Red Wolf: A Novel (41 page)

She looked at him and took a step closer.

‘Hans!’ she said. ‘Hans, hello; it’s me, Annika.’

Hans Blomberg, the archivist from the
Norrland News
, looked up and met her gaze.

‘What are you doing here?’ Annika said.

‘I live here,’ the man said, smiling cheerfully. ‘On Torsgatan.’

He gestured over his shoulder towards the housing estate.

‘Do you?’ Annika said as the bus pulled away. She took a step closer and looked into his eyes, and at that moment something clicked inside her head, suddenly she remembered when she had seen the drawing of the yellow dragon before, all of a sudden she knew where it was. She had thought it was a child’s drawing, a yellow dinosaur, on Hans Blomberg’s pinboard in the archive of the
Norrland News
. She took a couple of involuntary steps back.

‘Surely the real question is,’ Hans Blomberg said, ‘what are you doing here?’

The bus disappeared beyond the crown of the hill and the man walked towards her, his hands in his pockets. He stopped in front of her and in the moonlight his eyes were almost transparent.

She laughed nervously. ‘I’m up on a job and got lost,’ she said. ‘Föreningsgatan, which one is that?’

‘You’re standing on it,’ the archivist said in
amusement. ‘Doesn’t anyone have a sense of direction in Stockholm?’

‘They’d run out by the time they got to me,’ she said, realizing she would soon be unable to speak.

‘Who are you meeting?’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve already missed my deadline,’ she said.

‘But then you must come inside and warm up,’ he said. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’

She searched frantically for an excuse, the man took no notice of her hesitation and took a firm grip of her arm and started walking.

‘I live in a little two-room flat on the ground floor,’ he said. ‘It’s not much, but what can you do when consumer society has left you behind?’

She tried to pull her arm away and found it was held in a vice-like grip.

‘It’s not often a guy like me gets such a charming visitor,’ he said. ‘A lovely young lady all the way from the capital.’

He smiled genially at her, she tried to smile back.

‘Which one of them are you?’ Annika said. ‘The Panther, Tiger or Lion?’

He was looking straight ahead, pretending he hadn’t heard the question, just took tighter hold of her. The houses were disappearing behind them; they were approaching the no vehicles sign. She glanced over to the left, past the power cables and into the undergrowth.

‘So you live out here in the forest?’

He didn’t answer, and the next instant she was back in that tunnel. She felt the earth tilt, heard someone breathing hard, panting, and realized it was her, her mouth wide open.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to. Please.’

Her legs gave way beneath her. Hans Blomberg caught her with a smile.

‘You’re a reporter,’ he said. ‘A proper, inquisitive little reporter. Of course you want to get a good story, don’t you?’

Her memory flashed up the pipes in the roof of the tunnel above her, and she started to cry.

‘Let me go!’

She jammed her feet in the ice and struggled and was rewarded with a ringing blow to the head. She saw stars and Sven was there screaming at her and she ducked, sank to the ground and put her hands over her head.

‘Don’t hit me.’

The world slowed down and stopped, the ground stopped tilting and she could hear herself panting. She looked up cautiously and saw Hans Blomberg shaking his head anxiously at her.

‘God, the way you carry on,’ he said. ‘Up you get. The leader’s waiting.’

And she stumbled forward in the moonlight with the lights above the railway track swaying far off to the left. The angels were completely silent, where their anxious voices had been was now only dark emptiness.

They passed the Skanska building, it was completely black.

‘We’re going to the little brick building, aren’t we? The one beyond the viaduct?’

‘So you’ve already found our headquarters,’ the archivist said in his good-natured voice. ‘Have you been creeping around in the bushes? Very talented. Then I may as well tell you what to expect. The Dragon has called us together again. I don’t think everyone can make it, we’ve suffered something of a decline in membership recently, but Karina will probably be there, and Yngve, of course. He never misses a good party.’

The archivist laughed happily. Annika struggled against nausea.

‘Poor Yngve,’ the man went on. ‘Göran wanted me to look after him, but what’s a chap to do? To help an addict you have to change the whole apparatus of oppression, and I haven’t been able to do that. Unfortunately I have to admit that Yngve no longer has any hold on reality, it’s truly tragic. I have failed in my duty . . .’

A moment later she heard something heavy and rhythmic behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and found herself staring into the headlight of a huge diesel locomotive coming down the track.

‘Straight on,’ Hans Blomberg said.

Annika obeyed, peering at the great engine as it slowly rumbled past her towards the ironworks with its endless train of fully laden ore-trucks behind it.

Her heart was thudding. She tried to see herself from the train-driver’s perspective. She was dressed in black against a dark background of scrub, only lit by the cold moonlight.

She forced her heart to slow down; tried to see how long the train was without twisting her head, but couldn’t see the end of it.

They walked under the viaduct, the train thundered past,
dunkdunk dunkdunk dunkdunk
, wagon after wagon after wagon, casting black shadows from the railway track.

Then the last one disappeared, the end of a long tail heading towards the fiery heat of the blast-furnace.

Annika swallowed hard and found that her hands were shaking.

They reached the transformer box where Göran Nilsson had hidden his duffel bag. She glanced at the box; it was closed, sealed up.

‘Down to the left here,’ Hans Blomberg said, pushing her towards the gap in the undergrowth.

She slipped and was on the verge of falling down the slope, but grabbed hold of some branches and managed to stay upright.

‘Take it easy,’ she said lamely and walked towards the brick building.

The windows were sealed with metal shutters, a half-collapsed flight of wooden steps led up to the door, which was slightly open. Annika stopped, but Blomberg shoved her in the back.

‘Go on, in you go. It’s just an old compressor shed.’

She took hold of the door and pulled it open, noting that its lock consisted of two welded metal hasps, one with a rusty old padlock hanging from it. The same terrible stench that she had smelled behind the pine trees poured out through the door.

Ragnwald was in there.

She stepped into the solid darkness, blinking, hearing people breathing. It was icy cold inside; paradoxically it felt even colder than outside.

‘Who are you?’ Karina Björnlund said from the far left corner.

‘We have an important guest,’ Hans Blomberg said, shoving Annika further into the room, then stepping inside.

The Minister of Culture ignited her cigarette lighter. A weak flame illuminated the shed, the shadows cast across her nose and eyes made her look monstrous. Yngve the alcoholic was next to her, Göran Nilsson leaning against the wall to the right. On the wall beside him hung a picture of Chairman Mao.

Annika could feel panic rising at the sight of the murderer, the characteristic itch in her fingers, giddiness and numbness.

Calm down
, she thought.
Don’t hyperventilate. Hold your breath
.

Karina Björnlund bent down and lit a small candle at her feet, put the lighter down, then stood up holding the candle.

‘What’s this?’ she said, looking at Hans Blomberg. ‘Why have you brought her here?’

She put the candle on a piece of rusty machinery that may have been the old compressor. Their breath hung like clouds around each of them.

I’m not alone
, Annika thought.
This isn’t the same as the tunnel
.

‘May I present Miss Annika Bengtzon,’ Hans Blomberg said, ‘snooping reporter from the
Evening Post
.’

Karina Björnlund started and stepped back a step.

‘Are you mad?’ she said in a loud voice. ‘Bringing a journalist here? Don’t you understand what you’re exposing me to?’

Göran Nilsson looked at them, his eyes cloudy and tired.

‘This isn’t for outsiders,’ he said, surprisingly sharply. ‘Panther, what on earth are you thinking?’

Hans Blomberg, the Black Panther, pulled the door firmly shut behind him and smiled.

‘Miss Bengtzon already knows about us,’ he said. ‘She was standing outside, so I couldn’t let her run around telling anyone.’

Karina Björnlund stepped closer to Blomberg.

‘It’s all ruined now,’ she said in a shrill voice. ‘Everything I’ve worked for all these years. Damn you all.’

She picked up her bag and turned towards the door, and Göran Nilsson stepped into the small circle of light. Annika could see no sign of a weapon. The man’s face was sunken and drawn, he looked weak and ill.

Yet Karina Björnlund still stopped mid-pace, frightened and uncertain.

‘Wait,’ he said to the minister, then turned to Blomberg. ‘Do you accept responsibility for her? Do you guarantee the safety of the group?’

Annika stared at the killer, noting his shabby appearance and slow sentences, as if he had to search for the words before he found them.

‘No problem,’ the archivist said enthusiastically. ‘I’ll take care of her afterwards.’

Annika felt her feet turn to lead; her body grew heavy and turned to stone. Inside her she heard a pleading, whimpering sound grow, but it never reached her throat.

The Yellow Dragon looked straight at Annika, she daren’t even breathe.

‘Stand in the corner,’ he said, pointing.

‘We can’t have a reporter here, surely you can understand that,’ Karina Björnlund said animatedly. ‘I won’t agree to that.’

The Dragon raised a hand. ‘That’s enough now,’ he said. ‘Our group commander bears the responsibility.’

He put his hands in his pockets.

The gun
, Annika thought.

‘It’s very cold today,’ he said. ‘I shall be brief.’

Yngve the alcoholic stepped forward. ‘Great,’ he said, ‘but has anyone got something to drink?’

Hans Blomberg undid the top button of his jacket, and from his inside pocket he pulled out a bottle of Absolut. Yngve’s eyes lit up, his lips parting in rapture, and he took the bottle as gently as if it were a baby.

‘I thought we might have a little celebration,’ Hans Blomberg said, nodding encouragingly.

Yngve unscrewed the cap with tears in his eyes.
Annika looked down at the floor and wriggled her toes to stop them from going stiff.

What were they going to do with her?

It’s not like the tunnel, it’s not like the tunnel
.

Karina Björnlund put her bag down on the floor again.

‘I don’t understand what we’re doing here,’ she said.

‘Your power has made you impatient,’ Göran Nilsson said, looking at the minister with his dragon’s eyes, pausing until he had everyone’s full attention. Then he tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling.

‘I am very aware that some of you were surprised to get my call,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long time since I gathered you together like this, and I appreciate that it aroused mixed feelings. But there’s no need for you to be scared.’

He looked straight at the Minister of Culture.

‘I’m not here to harm you,’ he said. ‘I’m here to thank you. You became the only family I had, and I say that without any sentimentality.’

‘So why did you kill Margit, then?’ Karina Björnlund said, her voice tight with fear.

Göran Nilsson shook his head, his stinking yellow dragon head, his divine, revolting ruler’s head.

‘You’re not listening,’ he said. ‘You’re just talking. You weren’t like this before. Power really has changed you.’

Hans Blomberg took a step forward, apparently tired of the lack of focus. ‘Tell me what I should do,’ he said to his leader. ‘I’m ready for armed struggle.’

Göran Nilsson turned to him, sorrow in his eyes. ‘Panther,’ he said, ‘there won’t be any armed struggle. I’ve come home to die.’

The archivist’s eyes opened wide, an imbecilic expression spreading across his face.

‘But you’re back now,’ he said. ‘You’re here again, our leader, we’ve been waiting years. The revolution is near.’

‘The revolution is dead,’ the Dragon said harshly. ‘Capitalist society that treats human beings like cattle has won, and with it all the false ideologies: democracy, freedom of expression, justice before the law, women’s rights.’

Hans Blomberg listened devoutly, Karina Björnlund seemed to shrink with every word, and the alcoholic was completely absorbed in his newfound bottle of bliss.

‘The working class has been reduced to a brain-washed horde of cretinous consumers,’ he said. ‘There’s no desire to improve things any more. The false authorities herd people into the meat-grinder without a word of protest.’

He fixed his eyes on Karina Björnlund.

‘The authorities use people up, now as then,’ he said, his voice clear and steady. ‘They wring us out like dishcloths and then they throw us away. This is how it has always been, but today it is governments elected by the people that permit the buyers of labour to exploit us until we break. I have accepted that this is the case, and I have fought against it in my own way. Revolution?’ He shook his head. ‘There’ll never be any revolution. Humanity has bartered it for Coca-Cola and cable television.’

Hans Blomberg stared at him, his eyes blank and bewildered. ‘But that’s not true. You’re back, and I’ve been waiting so long. I’ve trained all these years, just as you said, and I’m ready. It isn’t too late.’

Göran Nilsson raised his hand.

‘I have very little of my life left,’ he said. ‘I have accepted my personal condition, and the condition that we are all in together. Fundamentally, there is no
difference between me and the lies of the bourgeoisie. I shall live on through my children, and in return I give them their inheritance.’