The Blood Spilt (12 page)

Rebecka looked down at her high-heeled boots from Lagerson’s. Sorry, she said to the forest. I’m not dressed appropriately these days.

* * *

Micke Kiviniemi wiped over the bar counter with a cloth. It was just after four on Tuesday afternoon. Their overnight guest, Rebecka Martinsson, was sitting alone at one of the window tables gazing out toward the river. She was the only female customer, had eaten elk steak with mashed potato and Mimmi’s wild mushrooms, drinking from her glass of red wine from time to time, oblivious to the glances of the village lads.

They were usually the first in. On a Saturday they came in as early as three o’clock to have an early dinner, sink a few beers and kill the empty hours until there was something good on TV. Malte Alajärvi was chatting to Mimmi as usual. He enjoyed that. Later the evening gang would turn up to have a few beers and watch the sport. It was mostly single men who came to Micke’s to eat. But a few couples would turn up as well. And one or two from the women’s group. And the staff from Jukkasjärvi tourist village often took the boat across the river and came in to eat.

“What the hell is this supposed to be?” Malte complained, pointing at the menu. “Gno…”

“Gnocchi,” said Mimmi. “It’s like little pieces of pasta. Gnocchi with tomato and mozzarella. And you can have a piece of grilled meat or chicken with it.”

She positioned herself next to Malte and demonstratively took her notepad out of her apron pocket.

As if she needed it, thought Micke. She could take an order from a party of twelve and keep it in her head. Unbelievable.

He looked at Mimmi. If he had to choose between her and Rebecka Martinsson, Mimmi would win by a mile. Mimmi’s mother Lisa had been a looker when she was young too, the old men in the village had plenty to say about her. And Lisa was still attractive. It was hard to hide, despite the fact that she always went around with no makeup, wore terrible clothes and cut her own hair. In the middle of the night with the sheep shears, as Mimmi said. But while Lisa shut off her beauty as much as she could, Mimmi showed hers off. Apron tight around her hips. The tendrils of stripy hair curling out from underneath the little handkerchief she’d knotted around her head. Low-cut, tight black sweaters. And when she leaned forward to wipe the table, anyone who wanted could get a very pleasant eyeful of her cleavage, her breasts swinging gently, held in place by a lacy bra. Always red, black or lilac. From behind you could get a glimpse of the tattoo of a lizard high up on her right buttock when her low-cut jeans slipped down as she bent forward.

He remembered when they’d first met. She’d been visiting her mother, and offered to work one evening. There were people wanting a meal, and as usual his brother hadn’t turned up, although this whole bar thing had been his idea from the start, and so Micke was left on his own. She’d offered to throw together some bar food and do the serving. The word spread that same evening. The lads hadn’t wasted any time ringing their mates on their cell phones. Everybody came in to have a look at her.

And so she stayed. For a while, she always said evasively when he tried to sort things out. When he tried to say it would be good for the business if he knew, so they could plan for the future, she sounded uncomfortable.

“Best not count on me, then.”

Later, when they ended up in bed, he dared to ask her again. How long she’d be staying.

“Till something better turns up,” she answered that time, and grinned.

And they weren’t a couple, she’d made that very clear to him. He’d had quite a few girlfriends. Even lived with one of them for a while. So he knew what the words meant. You’re a wonderful person, but… I’m not ready… If I were going to fall in love with anybody at the moment, it would be you… Can’t tie myself down. They all meant one thing: I don’t love you. You’ll do for the moment.

She’d changed the whole place. Started by helping him get rid of his brother. Who neither worked nor did anything toward paying off the debts. Just came in and drank with his mates without paying. A bunch of losers who were quite happy to let his brother be king for the evening as long as he was getting the drinks in.

“It’s a very simple choice,” Mimmi had said to his brother. “Either we dissolve the whole thing, and you’re left with a pile of debts. Or you pass it over to Micke.”

And his brother signed. Red-rimmed eyes. The slightly stale body odor seeping through the T-shirt that hadn’t been changed for days. And that new tone of anger in his voice. The alcoholic’s temper.

“But the sign belongs to me,” he’d informed them, shoving the contract away from him.

“I’ve got loads of ideas,” he went on, tapping his head.

“Take it whenever you want,” Micke had said.

Thought: that’ll be the day.

He remembered how his brother had found the sign on the Internet. An old bar sign from the USA.
“LAST STOP DINER,”
white neon letters on a red background. They’d been ridiculously pleased with it at the time. But why should Micke care about it now? He’d had other plans even then.
“Mimmi’s”
was a good name for a bar. But she didn’t want any of that. It ended up as
“Micke’s Bar and Diner.”

“Why do you have to do such weird stuff?”

Malte looked down at the menu, his expression troubled.

“There’s nothing weird about it,” said Mimmi. “In fact it’s just like dumplings, but smaller.”

“Dumplings and tomatoes, how much weirder can it get? No, give me something out of the freezer. I’ll have lasagne.”

Mimmi disappeared into the kitchen.

“And forget the rabbit food,” Malte shouted after her. “Did you hear me? No salad!”

Micke turned to Rebecka Martinsson.

“Will you be staying tonight as well?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Where would I go? she thought. Where would I drive to? What would I do? At least there’s nobody who knows me here.

“That priest,” she said. “The one who died.”

“Mildred Nilsson.”

“What was she like?”

“Bloody good, I thought. She and Mimmi are the best things that have happened to this village. And this place too. When I started it was full of nothing but unmarried old men from eighteen to eighty-three. But when Mildred moved here the women started to come in. She sort of gave the village a new lease on life.”

“Was it the priest who told them to come to the bar?”

Micke laughed.

“To eat! She was like that. Thought the women should get out a bit. Take a break from the kitchen. And then they brought their husbands with them and had a meal sometimes when they didn’t feel like cooking. The atmosphere in here changed completely when the women started coming in. Before the old men used to just sit around moaning.”

“No we didn’t,” interrupted Malte Alajärvi, who’d been eavesdropping.

“You moaned then and you’re still moaning now. Sitting here staring out across the river and complaining about Yngve Bergqvist and Jukkasjärvi…”

“Yes, but that Yngve…”

“And you whinge about the food and the government and the fact that there’s never anything good on TV…”

“A load of bloody game shows!”

“… and about everything else!”

“All I said about Yngve Bergqvist was that he’s a bloody con artist who’ll sell any damned thing as long as it says “Arctic” before it. It’s Arctic sled dogs and Arctic safari and I swear the bloody Japanese will pay an extra two hundred to go to a genuine Arctic shit-house.”

Micke turned to Rebecka.

“You see what I mean.”

Then he became serious.

“Why are you asking? You’re not a journalist, are you?”

“Oh no, I was just wondering. I mean, she lived here, and… No, that lawyer I was in here with yesterday evening, I work for him.”

“Carry his bag and book his flights?”

“Something like that.”

Rebecka Martinsson looked at the clock. She’d been afraid that a furious Anna-Maria Mella would turn up demanding the keys to the safe, but she’d wanted it to happen as well. But presumably the priest’s husband hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe he didn’t know what the keys were for. It was a complete bloody mess. She looked out of the window. It was starting to get dark. She heard a car drive onto the gravel yard outside.

Her cell phone buzzed in her bag. She rooted it out and looked at the display. The law firm’s number.

Måns, she thought, and hurried out onto the steps.

It was Maria Taube.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” answered Rebecka.

“I was talking to Torsten. He said you’d hooked them anyway.”

“Mmm…”

“And he said you’d stayed behind to take care of a few things.” Rebecka didn’t reply.

“Have you been to the village where your grandmother’s house is, what was it called again?”

“Kurravaara. No.”

“Problem?”

“No, it’s nothing.”

“Why don’t you go up there, then?”

“I just haven’t got around to it,” said Rebecka. “I’ve been a bit too busy helping our future clients sort out a load of crap.”

“Don’t snap at me, honey,” said Maria gently. “Spill. What kind of crap?”

Rebecka told her. She suddenly felt so tired she wanted to sit down on the steps.

Maria sighed at the other end of the phone.

“Bloody Torsten,” she said. “I’ll…”

“No, you won’t,” said Rebecka. “The worst thing is the locker, though. It must have the priest’s personal stuff in it. There could be letters and… anything. If anybody should have what’s in there, it’s her husband. And the police. There could be some sort of evidence, we don’t know.”

“I’m sure her boss will pass on anything that might be of interest to the police,” Maria Taube ventured.

“Maybe,” said Rebecka in subdued voice.

There was a silence between them for a moment. Rebecka kicked at the gravel with her shoe.

“But I thought you went up there to go into the lion’s den,” said Maria Taube. “That’s why you went with Torsten, after all.”

“Yeah yeah.”

“For God’s sake, Rebecka, don’t give me the yeah-yeah! I’m your friend and I’ve got to say this. You just keep on backing off. If you daren’t go into town and you daren’t go up to Kurrkavaara…”

“Kurravaara.”

“… and you’re just sitting there hiding in some village bar up the river, where are you going to end up?”

“I don’t know.”

Maria Taube didn’t speak.

“It’s not that easy,” said Rebecka in the end.

“Do you think I think it is? I can come up and keep you company, if you want.”

“No,” Rebecka cut her off.

“Okay, I’ve said my piece. And I’ve made the offer.”

“And I appreciate it, but…”

“You don’t need to appreciate it. Now I’ve got to do some work if I’m going to get home before midnight. I’ll call you. Måns asked how you were, by the way. I think he’s worried. Rebecka, do you remember what it was like when you went to the swimming pool when you were at school? And you jumped from the top board straight away, so you wouldn’t be scared of the other heights. Go up to the Crystal Church and go to one of their hallelujah services. Then you’ll have got the worst over. Didn’t you tell me last Christmas that Sanna and her family and Thomas Söderberg’s family had moved away from Kiruna?”

“You won’t tell him, will you?”

“Who?”

“Måns. That I… oh, I don’t know.”

“Of course not. I’ll call, okay.”

E
rik Nilsson is sitting stock-still at the kitchen table in the priest’s house. His dead wife is sitting opposite him. He daren’t say anything for a long time. He hardly dares breathe. The least word or movement and reality cracks and splinters into a thousand pieces.

And if he blinks she’s bound to be gone when he opens his eyes.

Mildred grins.

You’re funny, you are, she says. You can believe that the universe is endless, that time is relative, that it can turn and go backwards.

The clock on the wall has stopped. The windows are mirrors. How many times has he invoked his dead wife these last three months? Wished that she would come gliding up to his bed in the darkness at night. Or that he might hear her voice as the wind whispers through the trees.

You can’t stay here, Erik, she says.

He nods. It’s just that there’s so much. What shall he do with all the things, the books, the furniture? He doesn’t know where to start. It’s an insurmountable obstacle. As soon as he thinks about it, he’s overwhelmed by such exhaustion that he has to go and lie down, even though it’s the middle of the day.

Sod it, then, she says. Sod the lot of it. I don’t care about all this stuff.

He knows it’s true. All the furniture comes from her parents’ home. She was the only daughter of a parish priest, and both her parents died while she was at university.

She refuses to feel sorry for him. She always has. It still makes him secretly angry with her. That was the bad Mildred. Not bad in the sense of nasty or malicious. But the Mildred who hurt him. Who wounded him. If you want to stay with me, then I’m pleased, she said when she was alive. But you’re an adult, you choose your own life.

Was that right? he thinks as so many times before. Is it all right to be so uncompromising? I lived her life, all the way. True, I made my own choice. But shouldn’t you meet halfway in love?

She looks down at the table. He can’t start thinking about children again, because then she’s bound to disappear like a shadow through the wall. He’s got to pull himself together. He’s always had to pull himself together. It’s almost black in the kitchen.

She was the one who didn’t want to. The first few years they did have sex. In the evenings. Or in the middle of the night, if he woke her up. Always with the light off. And still he could feel her stiff, ill-concealed reluctance if he wanted to do anything other than just stick it in. In the end it stopped of its own accord. He stopped making the approach, she didn’t bother. Sometimes the wound opened and they’d quarrel. He might snivel that she didn’t love him, that her job took everything. That he wanted children. And she, palms upward: What do you want from me? If you’re unhappy, it’s up to you to get up and go. His turn: Go where? Who to? The storms always passed. Everyday life stumbled on. And it was always, or almost always, good enough for him.