Never Fuck Up: A Novel (26 page)

Niklas didn’t even have the energy to try to listen to what she was saying.

“So, Niklas, why are you here today?”

“I can’t sleep. So I thought maybe you could help me with sleeping pills.”

Helena put her glasses back on. Gave him that searching gaze.

“In what way can’t you sleep?”

“I have a hard time falling asleep and I wake up several times during the night.”

“Okay, and why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know. I just think about a lot of stuff and then I have weird dreams, too.”

“And what is it you think about?”

Niklas hadn’t come here to talk about his thoughts or his nightmares. Maybe he’d been naïve, he realized now. At the same time, he really wanted to get a prescription for those pills.

“I think about all kinds of things.”

“Like what, for example?” Helena smiled. Niklas liked her. She seemed to care. Not a soldier like him, but maybe she was still a person who’d understood society’s mistakes.

“I think a lot about the war. And about the war here at home that no one is doing anything about.”

“I’m not quite following. Could you explain a little more, perhaps?”

“I’ve been in the military for many years. In active combat, so to speak. And I have a lot of memories from that. They bother me sometimes. I know you have to let that shit go and move on, and that’s what I’m doing, so it’s fine. But since I got back home, I’ve come to understand that there’s a war going on in Sweden, too.”

She wrote something down.

“Did you experience violence in the military?”

“You can say that.”

“Maybe those memories are troubling you?”

“Yeah, but the war bothers me more, the war against all of you.”

“Against us? How do you mean?”

“Against you women. You’re attacked on a daily basis. You’re subjected to attacks, offensives. I’ve seen it. It happens all the time, on the streets, in the workplace, at home in the apartments. And you don’t do anything about it. But you’re the weaker party so maybe that’s not so strange. But society doesn’t do shit, either. I often imagine what I could do.”

“And what is it you imagine?”

“I think and dream, both. There are a lot of methods and I used a couple of them the other night. I heard noises from the neighbors. Don’t forget that I’m an expert at this.”

She nodded faintly. “Niklas, there are different terms within psychiatry.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There are different names for different types of thoughts. Sometimes we talk about
delusions
. Delusions can be positive symptoms for, for instance, psychoses. There are different types of thoughts like that, but all are more or less incompatible with your immediate surroundings. Your perception of reality becomes skewed. It can cause sleeplessness, but also feelings of anxiety. Sometimes people who have been subjected to trauma or where there are other underlying reasons may experience these kinds of symptoms.”

“What?”

“I think it may be a good idea for you to come back here at a regular time, not during our drop-in hours. To talk some more about the thoughts you’ve been having.”

This was starting to go too far. He just wanted the pills. Helena could talk about whatever delusions she wanted. Niklas saw the rats. He saw the women. He’d heard what that cop’d said about society not giving a damn. It wasn’t a lie—the police officer’d said so himself. It wasn’t some unrealistic perception of reality, not symptomatic of anything but Sweden’s slow rot.

“Yes, maybe, but do you think you could give me a prescription for sleeping pills?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t do that at this time. But I really recommend that you book a time with us. I’m sure we can help you.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve made myself understood. But that’s okay. I can take care of myself and I think it’s time for me to go. I can work on my sleeping problems on my own.”

He got up. Extended his hand.

Helena got up as well. “I think that sounds like a good idea.”

They shook hands. She said, “But know that we are always here in case you need to discuss your thoughts again. Would you like to book a time for another appointment?”

“No, that’s okay. Thank you for your time.”

He left. Was not planning on going back.

Later, he thought about the guy who’d come by to thank him the day before yesterday: Mahmud. Big dude. Wide as a Hummer. Head that somehow continued into a neck that was just as wide—veins like worms along his neck. His face was square, hair so black it almost looked dark blue. Probably too many Dbols and protein shakes. But the guy was genuinely grateful. Apparently the girl who lived next door to Niklas was his sister. The dude rang his doorbell at eleven-thirty at night. Niklas didn’t mind that it was so late, but it was still suspicious. He peered out through the peephole. Prepared himself for the worst—that the neighbor’s boyfriend’d brought his buddies over for payback. Every muscle tensed as he unlocked the door. The knife in one hand.

But when he opened the door, he was faced with a box of chocolates that was being offered to him. Mahmud’s words in Arabic: “I want to thank you. You’ve given my sister hope back. More people should do as you did.”

Niklas accepted the gift.

“Call me if you ever need anything. My name is Mahmud. My sister has my number. I can take care of most things.”

That was it. Niklas hardly had time to react. Mahmud walked back down the stairs. The front door slammed shut.

Niklas thought about what he was going to do later that day. Visit a women’s shelter—Safe Haven. He’d read an article about it in
Metro
yesterday:

Recently, a Left Party proposal highlighted the great pressure that Stockholm’s women’s shelters are experiencing, reporting that they are forced to transfer women to their counterparts in neighboring counties for help. But the phenomenon is neither new nor unusual. The guarded shelters frequently become so crowded that they have to send women seeking help to other areas.

It was shocking. Everyone failed women. Shuffled them around like cattle. It couldn’t be tolerated.

Maybe this could be his thing: he was planning to get in touch with them to offer his services. Safe Haven ought to be interested, considering the current situation. Protection. Intervention. Security. Just like at the private security company where he’d applied for a job.

On the subway on his way into the city. He was freshly showered. Felt clean.

Mom’d called him earlier today. But it was sick—she was totally crushed because of the Claes thing. Wouldn’t stop talking about telling the police. But Niklas knew better. If they ratted to the police, it could all be game over.

She asked him straight out: “Niklas, why is it so important to you that we not tell anyone?”

He tried to explain. At the same time, he didn’t want to make her upset. Responded in a calm voice, “Mom, you have to understand. I don’t want the police getting suspicious and starting to dig into my past. I’ve got a whole bunch of money from before that I’m sure the tax authorities would be interested in, too. It’s unnecessary. Don’t you think?”

He hoped she would understand.

Niklas closed his eyes. Tried to forget the images from his nightmares. The blood on his hands. The way Claes looked when Niklas was young. The world was sick. There was no point in playing along. Someone had to break the silence. Like the cop he’d met at Friden’d said, “This is society’s demise we’re talking about.” Despite that: the logic was disturbed by the fact that his mom was crushed. It was a beautiful thing that Claes was gone. A heroic deed that ought to be celebrated. But she didn’t understand this. She, the one for whom the deed was done. She, who gained from it more than anyone else. She should say thank you, like that Mahmud guy.

The train was pounding out a sort of beat in his head. He tried to
forget about his mom. Force himself to think about something else. His own problems. The job search that wasn’t leading anywhere. His resources that wouldn’t last forever. Curse the fact that he’d thought he could double his little fortune on the gambling floor—right before he came home to Sweden he’d done a turn in Macao. Naïve, foolish, risky. But maybe it wasn’t so strange, considering all the success stories he’d heard Collin and the others tell. Everyone seemed able to bring it in. Except for Niklas, as it turned out. Half of his assets’d been lost before he could rein himself in.

Niklas opened his eyes. It was almost time to get off. Mariatorget’s subway platform was rolling away outside the window. He eyed the Åhléns CD ads on the train car. Thought, Certain things in life never change. The clarity of the starry night sky in the desert, Americans’ difficulty learning foreign languages, and Åhléns CD ads on the Stockholm subway. He grinned. It was nice when things remained the same. Except for one thing: some men’s attitude toward women. He couldn’t drop that shit. Men like that were rats.

He got off at Slussen. Checked the address one more time on the slip of paper he had in his back pocket—5 Svartensgatan. Walked along Götgatan. It had been remade into a pedestrian street. Population: a mix of scenesters in tight jeans, Converse sneakers, sweatshirts, and Palestinian scarves, and trendy families with kids and three-wheeled strollers—the dads sporting thick-rimmed glasses and carefully cropped stubble. Niklas’d been struck by the phenomenon before: in Sweden, young hipsters wore the keffiyeh as if it were something cool, just another piece of clothing. For Niklas, it was just as bizarre as if people ran around in
jellabiya
and a full beard.

Summer was in high gear. Niklas felt at home. Put his sunglasses on. Thought about all the coma-like hours he’d spent on guard duty. In the heat. Always a light sand wind that hit like a gust against your cheeks and forehead.

He took a left. Up a hill. Svartensgatan. Cobblestones. Old-fashioned. Number five: from the outside, it looked like an old church. No windows above the entrance, but higher up—large clerestory windows that must illuminate a huge room inside. A small plaque next to the door: Safe Haven. A heart, the female symbol, a house. Nice. A small camera lens behind a Plexiglas bubble above the buzzer.

He buzzed.

A woman’s voice: “Hi, may I help you?”

Niklas cleared his throat.

“Yes, my name is Niklas Brogren and I would like to discuss how I may be of help to Safe Haven.”

The woman’s voice was quiet for a brief second. Niklas expected to hear a click from the door’s lock.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t allow any men in here. But we are grateful for all the help we can get in other ways. You can donate money to us. Or call us at zero six forty-four zero nine twenty-five. We’re open weekdays from nine to five.”

Silence. Had she hung up on him? He gave it a try anyway. As humbly as he could.

“I understand. But I think you need to meet with me in order to understand. I have quite a lot to contribute.” Niklas took a deep breath. Could he open up? Yes, he wanted to. “I grew up with a mother who was a victim of domestic abuse.”

The woman on the other side of the camera was still there. He could hear her breathing. Finally, she said, “Oh, I understand. Your mother can call us too. At the same number. We have a website, too. But unfortunately I can’t let you in. Our rules are pretty strict out of courtesy for the women we help here.”

Niklas looked into the camera. This was not what he had expected. All those nights he’d fallen asleep to Mom’s whimpers. All he’d been doing lately on behalf of abused women. And now—they refused to let him in. What the fuck was this?

“Wait, come on. Let me in. Please.” He grabbed hold of the door handle. Pulled. It was a big door.

“I’m sorry. I’m going to turn the speaker system off soon. The women that we help have often been subjected to such traumatic experiences that they don’t even want men in their surroundings. We have to respect that, and that goes for you too. I’m turning this off. Bye-bye.”

There was a crackle from the speaker. Niklas pressed the buzzer down again even though he knew it was pointless. Goddammit.

What was he supposed to do now?

He took a few steps out onto Svartensgatan. Looked up at the big windows. Maybe the buzzer woman could see him. Understand that he just meant well. He thought about his conversation with the cop the other night. The cops didn’t do jack shit. Safe Haven apparently didn’t do jack shit either. No one gave a damn. No one did jack shit. Everyone just capitulated to the power of violence.

Thomas was at home all afternoon, doing nothing. Then he tried to work out a little. Boring. Gray feel to the house. Took a cold shower. Not even that gave him a kick, which it usually did. He ran his fingers over his nose. It’d healed okay.

He went down to the grocery store. Bought two car magazines. Boring, too. Gathered his courage. Called Åsa. Told her about the preliminary investigation that’d been initiated against him and the consequences it could have on his job.

She was worried. Very, very worried.

“But Thomas, nothing can happen if you get cleared, right?”

“Unfortunately things can happen anyway; they might decide to transfer me.”