Never Fuck Up: A Novel (42 page)

They discussed their program, the lecture, the general state of the world. Niklas mostly kept his mouth shut. Drank one, two, three, four, five bottles of beer. The dudes were raw—criticizing the U.S.’s invasion of Iraq. Babbled about abuse, illegal weapons, and freedom-fighting bombers. In a couple of days, they were going to partake in a huge demo against the war. Poor nerds—they didn’t know what they were talking about.

At nine o’clock, they went down to a bigger cottage across from the dining hall. It looked like an old community center. Twenty or so people were sitting on couches and armchairs, a couple of people were trying to dance, lazily. The same crap music. The same ecological vibe. The same geeky discussions.

He was starting to feel the beer. Felicia was in a quasi-deep discussion with one of the guys from the pre-game. Joanna was dancing around. He thought, What was this shit, anyway? He needed to draft Felicia, but she didn’t seem to give a fuck.

Everyone around him was talking. The air was sweet and heavy with marijuana. He chugged more beer. Tried to look relaxed. The dude from the lecture showed up. The earrings in his ears gleamed in the dim light. Niklas approached him. The dude was talking to a girl who actually looked totally normal. He positioned himself beside them. Leaned his head in to listen to their conversation. Something about missions, demonstrations, protest ambitions. The first part sounded okay.

The guy stopped talking. Turned to Niklas. At first: completely indifferent, irritated look. Then he extended his hand. “Hi, my name’s Erik. Are you visiting?”

Niklas shook Erik’s hand. Introduced himself as Johannes. The guy had a firm grip. That was a good sign.

“Yes, I’m visiting Felicia. Do you know who that is?”

The girl Erik was talking to didn’t stop staring at Niklas.

“Sure, we’re in the same program, but she’s a year above me. How do you know each other?”

Niklas didn’t know what to say. The Internet sounded stupid. He mumbled something.

Erik said, “What did you say?”

Niklas spoke louder: “I’m here to discuss women’s struggle, the women’s movement, stuff like that. What do you think about that?”

Erik laughed. “Define ‘the women’s movement.’ ”

The girl was still staring. Just as Niklas was about to respond, she also extended her hand. “Hi, maybe we should be introduced, too. My name is Betty.”

“Like sweet Miss Boop?” Niklas thought about the images painted on some of the helicopters down there. Real pinups weren’t allowed anymore, but Betty B. always worked.

The chick puckered her lips. An obvious diss.

Niklas didn’t get it. Was joking not allowed here, or what? But he didn’t want to mess things up with Erik.

“Is your sense of humor part of your investment in the women’s movement?” Erik asked.

“It was just a bad joke. That’s all. But do you really want me to define the women’s movement? I’m passionate about it.”

“That sounds good. Because I am too.”

Niklas got good vibes. Erik might be the right person.

“I think we men have to help them. Women are vulnerable and defenseless. I’ve started seeing all the shit around us here in Sweden. On the streets, in the houses, in the apartments. People go too far all the time. Lots of humiliation and violence. The women’s movement has to go further.”

“Yes, that’s probably true.”

“We have to fight.”

Erik looked lost in thought. “I agree. But what do you mean exactly?”

“I mean what I said, that we have to attack. In some situations, an offensive strategy is the only possible way to defend yourself. And there will never be a war if we just take a defensive stance. Do you understand? We have to use the enemy’s tactics. Violence is always the best antidote to violence.”

Niklas felt fired up. Finally someone who agreed with him. Someone he could speak openly with. Someone who would understand. After all these evenings and nights. A fellow soldier.

He was spewing military terminology, attack strategies, weapon ideas. He outlined possible missions, targets, torture methods, ways to execute them.

Erik just nodded.

“We have to do this. I’m on my way, actually. I’ve come far in the planning stage and the operative part, too. It’ll go boom in a few weeks. But I need reinforcements. What do you think? Do you want in?”

Silence. That Manu Chao crap in the background.

Niklas repeated his question, “Do you want in?”

“Johannes, that was your name, right? I think Felicia’s given you one too many beers.”

Niklas shook his head. He was drunk, but thinking clearly. That was bullshit.

“Not at all.”

“Maybe not, but your ideas are too aggressive. The stuff you’re talking about wouldn’t work. But it was nice to meet you.” The girl next to Erik smiled a satisfied smile.

Niklas felt cold all over. Shit. The guy was full of shit. The girl could go to hell. Erik could go fuck himself. They had no idea what they were talking about. Knew zilch about the fight. About the Operation. About what had to be done.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Niklas said.

Erik turned to the girl. Shook his head. It was clear what he thought about Niklas.

The girl shook her head, too.

He couldn’t believe it. Even here—among the people who claimed to be on his side—they were working against him. They were assholes.

Niklas raised his voice. “You fucking collaborators. You’re betraying the fight.”

Erik started walking away. Knocked his index finger against his temple. The girl followed him. This was just too much. Now they were mocking him, too.

Niklas threw himself at the girl. Grabbed hold of her cardigan. Threw her down on the floor.

She squirmed. Erik tried to shield her.

Niklas stood over her. Didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. Give them a real once-over or get out of there.

A week as the Yugos’ made man. Not every night—fuck no—but Thursday/Friday/Saturday/Sunday. Åsa didn’t ask questions. She said she was happy he’d gotten a side job. During the days, he dozed at his desk at the traffic unit. Gave the other boring cops the cold shoulder. They thought he was arrogant, but he didn’t give a damn—respectfully.

Same deal every night. Hung out by the cash register with Andrzej and Belinda or the other stripper/cashier named Jasmine. Easy money—Thomas made two thousand kronor a night. No fuss, no muss, just regular old horndogs who wanted some fun.

Today: a day off. First, he was going to Barkaby Outlet with Åsa. She wanted to buy a fall jacket. She wanted something “durable,” as she put it. Thomas knew what she meant. He was the same way. Normally, they didn’t give a damn about stupid labels and faggy designer stuff. They cared more about the inside than the outside. But when it came to certain products, Åsa and Thomas wanted the highest quality, which meant the most expensive brands. The clothes had to be able to withstand rain, cold, and sweat. At the same time, be lightweight and comfortable. That usually meant supple Gore-Tex material that breathed but also didn’t let in damp. That meant a lot of money.

He eyed the people in the outlet. Families with snotty three-year-olds. Younger couples who lived in the inner city but wanted to be well equipped for their trip to the Alps. The ordinary nine-to-five set. Were their lives happier than his? Definitely safer. But he probably made more, he hoped.

He thought about the adoption agency’s home visit the other week. Two middle-aged women who seemed totally normal’d came home to their house. Thomas’d expected something different, more wishy-washy types. They’d sat in their kitchen for an hour and discussed
child-rearing, parental leave, and the difficulties adopted children face when trying to find their identity. Åsa did the talking, but Thomas made sure to nod in the right places. It actually felt good.

Åsa was overjoyed. “Maybe we’ll be parents soon.”

Finally, they each bought a jacket. North Face brand. Cost over four thousand kronor a pop. Thomas could pay easily: his new job raked in cold cash.

In the afternoon, Thomas was supposed to meet Ljunggren at the shooting club. For the first time in several weeks. Thomas didn’t know if he was getting paranoid, but it felt like Ljunggren was keeping his distance. They’d been close. Hadn’t talked much, maybe, but maintained a humorous rapport. Where did it all go? Maybe Ljunggren thought that Thomas’d messed up one too many times. But that wasn’t possible. Colleagues like Jörgen Ljunggren never whined about someone getting a little too rough. Ljunggren himself—rough was his middle name. Still, there was something there. A line’d been drawn. Between them. Thomas could feel it clearly.

In the car, he thought about the Solvalla incident. John Ballénius’d freaked out, disappeared into the crowd. According to the phone lists, the guy was nowhere near Axelsberg the night Rantzell was murdered, but something was obviously shady. The most important thing: now, Thomas was certain that Rantzell was the dead guy. That was a big step in the right direction.

Right away on the Monday after the incident, Thomas’d called the house-mouse detective who’d taken over the investigation after Hägerström. Stig H. Ronander, a senior guy, with a name that would’ve fit right in at Solvalla. For a brief moment, Thomas considered not doing it. But then he changed his mind. After all, this might be his way back. If he solved the mystery of who the dead guy really was, the possibility of solving the larger mystery increased significantly. He was taking a chance; something about this investigation was rotten. But he couldn’t see that anything negative could come of him helping it along a bit.

Ronander received Thomas’s information skeptically. Questioned how come he’d been asking around about John Ballénius, why the guy’d managed to disappear at Solvalla. Thomas fabricated a little—said that Ballénius’d already been mentioned in the investigation when
he’d been helping Hägerström. Tried to refer to the telephone lists without mentioning that he’d ordered them himself. Stig H. Ronander didn’t seem grateful. He could go to hell.

The job, the car, the shooting range. Those used to be the three pillars of Thomas’s life. Now, he didn’t know anymore. The traffic unit was duller than he ever could’ve imagined. The Cadillac didn’t give him any peace. At the same time, he felt right at home at the strip club. Jasmine and Belinda were nice, unaffected.

His transfer and the incident with the man who’d been outside his window that night played tricks on him. Maybe because he lost his ability to defend himself when he rolled into the dark under the car. Maybe it didn’t matter when he was alone. But when Åsa was home—no. Even though their marriage wasn’t exactly stellar: if anyone hurt her he would never forgive himself.

So the shooting range ought to give him peace. But he didn’t like the looks the other guys were giving him after the whole mess at work. He wondered what they thought of him.

The shooting club was located indoors, in a building of its own. Most shooting ranges in Sweden were built inside cabins that’d been opened up along one long end, with shooting booths and targets. You stood and shot, under cover of the roof, but practically outdoors—you froze like a dog. But the Järfälla club was more luxurious: a total of fourteen parallel eighty-foot lanes for precision shooting with the best sound protection Thomas knew of. Everything was located warmly indoors.

Ljunggren was already there. One hand in his jeans pocket, leaning back a little, the other arm extended. A competition gun with an ergonomically correct grip. Baseball cap, protective headgear, broad-legged stance. Ready to shoot. Right before Thomas knocked him on the shoulder, he fired off a shot. A two. Not bad at all.

They shook hands. Ljunggren looked honestly happy to see him. Pounded Thomas on the back. Not like him—usually, the dude avoided physical contact more than he avoided pointless talk. “Didja see the two I just landed?”

Thomas felt happy. “Nice one. You’re not used to scoring that high, huh?” Raw, friendly laughter.

They talked for a while. Everything felt like normal.

Thomas positioned himself in his lane. Put on the headgear. The magazine into the 9-millimeter handgun. Closed his eyes for a few seconds. Breathed in. Come on, focus. Even if his job situation hadn’t gone the way he’d planned, he always needed to be able to focus at the right moment. Fire a shot in the right way when the situation required it. Hit the target in the right body part.

He raised his right arm slowly. Held the gun as steady as possible. His eye sought out the sight marker. Found it. Still, he was trembling. He relaxed. Clear sight. Carefully now. Focus. Increased the pressure on the trigger slowly and evenly. Avoided any flinching in his arm, hand, gun. Almost closed his eyes. His finger moved of its own accord. Had to lose consciousness of the movement that was about to come. Squeeze slowly. One single movement. One with the sight, the bullet’s movement through the air. He felt the recoil, the bullet piercing the target.

The shot came as a shock. The jolt of his hand almost caught him by surprise. Squinted. The hole in the target: a one. Ljunggren said, “It seems like some things don’t change, even if you’re just nailing traffic sinners all day. I’ve missed you, just so you know.”