Zack Read online

  The train emerged from the tunnel and the rocker managed to yank the dark-haired boy off the tracks at the last second.

  “Thanks,” he said when the shriek of the train’s brakes had finally died away.

  “Don’t thank me, thank that lad up there. He was the one who noticed what was going on.”

  “Which one?”

  The boy looked up curiously toward Zack, but Zack quickly bent down and picked up his shopping bags. Milk was trickling from one of them. He hurried home on shaky legs, and when his dad was putting the milk-soaked food away in the kitchen Zack said he had fallen over on the way home.

  * * *

  HE WALKS back up to Gröna Stugans Väg, starts his motorbike, and carries on south along Bredängsvägen.

  Away to the west some thin veils of cloud are being colored pink in the darkening sky. Zack thinks they look like birds drifting off into the heavens.

  Away from Bredäng.

  Toward freedom.

  Out on the E20 he opens the throttle and enjoys the sensation of the world turning into a multicolored tunnel.

  13

  SUKAYANA PRIKON rubs her neck as she walks home along Högbergsgatan. She lifts her head up and to the side to loosen her stiff muscles, and sees a strange cloud formation off to the west. It looks unpleasant. Like a big dragon with its wings stretched out, circling around up there looking for prey.

  For someone like her.

  She quickens her pace. Angry with herself for letting her imagination run away with her.

  As if reality weren’t frightening enough as it is.

  The lump in her stomach is refusing to shift.

  So many questions.

  So much anxiety.

  So much blood.

  A rustling sound makes her turn around. Is there someone there?

  She holds her breath and listens.

  Looks around in all directions.

  The old buildings from the turn of the last century seem almost deserted, only a few windows are lit up, and there’s no one else in sight. The air is mild, and the darkness of night is incapable of entirely suppressing the summer light.

  There’s another rustle, and a hedgehog peers out from some bushes over by one of the buildings.

  She breathes out, turns around, and carries on walking.

  She thinks about Mi Mi. So young. Practically a child.

  And Daw Mya, who had two children waiting for her back home.

  The whole time she keeps seeing terrible images. The blood. The flesh. The dead eye staring back at her.

  It’s her fault.

  But she didn’t have a choice.

  Who could have resisted the threats she had received?

  Her neck aches. The muscles are as taut as the strings on a violin.

  She’s been sitting in an Internet café for several hours, deleting emails from her Outlook account.

  “In this business you never save anything digitally,” they had told her. Yet they themselves still used email to conduct business.

  She hopes she got there ahead of the police’s forensics officers. Maybe they haven’t started to examine her computer yet.

  She thinks about the two police officers who came to see her. They’d never be able to understand.

  And she’s worried about her phone. She never thought they’d take that.

  But there are other things worth being much more scared about.

  She hopes the young policeman will keep his promise and bring her phone back tomorrow, but she doesn’t believe he will. People in positions of authority are much better at taking than giving.

  She wonders what the punishment for procuring is.

  But they’ll help her. Of course they will, won’t they?

  The bad people.

  The ones she really doesn’t want anything to do with.

  She ought to run. Just abandon everything and leave. She’s got some money saved up. It would last her a year or so.

  But after that?

  Starting again at the age of sixty-one. Impossible.

  She turns right into Götgatan and sees the old Tax Office tower rise up in front of her. She’s read somewhere that the Swedes are the most taxed people in the world. But society seems to work the way it should. She can’t understand it. Her own accounts would never be sustainable if she didn’t keep a share of the money off the books.

  What does everyone else do? Are they all doing the same?

  She’s been through the accounts ledger that the police missed and tried to massage the figures with the help of forged invoices and fake receipts. But the business still looks barely profitable. Its real income is made from its other activities. The ones that never appear in the accounts.

  She turns off into Åsögatan, mostly out of habit. Usually she likes the peace and quiet there. Such a contrast to the hustle and bustle of Götgatan.

  But this evening the buildings are too dark and gray.

  Vaguely threatening.

  She cuts through a side street to Skånegatan instead. Much more life there, a comforting hubbub from the pavement terraces of the bars and restaurants.

  Sukayana Prikon carries on until she reaches the dense vegetation of Vitabergs Park, and finds herself thinking of the chase through Tantolunden earlier that day.

  It was a vain attempt to get away.

  No one can escape their fate.

  But what harm had Mi Mi and the others done?

  She sees the eye staring at her from the ravaged face.

  She can’t think anymore. She has to sleep. Tomorrow will be better. It must be.

  She takes several deep breaths. Tries to buck herself up.

  She’s going to get through this, just like she managed to get through her marriage to a Swedish man. He used to hit her, but she hit back.

  She walks down the slope behind the park’s large open-air stage and emerges onto Gaveliusgatan. Almost home now. She’s longing for the softness of her bed.

  A sound makes her jump.

  A car door opening right next to her.

  She sees the sliding door of a van glide open and arms reach out toward her. A stinking rag is pressed over her nose and mouth as someone grabs hold of her from behind.

  She is picked up off the ground and drifts into an unreal white fog.

  14

  THE DENSE night sky outside the apartment window is full of tiny pricks of light. As if all the stars want to show off at the same time in Zack’s dream. Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper, Orion, Hydra, and Leo.

  He rolls over in bed and murmurs something inaudible.

  The clock on the chest of drawers says 3:34, and in his internal world the myriad stars of the heavens are transforming into the frosty image of a woman’s face.

  She beckons him with a soft, whispering voice, like the wind speaking:

  “Zack, Zack, come to me.”

  Once more he longs to travel up to the stars, up to the whispering voice. He’s on his way now, can feel the gravitational force of the Earth slowly loosen its grip. Up, up.

  Away.

  But the woman’s face is changing. The stars are swirling around, changing places, until a contorted face with black eyes and bestial teeth stares down at Zack.

  He wants to get out of the dream now.

  But it won’t let go, and carries him higher and higher up, and the being waiting for him is made of pure evil.

  Zack wants to turn around but he can’t. Slowly he approaches the female figure’s face, which is staring at him with distaste.

  “Get lost, you disgusting little creature.”

  But then she changes again. Her features relax, and she sounds worried as she looks down at him beseechingly:

  “This is wrong, darling.”

  She shuts her eyes, turns her face away, and sobs hysterically before disappearing into a black, screaming darkness.

  * * *

  THE ACRID stench of excrement is the first thing Sukayana Prikon notices as she slowly comes back to life. A disgusting smell
made not by human beings, but animals.

  Dogs?

  She snaps awake.

  Has to get away, up, out, because she’s somewhere she shouldn’t be.

  Wherever it is she’s lying, it’s dark, and when she tries to get up she immediately hits her head. She wants to sit up, but it’s impossible. She feels around her.

  Rough wood.

  On all sides.

  Is it a coffin? Have they buried me alive?

  She tries kicking her legs, and realizes she can’t move them freely.

  There’s something chafing against her thighs. As if her legs were sticking out of the coffin.

  What is this? Where am I?

  “Hello?” she cries. “Is there anyone there?”

  But there’s nothing but silence on all sides of her.

  She tries to think. She remembers the van door opening and the foul-smelling rag being pressed over her face.

  She’s been kidnapped.

  But where have they taken her?

  She kicks her legs again. Feels the rough wooden floor scrape her skin, and there’s that same acrid smell again.

  The darkness and silence are a violent, thunderous wave now. Everything is wrong. Terribly wrong. The darkness, the stench, and the coffin.

  Must get up. Out.

  Must get away.

  She doesn’t understand.

  What are they going to do to her legs?

  Blood courses through her body and her heartbeat is pounding so hard in her temples that it hurts. She has to get free.

  Now, now, now.

  She pushes hard against the walls, tries to twist in both directions, but she can’t move at all.

  She thinks about torture methods she’s read about. The sort where they hit the soles of your feet with batons until the pain spreads through your whole body.

  Or are they going to pour boiling water on her legs? More and more, until the skin comes loose? She’s heard of that too.

  Is that what they’re thinking of doing? But why? What has she done wrong? She’s been conscientious in her work. Always paid on time. Kept her staff in good order.

  It’s not her fault they’re dead.

  But she’s talked to the police. She’s let them look through her computer and accounts. Is that what she’s being punished for?

  But what could she have done? This isn’t like Thailand, where you can pay the police to look the other way.

  She searches for cracks that she could try to prize open, but the only things that break are her nails.

  She feels like howling now, but she’s too scared of what might happen.

  Is this the end?

  No tears, Sukayana.

  She’s going to get out of the coffin.

  Now, try!

  She strains her back against the wood.

  Roars.

  But only inside.

  She falls still when she hears the sound of voices nearby, several male voices talking quietly.

  Then she hears the first growl.

  The scream gushes out of her, she can’t help it. She screams and screams, and she pushes upward so hard that her skin breaks. She kicks wildly in all directions, but gets nowhere.

  Instead the box itself starts to move. It’s swinging back and forth, and her legs can no longer reach the ground. The men give each other orders, and she can feel herself being moved sideways. Then the movement stops abruptly, and she sways to and fro in the air.

  The growling is clearer now. An animal is whimpering loudly very close to her, and another is barking some distance away.

  The box is lowered.

  Down toward the terrible sounds.

  She doesn’t understand.

  Doesn’t want to understand.

  The box hits the floor and she can feel cold concrete and scratchy straw against her legs.

  The men’s voices above her now. She thinks she recognizes one of them, and realizes what that means.

  She hears the sound of the animals’ claws on the concrete floor and soon feels their hot breath against the bare skin of her legs.

  Sniffing.

  Exploring.

  The men are laughing now.

  And Sukayana screams and screams.

  * * *

  THE DISTANT screams sound like terrifying whispers through the damp walls. Whispers that cut straight to your marrow.

  The girls cry quietly and hug each other. Stroke each other’s hair and backs with fingers whose tips are scabbed and raw after hours of fruitless efforts to dig their way out through the hard earth floor.

  A car engine starts. Doors are slammed shut.

  Steps approaching.

  Whom are they going to fetch now?

  Who’s going to disappear forever?

  Than Than Oo?

  The child in her belly, due to come out soon, will it ever have a chance to live?

  And what about her? She’s only fourteen years old.

  Gruff voices outside the door now. The sound of a key being inserted in the padlock.

  A bolt is slid back and their cell is bathed in light from a single torch.

  And now it’s their turn to scream.

  * * *

  ZACK STARES up at the ceiling, wide awake, breathing heavily. He’s kicked the covers off and his naked body is wet with sweat.

  He’s scared. The dream has scared him more than anything he’s experienced when he’s awake. It’s a fear that creeps out into every pore, making him feel nauseous. As if he’s seen something no person should see. As if he’s just peered in through one of the gates of hell.

  He switches on the bedside lamp, picks up a screwdriver from the floor, and stumbles over to the corner of the room. He carefully prizes off a length of skirting board and lifts the corner of the yellow plastic flooring.

  Under the mat is a wooden floor. Zack sticks the screwdriver into a gap and carefully levers it up. The wooden lid creaks, but eventually he pulls it free and sticks his hand into the hidden compartment.

  He takes out the thick, black leather folder. A name tag has been inserted into a small plastic sleeve in one corner.

  Anna Herry.

  He sits on the floor with his back against the bed, and in the pale light of the bedside lamp he carefully leafs through the documents, newspaper clippings, and photographs.

  On top are some yellowed pages from Expressen and Aftonbladet. He unfolds one of them.

  NEWSFLASH: POLICEWOMAN KILLED IN KNIFE ATTACK

  A large black-and-white picture of Tysta Marigången. A black tunnel where the anxious glow of bare neon lights reflects like silver from the filthy windows of abandoned shops. The police cordon hangs limply, waiting. Beneath that picture a smaller one, of a black puddle on the paved floor.

  Your blood, Mom.

  The life that ran out of you.

  Zack looks at the large picture. The chill in its gray tones, a place that seems devoid of all empathy.

  It must have been cold as she lay there in the passageway. So lonely.

  Were you scared, Mom?

  Or did it happen quickly?

  Did you have time to think of me?

  Zack pulls the police photograph of the crime scene out of an envelope in the folder. The pool of blood is almost a yard in diameter.

  He carries on looking. More photographs of the passageway, from different angles.

  Then pictures from the postmortem.

  Zack pauses over the first close-up. His mom’s slender, beautiful neck, traced with fine blue veins. And then the deep cut across it. Like a plowed furrow through her almost transparent white skin.

  He moves on to the next photograph. It’s taken from the same angle, but shows her whole face. Her eyelids are closed but her mouth is open. He’s never been able to read her face in this picture. She doesn’t seem to be suffering, but there’s nothing peaceful about her. There’s something intangible about the set of her mouth. As if Mona Lisa’s mouth were open and she was trying to say something.

  What did y
ou want to say, Mom?

  There are eight pictures of her on the postmortem table. Some whole-body shots. His mother, completely naked in that cold room. Zack’s seen the photographs a thousand times. Even so, his hands are trembling as he holds them, and he wishes he could look away, make the truth a lie.

  But instead he stares at them for a long time, trying to see something he hasn’t seen before. For the first time he thinks she looks young, and realizes that he’s only three years younger than she was when she died.

  Soon I’ll be older than my own mother.

  It’s an impossible thought.

  He remembers one afternoon when just the two of them were at home, and it felt like they had all the time in the world.

  A moment with no horizon.

  He was sitting in her lap, asking her about so many things. About the Earth and the heavens, about cars and airplanes. She was his mom, she knew everything, could do everything.

  If he ever had a small child in his lap, would the child think the same about him? Would he seem as patient and inexhaustible in the child’s eyes?

  Is that what Ester sees in him?

  No.

  He doesn’t think he can do any of the things his mom was good at. Or, to be more accurate, the things he assumed she was good at. He doesn’t remember that much. But he remembers her voice. And he remembers her embrace.

  The way she would hug him hard, hard, hard.

  But never too hard.

  Did you, Mom?

  He puts the pictures back in the envelope and takes out the file containing the records of the investigation. On the front of the preliminary investigation report is the stamp he hates:

  CASE DROPPED

  Zack knows the story by heart. She was working on her first case as a homicide detective. A surgeon had died in what looked at first to be an accident. A gas pipe had come away from the stove while he was asleep, and he never woke up again.

  But both the stove manufacturer and the police’s own forensics experts reached the same conclusion: the pipe could never have come loose without help.

  Anna Herry conducted a long series of interviews with the victim’s colleagues and people close to him. Late one afternoon she called home and told Roy she needed to do a few hours overtime. She sounded stressed, almost upset.