Caroline Åberg - Stockholm Noir

A reflex went through me, quick as lightning, when a window across the square was shut with a bang. Quickly I looked up and tried to get a glimpse of where it came from. Which window had been closed.

— Hello? Hello? I shouted into phone while simultaneously scouting around the façades of the buildings, unable to determine where the window had been slammed shut.

— If you want to free it, you have to own it. To own it you have to deserve it.

— What kind of filthy swine are you? What kind of fucking game is this?

I was stupid enough to be shouting. A young Asian couple with backpacks and an open map looked at me in terror and speed-walked away from Tyska Brunnsplan, down into the alleys.

— Don’t play dumb. I know you like it.

— Do I know you?

— I know you, that’s sufficient.

— How do you know me?

— Through Kim.

— Do I know Kim?

— You know who Kim is.

— Have I met Kim?

During the whole conversation I continued to scan the façades around the square, trying to catch a glimpse of someone in a window, or some sign of activity that could lead me in the right direction. I understood that they could see me, but I still didn’t know who Kim was, had no clue.

— What are you prepared to do?

— What must I do?

— Care enough to want to inflict harm.

— I don’t want to hurt anyone!

— Talk with Kim yourself.

For a while there was no sound on the other end of the phone. Then Kim’s voice was audible once again.

— Are you there?

— Yes.

— Will you be able to handle it?

— What do you mean? I’ll help you. You’ll be free, I promise.

— Then come!

This was the most frustrating thing I’d ever experienced. The call was terminated, and I couldn’t decide if this was the result of poor reception or if Kim or her tormentor had broken off the conversation. I sat down on the bench, heavily. Not despairing, only resigned, sensing that, yes, the whole thing was merely a game, that they were toying with me. Maybe they were filming me from one of the windows, maybe there was a hidden camera, or maybe this was a trap, an attempt to snare me and then blackmail me by putting me in a liaison with this Kim, or whatever it was they were doing now.

It rang again.

— Why did you hang up?

— We were cut off.

— Okay.

It was quiet for a long time again, and I caught sight of a row of windows in one of the most attractive houses on the square. They were covered with black draperies. As if the apartment inside them was darkened. My stomach was in a knot.

— Are you there? I think I know where you are.

— Then come. Though I don’t think you can manage it.

— Manage what?

— You won’t manage me. You’re too timid.

— Don’t be afraid. I’ll free you.

There was a new element to Kim’s whisper... something scornful, challenging... which I didn’t exactly understand, and since I didn’t understand I didn’t readily perceive it. Until afterward.

I made my way swiftly, purposefully, to the gate of the house with the covered windows, and tried to open the gate. Simultaneously there was a long, protracted, painful moan over the phone, then we were cut off again. I rang doorbells at random, hoping that someone would buzz me in. But no one answered. In vain I pulled the handle a bit harder, as if I hoped I could force the locked gate open. How would I get in? The veiled windows were on the third floor.

There was a buzzing in one of the speakers, but no one said anything. Neither did I. Then the lock on the gate clicked. I pushed it open and walked in, my whole body cold and concentrated — driven by a determination beyond my experience. Taking two steps at a time, I climbed the old uneven stone stairs until I stood in front of the door to the apartment with the veiled windows. It was unlocked. I held my breath as I slowly entered the apartment. It was empty. Newly renovated, it smelled preposterously fresh in relation to the old building. In two adjacent rooms facing the square, the windows were covered with black cloth. In the middle of one was a massage table covered with a bloody sheet. There were plastic straps fastened to metal rods, which had presumably been used to hold something or someone in place. But the apartment was lifeless.

Blood rushed to my gut. For the hundredth time I cursed myself: certainly I should have called the police at the beginning instead of play-acting detective myself. What was it that had tempted me to try and solve this riddle, decode this nightmare, whatever it should be called? I gingerly touched the table with my hand. It was still damp with sweat, blood, saliva, and several substances I didn’t want to think about. My heart raced. They must be somewhere nearby. I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay, I wanted to search for tracks but didn’t know where to begin. I wished the phone would ring.

And it did.

— Well done. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

He was mocking me.

— Where’s Kim? What have you done with...

— It?

— Him.

— The slave is waiting. In the cellar. Can you find your way down?

I ran out of the apartment, stumbled down the stairs, down, down, with every step I took there only seemed to be more flights, and I was overcome with a nauseating impression that the stairwell was growing impossibly long, down, down, and very suddenly I came to a heavy iron door, which with great difficulty I managed to push slightly open, so that I was able to squeeze through, coming upon a new landing, which led to additional uneven stairs, and in turn more stairs, down another flight, down, down, farther down in the building, several floors beneath the building itself, all the way down into the cold underworld. Every blind footfall felt like a headlong dive over a precipice. In the end I knew in my soul I was down as deep as it was possible to go.

The ceiling was low. I sucked at the thin musty air, damp from being closed in, with a tinge of mold and an extra tang, likely an ancient sewer pipe leaking inside the walls. I pushed farther into darkness. It enveloped me completely. I was forced to squat so as not to bang my head, the medieval brick vault was so low. I attempted to light my way with my phone, but still scarcely saw anything, nothing more than rusty brown and my own fingers that held the phone before me, as if it were a weapon.

With aching slowness I groped forward, running a hand along the rough walls, until suddenly I detected breathing that was not my own, weak, panting, flickering like a flame in a draft, without strength, nearly extinguished. I reached out, straight into the black. Warm, living skin brushed my fingertips, and I recoiled.

— Is it you? I managed.

— Who are you?

— Is it Kim?

— Who is Kim?

— What’s your name?

— I have no name.

— Stop it. Answer.

— It’s Kim.

The voice of the man on the phone came from somewhere behind me.

— But you’ll be helping me .

I spun around and tried to catch a glimpse of him in the light of my phone, but he ducked away from me and receded. From somewhere in the distance I heard the iron door to the cellar close and lock.

Adrenaline was now the only thing that kept me standing.

— What have you done?

— What have you done?

— Let me see you!

— Let me see you !

At that moment a naked ceiling lamp was lit, and the young androgyne sat before me, as naked and white as the lightbulb.

— Do you know what you want? s/he asked me with a small, faint smile.

— I want to get out of here. Now.

— Don’t you want to rescue me anymore? Don’t you want to own me?

— I don’t want to be part of this game.