Sail of Stone

It took a few seconds for her to understand. No one had touched her. The darkness was part of the room, the hall.

He had shut two doors, a sound she hadn’t heard. The light had suddenly disappeared when the doors closed. She heard him on the other side of the bedroom door. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. She felt the SIG Sauer in her belt, its weight against her hip, security.

He had no business there. That was the law and it was on her side; it stood here next to her in a black robe and white wig, an orb in its hand.

A fat shadow.

She just wanted to turn and leave this house. Leave quickly.

These people’s problems were not hers. And the problem wasn’t there anymore. The two of them had split up and gone their separate ways, or paths, to find happiness. There was happiness somewhere, maybe everywhere, like a promise to everyone: The grass is greener here, the sky is bluer.

Now she could hear a scream from inside. He hit the door, one, two, three. Soon she would be able to see the axe through the chips of plywood. After that, something that might look like Jack Nicholson’s crazy face. But there was no one here who could yell “Cut!”

If someone could, it would be her.

He opened the door, wild eyes, blank, no focus, until now.

“Who are you?”

“Police,” she said, and held her identification so he could see.

“Po… police? What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” she said. “This isn’t your apartment.”

“My apartment? I lived here. I lived here, for fuck’s sake!”

“Not anymore,” said Aneta. “I must ask you to leave.”

Yes, she thought. I’ll do it this way. It could get messy otherwise. Unpleasant.

“I have no intention of going,” said Hans Forsblad.

“Do you want to come with me?” she said. “I could arrest you.”

“You?” He tried to laugh but it was a weak attempt. “How the hell would you manage that?” He took a step forward.

“Stand still!” shouted Aneta. Her weapon was in her hand, her arm straight out in front of her. No. But she was on her way there.

“Are you crazy?” he said.

He was close to her; he towered up over her like a shadow that was bigger than the shadow of the law, which was no longer visible. The only thing that was visible was the damned pistol she had been forced to draw. Or hadn’t been forced. She hoped that he wouldn’t see that it was trembling in her hand.

She waited for his next step. God, make me disappear. I don’t want to shoot this man. I don’t have time for that kind of investigation. He doesn’t have time. The health care system doesn’t have time. Only the funeral industry has time, eternal time.

She had him in her sight.

He sat on the floor, just collapsed.

He cried.

It was a loud noise, the same one she had heard through the door a moment ago. He lifted his head. They were real tears. His face was naked, his hair was like an ill-fitting wig, she could see now that he was wearing a suit that seemed expensive, of a label that managed to look more fashionable when it was wrinkled.

He blew his nose with the handkerchief that had been sticking out of his breast pocket. He’s not even missing that, she thought.

“You don’t know how it feels,” he said. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

Aneta had lowered her SIG Sauer but hadn’t replaced it in her holster.

“What?” she said.

“Being shut out of your own apartment,” he said, sniffling, “from your own home.”

“I heard that you haven’t lived here for a long time,” she said.

“Who said that?”

She didn’t answer.

“It’s them,” he said, focusing his gaze on the door behind her. “They’re the ones that said it. But they don’t know anything.”

“Who is they?” she asked.

“Surely you know,” he said.

She put away her weapon. He followed her movement with his gaze.

“So I’m not under arrest anymore?” he said.

“Get up,” she said.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he repeated.

Now he got up, swaying.

“May I leave?”

“How did you get in?” she asked.

He held up a key.

“The locks have been changed,” she said.

“That’s why I have this,” he said, waving the key in his hand. The tears were gone now.

“How did you get hold of it?” she asked.

“You must be able to figure that out,” he said. He had suddenly grown, straightened out.

He was someone else now.

This is too weird, she thought. I can see him changing before my eyes.

“She lent it to me, of course,” he said. “May I go now?”

He turned around and walked into the room and immediately came back with a briefcase that looked expensive, expensive like the suit he was wearing.

“I needed this,” he said.

“Give me the key,” she said.

“She let me borrow it,” he said, with a childishly defiant voice. He made a disappointed face. This man is a raving lunatic, she thought. Dangerous, he’s very dangerous.

He looked at her furtively. Now he was smiling. He threw the keys across the room at her. She let them land on the floor next to her. She wasn’t totally nuts.

He put the briefcase under his arm.

“May I go now? I have some work to take care of.” He held up the briefcase. “That’s why I came here. I need it to take care of my work.”

Go, just go, she thought. She moved, stood by the wall.

“Nice to run into you,” he said; he bowed and walked out through the door and she stood still and heard him mumble something to himself as the elevator creaked its way up, and then he went in and it clattered away and she could feel the sweat on her back now, and between her breasts, in her groin, her hands. She knew that she had been close to something awful. She knew that she never wanted to be alone in a room again with that man.

Suddenly she understood the woman, Anette Lindsten, at the same time as she understood less than ever. She understood the silence. And the running away. She didn’t understand anything else.

She locked the apartment door after her.

When she came out, the sky had grown lighter and opened up in different shades of brown. The rows of houses looked like they were ready to take off, like spaceships of stone, and sail away through the leathery sky, to a better world.

A routine set in, unrelenting in its indifference to people’s misfortunes. What else could have happened, he thought as he sat at his desk. This desk, worn down by papers and by photographs heavy with blood. Yes. Heavy with blood.

Worn down by elbows, thoughts, murmurs, outbursts, interruptions. Break-ins. Once someone had broken into his office. The thief had lowered himself down from the jail and gotten in through the open window and stolen the