Midwinter Sacrifice

It’s easiest that way.

But sometimes she has to give in.

Just a little one, a little . . .

I want to wring myself out like a rag. And that’s when alcohol is useful.

The Hamlet restaurant is open. How far away is that? God, it’s cold. Three minutes if I jog.

Malin opens the door to the bar. Noise and steam hit her. There is a smell of grilled meat. But most of all it smells of promise, of calm.

The telephone rings.

Or does it?

Is it something else? Is it the television? Is it the church bell? The wind? Help me. My head. There is something in the front of my head and now it’s ringing again, and my mouth, I’m supposed to talk with it, but it’s so dry, where am I?

Then it stops ringing.

Thank God.

But then it starts again.

Sufficiently awake now to recognise the mobile phone. The hall floor. The rag rug. How did I get here? My jacket is lying next to me, unless it’s my scarf? The letterbox from below. Jacket. Pocket. Mobile. Sandpaper mouth. My pulse, a pulsating cyst, an electronic globe spinning in the front of my head. Malin digs in the pocket. There, there it is. She holds her head with the other hand, fumbling blindly, puts the phone to her ear, scarcely audible: ‘Fors, Malin Fors.’

‘This is Sjoman. We know who he is.’

Who he is? Tove, Janne. The man in the tree. Missed by no one.

‘Malin, are you there?’

Yes. Probably. But I don’t know if I want to be.

‘Are you okay?’

No, not okay. I gave in yesterday.

‘I’m here, Sven, I’m here. I’ve only just woken up, that’s all. Hang on a moment.’ She hears some more words as she shifts from lying to sitting: ‘. . . have you got a hangover, ah . . .’ Her head upright, black fog settles in front of her eyes, lifts, reappears as a vibrating pressure against her forehead.

‘A hangover? A small one. The sort people have on Sunday mornings.’

‘Saturday, Malin. And we know who he is.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Half seven.’

‘Shit. Sven. Oh shit. Well?’

‘They got the picture sorted yesterday. That funeral bloke, Skoglund, he did a good job. We sent it to the Correspondent and the news agencies, and the Correspondent put it up on their website at eleven and someone called straight away, and we’ve had more calls this morning. They all say the same name, so it should check out. His name’s Bengt. Surname Andersson. But, and this is the funny thing, they all call him by his nickname; only one person knew his real name.’

Her head. Pulse. Don’t put any lights on, no matter what. Focus on someone else’s pain instead of your own; it’s supposed to help. Group therapy. Or what was it someone said? The pain is always new, always different. Personal?

‘Ball-Bengt. They called him Ball-Bengt. From what people have said so far, his life seems to have been as miserable as his death. Can you be here in half an hour?’

‘Give me forty-five minutes,’ Malin says.

Quarter of an hour later, just out of the shower, in fresh clothes, the rumble of painkillers in her stomach, Malin switches on her computer. She leaves the blinds closed even if it is still dark outside. The computer is on the desk in her bedroom, the keyboard hidden in a tangle of dirty underwear and vests, bills, paid and unpaid, mocking payslips. She waits, types in her password, waits, opens her browser, then the Correspondent’s website.

The light from the screen makes her head throb.

Daniel Hogfeldt has done a good job.

The man in the tree. His face blown up in the most prominent part of the site. He looks like a human being, the swellings and bruises just shades of grey on the black and white photograph, like blemishes covered by make-up rather than traces of a fatal attack. Skoglund, whoever he is, is almost able to bring the dead back to life. The amount of fat makes this man, Bengt ‘Ball-Bengt’ Andersson’s face shapeless. His chin, cheeks and brow hang together in a soft, round lump over his bones, making one big, plump mass. His eyes are closed, the mouth a small line, his upper lip full, but not the lower lip. Only the nose sticks out, hard, straight, noble, Ball-Bengt’s only stroke of luck in the genetic lottery.

Can I manage to read?

Daniel Hogfeldt’s language.

Jaunty. Nothing for someone feeling sick and with a headache.

He probably knows more than we do. People call the papers first. To get the reward for a tip-off. So they can