Little Star

Johannes got up and walked around the room, rubbing his scalp. Then he came and stood next to Teresa. He looked at the tools, then at her. ‘What are you talking about? Stop it, Teresa. What’s the matter with you?’

‘I can’t stop it. But I’m scared.’

‘I’m not fucking surprised. What are you scared of?’

‘That I won’t be able to do it. I’m the one that has to go first.’

Johannes stroked her hair, shaking his head at the same time. Then he knelt down in front of her and said, ‘Come on. Come on,’ and put his arms around her again, holding her tight as he whispered, ‘Listen, Teresa. You haven’t killed anyone and you’re not going to kill anyone and you have to stop talking like this. Why would you kill anyone?’

Teresa pushed him away and said, ‘Because I can. Because I want to. Because it makes me alive.’

‘You want to kill people?’

‘Yes. I really, really want to. I long to do it. But I don’t know if I dare. I don’t know if I’m…ready.’

Johannes sighed and raised his eyebrows, then said in a tone which suggested he was prepared to play along a little bit, ‘So how will you know if you’re ready, then?’

‘By killing you.’

‘You’re going to kill me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Er…when?’

‘Now.’

A shadow passed over Johannes’ face as he tired of the game. With a swift movement he picked up the hammer and held it out to Teresa, still kneeling in front of her. ‘Go on then, kill me. Do it.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘No.’

Teresa raised the hammer and said, ‘Are you brave enough to close your eyes?’

He looked her in the eyes. For a long time. Then he closed his eyes. His eyelids were thin, delicate and completely relaxed. He wasn’t screwing his eyes up at all, his breathing was calm and even, and there was the hint of a smile on his lips. His cheeks were covered in fine, downy hairs and he was her best friend and the only boy she had perhaps actually loved. She said, ‘Bye then,’ and slammed the hammer into his temple.

She kept on hitting him until only a tiny bit of life remained. Then she picked up the drill and opened him up. The battery was fully charged, and it took her only a couple of seconds to drill through the skull. Johannes’ legs jerked in a series of final cramps, kicking over the plastic flower. Then she bent over him and took what had been the essence of him.

When she got up her path was clearly marked, and she knew she had the strength to follow it. There was nothing left. No further considerations, nothing to return to. She was entirely happy as she closed the door behind her and walked down the stairs, through the odours of frying food, cleaning products and dust warmed by the sun, tickling her nostrils.

In the box outside the railway station she posted the letters addressed to the four main national newspapers: Dagens Nyheter, Svenska Dagbladet, Expressen and Aftonbladet. The letters were all exactly the same, and she had written them because she could.

Hi,

Today at Sing Along at Skansen we are going to kill a lot of people. We might die too. You never know.

You will ask why. Why, why, why. On the news placards. In the papers. Big thick letters. WHY? A sea of lighted candles. Pieces of paper with messages. People weeping. And over and above everything: WHY?

And this is our answer (wait for it now): BECAUSE!!!!

Because the tide of death is rising. Do you realise the tide of death is rising? In our schools. On Idol. In H & M. It is rising. Everyone knows. Everyone feels. No one realises.

Today it will overflow.

We were the nice little girls down at the front. We screamed and wept on cue. We worshipped ourselves when you made us into stars. We bought ourselves from you. ‘High five,’ you said. ‘Congratulations!’

The tide of death is rising. Thanks to you. It’s all thanks to you. You have deserved it all.

Goodbye

The wolves of Skansen

There wasn’t really anything she wanted to say. She had made up a reason because it felt appropriate. If you’re going to do something magnificent then you might as well come up with a magnificent reason, it makes things tidier. She had sat at the computer and put herself in her own position. If a group of girls were about to do what they were about to do, what might a nice farewell letter look like?

Then she had written it. If everything went the way she had planned it, the letter would be examined to the point of exhaustion, and every single word would be analysed. But she didn’t mean anything. She imagined herself and made things up. When she read through what she had written, she found it was all true. But it wasn’t about her. Nothing had ever been about her. Perhaps that was the reason.

EPILOGUE

‘We wait until the first chorus. Then we begin. Spread out.’

TERESA 19.47, 26/6/2007

Mother says I was a dancer before I could walk

Robert Segerwall has earned his place in the VIP seats after thirty years’ hard labour in the service of entertainment at Swedish Television. He is one of the people the camera lingers on when the singing starts. He is wearing a loose beige linen jacket, and gives the impression of both relaxation and upright character. He was actually in the running to take over when Lasse gave up. He is not bitter, he loves his free summers.

When the first blow strikes his arm, for a moment he is angry that someone has ruined his jacket. Then comes the pain, and the blood. When his wife of twenty-five years starts screaming at his side, he realises that the danger is real.

He turns to his attacker, but has no time to do anything before a slash across his throat monopolises his attention. The blows that come after this are irrelevant.

She says I began to sing long before I could talk

Everyone knows that when Linda Larsson does something, she does it properly. That’s why she claimed her spot at the Solliden stage at ten o’clock this morning. If she’s going to Sing Along at Skansen, then she’s going for the full experience. She has eaten the picnic she brought with her, she has watched the rehearsals. She is planning to write about it all in her blog, and has been making a few notes.

When she hears the angry buzzing behind her, she thinks it is an unusually large wasp. She also knows that the best thing to do in that case is to sit perfectly still. Not to start waving her arms about. She looks down at her notepad and wonders whether to write something about the wasp.

Then comes the sting in the back of her neck. The pain is indescribable. Her fingers spread and are suddenly ice cold. She opens her mouth to scream, but something is blocking her windpipe. Blood spurts over her notepad and her hand flies up to her throat where it is penetrated halfway by a rapidly rotating drill bit. Then the drill is torn out and she just has time to grasp what has happened before she loses consciousness.

And I’ve often wondered, how did it all start?

Despite the fact that they haven’t got to the bit where the audience joins in, Isailo Jovanovic can’t help singing along. This is the third time he has been to Sing Along at Skansen and, however integrated he might feel after seventeen years in Sweden, he just doesn’t know the songs. Every year it’s Evert Taube-and you don’t hear those songs much in Belgrade. But Abba, that’s different. When he was a teenager Isailo and his friends used to swap tapes; Isailo had his first kiss to the sound of ‘Fernando’.