‘In a dream it is.’ Teresa propped herself up on her elbow so that she could see Theres, who was staring up at the ceiling. ‘Theres? Do you ever imagine stuff? I mean, do you have, like pictures and actions in your head that you think about?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No, I didn’t think you would.’ Teresa blew out a puff of air and the dust bunnies danced away under the bed. ‘That thing we did yesterday. To the man in the shop. Do you think about that?’
‘No. It’s over. You’re happy now.’
Teresa curled up as best she could in Theres’ clothes, which were much too tight. They had shoved her own blood-soaked clothes into two plastic bags and thrown them down the rubbish chute the previous evening.
Happy? No, she wasn’t happy. She was a stranger to herself, she was presumably still in shock. But alive. She could feel that she was alive. Perhaps that was the same thing as being happy, according to Theres’ way of looking at things.
Teresa opened and closed her hands. There was a little bit of coagulated blood underneath the nail of one of her little fingers. She stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked and licked until the blood was gone. Her hands felt bigger, stronger than the previous day. Capable hands. Terrible hands. Her hands.
It was just after eleven, and her train was due to leave at two-thirty. Every normal activity, such as getting on a train and showing her ticket, seemed absurd. She felt so light, as if she would have floated away like a helium balloon if her heavy hands had not been keeping her on the ground.
She looked at herself. Theres’ clothes made her look like a sausage stuffed into a skin that was too small. This was a minor problem under the circumstances, but she couldn’t go home looking like a clown. There would be questions if nothing else.
‘Theres,’ she said. ‘I think we’re going to have to go into town.’
In H&M on Drottninggatan Teresa grabbed the first suitable pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a sweater in her size, then went to the changing room and put them on. When she came out she saw that two girls aged about twelve were edging towards Theres.
‘Excuse me,’ said one of them. ‘You’re Tesla, aren’t you?’
Theres pointed at Teresa, who had come over and was standing next to her. ‘We,’ she said. ‘I sing. Teresa writes the words.’
‘Right,’ said the girl. ‘Well, anyway, I think “Fly” is absolutely brilliant.’ She chewed her lip, trying to think of something else to say, but seemed unable to come up with anything. Instead she offered Theres a notebook and pen. Theres took them. Then nothing happened. The girls looked anxiously at one another.
‘She wants your autograph,’ said Teresa.
‘And yours, I suppose,’ said the girl.
Teresa opened the book at a blank page and wrote her name. Then she gave the pen to Theres, who shook her head. ‘What am I supposed to write?’
‘Just put Tesla.’
Theres did as she was told, then handed the book back to the girl, who pressed it to her chest and turned to her friend, who hadn’t said a word from start to finish; she had just gazed at Theres with big eyes. She had nothing to add. Then the girl who had done the talking did something totally unexpected. She gave a little bow. The other girl did the same. The gesture seemed so out of place that Teresa laughed out loud.
Then Theres laughed too. Her laughter sounded unnatural and barely human, more like something you might hear from a laugh bag in a joke shop. The girls stiffened and scurried off towards the accessories department with their heads close together, whispering.
‘Theres,’ said Teresa. ‘I think you should give up laughing.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it sounds weird.’
‘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. Teres
a 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.
The catalyst, the first shove in the back had happened on Christmas Day.
He had dedicated Christmas Eve to drinking and grinding his teeth at Tora Larsson’s stupidity. The record company lost interest in his master tape once they found out about the video clip on MySpace. His cash cow had escaped from her stall, and was offering her udders to anyone who wanted a drink. Free to everyone, come along and have a taste.
There was absolutely nothing he could do. The fact that there was no contract, the gamble that was going to make his fortune, had instead become his misfortune. It had been a calculated risk, but he couldn’t have imagined that it would go down the pan in this particular way, and that bothered him. In his drunken misery he had taken out Robbie and was on the point of hurling him from the balcony, but managed to stop himself.
Before he passed out on the sofa he spent a long time weeping and patting Robbie’s shiny nose, begging for forgiveness for what he had almost done.
On Christmas Day he rang Clara. She was a Danish woman he thought he had pulled at Café Opera a year or so ago. He had hauled out what Danish he could still remember, talked jokingly about their homeland, then taken her back to his place. It had all been just a bit too easy, and when it was all over, it turned out she expected payment. She got her money and Max got her phone number.
In spite of the fact that Clara, at around thirty, was a bit old for him he had used her services a couple of times. Since he wasn’t particularly attracted to her, it had to be a hand job or a blow job, which was cheaper anyway.
This time she made it clear that she would be charging holiday rates, in other words a supplementary fee of five hundred kronor as it was Christmas Day, but there was nothing Max could do. He needed her.
When she arrived at his apartment he had already sunk a couple of whiskies and was feeling sentimental. He tried speaking Danish to her, the childish expressions he remembered, but Clara made it very clear that she just wanted to get this over with. She wanted to get home to her daughter.
So Max took off his clothes and sat down in the armchair. Clara started working on him with her hand. Her practice was not to work with her mouth unless he was wearing a condom. But of course the first task was to get it up so that she had something to put the condom on. She kneaded and stroked, and whispered encouragement in Danish.
Not a twitch. Not a tingle. Nothing.
He had never had problems with Clara before. On the contrary. The fact that everything was clearly agreed from the start and that there was no uncertainty about it usually relaxed him; usually, he would get a hard-on as soon as she touched him. Not this time. It was just like when he watched his films. He had lost something after the experience with Tora Larsson. At that moment, as he sat staring at his dormant cock, he realised it would never come back. He was impotent.
Clara sighed and scrabbled at his pubic hair with her fingers. ‘Come on, there’s a good boy, up you get for Clara.’ Max pushed her hand away and threw his head back. There was a faint cracking noise and suddenly he knew what he wanted.
‘Bite me,’ he said. When Clara didn’t react, he pointed to his shoulder. ‘Bite me hard. Here.’
Clara, who presumably wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the scenario, shrugged her shoulders, leaned over him and nipped his shoulder. Max whispered, ‘Harder.’ She bit harder, almost drawing blood, and something soft and pleasant flooded through Max’s body. He told her to bite him in a couple of other places. When she didn’t want to do that any more, he told her to slap him across the face. And again, harder.
His ears were ringing and his penis was still lying there like a trampled snake, but he had the same sense of satisfaction, of peacefulness, as after intercourse. When he paid Clara she said she wasn’t all that keen on this kind of thing, but she had a colleague called Disa who was more of a specialist. She gave Max Disa’s number. Merry Christmas.
After she left, he sat in the armchair and examined his feelings. So this was what it had come to. This was the way of things now. Max closed his eyes and let go of what he had been, or what he thought he had been. Began to slide. There was no point in keeping up a respectable facade or chasing after the status that might lead him to his sexual pleasures. Let go.
Let go.
The following day he went to the ad
dress—he had only sent letters there to that point—and had the conversation with Jerry. He was going to salvage what could be salvaged by whatever means were available. As if on cue, Ronny from Zapp Records rang the day before New Year’s Eve; they were still kind of interested, in spite of everything. The huge popularity of the song couldn’t be ignored. A professional recording had its value. Was it Max who owned the rights?
He played the tape. They could draw their own conclusions.
Then things began to happen. The song became a big hit, and the interest in Tesla was huge. Unfortunately Max hadn’t been paid any big advance. The royalties would trickle in, but that was a long way off and Max was in a hurry. He was on thin ice; he had to grab as much as possible before it gave under him.
The record company wanted a whole album, and they were prepared to cough up a decent amount of money in advance. Other companies got in touch, and after several conversations back and forth with Ronny, Zapp were ready to cough up so much they were on the point of haemorrhage. Everything was going Max’s way, and he slithered along on the treacherous ice and threw himself down the ski run and any other metaphor he could think of to describe the basic problem: he didn’t have the songs.
He hadn’t even managed to establish contact with Tora Larsson. He had phoned, he had written, he had emailed both her and the freak without getting any response. He knew they had more songs, but how the hell was he going to get hold of them if they refused even to answer?
It was so frustrating he thought he was going to lose his mind. One day he sat for a long time, staring at Disa’s telephone number. Clara had told him the woman was a dominatrix; she would bring her gear round and hurt him any way he wanted.
Max tried to picture the scenario. Bound, perhaps. A whip flicking across his back. The pain. He saw himself and his own thoughts, and only then did he realise what he was actually looking for. He fumbled with his arm and felt at the scars on his back, the ones he could reach.