Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

She was strong, somehow. Had raised a punk kid on her own. Refused welfare. Refused to give in and retire early like all her girlfriends had. Toiled through life. On the other hand, she’d let Him come into her life. Let Him take control over her. Humiliate her. Wreck her. How could they be so different?

She set a grocery bag down on the floor. “Hello, hi. So, what’ve you been up to today?”

He could tell how much pain she was in just by looking at her. He’d understood already on his first day back in Sweden: her back’d given up. Still, she kept working—part time, sure, but still: what was the point, really? Her face’d never exactly radiated joy. The wrinkles between her eyes were deep now, but she’d always had them. They formed an expression of constant worry. She’d lower her eyebrows, scrunching them up, making her most noticeable wrinkles deepen by almost half an inch.

He kept studying her. Pink cardigan—her favorite color. Tight jeans. A necklace with a gold heart around her neck. Her hair had blond highlights. Niklas wondered if she still had it done at Sonja Östergren’s salon. Some things never change, as Collin used to say.

She was actually the nicest person in the world. Too nice. It wasn’t fair.

Marie. His mother.

Whom he loved.

And still despised.

Because of that—the niceness.

She was too weak.

It wasn’t right.

But they would never be able to talk about everything that’d happened.

Niklas put the groceries away in the kitchen. Went back into the living room.

“I’m moving out soon, Mom. I’m going to buy a firsthand rental contract for an apartment.”

There they were again: the wrinkles. Like cracks in a desert road.

“But Niklas, isn’t that illegal?”

“No it’s not, actually. It’s illegal to sell rental contracts, but not to buy them. It’ll be fine. And there’s no other way to get a rental in this city, you know that. Stupid socialist housing system. But I have some money and no one’s going to rip me off. Promise.”

Marie mumbled something in response. Went into the kitchen. Started making dinner.

Insomnia was having its way with him. Not even during the worst nights down there, when the grenades’d made more noise than a New Year’s Eve fireworks display in the middle of the living room, had his sleep been this shitty. Earplugs used to be a blessing; his CD player, salvation. But nothing helped now.

He lay watching the gap under his mother’s door. Lights off at twelve-thirty. For some reason, he already knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He turned over and over again. With every turn the sheets slipped more and more to one side of the cushions. Got twisted. Annihilated the chance of sleep.

He was thinking about what he’d bought the other day. Unarmed, he was unsafe. Now he felt better. He’d arranged what he needed. His thoughts drifted on. He considered his work options. How much of his résumé should he include, really? He almost chuckled to himself in the dark: maybe in-depth knowledge of more than forty types of weapons wasn’t the kind of thing that was valued too highly in Sweden.

He thought about Him. He had to get out of this apartment, away from this building. It was giving him bad vibes. Difficult memories. Dangerous intimacy.

Niklas was planning to live according to his own philosophy now. A temple of thought he’d been building meticulously over the past few years. Ethical rules only mattered to yourself. If you were able to rid yourself of them, you’d be free. All that stuff died down in the sandbox. Morality dried up like a scab that disappeared on its own after a few weeks. He was free—free to live his life in the way that suited him best.

He thought about the men. Collin, Alex, the others. They knew what he was talking about. War made humans become self-aware. There is only you. Rules are made for other people.

The next day, he tried an off-the-books apartment broker. The guy sounded shady over the phone. Probably a nasty type. Niklas’d gotten his number from an old school bud, Benjamin.

First he had to leave a message on the illegal broker’s voice mail. Four hours later: a call from a hidden number.

“Hi, I’m a broker. I heard your message. You’re interested in looking at some properties. Is that correct?”

Niklas thought, Some people lived well off other people’s crises. The guy was a snake. Consistently avoided words like apartment, contract, or off the books —knew not to mention anything that could be used against him.

The broker gave him instructions: I call you, you never call me.

They arranged to meet the following day.

He stepped into McDonald’s. Totally beat, but ready to meet the broker. The place looked just as he remembered it. Uncomfortable metal chairs, cherrywood-colored paneling, linoleum flooring. Classic McDonald’s smell: a mix of hamburger meat and something rank. Ronald McDonald House donation jars by the registers; ads for Happy Meals on the tray covers; young, downy-lipped dudes and swarthy chicks behind the registers.

The difference since he’d been here last: health fascism. Mini carrots instead of french fries, whole-wheat buns on the burgers instead of the traditional white bread, Caesar salad instead of extra cheeseburgers. What was people’s problem? If they didn’t exercise enough to burn normal food they should think twice before they even went into this place. Niklas ordered a mineral water.

A man walked up to his table. Dressed in a long coat that almost dragged on the ground, under which he was wearing a gray suit and a white shirt. No tie. Slicked-back hair and empty eyes. A smile so wide it looked like his head was going to split in half.

It must be the broker.

The man extended his hand. “Hi, I’m the fixer.”

Niklas ignored his hand. Nodded at him. Point: You may be the fixer I need—but that doesn’t mean I’m going to kiss your ass.

The broker looked surprised. Hesitated for a moment. Then sat down.

Niklas didn’t skip a beat. “What do you have for me and how does it work?”

The broker leaned forward. “You seem to be a straight shooter. Aren’t you going to eat anything?”

“No, not now. Just tell me what you have and how it works.”

“All right. I’ve got listings anywhere you want. I can get you something south of the city, north of the city, Östermalm, Kungsholmen. I can get you something in the royal Drottningholm Park if you’re interested. But you don’t look like the type.” The broker laughed at his own joke.

Niklas remained silent.

“But remember, if you ever come claiming we’ve met here to discuss what we’re discussing, it didn’t happen. I’m in a meeting with some colleagues right now, just so you know.”

Niklas neither heard nor understood what the broker was talking about.

“Yeah, so, I’ve got myself covered in case of rotten eggs. Just so you know. If anything unpleasant happens, I have witnesses who’ll say I was busy with other stuff somewhere else right now.”

“Okay. Good for you. But you didn’t answer my question.”

The broker smiled again. Got going. Spoke rapidly. He was difficult to understand. Niklas had to ask him to repeat himself several times. The guy’s confident style didn’t match his jumbled manner of speaking.

He described the listings in detail: in all the inner-city neighborhoods. Collaborations with landlords of luxury apartments, single-family homes, state-owned rental co-ops. Magnificent apartments in the inner city, one-bedrooms with eat-in kitchens on Södermalm or studios in the boroughs. According to him: safe, good-value deals.

Niklas already knew what he wanted. A one-bedroom in an area just outside the inner city. Preferably near Mom.