Åke Edwardson - Death Angels

The distributor was on his feet. “Just one more detail.”

“What?”

“You’ll have to tell me where you’re staying.”

THEY HAD SEEN EACH OTHER THREE TlMES AFTER THElR CONversation at the club in the Vasastaden district.

Bergenhem had turned into two people, or maybe three, each with a conscience that bumped up against the others like ice floes.

When he was at home with Martina, he couldn’t understand what he saw in Marianne. When he put his hand on her belly and felt the baby kick, he hated the other person who was also him.

She called herself Angel when she danced. A pair of small wings were attached to her shoulder blades. They were white and glittered like fish scales. Everything-her name and costume, if you could call it that-went perfectly with the sleaziness all around her. He couldn’t think of another way to describe it-everything was sullied, like the world seen through a dirty car window.

The third person in him was the policeman. Somewhere in the dimly lit underground chambers, that person disappeared. So he got together with Marianne elsewhere. That’s what he would say if anyone asked, but nobody asked except him. He had also seen a question mark in Martina’s eyes, as if she knew, and realized that he knew that she knew.

He was on his way to Marianne’s place. She lived on a boat at Gullbergskajen Wharf. He hadn’t believed her at first, but she did.

It was an old fishing vessel that had outlived its usefulness, surrounded by others.

People in Gothenburg called it the Wharf of Dreams. He had heard the name all his life but never made it out there. An odd way to experience it for the first time, he thought.

It was best in the summer, she had said. The boats that still had any life in them put out to Älvsborg Fortress and back, the only time they sailed all year. It was something of a competition.

She had called it the Regatta of Shattered Illusions.

“You haven’t told me much about your life,” Bergenhem said after she had poured the coffee.

“This is unbelievable.”

“What?”

“I can’t figure out why I’m sitting here talking to you.”

He listened for some kind of noise outdoors, like water lapping against the side of the boat, but they were encircled by silence.

“You’re taking advantage of me,” she said.

“That’s not true.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I want to be here.”

“Everybody takes advantage of someone.”

“Is that what your life has been like?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“How long have you had the boat?”

“Years and years.”

“Do you own it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know any of the others who live here?”

“What do you think?”

He drank his coffee and heard a motorboat hum out on the river.

“Do you hear your buddies?” she asked.

“What?”

“It’s the marine police making their rounds. You never know what you might happen to find, right?”

“They might happen to find me.”

“What would they say then?”

“They don’t know who I am.”

“Just like me. I don’t know who you are.”

“And I don’t know who you are.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“It’s insane.”

“You don’t have any more information about those movies, do you?” he asked hastily, switching to another role.

“No.”

“Nothing about the hidden part of the industry or whatever you call it?”

“No,” she said again, but he heard a hint of something else.

“Are you afraid?”

“What do I have to be afraid of?”

“Is it dangerous to talk about?”

“The dangerous thing is for us to see each other.”

“What do you know?”

She shook her head, like she was tossing his questions overboard. “Do you really think nobody knows you’re seeing me? Someone might even have followed you here to check out what you’re up to.”

“You’re right.”

“Is that what you’re hoping for?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You want to make somebody slip up. And that’s what you’re using me for.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is.”

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if you had told me straight out that you never wanted to see me again.”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

“Not enough times.” He smiled.

She seemed to be thinking about something they had discussed earlier. She chewed on her lower lip-he’d never seen anyone do that before.

She lit a cigarette and opened one of the portholes. Her eyes were dark and fathomless in the dim artificial light when she raised her chin to exhale the smoke. Her hand shook, but that could have been from the damp chill outside.

She inhaled again and her whole body trembled. It’s like she’s sucking on an icicle, Bergenhem thought. Her skin is blue and her hands must be colder than snow.

“I want you to leave,” she said.

She’s afraid, he thought. She knows something horrible has happened and can happen again. She might have a name or an incident, or something somebody said, but that’s all. And that’s what scares her.

How did she find it out? What is it? Who? Is this bringing you any closer to what you’re looking for? Or is it just wishful thinking? Or do you want her to be afraid of something she’s heard so you can justify coming here?

“Give me some time to think about it,” she said.

“What?”

“I need some time to think. Leave me alone now, for Chrissake.”

Bergenhem dialed Bolger’s number and left a message.

Bolger had given him the names of a couple of contacts, both of whom seemed slightly amused when he showed up, as though he were a welcome break from their humdrum lives.

He felt like a derailed train. He thought about Marianne, then Martina. It’s none of her damn business what I do, he thought. This is my job.

He was hoping Bolger could give him some advice. Winter was an old friend of his and seemed to trust him. The occasional sarcastic comment Bolger made about Winter left little doubt that they went way back.

“Mr. Supercop,” Bolger had called him a couple of days before.

“He’s good,” Bergenhem had said.

“He’s always been like that. The world revolves around your boss. He had a friend named Mats who died this winter, and he was my friend too.”

“And?”

“Erik grieves like he’s the only one who ever lost anybody. He claims everything for himself.”

Bergenhem didn’t know what to say. But he sensed he’d been entrusted with a confidence and he relished the feeling.

“That’s just one example,” Bolger had gone on, recounting details about the city when they were growing up.

“Did you live near each other?”

“No.”

“But you hung out together.”

“In our midteens. Earlier, maybe.”

“It’s so hard to keep track of everything,” Bergenhem had said. “It all goes by so fast, and when you try to think back to the way it was, you don’t remember, or else you remember wrong.”

Bolger had said something he didn’t catch.

Bergenhem had asked him to repeat it.

“Skip it,” Bolger had said.

“WE DON’T DO ANYTHlNG FOR BLACK PEOPLE ANYMORE,” ADDAESawyerr said. “All the employment subsidies are gone.”

Sawyerr ran a consulting firm from an office above the Brixton Road Pizza Hut, where Winter had met him. He’d invited Winter upstairs to chat.

“But blacks aren’t the only ones who live here,” Winter said.

“We’re in the majority.” Sawyerr had come to London from Ghana many years earlier. “But whites hang around the street corners too.”