Юнас Юнассон - The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man

To some extent the Americans weren’t needed now that the Finn had joined the righteous cause, but they lent stability to the operation. Johnny felt that, through them, he was part of a greater whole. Anything might happen if they reacted poorly to the alternative financier, including the execution of Johnny.

All in good time. Right now, it was time for a funeral.

His little brother wanted to honour Kenneth in every way. Therefore he had arranged to serve drinks to the guests as they approached the steps to the church. Kenneth had had a particular passion for Irish whiskey. It had to be a double, with four drops of water. There was a story from his California years about how a bartender in Malibu ended up with a knife through his hand after mistakenly serving Johnny’s big brother a Jim Beam Kentucky Straight Bourbon. And without any drops of water.

Back in Sweden, Kenneth had broadened his preferences a little. When it was cold enough outside, he might mix his whiskey with coffee, brown sugar and cream. That was warm, delicious and inspiring. As long as the main ingredient came from Ireland and nowhere else.

So Irish coffee it was; it seemed more ceremonial. Once the four men had gathered and warmed up, Johnny gave a short welcome speech. First he explained why they had gathered at a church, of all places. This was where Kenneth would be interred, in the family plot, just as he would have wanted it. Yes, this meant that a pastor would preside over the proceedings, but Johnny had talked to him and explained that he must not bring God and Jesus into the ceremony unless he wanted to meet them both earlier than he expected to.

‘You all know how much I loved my brother. I welcome you to step inside. And imagine how proud Kenneth is in the coffin I chose.’

A curious murmur rose from the men. A few nodded in surprise. Clearly Engvall’s little brother knew what he was doing.

Johnny placed himself strategically on the church steps to shake each man’s hand as he entered. He did what he was doing out of genuine respect for his brother, but there was an additional aspect in the background. Something Johnny hardly wanted to admit to himself.

The Americans had not yet formally identified Kenneth’s successor. Of course, there was no one but Johnny to choose, but the pronouncement had yet to take place. The other option was for the Swedish branch to be closed now that their founder was no longer with them. But it was hard to believe the American leaders had come all the way across the Atlantic just to share this information. Perhaps Johnny would be upgraded that very evening.

The Swedish branch leader-to-be was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the buzz from within the church. When he entered, the last to do so, he was met by a dreadful sight.

The four guests had not sat down in the pews. Instead they were all in a row, up by the pastor and the coffin. Two on the left, two on the right. Between the groups, Johnny had an unobstructed view of the unimaginable.

The pastor smiled at Johnny and his companions. He nodded at the coffin and agreed that it was lovely. If the gentlemen would take their seats, the ceremony could begin.

No one listened to him. Everyone was waiting for Johnny, who was walking slowly past the men and all the way to the front. He cautiously touched the coffin to confirm that what he saw was real.

And it was.

What Johnny had arranged, as a mark of honour and respect, turned out to be a pale blue coffin, not a black one. Instead of swastikas and fire, the sides of the coffin were covered with white bunnies hopping in a green meadow. The lid was decorated with fluffy white clouds and gold lettering: ‘God who holds His children dear, watch over me as I sleep here.’

‘I understand you are all moved,’ the pastor went on uncertainly. ‘Please have a seat.’

The leader of the Aryan Brotherhood broke the group’s silence. He had chosen to tattoo his swastika on his forehead instead of on his chest, like the others.

‘Not that it matters, Johnny, but what does the writing on the lid say?’

‘It says…’ said Johnny, but he couldn’t finish. ‘You don’t want to know what it says.’

Actually, out of sheer curiosity, he did. But there was no need. The bunnies were enough. And the fluffy clouds against the pale blue background.

‘I’m leaving now,’ he said.

And he did. Americans two, three and four followed.

The pastor was bewildered. The dead man’s brother had given him ten thousand kronor in exchange for a promise that he would neither complain about the design of the coffin nor bring up God. Why would he complain about this coffin? It was hard to imagine anything more tasteful.

Only now did Johnny wake from his mental paralysis. Were the Americans about to blame him for this?

‘Hold on, boys. Surely you don’t think…’

It was at this point that the pastor made the biggest mistake of his career thus far. He felt that the dead man’s little brother needed comforting and took a few steps forward to give him a long, tender hug.

One minute later he was so thoroughly battered that even his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him. Johnny beat him and beat him to make the coffin and the situation disappear. Yet the only result was that the four Americans left before Johnny could explain himself. The coffin was where it was. The pastor lay where he lay.

Little brother returned to reality. He wiped his bloody hands on his trousers as he took a fresh, pained look at the monstrosity of a coffin.

If Kenneth was in there, it was a catastrophe. If he wasn’t… then where the hell was he?

Johnny’s life as Sweden branch leader was over before it could begin. And that was that. Now he had bigger fish to fry. Like how someone had to die for what his brother had been subjected to. And how he had to figure out where on earth Kenneth was.

Oops, the pastor was moving. Johnny bent down to whisper in his ear. The bloodied man nodded. He and Johnny were in agreement that the pastor had slipped and fallen down the stairs.

Johnny left him where he was, got into his car and took out his phone. He found the number to the morgue and called it.

One Beatrice Bergh answered. Johnny introduced himself and said he wanted to know where Mrs Bergh was since he intended to come over and beat her to death.

Beatrice Bergh was as frightened as she had reason to be.

Business was booming. The order phone even rang at weekends. Like now, a Saturday afternoon.

‘Die with Pride, but perhaps not immediately,’ said Allan, who happened to have the business phone on a small table beside the sofa he so seldom left.

Beatrice Bergh from the morgue in a neighbouring town introduced herself in a panicked tone. She and Allan didn’t know each other. But he knew Sabine had delivered coffins there a few times, most recently the day before.

‘Why, hello and good day, Madame Morgue Manager. Calling on a Saturday? Is someone in a hurry to get underground?’

Beatrice Bergh didn’t respond. She said something, but it was hard to get a grip on exactly what it might have been. The woman seemed thoroughly out of balance. Her words came all in a jumble. At last she gave up and began to cry. ‘Forgive me,’ she sobbed. ‘Forgive me!’

Allan had sat up on his sofa. This didn’t seem to be just another typical call. ‘I’m sure I’ll forgive you, Mrs Bergh,’ he said. ‘But that will be easier to do if I know what I have to forgive. Is it calling on a Saturday? In that case, just hang up and we’ll let bygones be bygones.’

He let her cry a little longer, figuring that she needed to get it out. But at last he grew weary of her. ‘I think it’s about time for you to pull yourself together, Mrs Bergh. Otherwise I may have to reconsider the forgiveness. Tell me what’s going on.’