Ларс Кеплер - Stalker

‘It’s me,’ he says. ‘Can you talk?’

‘I don’t know, I think so,’ she says. ‘If this counts as talking...’

‘Nelly, listen, I don’t want to cause any trouble, but I need help.’

‘What’s going on, really?’ she asks.

‘I didn’t do the things they’re saying about me, I’ve got no idea what this is all about.’

‘Erik, I know, I know you’re innocent,’ she says. ‘But can’t you just hand yourself in to the police? Say you surrender, I’ll support you, be a witness, anything.’

‘They’ll shoot me the moment they catch sight of me. You’ve no idea what—’

‘I understand how you feel,’ she interrupts. ‘But doesn’t it just get even worse the longer you wait? The police are everywhere—’

‘Nelly—’

‘They’ve taken your computer, they’ve packed your whole office into boxes, they’re outside our house in Bromma, they’re at the Karolinska, and—’

‘Nelly, I need to stay in hiding for a while, there are no other options, but I want you to know that I’ll understand if you can’t help me.’

‘I love adventures,’ she says sarcastically.

‘Please, Nelly... there’s no one else I can ask.’

He can hear the dogs barking again. Closer now.

‘I can’t get involved,’ she says quietly. ‘You can see that, it would cause problems for Martin, but...’

‘Sorry I asked,’ Erik says, feeling black hopelessness fill his heart.

‘But I’ve got an old place,’ Nelly goes on. ‘Have I ever told you about Solbacken, it used to belong to Dad’s parents?’

‘How do I get there?’

‘Erik, I’m probably not much good at car chases, I haven’t got the balls, but I can go and... I don’t know, I can rent a car at Statoil or something...’

‘You’d do that for me?’ he asks.

‘Tell me you love me,’ she replies cheerfully.

‘I love you.’

‘Where shall we meet?’

‘Do you know the bathing beach at Sickla strand? Erik asks.

‘No, but I’m sure I can find it.’

‘There’s a school or nursery right next to the beach — wait there until I show up.’

He hears the dogs again, as their barking echoes through the trees.

Erik crouches down and runs through the dense undergrowth at the edge of the water, and pulls off his shoes and heavy trousers. He bundles his clothes up and hides in the bushes as a helicopter passes low overhead.

His pursuers are getting closer, the dogs sound eager and are barking excitedly.

Dressed in just his underpants and vest he wades out into Sicklasjön. The chill stabs at his feet and legs.

He can hears sirens from emergency vehicles from several directions, carried across the water and through the trees.

Erik sees blue lights flashing over on Ältavägen, on the bridge across the inlet leading to Järlasjön. There are at least three police cars. The vehicles’ lights reflect off the metal struts of the bridge and across the crowns of the trees on both shores.

The helicopter roars over the treetops again and he sinks quickly into the water. He holds his breath, but can clearly feel the change in the current as the helicopter passes. The water of the lake forms small waves radiating out in rapid circles.

He carries on, further out, slipping down amongst the water lilies, between their long stalks and the slimy bottom of the lake. There he lets the bundle of clothes containing his phone fill with bubbling water and sink.

In the other direction, beyond the dam, he can see that the bridge over the Sickla Channel has been blocked off. There are police cars everywhere. The tall fibreglass railings shimmer like huge plates of blue light. A helicopter is hovering above the ski slope.

Erik starts to swim, taking big strokes, feeling the cold against his lips and the smell of seawater. It can’t be many hundred metres to the other side. Two jetties reach out into the water in front of the housing blocks erected by Atlas Copco after the war to house their guest-workers.

Erik swims, keeping his head low and trying not to disturb the surface of the lake too much. He’s already more than one hundred metres out. The water merely laps quietly as he takes his broad strokes, but thunders in his ears when he’s underwater.

He raises his head enough to be able to look ahead. Drops of water sparkle on his eyelashes as he sees the two jetties before they disappear behind the swell. The current is pulling him a long way off to one side.

High above the nature reserve the helicopter is clattering, but he can no longer hear any dogs.

Erik swims, thinking about how he lied nine years ago, and stole Rocky’s whole life from him — and didn’t spare him a thought until now.

He slows down, and treads water as he sees that he’s just fifty metres from the two protruding jetties. A few children in bathing costumes are running about on the damp wood. There are people sitting with picnic baskets, blankets and folding chairs in the late summer warmth.

A motorboat appears to be approaching from the channel.

Erik swims towards the shore, beyond the beach. At the far end gnarled weeping willows hang over the water. The tips of their bright green branches trail in the undulating water.

The motorboat skims silently towards him, its prow striking the waves as the boat slows down.

Erik takes aim for the trees, fills his lungs with air, then dives below the surface.

He swims underwater with powerful strokes, feeling the coolness of the water against his face and eyes, its taste in his mouth, and the muffled sound as his ears fill.

The dappled daylight shimmers on the bubbles rising from his arms.

Beneath the water the motorboat makes a metallic buzzing sound.

Erik’s shoulders are straining from the effort. It’s further to the shore than he thought. The water below him is completely black, but the surface looks like molten tin.

His lungs feel tight. He has to breathe soon. The buzzing sound of the motorboat gets louder.

He keeps swimming, but is getting closer to the surface, has no energy left, needs oxygen.

Shimmering bubbles drift around him.

He kicks out with his legs and feels his diaphragm tighten, cramping in an effort to force his lungs to breathe in some air.

The water gets lighter, full of swirling sand. He can make out the bottom beneath him, rough blocks of stone and coarse sand. He takes one last stroke with his arms, then pulls himself forward across the stones with his hands.

Erik breaks the surface, gasps for breath, coughs, puts his hand over his mouth, coughs again and spits out a mouthful of slime. He’s rocking with the swell from the boat. His vision goes dark and he gasps and wipes the water from his face with trembling hands.

He makes his way up on to the rocks on unsteady legs, then collapses. His whole body shakes as he sits behind the curtain of branches. The police boat is moving along the lake, but its engine is no longer audible.

Even if Nelly manages to leave her house and hire a car, it will be a while before she gets here. It makes sense to wait beneath the trees and dry off a bit before he makes his way to the meeting point.

The sound of shouting, laughing children fades away as if in fog. In the distance the sirens are howling, and the helicopter goes on circling above the nature reserve on the other side of the lake.

After half an hour or so Erik leaves his hiding place, climbs up the rocks, crosses the footpath and steps behind a large hazel bush. The ground in the shade beneath the branches is littered with toilet paper. He moves on towards the rust-red exterior of Sickla recreation centre.

Suddenly the sound of a siren echoes loudly between the walls, and he stops abruptly, his heart pounding. People are sitting at an outdoor café a short distance away, eating and drinking, quite unconcerned. The vehicle disappears and Erik carries on walking. He’s just thinking that he needs to wait on the other side of the building, hidden by the bushes, when he catches sight of Nelly. She’s wearing a green floral-print dress, and her blonde hair is tied up with a scarf of the same colour.