Stalker

110

The bell in St Mark’s Church is ringing under an open sky. The wheel turns, pulling the great bell with it. The heavy clapper hits the metal and the peal reaches across the wall of the churchyard, in amongst the trees, all the way to the buried animals.

The dirty single pane of glass in the window of the shed where Erik is hiding rattles. The red shack in the pet cemetery consists of thin timber walls and a stained chipboard floor. Presumably there would once have been a plastic mat on the floor. The shed may have been used by local cemetery workers before everything was streamlined. In recent years only Nestor has been here, as the solitary but conscientious guardian of the animals’ last resting place.

On one wall there is a cold-water tap above a large zinc trough.

Erik has moved five sacks of compost and lined them up on the floor to form a bed.

He’s lying on his side listening to the church bell. The smell of earth around him is pervasive, as if he was already lying in his grave.

Who can understand their own fate? he thinks, watching the morning light shine in through the grey curtain and wander slowly across the sacks of grass seed and grit, spades and shovels, then down across the floor to an axe with a rusty blade.

His gaze lingers on the axe, staring at the blunt edge with its deep indentations, and thinks that Nestor must use it to chop off roots when he’s digging graves.

He turns on his bed, trying to get more comfortable. He spent the first few hours curled up in the corner behind the sacks, he’d cut his thigh on a sharp branch, had a ringing sound in his ears, felt nauseous and was shaking all over.

The ambulance siren died away, the helicopter disappeared, and silence enveloped the little shed.

After a few hours he began to feel a bit safer, dared to stand up, and went over to the tap, where he drank some cold water and washed his face. The water splashed up on to a plastic sleeve that had been pinned to the wall. The drips ran down a price list from the Association of Stockholm Pet Cemeteries, on to the discoloured chipboard.

He called Joona and told him what had happened, aware of how incoherent and repetitive he sounded, and realised that he was in shock. He lay back down on the sacks, but couldn’t sleep, his heart was beating far too fast.

His ear has stopped bleeding now, but is still humming, as though he were hearing everything through a piece of thin fabric. Gradually the jagged, dazzling halo of light fades and he closes his eyes.

He thinks about Jackie and Madeleine and hears children’s voices in the distance. He creeps over to the window. They’re probably playing in the woods behind the school.

Erik has no idea what he’d do if they come over here. His face could be on the front pages of all the papers today. A wave of anxiety washes through him, leaving him feeling utterly chilled.

Spiders’ webs rustle when he slides the curtain aside a few more centimetres.

The pet cemetery is a beautiful place, lots of grass and deciduous trees. A small path leads away from the church and over a wooden bridge, lined by tall stinging nettles.

On one grave a number of round stones form a cross, and a child has made a lantern out of a jam-jar, with red hearts painted round the outside. The candle is just visible beneath the rainwater and fallen seeds.

Erik thinks about his conversation with Joona again. He knows he can find his way into Rocky’s memories if he gets the chance. He’s already hypnotised him, but he wasn’t looking for the preacher then.

But how long can he stay here? He’s hungry, and sooner or later someone is going to find him. He’s far too close to the school, the church, and Nestor’s flat.

He swallows hard, gently touches the wound on his leg, and tries again to work out how his fingerprints could have ended up in Susanna Kern’s home. There has to be a simple explanation, but Joona seems to think that they’re dealing with an attempt to make him look guilty of the murders.

The thought is so ridiculous that he can’t take it seriously.

There has to be a rational explanation.

I’m not afraid of a trial, Erik thinks. The truth will come out, if I can just have a chance to defend myself.

He has to hand himself in.

Erik thinks he could seek refuge in the church, he could ask the priest for communion, for God’s forgiveness, anything at all, as long as he gets shelter.

The police can’t shoot me in a church, he thinks.

He’s so tired that tears come to his eyes at the thought of giving himself up and putting his fate in someone else’s hands.

He decides to creep out and see if the church is open, but then he hears someone crossing the little wooden bridge that leads to the pet cemetery.

Erik ducks down quickly and goes and sits in the corner where he hid to start with. Someone is walking along the path, groaning oddly to himself. There’s a tinkling sound, as though whoever it is had kicked over the homemade lantern on the grave.

The footsteps stop and everything goes silent. Perhaps he’s putting flowers on a dog’s grave? Perhaps he’s listening for sounds inside the shed.

Erik sits in the corner thinking about the dog that Nestor was forced to drown. In his mind’s eye he sees the flailing legs, the animal’s attempts to swim as the sack filled with water.

The man outside spits noisily and carries on walking. Erik hears him come closer, walking through the dead bushes, their thin branches snapping under his shoes.

He’s right outside the shed now, Erik thinks, looking around for a weapon, glancing at the spade, then the axe with the short handle and blunt blade.

Something starts trickling down the wall of the shed, splashing the tall grass. The man outside is urinating, slurring to himself as he does so.

‘You do your best,’ a deep voice mutters. ‘You come home, nice and quiet, but… nothing’s good enough any more…’

The man lurches over to the window and peers in. The grass scrapes and his shadow falls across the wall with the spades and shovels. Erik presses himself against the wall next to the window, clearly hearing the man’s breathing, first with his mouth open, then through tight nostrils.

‘Honest work,’ he mutters, and carries on through the low-growing blueberry bushes.

Erik thinks that he’s going to have to wait for the drunk to disappear before going to the church and handing himself in.

He tries again to imagine that Nestor is the killer, but he can’t honestly believe that Nestor is driven by a compulsion to turn himself into the arbiter of life or death.

The sun goes behind a cloud and the grey curtain loses its transparency again.

On a shelf stands a dusty thermos flask, with a plastic bag tucked between it and the wall, a little grey urn and a painted plaster bulldog.

Erik just has time to see Nestor’s shaving mirror quiver on the wall, sending a glint of a reflection across the floor, before the door of the shed swings open.