Autumn Killing

I shall, I shall, but have I got the nerve?

Go away!

I want to do it myself.

Do it, says the voice, don’t, says another, don’t do it, and whose face is that in front of me?

He’s staring into thin air, as if he’s focusing on something just in front of my face, Malin thinks.

I know what you’re looking for, she thinks, says: ‘He’s here. He wants you to stay.’

And Anders Dalstrom stands still, stops shaking, just as if the film of his life had come to an end, then he moves his mouth, but Malin can’t make out his words, the noises coming out of the gap around the barrel are aimed at someone else.

His finger on the trigger.

Darkness like a wall behind him.

What’s that in the darkness?

Andreas? Is that you, are you there?

Is that really your face floating in front of hers? In her face? In place of her face?

What are you saying?

‘Anders, it’s me, but so much more,’ the voice says now.

‘I’m the one you need to listen to. No one else.

‘And I don’t want you here.

‘No.

‘You’re not done yet. The snakes will go. I promise.

‘The life you’ll lead might not be easy or enviable, but it will be your life.

‘You can see my face now. It’s me. Isn’t it? So take the barrel of the rifle out of your mouth. Otherwise I’ll disappear again.’

It’s you, Andreas.

And you’re telling me not to do it.

I’m going to listen to you. How could I do anything else?

Don’t do it.

The blades of the lawnmower are finally silent, nothing chasing me any more, and one day, some day, love will come to me again, the love I sought and fled from.

So don’t do it.

For my sake. For Katarina’s. For everyone’s sake.

Malin sees Dalstrom slowly take the barrel of the rifle out of his mouth, then with a quick jerk he throws the rifle out into the boggy ground of the meadow, then he puts his hands in the air and looks Malin right in the eye.

What can you see? Malin thinks.

Me?

Someone else?

She aims her pistol at the man in front of her.

Feels the rain running under her collar and down her back, hears the sound of steps behind her.

Then she sees two uniformed officers go over to Dalstrom, force his arms behind his back, with gentle smiles.

An arm on her shoulder.

Zeke’s voice in her ear: ‘You’re crazy, Malin. Crazy.’

Epilogue

Linkoping, Savsjo, November

Anyone who looks and listens can hear us.

We’re all here, all us boys who have been captured by time.

We’re drifting around you, together.

We are everywhere and nowhere.

We have the same voice, Jerry, Andreas and Fredrik, we’re a choir beyond your understanding.

The man in the prison cell down there is alone, he’s about to go to court to be sentenced.

At the same time, he can never be alone, because he knows who he is, why he did what he did.

A murderer can be enviable. How odd is that?

But there’s a lot that’s odd.

And there are few people who look and listen.

There are few who have the nerve to believe.

Malin looks around the room. There’s an institutional atmosphere to the study centre that’s been turned into a treatment home for alcoholics who have crossed some sort of boundary for respectable behaviour.

Six weeks here.

Sven Sjoman was immovable.

‘I’m taking you out of active service. You’re on sick leave, and you’re going to go to this treatment centre.’

He put the brochure on his desk, the nasty little pamphlet turned to face her.

Like an advert for an activity holiday.

Yellow-painted residential blocks around a white-plastered turn-of-the-century house. Birch trees in bloom.

Snow outside at the moment, the rain of late autumn transformed into beautiful crystals.

‘I’ll go.’

‘You’ve got no choice if you want to remain a detective.’

She called Janne. Explained the situation, like Sven wanted her to, and he didn’t sound surprised, maybe he and Sven had spoken to each other.

‘You know you’ve got a problem, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘That you’re an alcoholic?’

‘I know I can’t handle drink, yes. And that I’ve got to-’

‘You’ve got to stop drinking, Malin. You can’t have so much as a drop.’

Janne had let her see Tove. They met for coffee out in Tornby, then they went to H amp;M to get new clothes for both of them. In the cafe Malin apologised, said she’s been acting completely crazy recently, told her she was going to get help, as if that was news to Tove.

‘Do you have to be gone so long?’

‘It could have been even worse.’

And Malin had felt like crying, and she could see Tove holding herself together. If that was what she was doing?

It was as if a grown-up were sitting opposite Malin, a familiar stranger, someone who had changed, and they were sitting in the midst of retail mayhem trying not to be sad together. Of all the things a mother and daughter could do together, they were doing this.

Tove had said: ‘It’ll do you good, Mum, you need help.’

Do fifteen-year-olds say things like that?

‘I’ll be OK, you’ve got to try to get better.’

Sick, in Tove’s eyes. But there is something sick about a parent who abandons their child.

‘I’ll be home before Christmas.’

But this place.