Never Fuck Up: A Novel (25 page)

Dad told his story. With pauses. Disjointed. Broken.

Finally, Mahmud understood what’d happened.

They’d been there.

Three guys. Dad’d opened the door. They’d handed him a plastic bag. And they’d told him something like, “Your son’s in the shit. If he messes with us, we’ll crush you.”

In the bag: the head of a pig.

For his dad. A religious man.

Impossible to fall asleep. Mahmud was twisting and turning six million times. A single thought in his head: he had to find Wisam Jibril.

He opened his eyes. Stood in front of the window. Looked out at the street through the curtains. Remembered his first showdowns with spitballs when he was seven years old. Him, Babak, and another
blatte
soon figured out that spitballs were for wusses. Moved on to slingshots, blowguns, and throwing stars. Once, Babak accidentally blew a staple that hit a girl in his class in the eye. The chick lost sight in her left eye. The racist teachers put Babak in special ed.

It was two o’clock. The sky would brighten soon.

This wasn’t working. He had to do something.

An hour later, he was walking down Tegnérgatan. Hadn’t borrowed a car. Had ridden the night bus into the city, jazzed like a speed junkie. Was going to wake up John Ballénius—was gonna whip that fucker until he told him where he could find Jibril.

The entrance to the building was locked. Of course. Even though nothing dangerous happened downtown, all the Svens had to have key codes on their buildings. Why were they so fucking scared of everything?

He walked back and forth on the street for a while. Two people
were winding their way home. He let them pass. Picked up a loose cobblestone. Like working out at Fitness Center. Dragged it over to the building’s entrance. Threw it through the glass. Damn, the crash was loud. Hoped he only woke up half the building. He reached his hand in, opened the door.

Walked up to Ballénius’s door. Rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. The old guy was obviously sleeping.

Rang the doorbell again. Silence. No rattling sound from a door chain. No one shuffling around in there.

Rang the bell for a third time. For a long time.

Totally dead.

Cunt Ballénius didn’t seem to be home.

Mahmud considered: pros versus cons. He could try to break in. See if he could find anything that might lead him to Jibril. On the other hand: if the Ballénius fucker was out at a bar and was planning on coming home soon, he’d see that his apartment had been broken in to. Could call the cops, who’d be there in two minutes.

That wouldn’t work. The risk of tripping up was too big.

But his next idea was better: the other front man never seemed to be home. Mahmud’d waited outside his house for almost a day and a half. Even paid some kids to ring the guy’s doorbell once an hour. Nada.

Sweet. He could do that. Break into Rantzell’s house. Pocket some leads.

This was the first time since they’d crashed the party that he’d felt okay. The king was on the move again. The Yugos’ new darling would make his grand entrance. He called for a cab—worth spending some of his hard-gathered stash. Had it drive him back to Fittja. Down in the basement. Got his crowbar. Back to Elsa Brändströms Street in the same cab. Wham-bam.

The time: four-thirty. It was light out. Desolate. He tested the door to the building. It was open. What luck. Shouldn’t they be more scared about break-ins here in the crap suburbs than downtown on Tegnérgatan?

It said
Rantzell
on a paper slip on a door. Mahmud peeked in through the mail slot. Saw a hall. Should he ring the doorbell? No, others in the building might hear. Might get suspicious. He picked up the crowbar. Ran his hand along the door to find a good place to shove it in. The door moved. It was open. Weirdish.

Was Claes Rantzell at home? Didn’t he lock the door? Mahmud slid into the apartment.

Closed the door quickly behind him. Inside: the stench swept over him. Rotten meat. Shit. Junkie crash-pad fumes. He almost threw up. Pulled his sweatshirt up over his nose. Tried to breathe through his mouth. Who lived like this?

Enough light in the apartment so that he didn’t have to flip any switches. He called out. Not a sound in response.

In the hall: a couple of worn-out black shoes and two jackets. Flyers and mail on the floor. Mahmud remembered not to touch anything with his fingers. To the right was a kitchen, straight ahead was a living room, to the left a bedroom.

First the kitchen. Unwashed plates and cutlery, the sink brown with dirt. A packet of Jozo salt was standing next to an empty milk carton. The kitchen table was covered in bags, ravioli cans, beer bottles, and glasses. On the floor: old cigarette cartons, paper, a carpet that was so dirty that he couldn’t tell what color it really was. What kind of a pigsty was this, anyway? Dig the irony: the guy’s company was listed as the owner of a Bentley. Mahmud opened the cupboards. Almost empty, except for a few glasses and two pots.

Then the living room: a leather couch and a leather armchair. Kind of like Babak’s place. Two paintings on the wall. One was of a shorthaired boy with a tear in his eye. The other looked more like a photo: some army general or something. A couple of shelves filled with old encyclopedias, a dozen paperbacks, and velvet cushions with lots of medals pinned on them. Ugly. A TV, a VHS player, and a dried-up cactus in the window. The living room gave Claes Rantzell away: four or five beer bottles, two wine bottles, half a bottle of whiskey, a handle of vodka. The guy was a boozehound.

Mahmud didn’t touch the shit. There wasn’t time. He wanted to get out of there quick. Pulled his sweatshirt sleeves down over his hands. Tore the books out of the bookshelf just to take a quick look. Nothing hidden there.

Finally, the bedroom. Double bed. The junkie seemed to live alone—only one pillow. Dirty. Stained comforter. Yellowish sheets. An oriental rug on the floor that had to be fake. A mirror on the ceiling. Porn magazines open on the nightstand: a chick blowing one guy, jerking off another, and getting pissed on by a third. Mahmud approached the closet. There had to be something interesting somewhere. Inside: jeans, shirts, drawers with underwear and socks. A wooden box. He opened it.

Freakshow. Whose house’d he come to, the chairman of the
Sodomite Association? Chock-full of sex toys. Dildos—veiny super cocks—Anal Intruder, a strap-on, a leather leash, a riding whip, a couple of thin chains, a leather mask with a zipper over the mouth, a stud choker. Some latex armor, handcuffs, a blindfold, anal beads, lubricant, a couple bottles of poppers, all kinds of oils.

Mahmud: porn watcher, pious Muslim, pornographer. Papa’s boy. Thought, This is sick.

Then he grinned. Sven men are losers.

He continued to tear through the closet. Threw out old shoes, T-shirts, bags, LP records. Finally—maybe something of value. Farthest in, attached to the wall: a small locked key cabinet. He applied the crowbar. Pulled. The cabinet cracked open. Inside: small keys that looked like bike keys. And two bigger keys. Looked like they went to padlocks.

He was feeling stressed. Even if he hadn’t seen Rantzell for a few days and the guy didn’t pick up his phone, he could come home at any moment. He grabbed the larger keys.

Stopped for a second in the hallway. What was he going to do now? Maybe the keys went somewhere. But where? He looked at them again. He recognized them. Assa Abloy. Tri-circle. Like the ones to the padlock on his locker at the gym. Like to the basement storage locker at Dad’s house. A little idea worth testing. He left the apartment.

Took the stairs up. There was no attic. Took the stairs down. The basement storage lockers were a mess. Behind the wooden boards and bars: a bunch of
Suedi
gear. Winter jackets, skis, suitcases, books, and boxes. Why didn’t they just toss this shit? Did they think they were gonna make big bucks at the Skärholmen flea market, or what?

He tried out the keys in every lock. Thoughts of Wisam Jibril were mixed with thoughts of his father. Images of Gürhan’s monster grin mixed with the heads of pigs. He felt manic. The keys just had to fit somewhere.

He tried lock after lock. After at least ten failures: one of the keys fit into a storage locker. It was half-empty in there. A rolled-up carpet, a couple of boxes. Plates in one and porn magazines in the other.

He kept trying the other key in different locks. The other one fit in the lock of the next storage locker over. He thought, Rantzell pulled an old trick—steal someone else’s empty storage locker. Mahmud went in. Lots of bags on the floor. Fuck. He looked in one of them: documents. Numbers, names of companies, letters from the tax authorities. He
didn’t have the energy to keep digging. Could it be valuable? He didn’t have the energy to think. Grabbed two bags. Walked up. Out.

The morning sun was glowing beautifully on the street.

Mahmud thought, Maybe I’m back on track.

Sunday. His cell phone clock showed one o’clock. Sweet, he’d slept for six hours. Then he remembered how they’d treated his father. And that Dad hadn’t woken him up all morning. An angel, as usual.

He thought about the night; it was hazy in his memory. What’d he achieved? A couple of bags with documents. Congrats, Twiggy. What crap.

Beshar was sitting in the kitchen. Had his usual Middle Eastern coffee with five sugar cubes in it. Murky as a mud puddle. Big, dark eyes. In Arabic, “How did you sleep?”

Mahmud hugged him.

“Abu, how did
you
sleep? It’ll be okay. No one’s gonna hurt us. I promise. Where’s Jivan?”

Beshar rapped the table with his knuckles. “She’s at a friend’s house.
Inshallah.
”

Mahmud got some juice from the fridge. A cooked chicken breast.

Dad smiled. “I know you work out, but is that really a good breakfast?”

Mahmud grinned back. His dad would never understand what it meant to build for real. Protein-rich food without an ounce of fat didn’t even figure in his world.

They sat in silence.

Beams of sun lit up the kitchen table.

Mahmud wondered what kind of person his dad could’ve been if they’d stayed in Iraq. A great man.

Then: the doorbell rang.

Mahmud saw the panic in Dad’s eyes.

His entire body was racked with anxiety. Mahmud went into the bedroom. Got an old baseball bat. Brass knuckles in his pocket.

Looked out through the peephole. A dark guy that he didn’t recognize.

The bell rang again.

Dad positioned himself behind Mahmud. Before he opened the door, he said to Beshar. “Abu, would you please go into the kitchen?”

Ready as hell. Just so much as a twitch from the guy outside and he was gonna crack his skull like an egg.

He opened the door.

The guy outside extended his hand.
“Salaam alaikum.”

Mahmud didn’t understand.

“Don’t you recognize me? We went to school together. Wisam Jibril. I heard you’ve been looking for me.”

Beshar laughed in the background.

“Wisam, it’s been ages. Welcome!”

Today, Niklas felt safer on his run. He’d bought two pairs of shin guards, the kind made for soccer players. Strapped them to his calves. To reduce the risk of rodent bites.

He thought about his nightmares. Thought about Claes, who was dead. About his mom.

He thought about his visit to the open adult psychiatric clinic in Skärholmen. Mom’d forced him to go.

“You’re always complaining about how you can’t sleep, that you have nightmares,” she said in an accusatory tone. “Shouldn’t you get some help?”

She kept nagging, even though Niklas hadn’t even told her what the dreams were really about. He didn’t need that kind of help, head doctors weren’t his thing—but he did need sleeping pills. The nights were crap. Maybe he should follow Mom’s advice after all.

He went to the clinic’s drop-in hours in the middle of the day. Thought there’d be fewer people at that time, the shortest wait. That was a mistake—the waiting room was full. Another sign that something wasn’t right in this country. Niklas felt like turning back at the door. He wasn’t a weak person who needed others. He was a war machine. People like him didn’t go to shrinks. Still, he stayed. Mostly because he wanted to get a prescription for the pills as soon as possible. But also: to be spared Mom’s pestering.

The armchair that the doctor offered Niklas was pretty comfortable. He’d expected some stiff Windsor chair, but this felt nice. The psychologist, the psychiatrist, the doctor—or whatever her formal title was—scooted her armchair closer and took her glasses off.

“So, welcome. My name is Helena Hallström and I’m a psychiatrist here at the clinic. And you are Niklas Brogren. Have you been to see us before?”

“No, never.”

He checked her out. Maybe ten years older than he was. Dark hair in a ponytail. A searching gaze. Hands in her lap. He wondered what her family life was like. She was in charge here, that much was clear. But at home?

“So, I’ll tell you a little bit about what we do here. I don’t know anything about why you’re here, but our goal is to work to help you, based on a mutual evaluation of your needs. All to help you achieve an increased quality of life. We have a broad and varied assortment of treatments, and we’ll see what is best for you. Maybe pharmacological or psychosocial efforts. Or both. And in a lot of cases, nothing is needed.”