Until Thy Wrath Be Past (11 page)

“Don’t be afraid to ring us,” she said. “Rather a call too many than one too few.”

Anna-Maria Mella was sitting on the living-room sofa, watching the late news. Robert was beside her. Each of them had a pizza in a box on their knees. Jenny and Petter had already finished eating. There were empty boxes and drinks cans on the table. Marcus was staying over at his girlfriend’s place. Gustav had been asleep for ages.

All around Mella and Robert, behind them and on the floor in front of the sofa, was clean, crumpled laundry waiting to be sorted and folded. Robert had been out with Gustav all day. They had had lunch at his sister’s.

It would never occur to him to volunteer to fold newly washed laundry, Mella thought disapprovingly. Everything was such a mess. She would need to devote an entire holiday to catching up with the housework. And she would have much preferred a real dinner instead of this nasty, greasy pizza. She made a play of dropping the slice in her hand into the box, and pushing it away.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Robert folding pieces of pizza and stuffing them into his mouth while caressing her back absent-mindedly.

She was irritated by this monotonous, aimless stroking. As if she were a cat. Just now what she needed were some real, sensuous caresses. Fingertips alternating with the whole of his hand. A trace of desire. A kiss on the back of her neck. A consoling hand stroking her hair.

She had told him what had happened, and he had listened without saying much. “Well, everything turned out alright in the end,” he had said at last. She had felt like screaming, “But what if it hadn’t turned out alright? It could have been very nasty indeed!”

Do I always need to cry in order to be consoled? she said to herself. Do I always have to fly into a rage before he does anything to help in the house?

She had the feeling that Robert thought he was being very generous in not complaining. She was the police officer after all. If she had a different job, none of this would have happened. The unspoken accusation made her angry. That he seemed to think he had the right to be furious, but that he was sufficiently kind and generous to forgive her. She did not want to be forgiven.

She wriggled her shoulders, a leave-me-alone gesture.

Robert took his hand away. Washing down the last piece of pizza with the dregs from a Coca-Cola can, he stood up, collected all the boxes and empty cans and went out to the kitchen.

Mella stayed where she was. She felt abandoned and unloved. Part of her wanted to go after Robert and ask him for a hug. But she didn’t. Turned her attention listlessly back to the television, feeling that, deep inside, she had become hardened.

I’m paying a visit to Hjalmar Krekula. His place is a real bachelor pad. His mother Kerttu still changes the curtains for him. Every spring and autumn. He told her to stop a few years ago, so she no longer puts up Christmas curtains. She’s filled the window ledges with plastic geraniums. He hasn’t bought a single item of furniture for his house. He’s got most of his things from Tore. When his younger brother changed his woman, the new woman replaced all the old furniture. Whatever was left from Tore’s previous marriage was either too dark, too light, too worn or just plain wrong. Tore let her do whatever she wanted, as they do in the beginning. All the old furniture ended up in Hjalmar’s house.

But he bought the television himself. A big, expensive one. He’s just switched off the late-night news bulletin from North Swedish Television. They showed pictures of me and Simon. He senses that I’m there when I sit down next to him on the living-room sofa. I notice him glancing quickly to the side. Then he moves away, tries to stop feeling my presence, closes all the doors to the house that is his self.

He hurries to switch on the television again.

He’s surprised by that little policewoman.

He remembers how Tore leaned over, in a way that showed he was used to doing it, and searched her pockets while she was in the toilet.

Kerttu didn’t say a word. Isak was in bed in the little room off the kitchen, gasping for breath.

Tore took out her mobile, put it in his pocket and told Hjalmar to go out and fix her car.

“That’ll stop the bitch rootling around in my business,” Tore said as they drove off to town, passing the policewoman on her way to Anni’s.

Then they sent the text message to the policewoman’s daughter. It was dead easy to figure out the girl’s name and send her a text.

They’ve found my body. Things should start happening now. Tore’s on a high, although he’s trying to disguise it. He wants to convince Hjalmar that all this was just a job that had to be done, merely another aspect of the firm’s business.

I can sense how Hjalmar’s mind is working. Knowing that Tore thrives in such situations. Not so much on the violence itself as on the threat of violence. Tore feeds off other people’s fear and impotence. It fills him with strength and a lust for work. Spurs him on to tidy up the cabs of the lorries, polishing everything with Cockpit-Shine or changing the papers in the tachographs. Hjalmar is pretty much the opposite. Or used to be. He’s never understood the point of making threats; it’s always been Tore who’s looked after that side of things. But Hjalmar knows all about violence. Always assuming his opponent is someone to be reckoned with, preferably superior to himself.

That feeling of getting involved in a fight, perhaps against three opponents. The initial fear. Before the first punch has been delivered. Then the blood-red rag of fury. Unrestrained by thoughts or feelings other than the determination to survive, the desire to win. I was also a fighter until I moved to Piilijärvi and met Simon. I know the pleasure there is to be derived from fighting.

But Hjalmar only fought like that when he was young. It’s been a different matter since he became an adult.

Now he’s sighing deeply, as he only does when he’s alone. He’s standing up.

These days he indulges in violence with a sort of mechanical listnessness. Beating up some poor soul who owes money, or has to be made to close down his business to reduce the competition; or making sure someone grants the necessary permission to set up a greasing pit, that sort of stuff.

Generally speaking, violence isn’t necessary. The brothers are known far and wide. People usually do as they’re told. But Inspector Mella hasn’t allowed herself to be intimidated.

Now Hjalmar goes out onto his porch. It’s a Saturday evening. Still light outside. He checks Tore’s house: Tore and his wife are watching television. Hjalmar wonders if Tore has seen the news bulletin. No doubt Kerttu has helped Isaak to sit up, pulled the tea trolley over and is feeding him spoonfuls of rose-hip soup and rusks that have been dipped into it.

Hjalmar would love to go off into the forest. I can tell by looking at him. He’s gazing at the spruce trees along the edge of their plot like a chained-up dog. He has a little cottage at Saarisuanto on the banks of the River Kalix. I know about it. I bet that’s what he’s thinking about.

He likes the remoteness there. He loves to get away from people. I wonder if he’s always been like that. Or if it began after the incident.

There was “an incident” in the village. A story that’s told behind the brothers’ backs.

It is early in the morning of 17 June, 1956. Hjalmar Krekula is preparing to drive the cows out to their summer pasture. That is one of the tasks he has to perform during the summer holidays. The farms within the village are fenced in, and the cows are sent into the forest during the day to graze. In the evening they nearly always come home of their own accord, udders bulging, to be milked. But sometimes Hjalmar has to go to fetch them. They are especially difficult to bring home towards the end of summer. When they have been eating mushrooms among the trees. It can take hours to find them. Mushrooms tend to make them behave oddly.

The boys’ mother is in the kitchen, making packed lunches to put in their rucksacks.

“Does Tore have to come as well?” Hjalmar says, fastening the only three buttons left on his flannel shirt. “Can’t he stay at home with you?”

Hjalmar Krekula is eight years old, will be nine in July. Tore is six. Hjalmar would prefer to be in the forest on his own. Tore is a nuisance, following him around all the time.

“Don’t argue,” his mother says in a voice that will not tolerate contradiction.

She is spreading butter on bread for her boys. Hjalmar notices that she is spreading the butter more thickly on one of the slices. She wraps the sandwiches in newspaper, and the one with the most butter goes into Tore’s rucksack. Hjalmar makes no comment. Tore is sitting on the kitchen stool, sliding his new knife up and down in its sheath.

“Don’t play with knives,” Hjalmar says, just as he has been told not to do many times.

Tore does not seem to hear him. Their mother says nothing. She pours a little yoghourt into a small wooden flask and puts a piece of salted fish into an old flour bag. These Hjalmar will carry in his rucksack.

The family keeps only three cows, to supply their own needs. Isak Krekula, their father, runs the haulage firm, while Kerttu looks after the house and the cattle.

The boys have their rucksacks. They are wearing caps, and trousers that just cover their knees. Hjalmar’s boots are too big for him and flop around. Tore’s boots are a bit too small.

Before they have even crossed the main road, Tore cuts off a birch switch with which he pokes the cows.

“You don’t need to hit them,” Hjalmar says with annoyance. “Star is bright. She follows you if you lead the way.”

Star, the lead cow, follows Hjalmar. She has a bell attached to a leather strap round her neck. Her ears are black, and she has a black star on her forehead. Rosa and Mustikka traipse along behind. Their tails are twitching, aiming at flies. They occasionally run a few paces in order to get away from Tore and his confounded birch switch.

Hjalmar presses on. He is leading the cows to the edge of a bog a kilometre or so away. It is a good grazing spot. The sun is warm. The forest is fragrant with wild rosemary which has just come into bloom. Star trots happily after Hjalmar. She has learnt that he takes her to good grazing grounds.

Tore keeps on holding them up. He stops to poke a big branch through an anthill, back and forth, back and forth. And he feels the need to cut notches in tree trunks with his new knife. Hjalmar looks the other way. His own knife is nowhere near as sharp. One of his father’s employees has used it to scrape rust off one of the lorries. There is a big hack in the cutting edge, too big to be ground away. Tore’s knife is brand new.

Tore prattles away behind his brother and Star. Hjalmar wishes the younger boy would keep quiet. You have to keep silent in the forest. When they reach the edge of the bog, they unpack their lunches. The cows immediately start grazing. They drift further and further from the boys.

The bog is white with cloudberry flowers.

When the boys have finished eating, it is time to head for home.

They have been walking for ten minutes when they catch sight of a reindeer. It is standing absolutely still, watching them with big black eyes. The Lapps have already taken their herds up into the mountains; this is one they missed.

The boys try to sneak up on it, but it stretches its neck and sets off at a brisk trot. They hear the clippety-clop of its hooves, and then it is gone.

They try to follow it for a while, but give up after ten minutes. The reindeer is no doubt a long way away by now.

They set off for home again, but after a while Hjalmar realizes that he does not know where he is. Even so, he continues in the same direction – no doubt he will soon see the familiar rocks and clearings. But before long they come to a swamp that he has never seen before. Spindly, stunted pine trees are growing in the middle of it. Beard lichen hangs from the branches, looking burnt. Where on earth are they?

“We’re lost,” Hjalmar says to his brother. “We must retrace our steps.”

They retrace their steps. But after an hour or so, they find themselves on the edge of the same swamp.

“Let’s cross over it,” Tore says.

“Don’t be silly,” Hjalmar says.

He is worried now. Which way should they go?

They hear a cow lowing in the distance, very faintly.

“Hush,” he says to Tore, who is prattling on about something or other. “It’s Star. It’s coming from over there.”

If they can find the cows, they will be able to get home. Star will find the way as milking time approaches.

But after only a few steps, they realize that they can no longer hear any lowing. They cannot follow the sound. Neither of them is sure where it came from.

They lie down in a clearing to rest. The moss is dry and the sun is warm. They feel sleepy. Hjalmar is no longer on the verge of tears; he is just tired. He drops off to sleep. Tore’s legs twitch, and he says something in his dream.

Hjalmar is woken up by his brother shaking his arm.

“I want to go home now,” Tore whimpers. “I’m hungry.”

Hjalmar is also hungry. His stomach is rumbling. The sun is low in the sky. The forest is filled with different sounds. The heat drains away from the trees, making them crackle. The noise is almost like footsteps. An eerie sound must be a barking fox. It is chillier now, and the boys are cold.

They set off aimlessly.

After a while they come to a beck. Kneeling down, they fill the mugs they have with them. Drink until they are no longer thirsty.

Hjalmar thinks.

What if this is the same beck that flows past Iso-Junti’s farmhouse on the edge of the village?

Hjalmar had once thrown pieces of wood into the beck. They had floated off in the direction of the Kalix. So, if they follow the beck upstream, they should find themselves in the village.

Always assuming it is the same beck, of course. They could well be following one that goes somewhere else.

“Let’s go this way,” Hjalmar says to his brother.

But Tore doesn’t like being told what to do. Nobody is going to tell him which way to go. Except his father, perhaps.

“No,” he says. “Let’s go that way.”