Slugger Page 7

  ‘Good!’

  I take half a step forward with my left foot and drag my right behind like a slow foxtrot. I am standing up close to him now, with my front leg nearly between his. His staccato breathing pulses against my chest, and I gasp as the acrid smell of sweat penetrates my nostrils. He doesn’t notice.

  ‘Uppercuts, let the devils roll.’

  One-two, one-two, one-two. My wrists are screaming with pain.

  I clinch him and for one moment I feel every contour of his young, muscular body. I twist the youth half a turn starboard and push him away. I am struck by the screaming impulse to smash into him again and again, but I resist. Beauty makes me react that way sometimes. Nothing new.

  He is angry now and comes straight back at me.

  Poor as a louse, but with a will of stone. It is rare that I meet his gaze but now I can see my own face flicker in his irises. They are blazing like blue welding flames.

  I clench my fists too, and stick out my elbows to either receive his blows or deflect them with the inside of my right. I take two sidesteps and make him rip a couple of big holes in the air.

  ‘Why waste the right when the jab didn’t find home?’

  He chases after me. I counter his right with a left hook, open my fist just before the target and let my palm caress the sweat on his broad chin.

  ‘Hide it behind your shoulder if you don’t want a kiss on it, boy. If you hadn’t been standing with your feet together, you could have rolled under that without a problem.’

  I slap my forehead with my palm and let his sweat mix with mine before flicking it on the ground.

  He comes at me again: strong, stubborn as sin, too tired to think straight. My back cracks as I roll away from his fists. I grimace. He tries to break straight through my guard instead of finding the right angles.

  ‘Stop!’

  Hasse’s arms wither and hang loosely along his sides; he leans his head backwards and staggers on weak legs.

  ‘Finished?’

  He is breathing so hard he barely gets the question out.

  ‘Like hell. Round. Do you hear me?’

  I gasp for air and fight to keep my voice somewhat steady. I spit phlegm between my feet.

  ‘When will we be done?’ the boy groans.

  ‘Hold your arms above your head. Are you listening?’

  He nods. Sweat trickles between his bare pectorals, ripples like a wave over the flesh of his stomach and gathers in his navel before being absorbed by the line of hair running up from the waistband of his trousers. I swallow hard.

  Behind us I hear Lundin tut.

  ‘Bloody youths, lording it about with their fists, taking them for granted.’

  Neither Hasse nor I look in his direction. The old man often joins our training sessions and functions as a sort of commentator.

  ‘We will all be forged out of iron and steel in the future,’ he says, rattling his prosthesis. ‘Science will turn us into intricate mechanical engines. Then what will become of you and your damned boxing?’

  Lundin’s grumpy voice is devoured by the silence between me and the boy. I stare down the hill. I feel a pang in my heart every time I have to berate my protégé.

  ‘If you would just learn how to predict your opponent’s strikes, it would be so much fucking simpler.’

  ‘Kvist always says that. I don’t understand how he does it.’

  ‘With time and patience!’

  The youth grimaces, his hands are shaking in front of his face as though cramped and the whites of his eyes are red from the sting of sweat. My own trainer’s words ring out from the past.

  ‘There are only so many possible strikes in any given situation. How did I just counter your right?’

  He drops his guard somewhat. I bite the end off a fresh Meteor and light it.

  ‘Left… left hook?’

  ‘So you roll under the fucker and hit a hard right.’

  I put the cigar in my mouth, hold my fists up again and swipe the odd left above his head. His feet are in the wrong position and he is curtsying like an old widow at her husband’s coffin but I spare him the lecture. He has to be allowed to shine a little in the final moments of practice.

  ‘Left, right, duck, right. Good! Very good! Again!’

  St Stefan’s Church strikes one. I see Hasse’s bloodshot eyes light up.

  ‘You were twenty minutes late.’

  His chin sinks to his chest. His arms are shaking. I decide to finish off with parries.

  ‘Left, right, left hook.’

  The last strike blasts into my hand. My forearm is pushed back at an unnatural angle before rebounding.

  ‘You have power in your fists. Use that force on Thursday and you’ll hit your opponent halfway into the dressing room.’

  ‘Are we done?’

  ‘Not yet. Same series fifteen times and then you’re carrying Lundin home on your back. The old sod needs shaving and feeding.’ For the first time after a two-hour respite, Gabrielsson’s body flashes before my eyes again. I raise my fists again. ‘And then you and Dixie are coming with me to the Katarina rectory. With any luck you’ll get to see how to beat a man like a dusty rug.’

  A tall man with large sweat patches under his armpits is pasting red ‘No Entry’ signs with skulls on them up on the rectory door. The housemaid is next to him. I don’t remember her name. She has brazenly unbuttoned the top two buttons of her bodice and is rubbing her hands together.

  ‘It’s these muggy nights what draws them out in droves. I find big cakes of them behind the paintings.’

  ‘Both our Zyklon facilities are working day and night. We are fumigating a good fifty homes daily.’

  The man moistens his lips with his tongue and produces yet another notice to emphasise the deadly danger of visiting the rectory.

  ‘But we can’t get rid of them! They just keep coming back.’

  ‘We are in the process of trialling a heat treatment but for the moment this is our best weapon in the war against the vermin.’

  I take a puff on my cigar and shield my eyes with my hands.

  ‘Isn’t the rectory considered a crime scene? Are the police finished with their investigations?’

  The smug bloke and the housemaid turn to me. She shrugs her shoulders. He pokes his tongue out again and contorts his sweaty face into a grimace.

  ‘And who in the hell are you?’

  I clench my fists and squint at the supervisor. One decent right at the opportune moment and the bastard would bite his tongue clean in half. I smile. I widen my stance by a couple of centimetres.

  ‘I was a good friend of Gabrielsson. Who ordered the fumigation?’

  ‘The city takes care of its inhabitants.’

  ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

  His tongue pokes out like a bloody moray eel. My mouth is full of saliva.

  Hefty bloke.

  I peer over my shoulder to see where Hasse is. He is crouching next to Dixie, red in the face and having trouble breathing in the heat. I told him to be quiet because of the splitting headache that has been harassing me for the past half-hour. It’s happening more often. Hope nothing is broken in there. Life plays pranks on a bloke sometimes but that would be too bloody unfair.

  ‘The inspector heard about our problem when he was here and was kind enough to see to it that we got another fumigation,’ says the housemaid. ‘This is our second in a short time.’

  Her eyes dart from side to side before she looks down at her black patent-leather shoes.

  ‘Berglund?’ I ask.

  ‘A very considerate gentleman.’

  The image of the Detective Chief Inspector’s grinning face flashes into my splitting skull. It doesn’t help. The last time he brought me in for interrogation was November. He left me to stew with two screws in some sort of meeting room. I remember staring at the table while I waited for him to arrive. Some of Berglund’s belongings were laid out on it. I can’t recall what they were but it feels important that I rememb
er.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger and scrunch my eyes closed.

  A gas token… a few coins… maybe a bunch of keys? Damn it! This heat has given me memory loss.

  When I open my eyes I see a police car creep up the road. Maybe it’s the Detective Chief Inspector on a return visit. I nod a quick goodbye, turn my back to the Volvo and signal to Hasse to follow me. I dry my sweaty hat band with my handkerchief. Dixie’s tongue is flapping like a rag and she is panting vigorously.

  ‘I think I remember there being a pump in God’s garden,’ I say, pointing.

  A handwritten notice on the door announces that the church is closed. My eyes wander over the brown, scorched lawn and gravestones. I hear the faint hum of an engine on Katarinavägen, a bird warbling somewhere. The dead are silent in their graves.

  The old pump handle squeaks, slicing through my ear drums, then a couple of mouthfuls of rust-coloured water cough out into Hasse’s cupped hands. Dixie laps it up loudly.

  ‘Maybe Kvisten should talk to the caretaker?’

  Hasse gestures with a nod of his broad chin. Farther down towards Tjärhovsgatan a stooped old man is walking along with a weeding fork.

  ‘What the hell is that fossil supposed to know about it?’

  ‘Worth a try?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?’

  ‘Where are we going now?’

  I light a fresh cigar from the old one, take off my hat and use it to fan my face. I signal to the lad to pick up Dixie. I stroll down the slope with both in tow. Might be worth a try.

  The old man is dressed in a grubby linen shirt. His face is sunburnt and flakes of skin are dotted beneath his eyes like white salt deposits. He gently chews a plug of tobacco and spits brown-tinged gob on the scorched grass at regular intervals.

  ‘The only moisture it gets. And they say Women’s Week is supposed to be rainy.’

  He stamps his spit with his worn shoes as if to press the water into the earth. Dust flies around his feet. I wedge the cigar in my mouth, find my wallet and remove the elasticated strap.

  ‘They’re fumigating the rectory now.’

  ‘Lice and fleas should be left in peace. They suck poison out of the body and keep you healthy.’

  ‘Speaking of casualties…’

  I leaf through the receipts and find a fiver.

  ‘I wondered if you might consider talking to me.’

  The old man squints at us.

  ‘I was the one who raised the alarm.’

  I look up again and raise my eyebrows. It doesn’t take long for my aching brain to snap into action despite the heat. The strap closes back around the leather wallet with a snap.

  ‘An inquiry of this magnitude takes time.’ I wet the nib of my aniline pen with my tongue and turn to an empty page in my notebook instead. The caretaker stares at Hasse. I cough. ‘This bloke’s here to carry the dog. It was her birthday yesterday. So you were the one who found Gabrielsson?’

  The caretaker gives Hasse another look but then turns to me.

  ‘When I came to work. The rector had fixed habits. He was up with the rooster and balanced it out with a nap before supper.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who is the Rooster?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Who is this person you call Rooster?’

  ‘It’s just what people say. Because they crow at dawn.’

  ‘Surely you don’t keep fowl in the rectory, for God’s sake?’

  I look at the caretaker. He shifts his weight. He’s hiding something. Maybe I’ll have no choice but to beat it out of him with one of his own damn chickens.

  ‘I would never… I didn’t know it was a crime.’

  ‘When did you find the rector?’

  ‘Soon after eight.’

  ‘Then what did you do?’

  ‘Ran to the rectory as fast as my legs could carry me.’

  ‘Who was there?’

  ‘Only Karin.’

  ‘The housemaid? And did you see anyone else? Anyone who might have seen anything?’

  ‘Who lays their hand on a man of God that way?’

  The old man sniffs. I look up from my notebook.

  ‘Sometimes people can’t help it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Too drunk, fists too quick, it happens.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Inspector?’

  ‘Forget it. Well? No glimpse of someone else who might have seen something?’

  ‘No one. But that afternoon I found the holes and the earth.’

  ‘Blimey, what a discovery.’

  ‘I reckon it’s the Bumpkin.’

  ‘Is that a saying too?’

  ‘Everyone here in Söder knows the Bumpkin. The fisherman! Haven’t you heard? His son was the first to throw himself from Väster Bridge.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  The caretaker wipes the sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve and continues.

  ‘Last year, soon after it opened. Split in two when he hit the water, so they say.’

  Memories of the inauguration of Väster Bridge make me shudder.

  ‘Enlighten me about the Bumpkin and the holes and the earth. What does this all mean?’

  ‘He started showing up last spring. Said that maggots make the best bait. I shooed him away of course, but lately holes have started showing up here and there in the cemetery.’

  I look around. The gold lettering on the gravestones glimmers in the sun.

  ‘I think he sneaks around and digs before I can catch him,’ he goes on.

  My fingers pinch hard on the pages of the notebook in my hands.

  ‘And you found new holes on the same day as you found Gabrielsson?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘A fisherman did you say? Where might I find him?’

  ‘Oh, he won’t have any fixed address. He doesn’t have much of anything. But he does have a brother who has put up a shooting range tent over by the Rosenlund shelters.’

  MONDAY 20 JULY

  Five minutes later I am sitting in the shade of a willow tree in Björn’s Garden Park with my back to the new milk bar. A duck is quacking its way down the stone steps leading to the park with a gaggle of half-grown ducklings tumbling after. The paddling pool is full of naked little kids and toy boats with white sails. The whippersnappers splash through the syrupy water, the sun is at its zenith, and drops of water glitter on their skin like mother-of-pearl in the bright light. If this pool had been here before I would have brought my Ida. Let the little tyke splash around and get clean in one go.

  The trees portion out sun and shade across the park. Stooped workers are gathered in one shady corner, bent under the weight of poverty, as if their hammers and shovels were still pulling their shoulders down.

  A man stands beside them. He is dressed entirely in black despite the heat but has a white panama hat on his head. He is squinting at me with small eyes either side of a potato nose. As soon as I make eye contact he looks away and gives up his place in the shade.

  Hasse is sitting on the bottom step with his feet in the water. I share a couple of hot dogs with Dixie. Her pleading eyes shine out from under her long fringe. I give her another bite and scratch behind her ear. She needs a haircut.

  ‘The Bumpkin with the maggots.’

  I mumble out loud to myself as I watch Blind-Pyttan the street singer walking along with a little girl as escort. The Bumpkin’s brother’s shooting gallery isn’t too far away, and with a little luck I should be able to get hold of the fisherman before evening. Fishermen are creatures of habit, each with their own favourite spot along the shores and harbours. If I can get the brother to talk there shouldn’t be any problem.

  I am close now; I am getting the scent. Soon Gabrielsson’s murderer will lie at my feet and I will be blowing smoke from the barrel of my Husqvarna. It’s important to stay stylish, even when the job in hand is cold-blooded
murder.

  Something flutters inside me. God knows what.

  The girl leads Blind-Pyttan into the park and situates her under one of the pear trees on the other side of the pool. The singer is wearing dark glasses and a large sun hat with a drooping brim. The summer revellers sitting on the benches across from me go quiet and twist their bodies to face her. Parents hush their children and the noise subsides, for everyone in Söder knows that Blind-Pyttan’s God-given voice can melt even the coldest man’s heart and bring women to tears.

  The street singer begins and her clear voice shimmers out into the greenery. It is quite an old song that I recall from my childhood but I don’t remember the name.

  I could hold a tune as a child, before cigars, coal dust and schnapps robbed me of my voice. I don’t remember it personally but people told me that my singing was so beautiful it broke my grandma’s heart.

  After the death of my twin brother she became decrepit and developed cancer in every limb, but continued clinging on to life for some reason. Nobody understood why she chose to remain a burden. I was dressed in a little waistcoat and driven out of the poorhouse where I had stayed for the past six months. They put me at the edge of her bed and I sang ‘Children of the Heavenly Father’. She smiled and died. Everyone praised me for my efforts and I got a butterscotch in payment. They said I should become a musician.

  Well, that sure as hell didn’t happen.

  And after that I had no one to call family.

  I open a porter, take a swig, pour some into a cupped hand and hold it out to Dixie. Her rough tongue tickles my palm.

  ‘In honour of your big day. Belatedly.’

  I pour some more while watching a newspaper vendor. The youth, twenty-something, works his way through the throng of people to the short side of the pool. His hair is in a well-combed wave across his forehead and he has strong shoulders and arms. He passes another lad who is lazily practising blowing smoke rings, then walks past some kids in sailor uniforms before he nods at a bloke who is holding up his hand. I smack my lips, shake the last drops of beer from my sticky hand and take a swig from the bottle. Dixie whines for more.