the electrical equipment, although it was switched off. Nowadays nothing like that can harm him, and he has plugged in the refrigerator and the freezer again. But he has no need of television or radio. They only broadcast godless rubbish, in any case. Messages from Satan, day in and day out.
He can see that he has changed. In the last few days he has become a decimeter taller. And his hair has grown very quickly; soon he’ll be able to tie it back. He has parted it in the center, and leans toward the mirror. He looks frighteningly like Viktor Strandgard.
For a moment he tries to see if he can find himself in the mirror. His old self. Perhaps there is a glimpse of something in the eyes, but then it’s gone. The image in the mirror disperses and grows blurred. He is completely transformed.
He turns his hands and holds them up to the mirror. In the red glow he can see blood and oil seeping from the wounds on his palms.
Sanna Strandgard should be here. She should be kneeling naked before him, gathering the oil that runs from his palms in a small glass bottle.
He can see her in front of him. How she slowly screws the cork into the shimmering green bottle. Her eyes are fixed on his the whole time, and her lips form the word “
True, he has sometimes doubted. Doubted that he is really chosen. Or his ability to contain all of God’s might. The last communion service was almost impossible to endure. People all around him, cackling and dancing like chickens. While he was becoming more and more a part of God. The words came thundering toward him: “This is my BODY; this is my BLOOD.” He had staggered back to his seat, hearing nothing. Didn’t hear the choir. His hands were filled with such strength that they grew thicker. The skin covering his fingers stretched like a balloon, became completely smooth and shiny. He was afraid his fingers would split, like sausages in a frying pan.
The next day he bought some gloves in the biggest size available. He will have to wear them indoors now and again. Until the time comes for people to see.
When he paid for the gloves he suddenly had a feeling of intense distaste. The woman behind the counter smiled at him. For a long time he had had the ability to distinguish between souls, and as he took his change she was transformed before his eyes. Her teeth went yellow, her eyes were turned inside out and became opaque, like frosted glass. The red nails on the fingers handing over the coins grew into long claws.
He waited behind the shop for several hours. But then he received a message telling him that he need not kill her, but must save his strength for something more important.
Curt goes into the bathroom. In the glow of the candles the steam rising from the bath curls upward and forms a dripping layer of moisture on the white tiles. The air is thick with the coppery stench of blood and the harsh smell of damp wool.
On a white plastic clothes drier above him hangs Virku’s lifeless body. Her back paws are tied to the clothesline. Blood is dripping slowly into the water. Her head lies on the floor beside the bath. Her muzzle is still bound with silver tape.
As he sinks down into the crimson water, he can immediately feel how his body is suffused with the qualities of the dog. His legs become agile and quick. They twitch restlessly as he lies there. He could jump out and set a world record in the hundred meters.
And he can feel Sanna. Can feel her lips against the dog’s ear. Now it is his ear they are touching. She whispers, “
He has already taken her rabbit, her cat and even two gerbils. And all the time her love for him has grown.
He drinks the crimson bathwater in great gulps. His hands begin to shake. He loses all control over them when God takes over.
Then God takes his hand and lifts it. Dips the fingers in blood as if it were ink, and writes on the tiles in sprawling letters. The letters spell out a name. And then:
THE WHORE SHALL DIE.
And evening came and morning came, the fifth day
Maja Soderberg is sitting at the kitchen table in the middle of the night. Well, maybe “sitting” is not the right word. Her bottom is certainly on the chair, but her upper body is sprawled across the table and her legs are dangling beneath the chair. Her cheek is resting on one hand, and she is staring at the pattern on the wallpaper as it grows and shrinks, fades and returns. In front of her is a bottle of vodka. It hasn’t been easy for an unpracticed drinker like her to get so much down. But she did it. First of all she cried and sniveled. But now it’s better. Some kind soul has injected the stuff the dentist uses straight into her brain.
Then she hears Thomas coming up the stairs. The evening services during the Miracle Conference are long, drawn-out affairs. The services go on until late. Then people sit in the cafe and chat. And then there are always a few ardent souls who stay on and pray until the small hours. It’s important for Thomas to be there then. She understands that. She understands everything.
She can hear him treading carefully on the stairs so as not to disturb the neighbors in the middle of the night. He’s so damned considerate. Of the neighbors.
His footsteps rouse her fury.
Hush, she says. But the fury won’t go back to sleep. It has woken up and is pulling at its chain. Let me loose, it gurgles in a muffled voice. Let me loose and I’ll finish him off.
And then he is standing there beside the kitchen table. His eyes and his mouth are open wide with horror. He looks totally ridiculous. Three gaping holes below his fur hat. She smiles a crooked smile. Has to feel for her mouth with her hand. Yes, her mouth is crooked. How did it end up like that?
“What are you doing?” he asks.
What is she doing? Can’t he see? Drinking, of course. She marched down to the liquor store and spent the whole week’s housekeeping on booze.
He is full of accusations and questions. Where are the children? Does she realize how small this town is? How is he going to explain away his wife buying spirits at the liquor store?
Then her mouth opens and she begins to howl. The numbness in her mouth and her head wears off immediately.
“Shut your fucking mouth!” she screams. “Rebecka’s been here. Do you get it? I’m going to end up in jail.”
He tells her to calm down. To think of the neighbors. That they’re a team, a family. That they’ll get through this together. But she can’t stop screaming now. Curses and swear words that she’s never uttered before come pouring out of her mouth. You bastard. You hypocritical fucking bastard.
Much later, when he is certain that Maja is sleeping like the dead, Thomas picks up the telephone and makes a call.
“It’s Rebecka,” he says. “I can’t allow her to carry on like this.”
Friday, February 21
It had stopped snowing and begun to blow. A piercing, ice-cold wind raced across the forests and the roads. It swept the snow along with it, smoothing out the whole landscape with a white, even cover. The morning train to Lulea was delayed by several hours, and the neat piles of snow shoveled to one side by the owners of the villas were pushed back onto their driveways, blocking their garage doors. It whistled round the corners of the house in its quest for more snow, and found its way inside the collars of cursing paperboys.
Rebecka Martinsson was plodding over to Sivving’s house. Her shoulders were hunched against the wind, and she kept her head down like a charging animal. Snow was blowing up into her face so that she could hardly see.
