Åsa Larsson - Until Thy Wrath Be Past

Tore cheers up when he sees Hjalmar approaching, although he pretends he has not seen him. Hjalmar has the feeling that something stupid is about to happen. Something tells him he ought to go back home right away. But he does not.

Hans Aho shoots at the goal, but Yngve Talo makes a save. Someone tries to intercept the pass out, and there is a scrum inside the penalty area.

Tore takes the opportunity to jump down onto the ice with his stick and bandy ball. He hits the ball into the empty goal at the other end.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” shouts the goalie, who has been upfield in support of his team’s attack.

“Pack it in, Tore,” one of the girls in the crowd of spectators shouts.

But Tore does not pack it in. The goalie skates back and tells him again to clear off.

Tore grins and leaves the pitch, but he soon returns, dribbling the ball.

The game comes to a halt. The lads tell Tore to go home and stop messing about. Tore asks if they own the lake. Nobody has told him that they do.

“Hjalmar,” he shouts. “Does this crowd own the lake? Have you heard anything about it?”

When the big boys are playing, the little lads keep out of the way. That is an unwritten law.

The bandy players look over at Hjalmar. A few are about the same age as him; most are older. They want to see if he is going to join in the sabotage. Everyone knows that the Krekula brothers stick together. Not that Hjalmar would stand a chance against the combined bandy teams, but the fact that he is outnumbered does not usually put him off. Everyone is wondering how serious the fighting is going to be.

Hjalmar is furious. That bloody Tore! Why does he always have to stir up trouble unnecessarily? But this time he can sort things out for himself. Hjalmar turns away and gazes out over the lake.

The bandy players register the signal. Hjalmar is not going to get involved.

One of them, Torgny Ylipää, who has been sick to death of Tore Krekula’s antics for a long time, gives him a dig in the chest.

“Go home to Mummy,” he says.

Tore hits him back. Hard. Ylipää falls over backwards.

“Go home yourself,” Tore says.

Ylipää is soon back on his feet. Tore raises his bandy stick, but one of the other lads grabs hold of it and prevents the blow. Ylipää seizes his chance and punches Tore on the nose.

“Clear off home, I said.”

Tore starts crying. Maybe his nose is bleeding. Nobody is able to see. He runs away, clutching his face. He leaves his stick on the ice. One of the players picks it up and moves it to one side.

“Shall we get going, then?”

They resume playing.

It only takes a quarter of an hour. Isak Krekula appears. He walks straight across the bandy pitch to Hjalmar. White with fury. The game stops again, and now all the players and spectators watch as Isak grabs hold of his eldest son and drags him away without a word. He holds him firmly by the collar.

Isak utters not a word as he drags his son along the road through the village. But his heavy breathing reflects his fury as they reach the house. Hjalmar is scared stiff as his father frogmarches him down to the sauna. What on earth is he going to do?

“Father,” he says. “Wait a minute. Father.”

But Isak tells him to hold his tongue. He is not interested in explanations.

They are down at the jetty now. By the hole in the ice from which Hjalmar extracted a few buckets of water less than an hour ago.

Isak pulls off his son’s woolly hat and throws it onto the shore. Hjalmar struggles, but the grip on his coat collar has grown tighter. His father forces him down onto his knees at the edge of the hole, and the next thing he knows, his head is underwater.

He struggles with his arms. The cold threatens to explode his head. He is strong, and manages to raise himself up and gasp for air, but his father soon subdues him again.

I’m going to die now, he thinks.

And he does. Sunshine flows into his head. It is a warm summer’s day. He is walking barefoot through the forest; cones and needles stick into his feet, but his soles are hardened. His task is to bring home the horses from their summer pasture. There they are, in among the pine trees, rubbing their necks against each other. Flicking away troublesome flies with their tails. There is a smell of wild rosemary and soil warmed by the sun. Bark, moss, resin. Ants are marching across the path in front of him. The horses whinny a greeting when they see him.

When he comes to his senses, he is lying on the floor of the dressing room in the sauna. The fire is burning in the grate. He raises himself on all fours and sicks up the lake water. Then he lies down on his back.

Isak Krekula is standing over him, smoking a cigarette.

“In our family we stick together,” he says. “Remember that next time.”

Rebecka Martinsson opened the heavy doors of the town hall. She enjoyed the feel of the attractive handles, carved in the shape of shamans’ drums.

Once inside she admired the spacious hall with its high ceiling, its beautiful brick walls and the Sun Drum tapestry, resplendent in the colours of summer and autumn.

She reported to the reception desk.

“I need to consult the town archives,” she said to the young duty officer.

She was asked to wait a moment. After a while a man appeared, dressed in black jeans and a black jacket. His shoes were highly polished brown leather. His hair dark and combed back from his face.

“Jan Viinikainen. I’m in charge of the archives,” he said, shaking hands Swedish-style. “What can I do to be of assistance to the police?”

Martinsson raised an eyebrow.

“Oh,” Viinikainen said, “you’re a celebrity here in Kiruna. There was a lot written about you when you killed those pastors. Self-defence, I know.”

Martinsson overcame her instinct to turn on her heel and leave.

He doesn’t understand, she thought. People don’t understand; they think they can say whatever they like without hurting my feelings.

“I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” she said hesitantly. “I want to know everything about an old firm in Piilijärvi, Krekula’s Haulage Contractors.”

Viinikainen shrugged, stretching out his hands in a gesture suggesting helplessness.

“How old?” he said.

“They started in the ’40s or thereabouts. I need everything you’ve got.”

Viinikainen stood there and thought for a while. Then he beckoned to Martinsson to follow him. Descending a spiral staircase to the basement, they passed what must have been Viinikainen’s office just outside the white-painted wrought-iron gate into the archives. Unlocking the entrance to the holy of holies and making a sweeping gesture, he invited Martinsson to precede him through the gate.

They passed by row after row of archive shelves made of grey steel. Wherever Martinsson looked there were files of different shapes and sizes with cloth, plastic or metal binding. Paperback books, hard-bound books, old manuscripts neatly and prettily packaged using string and wax seals which hung down over the edges of the shelves. On top of heavy oak document cupboards were old-fashioned typewriters made by Triumph and Facit. Card-index files were crammed alongside archival boxes made of brown cardboard. Here and there were paper scrolls in every imaginable size. In one of the interior rooms there were sliding archive shelves made of steel. Viinikainen switched on the mechanism that controlled their movements.

“You can slide the shelves apart like this,” he said, pulling at a long black lever with a knob on the end and making the shelf he was standing by slide slowly to one side. “If I were you I’d start with the trade register, or possibly the Swedish Commercial Directory . You’ll find material from the Kiruna Technical Office over there.”