Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

“First, some routine stuff. You’re here for informational questioning. That means that you’re not suspected of anything. But we’re still going to record everything that’s said in here. Then I’ll transcribe it and you’ll get to approve it. That way, there won’t be any misunderstandings. If you need to take a break, just let me know. There are coffee machines and bathrooms out in the hall. Anyway, I’m assuming you know why you’re here. On June second, a man was murdered at Gösta Ekman Road. Right now, we’re gathering as much information as we can about this incident. The man hasn’t been identified and he was in pretty bad shape. You’ve been staying with your mom in the building for a few weeks, so I thought I’d just ask if there’s anything in particular you’ve been thinking about.”

The policeman was typing something on the computer while he spoke.

The situation reminded Niklas of his job search the other day. He’d sent his résumé to a couple places. Was called to an interview at Securicor. But, really, he should be able to get a job at significantly more interesting places. The headquarters were in Västberga. Ten-foot-high fence. Three guarded entrances to get through before he met the HR nerd. But with six bullets in a semiautomatic Heckler & Koch Mark 23, he would’ve made it through their checkpoints, easy as pie.

Sometimes his own thoughts scared him—he could never relinquish his focus on security. But that was also why he was worthy of more than some regular guard job.

The job interview’d almost put him to sleep. The fat interviewer had a crew cut, but probably didn’t know what it felt like to have so many lice in the beds in the barracks that it didn’t matter how many Tenutex cocktails you took. The only thing that helped was shaving it all off. He droned on about staff and technical surveillance on hire for both the public and private sectors in all of Sweden. Blah, blah, blah. Guard factories, offices, stores, hospitals, and other places in order to create a safe work environment and reduce the risk of unlawful entry. Whatever.

It wasn’t Niklas’s kind of thing. He didn’t ask a single question. Toned himself down. Acted super shy. Didn’t get the job.

Back from his thought trip. He looked up. Martin Hägerström’s run-through was over. It was Niklas’s turn to speak. He took a deep breath, tried to relax.

“I don’t really have much to say about what happened in the building. I’ve worked abroad for a few years and needed somewhere to stay before I got my own place. I mostly stayed at home, at Mom’s, went for a run sometimes, and went to a few job interviews. So I basically haven’t met anyone else in the building. From what I know, everyone is normal enough.”

“How was living with your mom at your age?”

“Pretty hard, actually. But don’t tell her that. I don’t have anything against my mom, but you know how it is.”

“Yeah, I could never handle more than, like, four hours, then I’d pretend I had some important interrogation or something.”

They grinned.

The cop continued, “What kind of work did you do abroad?”

“I studied for a few years. And then I was in the security industry, mostly in the States.”

Niklas watched the cop’s reaction. Some cops could practically sniff out a lie.

“Interesting. Do you know if there was any bad atmosphere in the building? Did anyone have any old beef or something like that?”

“No, I wasn’t there long enough and Mom’s never said anything about that.”

“Can you describe the neighbors in the building?”

“I don’t know them. It’s been so long since I actually lived there. I was pretty young, back then. Mom’s never said anything weird about them. No one criminal, or anything like that. Anymore.”

“Anymore?”

“Well, we lived there when I was little, too. Back then it wasn’t exactly the calmest building on the block.”

“It was rough? How so?”

“Axelsberg in the early eighties, before a lot of young hipsters moved in. Back then, there were real blue-collar people there, if you know what I mean. A lot of alcoholics and stuff.”

“Okay, so you weren’t thinking of anyone in particular?”

“Well, I guess a few of them still live in the building. Enström, for example. And there were a bunch of characters. Like Lisbet, Lisbet Johansson. She was really fucking weird.”

“How so?”

“She screamed in the stairwell and stuff. I remember one time she started fighting with my mom in the laundry room. Tried to hit her with a hamper. They had to call the cops.”

Niklas fell silent. Felt like he’d said too much. But that could be a good move, too. He had to give this Hägerström guy something to chew on.

“Well, that doesn’t sound like fun. Then what happened?”

“Nothing happened. Mom just tried to avoid her. And I don’t remember what I did. I was young back then.”

“It sounds like a strange affair. Does she still live in the building?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know where she lives.”

“We’ll have to look into that.”

Hägerström typed frenetically on the computer.

“In that case, I only really have one more question for you.”

“Okay.”

“Where were you between nine o’clock and midnight on June second?”

Niklas was prepared. Figured the question had to come up at some point. He tried to smile.

“I’ve looked into that. I was having some beers with an old buddy of mine.”

“All night?”

“Yeah, I think we watched a movie too.”

“All right. What’s his name?”

“Benjamin. Benjamin Berg.”

On the subway platform, on the way back to his illegal rental. The announcer called out, “The trains are running according to schedule.” Niklas thought, Sweden is strange. Eight years ago, when he left, it was assumed that the trains would run on time. Now, after the sellouts, the privatization, the alleged professionalism—that shit never seemed to work—it was apparently worth calling attention to the fact that the trains were running on time for once.

He knew better than anyone: private alternatives look shiny, efficient, rational on paper. PMCs—private military companies, also known as security contractors. Private solutions. Cost-efficient. Perfect for low-intensity hotbeds. High-risk international operations. In the Iraqi sand and dirt, it could be catastrophic. Violent beyond all imagination. He tried to fight off the thoughts. How he, Collin, and the others’d been lowered down from the helicopter. Screamed out their warnings and then rushed through the narrow alleys. It’d been raining—the red mud splashed all the way up on his flak jacket. How they’d crushed the wooden door to the house.

The police interrogation’d gone well. They probably wouldn’t make any trouble for him or Mom. He hoped Mom would get over the whole thing soon. Move back home. Leave him alone.

Benjamin’d promised him a huge favor: if anyone asked how long Niklas’d stayed there on June 2, he was going to say all night.

The Aspudden stop. He got off.

Long, straight steps along the platform. Not a lot of people around. It was four o’clock in the afternoon.

Then, a movement. Down to the left.

On the tracks.

He looked down. Stopped.

Wrong move.

What he didn’t want to see: a large animal behind the electrical cable. Small black button eyes without regard.

Wasn’t very visible. Maybe it wasn’t visible at all anymore. But he knew it was there. Below. Coming from the tunnel.

Waiting for him.

Five minutes later: he was home. Mom was still at work.

The bedroom in the apartment was hardly furnished. A double bed in one corner. A pillow and a comforter. A poster on the wall from the Moderna Museet in Stockholm—some exhibit fifteen years ago—strangely painted female figures. The word nonfigurative was written across the bottom of the poster. Mom brought it when she came over after the incident in her building. White IKEA wardrobes that were needlessly big. On one of them, the door hung crookedly on its hinges.