Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel (15 page)

Agnes pales a shade. “He said that?”

“Exactly that,” Lena says. “And more.”

“That’s unbelievable.”

“Then he tried to take my gun. Maybe he thought I didn’t have the guts to shoot, or perhaps he hoped he’d be faster than I was. He almost succeeded. I was distracted by the fighting in the other room, and I almost lost hold of my pistol when he made a grab for it. I tried to shove him away, but he was frantic. He even bit my hand.” She holds up her right hand and points at a pale curved line below her little finger.

“When that didn’t work,” Lena continues, “he tried to punch me but lost his balance. We stumbled around the room, fighting over the gun. Right when the pistol happens to point at his head, he manages to hook his thumb inside the trigger guard and pull the trigger. The gun went off, right into his mouth.”

Agnes raises her hands to her mouth. “So that’s why,” she whispers.

“Why what?”

“Why they call you that name.
Bag lady.
They mean a body bag?”

Lena nods, unsurprised by how fast Agnes made the connection. “It’s strange how those with no sense of humour always are the loudest. But there’s more. And this is where I need you to believe me.” She leans forward. “When he was shot, a spasm went through him, and he pulled the trigger again. I couldn’t stop him. His thumb was stuck, and he was flailing like a ragdoll on strings.”

“He was shot more than once?” Agnes asks.

“Four times. My colleague tried to revive him, but my – the first shot took most of the man’s neck with it.”

Agnes looks down at her untouched tea. “What happened then?” she asks.

“Standard procedure. I briefed the others, called in to report, and bagged the gun. Our backup arrived, and the other men were arrested. Apparently the shots made them give up. The helicopter finally came and took me back to the office, where I did the paperwork and slept on a couch. Enter five years of fretting bosses and nice nicknames. Gren is stuck between blaming me for the disaster and feeling sorry for me.”

A long silence settles in the kitchen. The two women look at each other while the wind pushes against the window. Agnes looks devastated, which catches Lena off guard; she had expected disgust or disbelief. That had been easier to deal with. Compassion always left her embarrassed and flustered.

Agnes shakes her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s no need to say anything,” Lena says. “But I can see you have questions. Ask them.”

Agnes opens and closes her mouth several times. “Is this why you work so hard?” she asks. “Does it help with the memories?”

Lena shakes her head and pokes at a non-existent spot on the table. “I do my job because I want to help. It’s that simple. But you’re right, in a way; I’ve done longer shifts and slept less since that night, because I need to keep busy.”

Agnes peers at Lena. “You want to make amends,” she says softly. “You’re wearing yourself thin because you feel guilty.”

“Of course I’m guilty,” Lena snaps. “I screwed up and shot a man. There are no excuses. And yes,” she adds, “the reason I want to catch John is to stop him from damning himself too.”

Agnes shakes her head. “Damnation is intent, to hurt on purpose. Or so I choose to believe. But even the best of people make mistakes, and what happened to you was an accident.”

“I lost control,” Lena says. “That’s not an accident. There was a moment when I should have reined myself in, but I didn’t. I was too furious.”

Frowning, Lena clears her throat. She wonders how much of her thoughts she wants to share. Talking to Agnes is unsettlingly easy, and the urge to share is almost overwhelming. At least those parts she is willing to discuss.

“All I can do now,” Lena continues, “is try to stop other people from repeating my mistake. Few realise how steep and slippery the slope is. If a similar thing happens to me again, I’d–” She grimaces and looks away. “It would definitely get me fired, and probably leave me in an asylum.”

“And would not finding John in time be such a mistake?” Agnes asks.

Still looking away, Lena nods. “I can’t let that happen. Saving him won’t change my past, but it’s my only road ahead.”

After a long moment, Lena sighs and turns back to face Agnes. “You needed to know,” she says, “so you can decide if you still want to work together with me.”

“Of course I do.” Agnes pauses. “I just wish there was something I could do to help you.”

Lena shrugs. “You listen. That’s a lot right there. And you don’t call me names, at least not to my face.”

“I’d never–”

“I know.” Lena yawns. “But now you know why I see a psychologist, why Gren is concerned, and why he thinks it’s a good idea that I waste time sleeping instead of doing my job.”

Agnes sits still and watches the table. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“It’s not about what you told me now.”

“Just ask.”

“I’ve noticed that you always switch off the water coolers when you’re in the conference rooms, but I’ve never asked why?”

“Ah.” Lena puts her elbows on the table and rests her face in her hands. “In fact, that is related to what I told you. It’s the sound. That thick, awful gurgle the air bubbles inside the canister make when you tap water from it.”

“You don’t like that noise?”

“That’s exactly how the man in the house sounded when he died.” Lena makes a grimace. “A great cough of blood, beer and bile before he stopped breathing. That bastard. I wish I were religious, because then I’d know where he’d be right now.”

Lena stands up and pushes her chair back. “I need to sleep. You can take my car, but if you don’t want to drive home, there’s a sofa in the living room. Push whatever is on it down on the floor. There are blankets in the wardrobe in the hallway.”

Agnes stands up too. “I’ll go. I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”

“If you end up in a pile-up on the highway, then you’d be an inconvenience. And I’d be mad at you, too. It’s your call. See you tomorrow.”

Lena locks herself inside the bathroom and exhales. After a moment in the dark, she flicks the switch and blinks in the white glare. Her reflection makes her shudder. Her eyes are bloodshot, her skin pasty. There are crumbs of bread at the corners of her mouth.

She brushes her teeth, rinses her face, and presses a towel against her cheeks, wondering if anyone ever truly feels as if their thoughts race. Hers never do. The more tired or stressed she is, the slower her brain works.

Lena pauses in front of the bathroom mirror and studies herself in the unforgiving light. Speaking silently, she lets her mouth form the lies she told Agnes a few minutes earlier. The words come with ease. They have been well rehearsed. Practise makes perfect.

Agnes deserves better, but she cannot lose the woman’s trust. Not before John is brought in. She needs Agnes and the woman’s eagerness and ambition, so once again, she has to twist part of her past into a plausible story. A wrong to make a right.

She turns out the light, walks to the bed, and lies down. Less than a minute later, Lena sleeps.

In Lena’s living room, Agnes carefully moves Lena’s crumpled clothes and fitness magazines from the short leather sofa onto the floor. When the sofa is visible, she lies down and waits for Lena to fall asleep.

The screen of snow outside the window makes the light on the ceiling wave and flutter. Across the room is the television set’s standby light, a distant blue star in the near-dark. The wind is an urgent whistle.

When Agnes has not heard a sound from Lena for half an hour, she cautiously rises from the sofa, pausing at every creak of leather, and pads quietly into Lena’s bedroom.

Lena is asleep, lying on her side with her legs pulled up and her hands crossed over her stomach. Her eyes flutter and dart behind her eyelids. She is still dressed. On a bedside table is a textbook on criminal profiling, a mobile phone manual, and a bird watching guide. A low bookshelf is half-filled with workout magazines and newspapers. A thick grey curtain hides a large window.

Agnes looks around the room and takes in its bare blue walls, the pale wooden floor. A heavy security lock is mounted on the window. Goosebumps cover Lena’s wrists; even though the small radiator under the window is hot, the room is cool, almost cold.

Taking care not to wake her, Agnes spreads a blanket over Lena and stands back. For several minutes, she stands still and watches Lena sleep while winter pushes at the window.

Agnes starts to cry. Sobbing mutedly, she hugs herself as her tears fall on the blanket she has placed over Lena. She watches the bright red minutes on Lena’s alarm clock tick away, one by one.

When a door slams far away, she starts and dries her face with her hands. When the tears have stopped and her face is dry, she leans down over Lena, hesitates, and kisses the nape of Lena’s neck.

Lena sighs, mumbles, and smiles in her sleep.

Agnes shivers and bites her lip. She makes sure the blanket covers Lena’s hands, slowly rises from the bed, and leaves the apartment.

*

John

John wakes up screaming.

He sits bolt upright and finds himself in a meadow some fifty steps wide. The echo of his scream dwindles away while he looks down at the damp grass. At his sides is a different kind of wall: trees, old and thick, huddled together. Miriam crouches close to his side. The light from her lantern is weak, but much better than the midnight beyond its glow.

“I dreamt,” John whispers.

Only the sensations of his dream remain. There had been a woman whose warm presence engulfed him, and somehow, she had disappeared, been taken from him. Two emotions ring in him: a great love and an even greater loss. Then the cold had found him again and forced him to run.

His escape had been narrow. Next time, he might be too slow, and he knows the cold will come again.

“I can’t take this anymore.” John takes off his beanie, runs his hands through his hair, and stares at the wall. “I’m serious. I could have died in there. I know I must go on, but there’ll only be more traps, more madness.”

Miriam squeezes his shoulder. “You came through alive. That’s what matters. Now we must go on. We haven’t got long.”

“This is a forest,” John notes. “It’s not where I woke up.”

“You woke here this time because you rose higher. Which is great,” she adds. “From the woods, it’s a matter of making it out. You broke free from the cell below when you went up.”

John shakes his head. “I went down,” he says. “I fell through a painting in my dream.”

Miriam nods and grimaces impatiently. “This place is not particular about relative directions, so to say.”

“What?”

“Your up is another one’s down, your escape someone else’s entrance. Yes? It’s what you do that matters, and right now, that should be running. The jailer of said cell is still after you.”

“Wait.” Still breathing hard, John stares at the canopy above him. “Why art?” he asks. All the canvases and brushes I saw. Am I a painter?”

“Do you feel like one?”

“I feel tired, frightened, and hungry. Beyond that, it’s a blur.” He pauses. “But I suppose I could’ve been an artist. It sounds like a good job.”

Miriam laughs softly. “You were always an artist, you idiot. Even back in school. Your drawings were loved, saved, kept close.”

John glances at Miriam. “Are you sure?”

“But you never understood.” Miriam sighs. “You’d no idea of your potential. In your defence, few people have, but you in particular were a sun believing itself a barren moon. That’s why you got so much flak. Envy always snaps at passion’s heels. Sometimes, jealousy eats its prey whole.”

“Very poetic.”

“Thank you.” She frowns. “Was that sarcasm?” she asks. “If so, that’s good. Snark is a sure sign of sanity.”

John peers at Miriam. She wears her hat pulled down low, just above her eyes, and tilts her head slightly when she speaks. When she stands still, she crosses her feet and sways slightly, as if bending in a wind.

It is a habit of hers. Sometimes, she loses her balance and trips herself. On a break in his old school yard, he had once helped her up after a fall, brushed the snow off her jacket, looked at her face, and fallen in love. He had been fourteen years old.

“You’re Miriam Gustavsson,” he says. “I was in high school. You were one year below me, and your family lived five houses away. Your mum used to wave at me from your kitchen window.” He pauses. “I was crazy about you for years. Long after you moved, even. And now you’re here again.”

Miriam looks at John while concern fights the playfulness in her face.

“Although,” John says quietly, “I guess you’re not really here.”

“Hey.” Miriam takes his hand in hers. “For all it matters, I am here. And I’m tasked with getting you out.”

“Why you?”

“I’m your first great crush.” Miriam grins and makes a small curtsy. “Your second, too. Your third, fourth, and so on. I am all your careful glances, those longing thoughts, the letters and emails you never sent.”

John is silent. “I don’t understand.”

“I am many,” Miriam says and spreads her arms wide. “Your legion of lovers you had, or didn’t have. All the ones who gave you hope. And on this particular night, I’m your personal guiding star.”

John shakes his head and files away Miriam’s explanation for later investigation. “I dreamt of another woman,” he says. “I loved her. I think I still do.” He looks up. “Is it her I’m going back to find?” he asks. “Is she waiting for me up there?”

Miriam’s face grows still. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That woman is only here now. And unless we hurry, she will vanish.”

“Do we have to run again?” John looks around while a current of air tugs at his hair. He is sure there had been no wind a moment ago.

“You’re close to the exit,” Miriam says. “It will make a last effort to keep you here. Trust nothing you see.”

“It?” John asks, then hears the song: long, jagged tones fused into a disjointed tune, carried up from the depth by the wind.

The voice under the lake is coming for him.

*