Jens Lapidus - Never Fuck Up

Things didn’t end up the way Niklas’d planned. One day after he moved into the new apartment, Mom came over. Asked to spend the night.

The whole point of the move was that they wouldn’t get on each other’s nerves, step too far into each other’s territory, disturb each other’s routines. But he couldn’t say no. She was scared, really scared. Had every right. She had called him on his cell while she was at work.

“Hi Niklas, is that you?”

“Course it’s me, Mom, you’re calling my number.”

“Yes, but I haven’t really learned it yet. It’s so good that you’re home in Sweden now. Something terrible happened.”

Niklas could tell by her voice that it was something out of the ordinary.

“What?”

“The police found a murdered person in our building. It’s so horrible. A dead person has been lying in our basement all night.”

Niklas froze. His thoughts sharpened. At the same time: they turned upside down. This was not good.

“That sounds totally crazy, Mom. What’re they saying?”

“Who? The neighbors?”

“No, the police.”

“They’re not saying anything. I was standing outside half the night, freezing. We all did. Berit Vasquéz was totally broken up.”

“Damn, that’s terrible. But did you speak more with the police?”

“I’m going in for questioning after work today. But I’m afraid to sleep at home alone tonight. Can I stay with you?”

Not at all what he’d planned. This wasn’t good.

“Of course. I’ll sleep on a mattress or a bedroll. Why did you go to work today? You should call in sick for a few days.”

“No, I can’t. And I want to get out of the house, too. It feels good to be at work.”

A question in Niklas’s head. He had to ask her.

“Do they know who the murdered person was?”

“The police didn’t say anything about it. I don’t know, anyway. They haven’t said anything. Can I come after work?”

He said that was fine. Explained how to get there. Sighed inside.

Niklas put on his shorts and T-shirt: the DynCorp logo in black across the chest. He loved his gear. The runner’s socks with no seams to avoid blisters and with a drawstring on the side to hold them up. The shoes: Mizuno Wave Nirvana—nerdy name, but the best shoes the runner’s store carried.

The first thing he’d done since he’d come home—and one of the few times he’d traveled any distance from the apartment—was to buy the shoes and the rest of the running stuff. He ran on the treadmill in the store, discussed weight and width, the affect of overpronation on his step and the arch support. A lot of people thought running was a nice sport because it was simple, cheap, no unnecessary gadgets. Not for Niklas: the gadgets made it more fun. The socks, the shorts with the extra slits to avoid chafing on the leg, the heart monitor, and, of course, the shoes. More than fifteen hundred kronor. Worth every cent. He’d already been running more than ten times since he got back. He used to run down there too sometimes, but a limited amount. If you happened to go a few yards down the wrong street, it could end in tragedy. Two British guys from his troop: found with their throats slit. Shoes stolen. Socks still warm on their feet.

He was standing in front of the mirror strapping the heart monitor around his chest. Checked himself out. Fit. Newly sheared crew cut—you could hardly see how blond he really was. But his blue eyes gave him away. Glimpses of another face in the mirror: black streaks smeared under his eyes, greasy hair, steel gaze. Armed for battle.

He put the heart-rate-monitor watch on last. Set it to zero. It gave him the feeling of intensity, the right tempo. And best of all, it gave instant feedback on his training.

He stepped out. Jogged down the stairs. Opened the door. A nice day.

Running: His method of control over loneliness. His medicine. His relaxation in the midst of the confusion over being home again.

He started slow. Felt a mild ache in his thighs from the last run, in Örnsberg. He ran out toward the Aspudden school. A big, yellow brick building with a flagpole in the schoolyard. A lower wooden building nearby, maybe an after-school center or an elementary-school classroom. He ran past. The trees were sprouting crisp leaves. Nothing was as beautiful as the foliage. He was happy to be home again.

The hill sloped steeper. Down toward what looked like a valley. On the other side: a hill with a wood. At the bottom of the valley was an allotment-garden area—every tenant mommy’s big dream: to get her hands on a plot like that. Little cottages, water hoses, and flower beds where things’d really started to grow. The greenery in Sweden was so green.

He couldn’t stop himself from analyzing the terrain. Saw it as the FEBA—front edge of battle area. An amphitheater. Perfect for an ambush, an unexpected attack from both sides against an advancing enemy or an enemy convoy at the bottom of the valley. First out: AH-64 Apache helicopters—30-millimeter M230 rotary cannons, a rate of fire of over two thousand rounds a minute. Mow down the trucks and the jeeps. Crush them. Force them to stop. Then bombard them with the helos’ Hellfire missiles. After that, the grenade people in the hills would do their bit with 20-millimeter ammunition. Last but not least: the infantry would make sure the jeeps were torched good, spread blankets of fire against any enemy combatants that were still putting up resistance, make sure no militiamen excaped, BBQ the hajis. Deal with the remains. The wreckage. The prisoners.

That’s how it was done. The situation was perfect. In the middle of the allotment gardens. He almost longed to be back.

He kept running, toward the hill on the other side. Kept visualizing war scenes. Different images. Bloody people. Burned faces. Blown-up body parts. Men in torn, half-military uniforms screaming in Arabic. Their leaders with guns in their hands and emblems on their shoulder straps, roaring: “Imshi!” —charge!

Crawling soldiers. Wounded people. Smoldering bodies.

Everywhere.

In panic.

Distorted faces. Gaping wounds. Empty eyes.

Shit.

He ran. Down toward the water.

The branches arched over the trail like a roof. He continued on toward a residential area.

Felt the fatigue wash over him. Checked his watch. He’d been running for twenty-one minutes. Memorized the time: halfway. Time to turn back. Steady breathing. Could he handle the allotment gardens one more time?

He thought, How am I doing, really? The time at DynCorp marked its men, he knew that. There were plenty of stories about guys who hadn’t been able to handle the safe existence in their home countries.

Max 650 feet left to the building’s entrance. He slowed down. Walked the last bit. Let his blood sugar settle. His breathing slow. He loved his gadgets. Material that breathed—his shirt was hardly even wet from sweat.

The sky was a clear blue. The leaves in the flower beds lining the street were a clear green.

That’s when he saw it. On top of an electrical cabinet.

Dammit.

He didn’t know they had those running around outside in Sweden.

Over there, the place was overrun with them. But that was different—there, he was dressed in Kevlar-reinforced camo pants tucked into high, hard military boots. Equipped with weapons—if they came too close, he showed no mercy. Let their little brain substance speckle the gravel. That almost made it okay.

But now.

The rat stared.

Niklas remained still.

No boots—low Mizuno running shoes.

No reinforced pants tucked in—just shorts.

No gun.