The Shapeshifters (12 page)

‘My hand. Please . . .'

‘Do you want to know how long they are?'

Seved's neck was so tense and his jaw muscles so tightly clenched that small vibrations were running through his head.

‘Let go,' he said. ‘You've got to let go.'

‘Answer my question.'

‘Which question?'

‘Do you want to know how long your intestines are?'

Seved shook his head.

‘No,' he said. ‘No, I don't.'

Then finally Lennart released his grip. At least, he allowed Seved to pull his hand back slightly. But the weight did not disappear, or the pain.

‘You'll be paid, of course,' Lennart grunted, immediately bringing out his wallet and opening it. He grabbed a bundle of unfolded thousand-kronor notes, which he slapped onto the table beside the plate.

‘Here's fifty thousand,' he said. ‘You'll get a hundred more if all goes to plan.'

Seved stared at the money. There was something unreal about it and he felt a resistance building in the pit of his stomach, but
it didn't get any further. It sat like a stopper in his chest.

He had never had any money of his own and naturally Lennart knew that, so that is where he could apply the pressure. And he did, cunningly. Slowly he pulled the money away, emphasising how hard it was to snatch a child. That there was an art to doing it properly. The old-timers were not interested in crying children. Crying children made them sad, and that could actually make things worse.

‘Children's tears are corrosive,' said Lennart.

‘Right,' said Seved with a mouth that had turned dry. ‘Okay.'

‘Taking a child with violence is no problem. An animal can do that. But to take a child so it doesn't realise—that's a completely different thing. You've got to be fast and wary, but not too fast and not too wary. It's a bit like plucking squirrels from a tree. Do you know how to do that?'

Seved shook his head.

‘The squirrel has to be sitting on a suitable branch,' said Lennart. ‘The branch must be thin enough for you to shake. A small tree is fine. When you shake the branch the squirrel clings on tight. That's how it protects itself when the wind blows. An innate defence, so it can't stop itself. And while you're shaking—not too hard or the squirrel will lose its grip, and not too gently or it will run away—you reach out and pluck it like a pine cone.'

The comparison left Seved none the wiser, and Lennart saw that.

‘You attract the kid to you with a shapeshifter,' he said. ‘Children that age can't resist them. Make sure it's wearing clothes, that's a good trick, and that it hasn't shifted into an animal. A little hat is enough. The child will never have seen anything like it before, at least not in real life. They become hypnotised, and then all you have to do is open the car door. Sooner or later the child will want to go home. That's unavoidable. And that's when you
have to shake the branch, so to speak. It's best to get the shifter to do something amusing. But you know what they're like. They can never be trusted, so you have to be imaginative. Entertain the child constantly. Tell them something interesting. Sing, maybe. Persuade them with a present.'

Seved nodded.

‘Okay,' he said.

Lennart picked up his tin of snus and flipped open the lid.

‘Immediately north of Jokkmokk,' he said, inserting a crumpled cushion of snus under his lip, ‘there's a village called Vaikijaur . . . are you listening?'

Seved nodded obediently, but in actual fact he could hardly think of anything apart from the pain in his hand.

‘Vaikijaur,' he repeated.

‘Right,' Lennart said, snapping the lid shut and rubbing his fingertips together, making crumbs of tobacco rain down. ‘There's a young lad living there, three or four years old. Exactly the right age. According to Torsten he's often out playing on his own. They've been keeping an eye on him for a long time. But I've advised them against it because it's risky snatching a child who lives so close. That's why it's better if he can come to your place.'

‘When?' said Seved. ‘When does it have to happen?'

‘As soon as possible. I don't know exactly where he lives, so you'll have to travel up to Torsten and talk to him.'

They left the restaurant and walked round the back because Lennart had something for Seved to take with him. By this time it was dark. He walked behind the stocky man, staring at his back.

After Lennart had opened the car door he bent over the back seat and lifted out a grey bundle. It was something wrapped in
a woollen blanket. Seved took hold of it and heard a creaking metallic sound. He realised it was a cage.

‘There are three of them,' Lennart said. Crooking his finger he fished out the pad of snus from his mouth. After spitting he said:

‘Shapeshifters. That turn into lemmings. Make damn sure you take good care of them. The one with the white mark above its eye is very old and Elna says it can talk.'

‘Talk?'

Lennart shrugged his shoulders and spat again.

‘Let them out in Hybblet straight away and make sure the door to the hide is open so they can get down there. They always do some good.'

He walked round and opened the door on the driver's side. Then he ran his eyes over the car roof, which was covered in a layer of uneven glittery ice.

‘If they get to you on the way home, just put the radio on,' he said. ‘They hate music. And watch out they don't change back to lemmings again. We haven't got time for that.'

‘But these little things usually run back after a few hours.'

‘Not necessarily, especially if they find themselves in an unfamiliar place. And it always takes time, whatever the circumstances. The old one can easily take a couple of days to get back home. And we're short of time.'

After saying this he sank down behind the wheel, but it took a few moments until he shifted position and reached out for the door handle with his right hand and slammed the door shut.

Seved placed the cage on the passenger seat. Through a gap in the blanket he could see the bars arching over a plastic tray and straw sticking out. No sound was coming from the cage. Presumably
the shapeshifters were curled up asleep, hopefully sleeping deeply enough not to wake up during the journey home. Having shapeshifters in the car was risky, most of all the ones who were not familiar with him.

To get the car key out of his trouser pocket he had to lift up his backside, and when he thrust his hand into his pocket it hurt like hell. He gripped his hand and rubbed the palm with his thumb, forming a fist and waggling his fingers. Was something broken?

He had known Lennart was strong, you could tell that a mile off. But not that he was
so
incredibly strong. He hadn't even squeezed his fingers, only held them down. And with his left hand too, which you would assume was weaker than his right.

Snatch a child.

Seved knew very well he could never snatch a child. But then he felt the weight of the bag-covered hand on top of his and he was no longer quite so sure.

There is only one thing we can do.

They were words Seved had to bear alone.

If he had understood how important it was . . .

He started the engine, threw a glance over his shoulder, backed up and drove out onto Storgatan. He followed it until he reached the roundabout that connected to route 45.

An articulated truck with a bar of blinding headlights rumbled past, and to avoid the cloud of snow from its wheels Seved waited until he could no longer make out the truck's rear lights before pulling out. He grabbed the top of the long gear lever and put it into second, accelerating to change straight up to fourth, but before he did so he leaned over the cage and fastened the seat belt around it.

 

 

In the evening Susso and Gudrun drove to the supermarket, a steel hangar surrounded by mountain ranges of ploughed snow in a deserted car park. They usually did their shopping either very early or very late; the store wasn't as crowded then. Rather empty shelves than packed with people, Gudrun used to say.

Afterwards Gudrun gave Susso a lift to her job at the care home on Thulegatan, next to the hospital. Nothing much was expected of her at Thulegatan, nor was she paid to do more. After emptying the dishwasher, she boiled water for tea. She stood looking blankly at the saucepan and the steam that floated ghost-like on the surface of the water. Small bubbles rose up from the bottom, rushing after each other in long strings. The packets of tea were kept in the cupboard above the cooker hood, so she stood on tiptoe, reached in and grabbed hold of a green box. Herb Harmony, it read. That sounded pleasant. Soft and mild.

‘
Pehmeä ja mieto
,' she said, pulling away the little square of paper attached to the bag. With a spoon she pressed the bag into the steaming water and said: ‘
Mieto, mieto
.'

Talking to yourself at night, that was all part of it. It made it easier. The silence pressed against her eardrums, but there was no point in switching on the radio, for example. You had to talk, to say something. Anything at all. Hear your own voice echo inside your head. It was not madness but a way to banish the madness.

As usual she found herself sitting in front of the computer, because there was not much else to do after the scheduled duties had been attended to. She slouched on the wheeled office chair, the sleeves of her roomy fleece jacket rolled up. Her hair was tied back in two small pigtails sticking out from a crooked parting at the nape of her neck.

There were several cryptozoological sites she regularly visited. The best was Still on the Track, run by a man named Jonathan Downes. Downes's newsletter had links to CFZ, the Center for Fortean Zoology. It was about as close to an official cryptozoological forum as you could get. Its mission was spelled out on the home page: ‘At the beginning of the 21st century monsters still roam the remote, and sometimes not so remote, corners of our planet. It is our job to search for them.'

Monsters. How could she possibly read that word without sneering? What she was looking for were hardly monsters, but still it was here among the monster researchers that she found her sympathisers. Among the wackos! They spent considerable amounts of money on expeditions searching for ethnoknown cryptids—animals spotted by local people that somehow never revealed themselves to scientists for documentation.

But at the end of the day it was just a matter of semantics.

‘Monster' did not mean ‘beast,' it meant ‘warning,' from the Latin root ‘
monere
'. It could also be interpreted as ‘reminder'. The word ‘monument' had the same origins.

But what was it a reminder of?

That everyone could be a monster?

The chair creaked as Susso leaned back in her seat. There was nothing new. The monitor showed an amarok: a wolf- or bear-like monster in Greenland that liked to eat the Inuit's children but
could never catch them. Pretty much the same as the stallo.

In Sami folklore the stallo were a kind of troll. They were huge, terrible creatures depicted by the
nåjden
, or shaman, on his drum. Troublesome and stupid. Fond of human flesh.

She had written about them on her website, mainly because these creatures oscillated between myth and scientific knowledge in a way that interested her. In fact, many archaeologists were convinced there was some kind of underlying truth to the myths of the stallo. Ancient settlements and trapping pits that could not be linked to the nomadic Sami culture had been excavated in various places in northern Scandinavia.

The question was: what had happened to these mysterious creatures?

 

 

The road to Ammarnäs was unlit. There was only the glimmer of light from an occasional house, lamps deeply embedded in the darkness. But the curves of the road were imprinted in Seved's brain and he knew the places where snowdrifts could block the way.

During his school years the road had left its mark on him. The days began and ended with the road then, days when he set off in darkness and returned home in darkness. There had been daylight as well, but when he thought of that time it was only the molten, insatiable darkness he remembered. The night outside the windowpanes, the rough upholstery of the seats illuminated by the lights in the ceiling of the bus, the handrails reflected in the vibrating glass. His own taciturn face and growing hunger. He and the driver, alone, kilometre after kilometre. The long walk from the main road towards the glow of the lights on the veranda that seemed to be moving ever further away. And then his greed at the kitchen table, his only comfort.

The lemmingshifters had not made a sound and he had almost forgotten about them. He had been thinking of the money in his jacket pocket since he left Arvidsjaur. Fifty thousand would not go far. Not even a hundred and fifty went far.

But still. To have money that was all his own.

He knew Lennart was wealthy. He had seen the fat, untidy
wads of notes that Börje and Ejvor accepted from him, and once when he had been shopping at the Co-op he had asked the girl at the till how much was left on the pre-loaded card. There was over a hundred thousand, and he could see from the girl's face that it was a lot, that people did not normally have sums of that size on their cards.

He pressed his hand to his jacket and felt the notes. They were there, like a compact slab against his chest. He had still not decided whether to tell Börje he had been given the money.

Did Börje know what Lennart had wanted to talk to him about?

In all probability, he did. But did he care? At the moment he didn't seem to care about anything. That was not so strange. Letting Ejvor remain where she was must have been unbearable for him. Not being able to do anything except wait.

Signe had said that Börje had peered through the window several times, standing there with his hands on the windowsill. It was understandable that he wanted to see her, and perhaps even necessary, but why put yourself through it over and over again? Why torture yourself?