“What the fuck, the fight, that wasn’t me, that was Jimmy’s cousin, he…”
A new thump in the chest from Torbjorn. Magnus dropped the can of beer. It lay there, the beer trickling out onto the floor.
Lars-Gunnar wiped the sweat from his brow. It was running past his eyebrows and down his cheeks.
“And those bloody kittens…”
“Yes, for fuck’s sake,” Torbjorn chipped in.
Magnus managed a foolish, drunken giggle.
“What the fuck, a few cats…”
Lars-Gunnar punched him in the face. Clenched fist. Right on the nose. It felt as if his face had split open. Warm blood poured down over his mouth.
“Come on then!” roared Lars-Gunnar. “Here, come on, here!”
He pointed at his own chin.
“Come on! Here! Now you’ve got the chance to fight a real man. You cowardly little bastard, tormenting women. You’re a fucking disgrace. Come on!”
He beckoned Magnus toward him with both hands. Stuck his chin out to entice him.
Magnus was holding his right hand under his bleeding nose, the blood was running up his shirtsleeve. He waved Lars-Gunnar away with his left hand.
Suddenly Lars-Gunnar leaned heavily on the kitchen table.
“I’m going outside,” he said to Torbjorn Ylitalo. “Before I do something I might regret.”
Before he went out through the door, he turned around.
“You can report me if you want,” he said. “I don’t care. That’s just what I’d expect from you.”
“But you’re not going to do that,” said Torbjorn Ylitalo when Lars-Gunnar had gone. “And you’re going to keep your mouth shut about anything to do with me and the hunting team. Have you got that?”
Magnus nodded.
“If I hear you’ve been opening your big mouth again, I personally will make sure you regret it. Understand?”
Magnus nodded again. He was tilting his face upward in an effort to stop the blood pouring out of his nose. It ran back into his throat instead, tasted like iron.
“The hunting permit will be renewed at the end of the year,” Torbjorn went on. “If there’s a lot of talk or trouble… well, who knows. Nothing’s certain in this world. You’ve got your place in the team, but only if you behave yourself.”
There was silence for a little while.
“Right then, make sure you put some ice on that,” said Torbjorn eventually.
Then he left as well.
Lars-Gunnar Vinsa was sitting out on the steps, his head in his hands.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Torbjorn.
“Fuck,” said Lars-Gunnar. “But my father used to hit my mother, you know. So it just makes me furious… I should have killed him, my father, I mean. When I’d finished my police training and moved back here, I tried to get her to divorce him. But back then, in the sixties, you had to talk to the priest first. And the bastard persuaded her to stay with the old man.”
Torbjorn Ylitalo gazed out across the overgrown meadow bordering on to Magnus’ property.
“Come on,” he said.
Lars-Gunnar got up with some difficulty.
He was thinking about that priest. His bald, shiny pate. His neck, like a pile of sausages. Fuck. His mother, sitting there with her best coat on. Her bag on her knee. Lars-Gunnar sitting beside her to keep her company. The priest, a little smile on his face. As if it were some bloody joke. “Old lady,” the priest had said to her. His mother had just turned fifty. She would live for more than thirty years. “Will you not be reconciled with your husband instead?” Afterward she’d been very quiet. “That’s it, it’s all sorted,” Lars-Gunnar had said. “You’ve spoken to the priest, now you can get a divorce.” But his mother had shaken her head. “It’s easier now you youngsters have left home,” she’d replied. “How would he manage without me?”
Magnus Lindmark watched the two men disappear down the road. He opened the freezer and rummaged about. Took out a plastic bag of frozen mince, lay down on the living room sofa with a fresh can of beer, placed the frozen mince on his nose and switched on the TV. There was some documentary about dwarves, poor bastards.
Rebecka Martinsson is buying a packed meal from Mimmi. She is on her way down to Kurravaara. She might stay there tonight. When Nalle was there, it felt fine. Now she’s going to try it on her own. She’s going to have a sauna and swim in the river. She knows how it will feel. Cold water, sharp stones beneath her feet. The sharp intake of breath when you jump in, quick strokes as you swim out. And that inexplicable feeling of being at one with yourself at different ages. She’s bathed there, swum there as a six-year-old, a ten-year-old, a teenager, right up until she moved away from the town. The same big stones, the same shoreline. The same chilly autumn evening air, pouring like a river of air over the river of water. It’s like a Russian doll with all the little dolls safely inside, so that you can screw the top part and the bottom part back together, knowing that even the tiniest is safe and sound inside.
Then she’ll eat alone in the kitchen and watch television. She can have the radio on while she washes up. Maybe Sivving will come over when he sees the light.
“So you were off on an adventure with Nalle today?”
It’s Micke who’s asking, the bar owner. He’s got kind eyes. They don’t really go with his muscular, tattooed arms, his beard and his earring.
“Yes,” she replies.
“Cool. He and Mildred were often out and about together.”
“Yes,” she says.
I’ve done something for her, she thinks.
Mimmi has arrived with Rebecka’s food.
“Tomorrow evening,” says Micke, “do you fancy working here for a few hours? It’s Saturday, everybody’s back from their holidays, the schools have gone back, it’ll be packed in here. Fifty kronor an hour, eight till one, plus tips.”
Rebecka looks at him in amazement.
“Sure,” she says, trying not to look too pleased. “Why not?”
She drives away. Feels full of mischief.
YELLOW LEGS
November. The gray light of dawn comes slowly. It has snowed during the night, and feather light flakes are still floating down in the silent forest. From somewhere comes the croaking of a raven.
The wolf pack is sleeping in a little hollow, completely covered in snow. Not even their ears are sticking up. All the cubs but one have survived the summer. There are eleven members of the pack now.
Yellow Legs stands up and shakes off the snow. Sniffs the air. The snow has settled like a blanket over all the old scent trails. Swept the air and the ground clean. She sharpens her senses. The keen eye. The alert ear. And there. She hears the sound of an elk rising from its overnight resting place, shaking off the snow. It’s a kilometer away. Hunger makes its presence known like an aching void in her stomach. She wakes the others and gives the signal. There are many of them now, they can hunt such large prey.
The elk is a dangerous quarry. It has strong hind legs and sharp hooves. It could easily break her jaw with one kick, like a branch. But Yellow Legs is a skillful hunter. And she is daring.
The pack trots calmly in the direction of the elk. Soon they will pick up the scent. The cubs, now seven months old, are told with irritated silent yelps and nudges to stay behind the rest of the pack. They have already begun to
