Autumn Killing

70

‘I killed your son,’ Anders Dalstrom screams, ‘and I’m going to kill you!’

He’s tied Axel Fagelsjo to a chair and he watches as the old man tries to pull himself free, a peculiar mixture of loathing and resignation in his eyes, the fear they betray, the fear that comes of not knowing what’s happening.

‘The same way you killed my father.’

‘I’ve never killed anyone.’

‘You killed him.’

Anders Dalstrom can see Axel Fagelsjo trying to say something else, trying to shout, but no sound comes out of his mouth.

He pulls a scrap of cloth from his bag, ties it tightly around the old man’s head, letting it slip deep into his mouth, it feels good to pull it tight, see the pain in his eyes, feel the waves of calm flow through his body.

He wanted to give the old man an explanation.

Force him to listen to it.

‘What sort of father do you think he was after you killed him? He hunted me with that camera, hunting me and trying to destroy me, as if he hated me for the life I still had ahead of me, as if I were his pain.’

Axel Fagelsjo squirms on his chair, trying to get loose, unless he wants to say something? Ask for forgiveness?

Hardly.

And Anders Dalstrom punches him in the cheek with a clenched fist, feels the pain spread through his knuckles and hands, and the violence is nice and soft, makes the evil disappear.

So he punches again, and again and again. The snakes move, the boys in the school playground, Dad’s blows, the snakes have their faces now, the excrement in the toilet, the pain of never experiencing any reliable love.

Pain, pain, pain.

All the pain of the world. All the world’s fury gathered in those blows. The fury that must have given Jerry Petersson forty stab wounds to his torso. How many will I get?

Who is he? Axel Fagelsjo thinks.

Bettina, who is he?

His confused talk. About snakes, and faces, but at the same time, in the middle of all the madness, he seems to know what he wants, who he is.

Against his will, Axel Fagelsjo gives in to his fear again and tries to get free, wants to run, escape, but he’s stuck fast, won’t get anywhere, so he may as well take the blows, try to make sense of this, and if it’s true that he killed my son, he’ll get what’s coming to him, I promise myself that, I promise all of those who have gone before me.

The room.

It’s beautiful and familiar, one of my rooms, no one else’s.

Bettina. Your ashes are scattered in the forest.

He’s stopped hitting me now, just sitting on a chair by the wall and he seems to be gathering his strength to say something.

‘Listen, old man.’

Anders Dalstrom gets up and goes over to Axel Fagelsjo in the middle of the cold room.

‘What you did to me, to my dad, would be reason enough for me to kill your son.’

He puts his fingers in Axel Fagelsjo’s nostrils and twists them upwards, and Axel Fagelsjo grunts with pain. Anders Dalstrom feels like pulling his nose right off his face, wants to feel warm blood on his fingers, feel the last cold-blooded, blind creatures slithering out of him.

‘And do you know what?’ he shouts. ‘I like using my body to show how powerful I am. Violence has spawned me, can’t you understand that?

‘I took him outside his house. Beat him to death there, then I drove him to the chapel.

‘I want you to know that.

‘What did you care about me? What Dad did to me when the pain in his eye and in his head took over?’

Then Anders Dalstrom strikes again, but he gets scared when he feels the old man’s chin against his knuckles.

The snakes are moving again. There are more than ever, and they’re swimming through his veins, drinking his blood.

He’s mad, Axel Fagelsjo thinks, as he tries to escape the pain by remembering, by keeping his consciousness clear.

For a moment he thinks that he would actually like to be beaten to death by this maniac, because then I can finally be with you, Bettina. I was with you, in the forest, on the morning of the first murder.

So hit me.

Let me go to the woman I love.

And Axel knows who the young man in the room is now.

The son of that hopeless farmhand whose eye he blinded.

It was a shame, but these things happen.

He was an oaf, and maybe he got what he deserved.

And Fredrik? Did he get what he deserved?

No one tells me, or anyone in my family, what we deserve or don’t deserve.

Then he strikes again. With the butt of the rifle now. Burning pain, and I feel my teeth come loose, and my eyes feel like they’re going to burst from their sockets.

What happened to the farmhand? He sat in silence during the trial, I remember that, but what happened to him after that? Could he have been in pain, the way I’m in pain now? He was blinded in one eye, but that’s hardly a handicap worth making a fuss over, is it? Maybe he was bitter, but life is much easier if people know their place, no matter what that place is.

A knife now. A knife, and he shows me the coat of arms on the handle, Skogsa, before he cuts my cheek.

It stings, and I scream.

Bettina, can I come to you now? Are you proud of me? I don’t want to end up in the chapel, I want to be with you, in the forest.

What does a castle mean, really? A few hectares of forest? Memories that no one cares about?

I’m going to put an end to this, Anders Dalstrom thinks. I’m going to do what I like, just as he has always done.

His face is yours, Father.

Are you one and the same?

But there’s no reason to hesitate. They never did when they managed to catch me in the school playground.

Blood is running from Axel Fagelsjo’s cheeks, and Anders Dalstrom wants to drive the knife into his fat gut, but he can’t, something’s holding him back, whispering ‘no’ into one ear. He throws the knife in the corner and puts his fingers in Axel Fagelsjo’s nostrils again, blocking them, then puts his other hand over his mouth, pressing the rag hard, and he knows that the old man can’t breathe now. That he must be screaming for air in there, and the cocky, arrogant look he had in his eyes just now is gone, replaced by something else, maybe some sort of primeval fear.

Monochrome flickering.

Something slithering over my body. It will be gone for ever.

Someone’s whispering something. Is that you, Andreas? Are you there?

Give me air.

I want more.

I want to see you, Bettina, Fredrik, but not just yet. Katarina. Where are you?

I’ve done wrong, I admit it, let go, forgive me, I’ve done wrong, but don’t let it end now, I want more life, I’m scared, I can feel the heat licking my ankles, I’m trying to scream for forgiveness, scream that I can love you and everyone else, that you have to let go, that it’s your only hope, and blood is pouring but you carry on, pressing your fingers deeper into my nose.

And I want air, give me air.