Black Lies, Red Blood

Fifty-one

He was forewarned, but it still came as a shock. They had been snooping around in his apartment, the traces were obvious. A folder that was not where it should be, piles of papers that had been moved a few centimeters, and a closet door that was wide open were some of the signs.

Anders Brant walked slowly around his apartment. It suddenly felt soiled, and foreign in a peculiar way. I don’t want to live here! The little apartment in Salvador, two rooms and a kitchen with minimal furnishings, suddenly seemed like his true home.

He recognized this, a sense upon returning of being at home in two places, and yet nowhere. He knew the feeling would go away, usually within a few days, but this time the rootlessness and alienation were underscored by the visit by the police.

“Vanessa, what should I do?” he mumbled, leaning his forehead against the refrigerator door.

He was tired, had a pounding headache, and did not know what his next step should be. At his feet was the small travel bag.

He laughed at his own pettiness. What should I do? A non-question. He knew what he had to do-transcribe and edit all the interviews, compile texts, get to work in other words, but for the first time he saw no way out of his state of doubt and suspicion of himself.

“Ann.”

He tried her name. He had tried to pump Sammy Nilsson for a little information about what Ann had said, but only got a wry smile and a few cryptic words about patience. What did he mean? Who was the one who should show patience?

Ann Lindell, a very everyday name, police detective, all the more sensational, at least for him. What was it about Ann that he was drawn to? In superficial terms they did not have much in common. She showed no great interest in the issues that had occupied him for almost twenty years.

He could not remember a single occasion when she had brought up a social issue, recommended a book, or commented on a story on the TV news. She had been remarkably passive and evasive. On the other hand he had not been particularly talkative or open either, or for that matter not overly interested in her job. They had made love and cuddled, and enjoyed it.

He opened the refrigerator door and took out a bottle of beer. When he finished it he would lie down on the sofa, pull a blanket over himself, and sleep, hopefully until the next morning. With his head more or less clear and his body rested he would start dealing with all the work that was waiting.

How he would handle Ann he did not know. With an unusually fatalistic attitude for him, he decided that it would work out. Perhaps Ann would resolve it all by making a decision. Based on Sammy Nilsson’s evasive insinuations he could absolutely not predict what such a decision would look like.

He was wakened by the doorbell ringing. In his dream he had been in Salvador, at the hotel room in Barra. The view had been the same, the harbor, the bay, and in the background Itaparica, but the interior of the room was different-paintings on the walls, thick carpets on the floor, a gigantic bed where someone, perhaps the cleaning lady, had decorated the bedspread with flowers in the form of a heart. Monica was there. From the bathroom singing was heard. A good dream, a dream without guilt.

He got up, but his legs barely held him. Confused and a little shaky he rocked back and forth. The ringing from the door cut into his head and the ache returned like a blow across his skull.

As his dizziness abated he shuffled out into the hall. Just then the door was thrown wide open.

“What the hell, at least you can open the door!”

Anders Brant stared in surprise at the intrusion. It took a moment or two before he recognized Johnny Andersson-homeless, informant, and sought by the police.

“Is it raining?”

Johnny did not answer but instead took off his shoes and threw the soaked jacket on the floor.

“I have to borrow some threads from you.”

“What’s happened? Have you been injured?”

Johnny shook his head, despite the trickle of blood on top.

“What do you want?”

“Clothes,” said Johnny. “Don’t you get it? I have to change.”

“Why come to me of all people?”

He realized that Johnny was in trouble and that he had appointed Brant to solve his problems. He had no time to feel afraid before Johnny’s right fist reached out and grabbed the front of Brant’s shirt.

“Clothes,” he hissed. “I’m cold, do you get it?”

“Okay,” said Anders Brant, putting up his hands.

The grip on his shirt slackened a little.

“Do you have any food too?”

Anders Brant decided to play along.

“I’ll get out some clothes, though they may be too small, so you can change. There’s not much food but I can probably arrange a beer and a few sandwiches. Okay?”

Johnny Andersson released his hold. He looked almost surprised.

“I’ve been out of town,” said Anders Brant as an explanation for the meager fare.

They were sitting at the kitchen table. He thought it was strange to see the other man in his clothes. He had bought the shirt and pants prior to Vanessa’s visit.

Johnny quickly consumed three pieces of toast and a beer.

“But I heard what happened, that Bosse is dead.”

“He had himself to blame.”

“What do you mean?”

“He talked too much,” Johnny hissed.

Brant chose not to prolong that discussion. He did not want any agitated emotions. Johnny Andersson was not the smartest guy in the world, Brant had figured that out during the interviews he conducted. So why get him riled up? The best thing would be if he left the apartment as quickly as possible, and Brant suspected that gentle persuasion would be most effective.

“Was that good?”

Johnny nodded.

“Unfortunately I don’t have any more beer.”

“That’s okay,” said Johnny generously, placing the empty can on the table. “Did you see the papers Bosse had? The Russian ones? Were they worth anything?”

“I saw them only in passing,” said Anders Brant.

“‘In passing’?”

“I saw them, but I didn’t read them,” Brant clarified. “So I don’t know if they were valuable.”

“Bosse was going to sell them for a lot, he said so anyway, but he talked a lot of shit. I didn’t get a dime for them.”

Anders Brant nodded and made a move to stand up.

“Listen up, sit down! You’re going to help me. Think up something. They’re chasing me, even an old childhood friend who’s a cop. Not a bastard I can trust.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Do you have a car?”

Anders Brant shook his head and got up. He wanted to indicate that he wouldn’t let himself be controlled so easily, even more so not in his own kitchen. While he cleared away the empty can and margarine container, he wondered how he could get rid of the intruder.

“So get a car!”

He’s a caricature, thought Brant, and observed Johnny. It struck him how improbable the events of the past few weeks were. Four deaths-Bosse, Ingegerd Melander, Jeremias Kumlin, and Arlindo Assis. Two separations-one of which definitive-and on top of that he had been mangled by a bus. And now Johnny Andersson.

“I have a buddy who owes me a favor,” he said. “Maybe you can borrow his car. I can call and ask. It’s a piece of junk but it works. He was going to trade it in, but he got so little for it that he kept it. Where are you going?”

Johnny grinned.

“I’m not saying, but it will be on the way to hell.”

“Then my buddy will probably want to get paid, but we can arrange that later.”

“You can forget about that. Call now!”

“I have to pee first,” said Brant, leaving the kitchen, snapping up the wallet that was sitting on the hall table, and went into the bathroom. There he took out a business card and as he flushed he memorized the number, left the bathroom, picked up the portable phone, and returned to the kitchen.

Johnny Andersson was still sitting at the table.

“What kind of buddy is this?”

“A guy I usually-”

“Go ahead and call!”

He punched in the number and had to wait five rings before he got an answer. He made a thumbs up to Johnny.

“Hey, it’s Brant. I’m in a bit of a fix, or rather Johnny is, he’s a buddy of an old bandy teammate, and he needs a car. He has to go away quickly and his car just broke down. I was thinking we could borrow your old Golf.”

He nodded at Johnny and gave him a conspiratorial smile.

“Sure! He’s sitting here waiting in my kitchen. You can come by with the car. You have a few things that… Bring your girlfriend along too, it’s been a while, although maybe she isn’t too pleased with me anymore.”

He fell silent and made another thumbs up to Johnny.

“Great,” he said, ending the call.

“Is he bringing the car?”

“It will take ten minutes max,” said Brant soothingly.

“I need money too.”

“I’m not a bank, but I may have five hundred you can borrow.”

“Are you trying to fool me?”

Anders Brant looked up in surprise.

“Why would I do that?”

“You’re sweating so much.”

“I’ve got a headache,” said Brant. “I was run over by a bus.”

Johnny Andersson observed him without a word.

“Do you have to sweat like a pig because of that? And why should you loan me five hundred?”

“I have to take my medicine,” said Brant, leaving the kitchen.

His headache was pounding. He looked at his face in the bathroom mirror. He was truly sweating copiously and for the first time he felt scared for real. Maybe there was something wrong. Did he have injuries they hadn’t noticed in the hospital in Salvador?

How long would it take before Sammy arrived? And did he understand what this was about? He didn’t know how he could get rid of Johnny.

“Brant!” Johnny shouted from the kitchen.

Anders Brant took one of the pain tablets he got in Brazil.

“Come here!”

Johnny’s howl from the kitchen made Anders Brant consider whether he should try to get out of the apartment. If he carefully opened the outside door and threw himself down the stairs and out onto the yard, maybe he had a chance. But how far would he get, considering his miserable condition? True, Johnny did not look like he was in very good shape, but he would surely catch up with him anyway.

Johnny stood by the window and looked out toward the yard, but turned around when Brant came into the kitchen.

“You thought you could fool me,” said Johnny, smiling, and perhaps it was Johnny’s calm that frightened Anders Brant the most.

“The cops are coming,” said Johnny. “I recognized them right away. The bitch that questioned me forgot to hide her fat ass.”

Anders Brant looked around, Johnny rushed forward, took hold of one arm, and threw him down on the floor in a single motion. The pain from his head and the recently repaired ear was indescribable. The scream surprised himself. He perceived the astonished look on Johnny, a surprise that changed to an expression of triumph.

“No bastard can fool me!”

Johnny aimed a kick at his crotch, but Brant had instinctively drawn up his legs and turned to the side so that the kick hit one kneecap.

The next one hit near his kidneys. I’ll die in my own kitchen, thought Anders Brant. He tried to crawl under the kitchen table. The pain and the shock made him belch up something sour. He had the harsh taste of airplane coffee in his mouth.

Another kick drove him closer to the wall. Johnny turned the table over. A knife that had been on the table rattled on the floor alongside Brant. Johnny immediately reached for it, held it up in front of Brant’s face and sneered at him.

“I can pay!” Brant shouted.

Johnny Andersson looked surprised for a moment.

“What should you pay for? Pay to keep on writing shit about us?”

Johnny’s face was disfigured by hatred. He spit out the words.

“I’m writing-”

“Parasite,” Johnny screamed. “What do you know about me, about us? Not shit! Lies!”

He raised the knife. Now comes the punishment, thought Brant. He saw Vanessa’s closed face before him.

Johnny Andersson smiled, aimed the knife, and made a couple of stabs in the air as if he were playing with him. Then he cut Brant on the face. A rapid movement, no pain, just blood that ran down over his face.