Red Wolf: A Novel (33 page)

And the whip was raised and hit him in the diaphragm, a violent convulsion that made him throw up the nutritional powder onto his pillow. His father’s voice grew louder, filling the room like a symphony of dissonance.

‘You must start your life again, devilish child. Evil art thou, mean and filled with Satan.’

He tried to protest, to beg for mercy, the same song he had sung throughout his childhood: Father, please Father, have mercy; but the whip fell, striking him on
the mouth. The pain made him stop breathing for a moment.

‘The Devil shall be driven from thy heart and thy eternal soul shall be saved for the Kingdom of Heaven.’

The whip was raised yet again and he looked up at the man who floated beneath the ceiling in his threadbare preacher’s outfit, and he knew that his salvation would soon be over.

‘Father,’ he whispered, feeling the vomit and blood running through his nose. ‘Mother never had any more children. Do you know why?’

The noise in the room died away as his father fell silent, the fevered look in his eyes vanished and the whip stopped.

‘I remained alone,’ he whispered to his father, ‘and you never knew why. God knows that you did your duty to populate the earth, but there were never any more children. And you never realized why?’

His father floated hesitantly under the roof with bloodless lips.

‘She aborted them with the Sami woman in Vittangi,’ he panted, ‘my brothers and sisters. She got the Sami woman to take them out of her belly rather than let you get your hands on them and beat the sin out of them.’

And the whip came to life again and hit him in the head and the world was empty.

Annika threw her outdoor clothes in a heap on the floor in the hall, swept away her uneaten breakfast and put her laptop on the kitchen table. She logged on and looked at the organization of the Federation of County Councils, and on the back of the morning paper she jotted down the departmental titles Democracy & Health Policy, Economics & Devolution, and the Department of International Finance.

She was thinking hard, her hand over her mouth.

That ought to be enough. Three different sections that probably didn’t have the best internal communication. Three stressed middle-managers on the same level.

She took a few deep breaths and called the number of the Federation’s reception. She started by asking for the head of Democracy and Health Policy.

‘Hello,’ Annika said, clearing her throat, ‘my name’s Annika Bengtzon and I’m calling from the
Evening Post
—’

The overworked manager interrupted her abruptly. ‘I’ll have to refer you to our press office, we have public relations people there who can answer any questions you may have.’

She could hear her thudding heartbeat, and hoped it couldn’t be heard at the other end.

‘I know,’ she said, ‘I understand that, but my call isn’t really about the sort of thing I can talk to the press office about. Sorry.’

Stunned silence.

‘What?’ the man said finally. ‘What do you mean?’

Annika closed her eyes and said in a steady voice, ‘I should begin by saying that I’m not going to quote you; I’m not actually writing an article yet. I just want to clarify some details that emerged when we looked into various aspects of your operations.’

Stress had given way to surprise and suspicion when the man responded. ‘What do you mean? What aspects?’

‘It’s about over-charging on one of your projects.’

It sounded like the man was sitting down. ‘Over-charg . . . ? I don’t understand . . .’

Annika stared at the ventilation unit.

‘As I said, I won’t quote you at all at this stage. I just want to check a few things out, and I’d appreciate it if this conversation stayed between us. I shall never mention that I spoke to you, and you don’t have to say that you spoke to me.’

Silence.

‘What’s this about?’

She could physically feel the tug on the line as he took the bait.

‘Over-charging from the account connected to the project looking into threats against politicians,’ Annika said. ‘The one you’re conducting together with the Association of Local Councils and the Department of Justice.’

‘Threats against politicians?’

‘The working group trying to prevent violence and threats against politicians, yes. I have to point out that we think the project is incredibly important, and as far
as we can tell the work has been very productive, but the problem is in your accounts.’

‘I don’t actually know what you’re talking about.’

Annika waited, let the silence do the talking; her surprise carried off down the line, muddying the manager’s senses.

‘I see,’ she said slowly, ‘I was under the impression that you wanted to get to the bottom of this . . .’

Now the man started to get angry. ‘What do you mean? The bottom of what? Who says there’s anything irregular going on here?’

Annika sharpened her voice when she answered. ‘I hope you’re not trying to find out my sources. As I’m sure you’re aware, that’s a criminal offence. I shall ignore that last question.’

Silence fell again, growing, pulsating.

‘What’s all this about?’ the Federation manager eventually said. ‘Can’t you tell me?’

Annika took a deep, audible breath, then spoke with a low, confidential tone of voice. ‘According to my source there has been over-charging from the account containing the funds for the working group investigating threats to democratic representatives. One member of the group is said to have inflated the joint costs in order to conceal private expenditure.’

‘Sophia Grenborg?’ the man said, astonished. ‘Is she supposed to have committed fraud?’

‘I can’t answer that,’ Annika said apologetically. ‘I was just wondering if you could keep me informed of the result of your investigation. Not that you should make public any costs that don’t concern me, but please, just tell me if, or when, you decide to involve the police.’

The manager cleared his throat. ‘Well, anything like that is a long way away at this point,’ he said. ‘Naturally, we shall have to begin by conducting a
thorough internal investigation. We’ll be contacting our auditors at once.’

Annika closed her eyes and swallowed. She wished the manager the best of luck and hung up. Then sat in silence wondering how long she ought to wait before the next call.

Not at all
, she decided.

So she called the head of Economics & Devolution and started with hesitant questions about the Federation’s policy regarding the involvement of employees in non-operating sham companies. When the man got angry and was on the point of hanging up she asked if they had investigated why Sophia Grenborg, one of their employees, had only been assessed for an income of 269,900 kronor for the previous calendar year.

The man was thoroughly taken aback.

She concluded with the question: ‘The Federation of County Councils is funded by the tax-payers. Do you think it’s acceptable for the Federation’s employees to attempt to get out of paying tax?’

Naturally, he could only reply one way: ‘Of course not.’

She promised to get back to him to find out how the internal investigation was progressing.

After that she got up, finding that the muscles in her legs were completely stiff, and she had cramp in the back of her thigh. The lump in her chest twisted and tore at her, its metallic sharpness had spread through her body and was threatening to paralyse her.

She slapped her legs with her fists until they obeyed her again, then heated up a mug of coffee in the microwave and made the third call, to the head of International Finance. She asked what the Federation thought of right-wing extremism among its employees. She had received information that one of their employees had previously
been active in an extremist group, and that the employee’s cousin had been convicted of incitement to racial hatred, and she was wondering how appropriate it was that this person was now involved in the project looking into threats, among them threats from the extreme right, against our political representatives.

The head of International Finance was unfortunately unable to comment on that at the moment, but he promised that the matter would be investigated and if she called him on Monday or Tuesday she could probably get some sort of comment.

Afterwards she slumped on the kitchen chair, feeling the floor sway, her head and limbs numb.

She had jumped.

Now she just had to land on her feet.

Thomas reached for the coffee-pot and found it was empty. He felt himself getting annoyed, his jaw clenching. He sighed quietly and glanced at his wife on the other side of the kitchen table. She was on her fourth mug, had drunk the whole pot, which he had made, before he had managed to get a single cup. She didn’t notice his frustration, was deeply immersed in an essay by a professor of Islamic studies on the question of exactly who could be regarded as an Iraqi. She had pulled her hair into a messy knot on top of her head, idly brushing aside a stray lock that had fallen in front of her eyes. Her dressing gown was loosely tied; he could see her smooth skin beneath the towelling.

He looked away and stood up.

‘Do you want more coffee?’ he said sarcastically.

‘No, not for me, thanks.’

She didn’t look up, paid him no attention.

I may as well be part of the furniture
, he thought.
A means of her living comfortably and writing whatever damn articles she feels like
.

He composed himself and filled the little pan with more water. At home in Vaxholm they had always had an electric kettle, both at his parents’ and during his
marriage to Eleonor, but Annika thought that was unnecessary.

‘Just another machine. We’ve got so little space as it is. Besides, it’s quicker to boil water on the gas stove than in a kettle.’

She was right about that, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that his space was shrinking. She took up so much bloody space. The more she took, the less there was left over for him.

Before the business with the Bomber he hadn’t seen it so clearly. Back then, everything happened slowly, his space was stolen a piece at a time without him noticing. The children arrived and she got the editor’s job and of course he did his bit, but then everything went back to normal while she was at home and could look after the apartment and the kids. And now he was suddenly expected to retreat to his little corner and hand over his life to her.

He looked at his wife as the pan of water began to bubble. Sharp and edgy, slight, with soft breasts. Vulnerable and fragile and hard as nails.

She must have felt him looking at her, because she looked up at him, confused. ‘What?’ she said.

He turned away. ‘Nothing.’

‘Right,’ she said, picking up the paper and leaving the kitchen.

‘Hang on,’ he called after her. ‘Mum rang and asked us to Sunday lunch. I said yes; hope that’s okay?’

Why am I asking
? he thought.
Why am I apologizing for accepting an invitation to visit my own parents?

‘What did you say?’

She walked sternly back into the kitchen, he turned and looked at her, standing there with the newspaper dragging on the floor.

‘Twelve o’clock,’ he said. ‘Lunch in Vaxholm.’

She shook her head, steaming with disbelief. ‘How can you say yes to something like that without even asking me?’

He turned back to the stove, pouring water into the cafetière.

‘You were on your mobile again; I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘This is disturbing me more. I’m not going.’

He was seized by an overwhelming and unreasonable impulse to shake her until the knot of hair on the top of her head came loose and her teeth shook and the dressing gown slid from her shoulders.

Instead he closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, addressing his reply to the ventilation unit. ‘I’m not going to end up with the same crap relationship with my parents that you’ve got with yours.’

He heard from the rustling of the newspaper that she’d left the kitchen.

‘Okay,’ she said expressionlessly from the hall. ‘Take the children, but I’m not going.’

‘Of course you’re coming,’ he said, still to the ventilation unit.

She came back into the kitchen. He looked at her over his shoulder; she was naked apart from her socks.

‘And if I don’t?’ she said. ‘Are you going to hit me over the head and drag me there by my hair?’

‘Sounds good,’ he said.

‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she said.

His eyes were drawn to her buttocks as she walked back down the hall. Sophia was much more curvy, and her skin was pink. Annika’s had a green tint; in the sun she quickly went a deep olive-colour.

She’s an alien
, Thomas thought.
A little green woman from another planet, scratchy and shapeless and unreasonable
. Was it possible to live with an alien? He
shook off the thought with a gulp. Why was he making everything so damned hard for himself? There was a way out. He had a choice. He could get back the life he missed, living with a soft and pink woman with humanity and apple hair who would welcome him into her attic apartment.

Good grief
, he thought,
what am I going to do?

The next second the phone rang.

No
, he thought.
It’s her. What’s she ringing here for? I said she could never call here
.

A second ring.

‘Are you going to get that?’ Annika called from the shower.

A third.

He grabbed the phone with throbbing temples, trying to find some saliva in his mouth.

‘Thomas and Annika,’ he heard himself say with a dry mouth.

‘I have to talk to Annika.’ It was Anne Snapphane. She sounded like she was suffocating, and he felt such a huge sense of relief that he could feel it in his balls.

‘Of course,’ he said, breathing out. ‘I’ll get her.’

Annika climbed out of the bathtub, grabbed a towel and left a trail of wet footprints behind her as she walked to the phone. The sharp stone twisted and turned in her chest, the angels humming anxiously in the background. She avoided looking at Thomas as she passed him and picked up the phone, his coolness made her keep her distance from his back.