Anger Mode (2 page)

A
UTUMN 2009
C
HAPTER 1

THE INTERCITY X2000 train from Gothenburg to Stockholm was heavily delayed. Bror Lantz, who had been looking forward to a relaxing trip in first class, was starting to feel disturbed and irritated by the chaos that reigned on the delayed express train. The coffee he drank directly after leaving Gothenburg was a foul-tasting budget brand. Several toilets were out of order, and matters did not improve when even more toilets broke down during the trip to Stockholm. The new vacuum-based sewage disposal system was clearly substandard. Irritated at having to stand at the back of a line of nearly ten metres to queue for one of the few remaining toilets, he recalled yesterday’s seminar on the criminal justice system.

He had started to resent his adversaries within the profession, something he had never done before. Mostly, he shrugged his shoulders at their cacophony and instead argued for his own causes, but during the train journey he had a growing feeling that certain forces within the Justice Department were running a conspiracy against him. The day before the seminar in Gothenburg, the Chief Magistrate of the Stockholm District Court had voiced his intention, “off the record”, to relieve Bror of his position as a judge in the court. And had this process not
de facto
been in motion ever since the rumours had started? The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that it was actually what was happening to him.

That Bror was unconventional was no news to him or to anyone else. Through the years, he had been in stormy seas many times because of his liberal point of view. In particular, because of his interpretation of the court sentencing guidelines, which he believed were excessively conservative and counter-productive. But for someone to start slanderous witchhunts against him was something new. His irritation grew at the same pace as this realization.

His mobile phone rang several times, but he did not answer – except for one time, when it was Elsa, his wife. She was disturbed about something, but Bror ended the call abruptly by saying that the train was delayed and that she could eat dinner without him. Unless there was a death in the family, she could wait until he came home. Then he immediately turned off the phone.

As Bror disembarked onto the platform in Stockholm, he felt neither joy nor relief at reaching his destination, just a universal irritation, especially at the people around him. He truly despised mankind and all it stood for at this moment. Everything was one vast, slow torture filled with the smells and voices of people crowding around him.

Bror pushed his way roughly between an elderly couple that he thought was walking too slowly. The old lady fell to the ground, but Bror continued on without apologizing or even turning around. His bad temper transformed into anger as he approached the taxi rank.

OJO MADUEKWE ALWAYS woke up before the alarm clock rang – except for today. From the clock radio, Eva Dahlgren’s husky voice sang the hit “I’m Not in Love with You” and Ojo regained only sufficient consciousness to press the snooze button as the song was ending. He turned over and burrowed his head in the pillow again. Just as sleep was regaining its hold on him, he pulled himself together and got out of bed. He stayed sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at yesterday’s pile of clothes on the floor, and he yawned. His mouth tasted like used cat litter, and his head throbbed to the sound of the traffic outside the window.

He stood up and stumbled towards the window, pulling up the blinds and squinting out at the afternoon dusk. Everything seemed normal and the taxi was still parked outside. Three months without a break-in attempt. Even the bedroom was as it should be. The only thing that testified to yesterday was a glass of water on the night table.

He tried to retrieve any memory about how or when he got back home. After spending a short while searching his memory, he gave up. The only thing he recollected from the office party was that he had danced and drunk more in one evening than he normally did in one year.

Ojo retrieved a newly ironed shirt from the wardrobe. The socks and trousers from yesterday, however, would be good enough for today. He put on his jacket and the black ordinary shoes, turned off the hall light, and locked the door behind him.

The throbbing in his head had quietened slightly and he no longer felt quite as hung over. However, he was very hungry. He stopped at the pizzeria on Finn Malmgren Square. The Turks who owned it gave taxi drivers a thirty per cent discount.

After finishing his meal, he went back to the taxi. Only a few minutes passed before he received his first fare. On the data display, he read:

Pickup: Wahlbergsgatan 12, Segervall

Drop off: City Terminal

He turned the taxi meter on so that the minimum fare was added. The couple that climbed into the taxi was in their twenties. Ojo asked if they were going to the City Terminal, even though he already knew the answer. The man confirmed it with an indifferent mumble.

After dropping off the couple, Ojo parked at the Terminal’s taxi rank. The electronic taxi system was as dead as the desert outside his home village and he was far back in the cyber-queue. Few ordered a taxi at this hour, so he put his hope in taxi rank pick-ups instead.

An independent from Kurdistan was in front of him in the rank. He knew who that guy was – a hustler who would charge two thousand crowns to Arlanda airport from the city. Rip-offs gave the taxi industry a bad reputation, especially with the tourists who were often treated badly by some of the independents. A rape also contributed to their bad reputation – even though the police had caught the guilty taxi driver. Unfortunately, anyone could drive a taxi. It did not matter if they were con artists or rapists, as long as they were taxpayers.

It was six-twenty and Ojo had still not got any fares at the taxi rank. Impatience – but, most of all, stress from not getting any cash – crept over him. At this rank, he was not going to get rich. Perhaps it was worth taking a chance that there were customers down by the nearby taxi rank on Vasagatan.

Ojo swung into that taxi rank and had only two taxis in front of him in the queue. The first car disappeared with a woman in high leather boots. The next car moved forwards. There was a short pause in the stream of customers and the driver in front of Ojo took the opportunity to get out of his car. He leaned against the car’s front wing and was just about to light a cigarette when a man came up to him. Some words were exchanged and Ojo saw the taxi driver point out Ojo’s taxi. The tall man took some quick steps in Ojo’s direction. He opened the passenger door, threw in a flight bag, and then sat down behind Ojo.

“I assume you’re free,” began the man in an unfriendly tone.

“Yes, I am,” Ojo answered cordially as he looked for the owner of the unpleasant voice in his rearview mirror.

“Drive to Täby,” ordered the man.

Ojo shifted into gear and started to roll slowly away from the train-station forecourt.

“What’s the address?” inquired Ojo and tried to catch the eye of the man in the rearview mirror. As he got only evasive glances, he started to punch “Täby” into the sat-nav.

“You don’t have to bother with the address in that sat-nav,” said the man in a hard voice. “Our little street seems to have been overlooked by the map company. I will give you directions when we get close.”

“Okay, it’s your money and your decision,” said Ojo, while turning onto Vasagatan.

The afternoon rush hour had subsided and Ojo could safely zigzag between cars in the sparse Stockholm traffic. The light dusk spatter had turned into a rainy shower, and umbrella-less people were hurrying along the pavement. The car’s wipers were sweeping with increasing frequency. The squeak from the rubber blades relentlessly scraping against the windshield cut through the car cabin.

The man in the back seat was pressing his hands over his ears and the shirt under his jacket was soaked with sweat. He ripped open the top buttons in an attempt to dispel the heat from his body.

“Drive up Sveavägen and into Roslagstull,” he hissed impatiently. His breathing became heavier as he rocked backwards and forwards.

Ojo caught a glimpse of the man’s face in the rearview mirror. He felt the car rock in sync with the passenger’s movements in the rear seat.

“Aren’t you feeling well?” asked Ojo, with all the courtesy he could muster.

“Don’t bother yourself about that. Just do as I say!” roared the man.

Ojo flinched. Despite the man’s unpleasant behaviour, Ojo stood his ground. He could be sick. Ojo had made emergency detours to the hospital too many times and knew when someone was genuinely unwell. Involuntary anger can come from suppressed pain. Ojo had driven all sorts: from screaming, pregnant mothers halfway to childbirth to stocky, two-metre giants whining and rolling around like small kids from the pain of a gallstone. This looked as if it would develop into another emergency trip to one of the hospitals. He wondered what sort of pain the man was in. Hardly gallstones and definitely not childbirth. Perhaps it was a panic attack – or that mental fatigue everyone is talking about and that only seems to exist in Western society. They did not have these problems in Nigeria – only HIV and malnutrition unless, of course, corruption is also classed as a health problem.

“Shall we go to the A&E at Karolinska instead?” asked Ojo in a steady, calm voice. “You don’t sound or look especially healthy.”

“No, you will drive to Täby. Can you manage that?” The man shouted his answer.

Ojo made eye contact with the man in the rearview mirror and saw how his facial muscles had tensed. It was as if he had an aura of rage cloaking him. Pierced by the man’s coal-black eyes, Ojo began to feel a creeping uneasiness. The steering wheel was sticky from his sweating hand and his heart beat like a bongo drum.

“Either we’re going to the Karolinska A&E or I’m stopping the car and you can get out,” he explained with as much authority as he was able to muster.

The ultimatum was given.

Ojo pulled over and parked, with the engine still running. He turned around to confront the man in the back seat and saw with some surprise that he was pulling his leather belt out of his suit trousers.

“Shut up and drive!” roared the man as he suddenly grabbed Ojo’s neck rest with one hand.

Ojo backed down. He instinctively wanted to throw himself out of the car, but then his fear instantly changed to anger. He should not be the one running away. It was his car and his livelihood. He removed his seat belt and was just about to open the car door when he felt the man’s belt around his neck. Before he could get a hand between his neck and the belt, the man had pulled it tight.

Ojo could not get any air. He desperately tried to reach the man in the back seat, but he was trapped, locked in his own seat. He lashed out with his arms and finally managed to grasp one of the man’s hands. Ojo twisted towards the man’s wrist and tried to pull the hand away, but it seemed to be riveted to the leather belt. He stretched for the door handle again, but could not move out of the seat. Alarm turned into panic as the lack of air quickly weakened Ojo. An enormous pressure was growing in his ribcage. It felt as if it was going to explode.

BROR LANTZ PUSHED his knees against the back of the driving seat to get a firm grip. He did not know why he had taken off his trouser belt, nor why he wanted to strangle the driver with such a deadly passion. Quite simply, it felt good and, in some way, like a rebirth. As if a safety valve had been opened at the same moment as the pain in his head went away. Each muscle was tensed to breaking point now, a paradox that he normally would have pondered over – but not now. The harder he pulled, the less the knives cut in his head.

Ojo was ready to let go. The pressure in his chest had disappeared and, instead, he was filled with calm. It was a safe and overwhelming feeling. But then, for a short instant, he regained his senses and was back in the cold darkness. His body screamed with the pain, but he was not ready to die yet.

With a final, all-out effort, he got his arm to the gear stick. His hand shook with nerve spasms as he pushed the button lock and pressed the gear stick backwards. It was as heavy as lead. At the same time, he tried to reach the accelerator with his foot. Even though his leg was shaking, he managed to push the pedal to the floor with his last ounce of strength. The engine raced and the taxi shot with reckless speed across the road into the oncoming traffic.

Bror lost his balance and fell against his flight bag. He tried to regain his balance while fumbling for the belt. He had not yet silenced the driver.

Ojo’s final exertion had drained him of any strength. He collapsed over the steering wheel.

As Bror managed to sit up in the back seat, he saw that the taxi he was sitting in was driving headlong into an oncoming vehicle. The airbag exploded in Ojo’s face and his head was thrown backwards with lethal force.

Dazed, Bror got himself out of the demolished taxi. The engine had stopped running and a deep, ghostly silence reigned over the car. The front of the taxi was bent inwards all the way to the wheel arches. Oil and radiator coolant was spreading over the ground.

Bror curled up on the ground next to what was left of the taxi and gazed bewilderedly about him. The rage he recently had felt within himself had disappeared. It was as if it had never existed. Suddenly, his stomach muscles cramped, in a vomit reflex. He threw himself on his side and coughed up the contents of his stomach while the tears welled up inside him. He did not want this. He had done nothing wrong. It was not his fault that this had happened. The driver would not be silent, he …