Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

JW’d ridden straight out to Kista. He knew Abdulkarim would be angry. They’d agreed to meet up and exchange cash for coke, but it’d have to wait.

The Kista Mall’d been newly renovated since the last time he was there: the movie theaters, the restaurants, the clothing stores, you name it. He went straight to H &M. Hoped Susanne Pettersson was working that day. It’d been several months since he’d been there the first time and she’d hinted that he should look up Jan Brunéus.

It was like he was paralyzed for long stretches at a time. Couldn’t bear to do anything about the Camilla thing. He blamed the C biz, school, Sophie. When he finally did look into what’d happened, it was always in spurts, with sudden stops and starts.

Susanne was manning the register. There were people in the store. JW asked to speak with her. No problem. Another girl took over. Susanne and JW positioned themselves by the denim section.

She was visibly stressed-out by the situation. Was glancing around, eyeing the customers, her colleagues, anyone who might be listening.

“Pardon me for busting in like this. And I’m sorry for bothering you. How’re you doing?”

“You know, fine.”

“How’re the kids?”

“They’re good, too.”

“I wanted to tell you that I met Jan Brunéus, your old teacher.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll make it brief. He says Camilla was feeling like shit. That she must’ve killed herself. That he tried to encourage her, help her. He blames himself for the way things turned out.”

“He does?”

JW waited. Susanne had to say something more.

Nothing.

“What do you have to say about that?”

“I don’t know anything more than that. I guess it’s the way Jan said.”

JW followed her with his gaze.

“Susanne, you know something. Why did Jan give Camilla all A’s even though you guys never went to class?”

Susanne folded a pair of jeans. Refused to answer. JW could see plainly: She was blushing.

“What the fuck, Susanne, answer me.”

She held up another pair of jeans, tenderly. Fake wear on the knees and thighs. She put one leg on top of the other. Folded the pants in three steps. The back pocket and the label symmetrically aligned. The Divided logo in the customer’s eye.

Loud background music playing in the store: Robbie Williams.

“You haven’t figured it out by now? Didn’t you know your sister, or what? Don’t you know in what way she was talented? Ask Jan ‘Horndog’ Brunéus the next time you see him. You think Camilla got top grades in other subjects, or what? No. Just from him. Do you know how she used to come dressed for his classes?”

JW didn’t get it. What was she talking about?

“Don’t you get it? For an entire semester, Camilla was Jan’s plaything. Good grades for sex. That pig fucked her.”

The train passed Sundsvall. The conductor called out, “Tickets, please.” JW opened his eyes. Conscious again. It had been two months since Susanne Petterson’d almost shrieked out her explanation for Camilla’s good grades.

Who was his sister, really? Or, who’d she been? Was she, like he was, a treasure hunter, but one who’d ended up with the wrong crowd? Who hadn’t been able to take the pressure and skipped town. Or had someone else made sure she was erased from the picture? And if so, why?

JW was hungry but didn’t want to eat. In an hour and a half, he would be sitting at his parents’ dinner table, and it was important that he not lose his appetite by then. That he not be too full.

He got up. Walked toward the dining car. Not because he planned on buying anything, but because he was so antsy. The restlessness’d been creeping up on him more and more over the past few months. When he’d sit down to study, during lectures, while waiting for Fahdi or someone else to meet him and load him up with coke. He’d had to move. Direct his concentration on something. He’d learned to deal. Be prepared. Always kept his Sony player in his breast pocket, often took a paperback with him, downloaded sweet games on his phone. The margins of his college notebooks were filled with doodles.

Now he felt he had to move. Cell phone games wouldn’t help. Had to do a few laps. The question that worried him: Was it his new snort habits or the Camilla thing that was making him jittery?

He eyed the people in the train car. Tedious, tired people. Sven squared. JW wore common camouflage: Acne jeans, Superlative Conspiracy sweatshirt, and semi-ratty Adidas running shoes. He blended in. Suitable for his parental reunion.

He’d made up his mind after the conversation with Susanne. Playing private eye wasn’t his thing anymore. Even so, it’d felt strange to call the police, to talk to the investigator who’d been in charge of the case. He’d explained what he’d found out: that Jan Brunéus’d had some kind of relationship with Camilla Westlund in the time before her disappearance. That Susanne Petterson was aware of this and had told JW. That Jan’d given Camilla top grades despite her lack of attendance.

The investigator’d promised to look into the info more closely. JW assumed that he meant that Jan Brunéus would be called in for questioning.

That JW’d been in touch with the police was a contradiction. Abdulkarim couldn’t know.

But it’d felt like a relief-he’d let go of the burden. Was letting the police do their job.

He’d drifted back into denial. Focused on C, school, and Sophie. Prepared the London trip. Discussed strategies with Jorge. Sold. Dealt. Counted cash.

He’d made up his mind: He wouldn’t tell his parents what he’d told the police.

He was arriving in Robertfors within five minutes. His stomach was growling violently. Was it worry or hunger?

In truth, he knew he was worried about seeing Mom and Dad.

It was almost six months since he’d last bid them good-bye and studied his mother’s worn face and his father’s tight jawline. Would they be feeling better now? JW couldn’t stand being reminded of the tragic plodding of their lives. His goal had been to get away, start over. Be accepted as something different. Something better. Bigger than his parents’ whole-milk lifestyle with its accompanying angst over a lost child. He’d wanted to forget.

The train pulled into the station. People were waiting for arrivals and to depart themselves. The brakes screeched loudly. His car stopped right in front of his waiting parents. JW saw that they weren’t talking to each other. As usual.

Tried to calm down. Look happy and relaxed. As he ought.

He stepped down onto the platform. They didn’t see him at first. He walked toward them.

JW knew that Margareta was trying to call out. But for some reason, she’d been unable to raise her voice ever since the Camilla thing. Instead, she greeted him with a tense smile.

Hugs.

“Hi, Johan, let us take your bags.”

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” JW handed one of his bags to Bengt.

They walked toward the parking lot together in silence. Bengt still hadn’t said a word to his son.

They were sitting at home, in the kitchen. Wood paneling along the walls and stainless-steel counters. A white Electrolux stove, linoleum on the floor, and a shiny wooden table from IKEA. The chairs were Carl Malmsten copies. There was a copy of a PH-lamp in the ceiling that cast a warm purplish glow. Above the sink hung green pots with words painted on them: Sugar, Salt, Pepper, Garlic, Basil.

The food was on the table. Thin strips of beef with a blue-cheese sauce. A bottle of red wine, Rioja. A carafe with water. A glass bowl with salad.

JW didn’t have much of an appetite. The food was good; that wasn’t the problem. It was really good. Mom’d always been a good cook. It was something else-the look of the place, the topics of conversation, and that Bengt talked with his mouth full. Margareta’s clothes were all wrong. JW felt like a stranger. The combination bothered him-contempt mingled with a sense of security.