Caroline Åberg - Stockholm Noir

There goes the back of her head, up the short staircase. Once again, I could simply... but no.

Now that the bitch is inside, it’s just a question of following procedure and, naturally, remaining flexible.

The two security guards who are in our employ will track the cattle from here. I don’t have much left to do but witness events unfold.

Find myself in the makeup section, overly lit.

“Transferring eyes to local law,” I say, “All parties go.”

The Serb and Carl-Erik will be entering the building from the side street...

I’m making my way casually toward the escalator. Take note of a blond salesgirl who, catching me looking at her, makes like she’s wiping off a bit of glass. Then glances at me again.

As I say: I make a note.

The bitches certainly take their time dawdling, but once they descend to the second floor (having started from the top), I see the designated area for the first time since I scoped the whole thing about two weeks back — and realize again why it makes sense.

The Serb is nearby, almost at my heel, doing a very good approximation I must say of the casual tail.

Shame to do it like this, really, but it seems to me that there’s more of an opportunity to really fillet her if there’s some coverage.

Within a store, open plan as they are, he’ll be able to pull her behind a clothing rack, or display case, or something, buying an additional five or ten seconds, which will be invaluable and will make the difference between a maiming and an actual, definitive kill.

Momentarily distressed to see they’ve shifted things around, moved the displays... but it hardly matters.

The shopgirl within is engaged with another customer at the register, who seems to be attempting a complex return of some kind. The girl on the floor has gone in the back for the moment, likely to look for a size for the bitch, who stands there squawking with her friend.

“Okay. Do it now,” I say into the radio.

Carl-Erik walks past quickly and brushes against the Slav — this is the signal.

MM takes it, and moves forward with intention. With swagger.

Good boy. The knife is out, he holds it close to his thigh.

I turn on my heel, begin walking rapidly as if I’m headed past the shop... Manage to see the first two solid stabs: one directly in the chest, thunk, surreal the silence that precedes the realization that this is now happening, the bitch is being cut... A second blow, as her arm comes up in a defensive move, thunk, in the meat of her armpit.

She begins speaking to him, attempting it seems to make this thing rational. She wears a half-smile. She believes, even now, that this is something she can talk her way out of.

For a moment there is, strangely, no blood whatsoever. And all at once, there’s blood everywhere, spraying a rack of white blouses like a Jackson Pollock.

Then more sound: her friend shrieks, the target seems to actually be continuing to talk reasonably to MM, I think, not realizing the inevitability of her situation... another thwack , heavy and wet. I’m wondering how much longer the bitch can keep yammering.

She’s hit again and makes a barnyard noise in her throat as she loses her balance and goes down, at last... There’s the flowering puddle of liquid across the hardwood floor, and the Serb moves in to continue...

And that’s unfortunately as much as I can stick around for, as I’m now moving down the escalator... Much hubbub to my rear, though far less than one would imagine. Still no alarm... our guys in house are seeing to that delay.

Plenty of people, however. Just hovering there. Mouths making little Os. Doing nothing.

Shame I couldn’t really get a long look, shame I can’t take the time to enjoy ... but then again, there will be the video, to which I greatly look forward.

Within a minute, MM slams past me, taking the steps two at a time. I smell sweat and something intestinal. Good, he split her open.

MM is free and clear. Turning, I see no one in pursuit. This surprises even me. Nobody? Nobody at all?

I watch the Serb as he hits the ground floor, and moves out of my line of vision, presumably out the door, folks stumbling from his path. Free and clear.

Bon voyage, Slav. If you follow your instructions, the DNA on your discarded clothing will be sufficient to implicate you. We’ll make sure these items are preserved.

At this very moment, a photo of MM in attendance at a Lars Leijonborg rally, his face contorted in a shout, is on its way via e-mail to somebody’s inbox at Dagens Nyheter . It’s all so perfect.

Ah, Stockholm. I must thank you, as tragic a whore as you are. This entire operation would not have worked anywhere else in the world. Well. Perhaps Japan. This entire operation is exactly what Sweden — the distorted, mongoloid Sweden as epitomized by Stockholm, that is — deserves.

Nowhere else would a public figure like this be unprotected, and completely touchable. In these new times, in this New World, with all of its new threats, there remains this stubborn, bovine inability to adapt.

Where else but here, would any number of able-bodied people stand by and, cowering, watch another human get slaughtered? And do nothing . Not out of callousness — out of conditioning.

Nowhere else is blunda so deeply ingrained. Out of risk of embarrassment .

Oh, but I might look silly. I would draw attention to myself. What if they don’t want to be disturbed? What if no one else steps in? What if I’m wearing the wrong shirt? What about this haircut? I’ll be the only one, and I’ll look like an idiot, overreacting... presuming, how dare I think that I of all people can affect a situation like this? No. The officials will handle it. Why, I’d lose my place in line...

In the United Kingdom, amongst the Anglo-Saxons, there is a term — the Tall Poppy Syndrome. This is a much more descriptive expression than the Swedish equivalent. And within it is embedded an implied warning. Grow too tall, and be cut down.

Jantelagen in its truest form.

So in a funny way, I serve the social order. And thus, the cunt is cut down for having the hubris to aspire toward growth.

On my way out, I pause again in the perfume section. The blonde I’d seen previously steps over to me.

“I came back,” I tell her.

“Mmm,” she says. “I see that.”

“Something for my girlfriend...” I raise my eyebrows slightly, to indicate my doubts that said “girlfriend” will remain so for very much longer.

A quick but knowing look from the lovely salesgirl. “Well,” she says, indicating a purple bottle, “this is probably the most popular scent at the moment...” She lifts the flask. “ Poison ,” she says.

Any response I might give her is drowned out by the blare of the fire alarm.

Caroline Åberg(translator) grew up in Uppsala, Sweden, and now resides in Bagarmossen, a suburb of Stockholm. She works as an editor and translator from Swedish to English and vice versa. Apart from her solo work, she produces performances and interactive art with her feminist collective ÖFA. When she is not working on books, she spends most of her time reading them.

Carl Johan De Geerwas born in 1938 and is a film director, photographer, painter, writer, textile designer, and set designer. He lives in Stockholm, has four grown children, three grandchildren, and is married to artist, writer, and director Marianne Lindberg De Geer.

Unni Drouggeis considered Sweden’s leading female cult author, and has generated a wealth of literature as well as a great deal of debate. Her novels have attracted a lot of attention and have found a large readership that has grown with every book. Currently, Unni Drougge is working as a columnist, a lecturer, and a playwright. She is also the editor of a magazine issued by the women’s shelter organization Roks.