Åsa Larsson - Until Thy Wrath Be Past

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.