle. I made no further attempt to broach the subject. As we sat there in silence, that moment outside Lars’s door came back to me. You might be in love with me. Wasn’t that a strange thing to say, and hadn’t the punch he delivered to my shoulder seemed a bit…unnatural?
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I had no such feelings for Thomas, but if he felt that way about me, then on top of everything else it must grieve him deeply that he had exposed himself, albeit ambiguously and only for a second.
There was a dark cloud surrounding Thomas as he determinedly knocked back the whisky. I kept up as best I could, hoping that the booze would enable us to have a conversation. Fucking hell, it had gone badly. Lars had finally withdrawn into his memory, and it appeared that nothing could entice him back out. Was this when he was going to die? Maybe, but there was nothing more I could do.
As the level in the bottle dropped without our exchanging a word, my mood became increasingly gloomy. Fucking Lars fucking Dead Couple fucking field fucking life. My thoughts were spinning in ever-decreasing circles, being inexorably sucked towards a black hole.
When the bottle was empty Thomas suddenly hurled it away. It smashed to pieces as he leapt down from the loading bay and ran off towards Barnhusgatan. I could see a lone figure silhouetted against the lights of a shop window. That was where Thomas was heading, and I followed him.
I soon realised that the man Thomas was approaching had curly black hair. He had his back to us; he turned around when he heard us coming, but it was too late. Thomas kicked his legs out from under him with his steel-capped boots, and the man crashed to the ground.
‘Get back to the fucking jungle!’ Thomas yelled, kicking the man in the stomach. ‘Fucking black bastard!’ The next kick split the man’s forehead open, and blood spurted out over the dirty snow.
My thoughts disappeared into the black hole and darkness billowed up before my eyes. I kicked out and struck the back of the man’s head. He raised his arms to protect himself, and we carried on kicking.
After a while we started singing the song about the stubborn coconut that wouldn’t crack, repeatedly kicking the man’s arms to force him to lower them so we could crack that fucking coconut.
*
A cab came along Barnhusgatan and the sight of its lights brought me to my senses before Thomas and I succeeded. The man’s arms were still clamped rigidly over his head when I pulled Thomas away. We ran through a dark car park and across Tunnelgatan. I turned around and saw that the cab driver had stopped and got out next to the man on the ground. Then I kept on running.
We didn’t slow down until we came out onto Kungsgatan. We walked through Hötorget and paused behind the Orpheus fountain to catch our breath. The cab driver had a radio, and the police could be looking for us any second now. Thomas bent over, his hands resting on his thighs, and gasped, ‘Fucking hell.’
‘Yes. Fucking hell.’
At that moment everything came crashing down. It might have had something to do with the fact that I hadn’t travelled for four days, so the field’s influence on me was unusually weak, but during that minute behind the fountain I saw what had become of me.
Just a few months ago I had met Sofia there. A sweet, lovely girl with whom I could have had a really good relationship, if only I’d made the effort. I had been working at Mona Lisa, loving my magic and looking forward to the future with confidence. I had left it all for the other, and now I was standing here with a skinhead, hiding after almost kicking another human being to death. The field wasn’t just dangerous—it was utterly destructive.
I pulled off my jacket and threw it into the sculpture beneath Orpheus’s feet, said, ‘Goodbye, Thomas,’ and set off without turning around.
I barely knew what I was doing, and was acting in accordance with the instincts of a creature being pursued as I turned down a passageway and into a cinema where a showing of Rocky IV had just started. I bought a ticket and sat down in the back row of the large, dark cinema. I saw nothing of the film: I was merely aware that people were hitting one another. I definitely didn’t want to see that, so I kept my eyes fixed on the floor while time passed and my trail went cold.
Everything was growing clearer by the minute, and I was appalled by what I had become. A monster. A banal, everyday monster, nothing more than a bad person. I saw the black man’s head jerking back and forth in the snow as we kicked him, his defenceless body curled into the foetal position. I remembered how I had wanted to smash his head, see it crack. Monster.
When the film was over I wandered home without bothering to keep an eye out for the police. Even if I had no intention of handing myself in, it would have been nice to be arrested. Locked in a cell, away from the field.
I passed the Orpheus fountain and saw the sleeve of my jacket sticking up next to one of the Sylphides’ plinths. I pushed my hands deep in my trouser pockets, hunched my shoulders and kept moving. I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself as much as I did during that short walk.
Dekorima had replaced the broken window, and the new display was all about painting a self-portrait. A mirror had been placed on the easel so that you could look at your reflection. As I stood there with my arms wrapped around my body, I couldn’t think of anyone less worth painting.
The thoughts from which I had been liberated for a couple of months kept on going round and round in my head, and by the time I got home I was suffused with such self-loathing that I could hardly breathe. If I’d had a revolver I would probably have used it to remove myself from the earth. Instead I sought refuge in music, as I so often did.
Depeche Mode’s latest single, ‘Stripped’, had come out a week earlier, and it had barely hit the shelves before I was there stealing it. Since then I had listened to it over and over again. It was already on the turntable, so I switched on the record-player and moved the needle across.
Something of whatever was ripping and tearing at me eased a little as I sat on the floor in front of the speakers, swaying in time to the heartbeat rhythm which I knew was the sound of a slowed-down motorbike engine. Dave Gahan sang, and I listened. The heavy, sombre atmosphere of the song encapsulated some of my own darkness, making it seem possible to live, at least for the moment.
In extreme emotional states, whether joy or despair, we have a tendency to interpret song lyrics as if they applied to us. ‘Stripped’ was about me. Me and my neighbours.
Dave Gahan sang about taking his hand and coming back to the land, to the place where everything was ours for just a few hours. It was the field he was referring to, and even though I knew I was reading too much into it, I listened to the song as if I could find the answers I needed within it. Over and over again I listened, curled up on the floor with my hands clenched over my belly.
No matter how horrified I was at my actions and the person I had become, the thought of never seeing the field again was unbearable. Never to stand beneath that sky again, feeling the magic and the joyous truth in my body. Instead of being an enchanted creature in a supernatural world, I would be reduced to a lost young man in a dark, cramped house. Abstinence was already taking its toll; it was a burning lump in my belly that brought tears to my eyes.
It’s impossible. I can’t do it. I have to do it.
*
It was after midnight and ‘Stripped’ was still playing when I caught sight of a movement through the slats of the blind. I dragged myself to my feet and swayed, still intoxicated from the whisky, and staggered over to the window just in time to see the door of the laundry block close. The light came on, and I blinked a couple of times. It took me a few panic-stricken seconds to find the key before I rushed to the door and down the steps. I didn’t even put my boots on.
In spite of my intention to abandon everything to do with the shower room, I couldn’t just sit and wait while Lars took his own life. He had been naked, with the revolver in his hand.
Maybe my shame over what I had done earlier that evening made me feel compelled to intervene. If I could save Lars’s life, it would constitute a kind of atonement. I ran across the courtyard in my stocking feet, the densely packed snow grabbing hold of my warm soles as if it were trying to stop me. I reached the door and fumbled with the keys before managing to unlock it.
The shower room door was open. Lars had climbed in
to the bathtub and sat down, so that the grey-white slime reached the bottom of his rib cage. It was moving of its own volition, thin runners feeling their way over his skin like fingers.
‘Lars,’ I said, walking towards him. ‘Lars, wait. This isn’t going to work.’
‘How would you know?’ he said, raising the barrel of the gun to his temple.
‘It’s not real,’ I said, reaching out to take the gun away from him.
‘It’s all there is,’ he said, and pressed the trigger.
A deafening report echoed around the room as a flame shot out of the barrel. Lars’s head jerked to the side, blood and brain matter splattered across the tiles and his body sank backwards and disappeared. At the same time I felt a burning pain in my right hand.
The bullet had gone through Lars’s head, ricocheted off the wall and torn open the soft skin between my thumb and forefinger. The shock of the bang and the unexpected pain made me stagger and stumble forward. I saw the revolver fall from Lars’s hand into the bathtub, and at that moment my own bleeding hand went down into the sperm-coloured slime, which resisted like skin before it broke, and I was transported.
*
The first thing I see is Lars, lying at my feet. The skin on his right temple is burned from the flame, and the entry wound shows as a darker patch. He is on his side, so I can’t see the exit wound.
The naked body is motionless. His arms are covered in cuts and scratches. His grandfather’s wedding ring gleams on the third finger of his left hand. His mouth is hanging open, and I can just see a few gold fillings. The revolver isn’t here—it must still be in the bathtub.
The sight of Lars’s ordinary naked body on the field feels like a distortion, and yet it is wonderful to be in my true body once more. I reach out a tentacle and make Lars hover half a metre above the ground. Blood pours from his head and is absorbed with unnatural speed. The grass and the earth are drinking.