Stalker

132

The two police officers wait on the veranda, but they can’t hear anything. Just the wind in the trees and the chirruping of insects in the weeds.

‘What’s the difference between a ham sandwich with gherkins… and an old man with a cigarette in his arse?’ Olle asks, ringing the bell again.

‘I don’t know,’ George says.

‘OK, I’ll ask someone else to buy the sandwiches tomorrow.’

‘Dad… really…’

Olle laughs and shines his torch at the peeling door with its rusty handle. George knocks hard on the window next to them, then steps aside.

‘Let’s go in,’ Olle says, gesturing to his son to back away down the steps as he takes hold of the door handle.

He’s about to open it when a warm glow appears. The grey hall window suddenly looks welcoming. The door is opened by an elegant woman with a headscarf round her hair and a paraffin lamp in her hand. She’s in the process of buttoning a yellow raincoat over her chest, and looks at the two police officers with bemused surprise.

‘God, I thought it was the electrician – we’ve got a power cut,’ she says. ‘What’s happened?’

‘We received an emergency call from here,’ Olle replies.

‘What for?’ she says, looking at them.

‘Is everything OK?’ George asks.

‘Yes… I think so,’ she says anxiously. ‘What sort of emergency?’

The steps creak as George takes a step closer. The woman smells strongly of sweat and there’s a splash of something on her neck.

Without knowing why, he turns round and shines the torch out into the darkness along the front of the house.

‘It was a man who called – is there anyone else in the house?’

‘Only Erik… Did he call you? My husband has Alzheimer’s…’

‘We’d like to talk to him,’ Olle says.

‘Can’t you do that tomorrow? He’s just had his Donepezil.’

She raises her hand to brush the hair from her forehead. Her fingernails are black, as if she’s been digging in the earth.

‘It won’t take long,’ Olle says, taking a step inside.

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ she says.

The two police officers look into the hall. The wallpaper is brown and a homemade rag-rug covers the worn linoleum floor. On the wall is a framed biblical quotation, and a few outdoor clothes are hanging neatly on hangers. George watches his father go into the hall, shivers and glances back at the car. Insects have been drawn to the strong headlights and are swirling like captives in their beam.

‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to speak to your husband,’ Olle says.

‘Do we have to?’ his son asks quietly.

‘We received an emergency call,’ Olle tells the woman. ‘I’m sorry… but this is how it works, we have to come in.’

‘It won’t take long,’ George says.

They wipe their shoes carefully on the doormat. A curl of flypaper hangs in the same corner of the hall as the ceiling light. There are hundreds of flies covering the sticky paper, like black fur.

‘Can you just hold this?’ the woman says, passing the paraffin lamp to Olle.

The light from the lamp flickers across the walls. George waits behind his dad as the woman pushes the door to the dark kitchen open with both hands. A creak of metal echoes through the hall. George hears her talking about her husband’s illness as she walks into the darkness of the kitchen. The stench emerging through the open door hits them. Olle coughs and follows the woman, holding the lamp in his hand.

The yellow light plays over the chaos in the kitchen. There’s broken glass, saucepans and old tools everywhere. The filthy floor is smeared with fresh blood and the drips are splattered high up the cupboard doors.

Olle turns back to his son, who’s right behind him, when the door suddenly shuts with immense force. It hits George square in the face and he’s thrown backwards, hitting his head on the hall floor.

Olle simply stares at the door, sees the huge spring, then looks at his son’s foot sticking out between the door and the post.

When he turns round the woman is holding a long-handled axe over her shoulder, and before he has time to move she strikes. The blade enters his neck, from above and off to the side. The blow sends him reeling sideways and he sees his own blood spatter the woman’s raincoat. He gets jerked off balance as she pulls the axe free and takes a step forward to stop himself falling.

She calmly takes the paraffin lamp from his hand and sets it on the worktop before lifting the heavy axe over her shoulder again.

Olle wants to shout to his son but he has no voice, he’s on the point of losing consciousness, black clouds are billowing up in his field of vision. He puts one hand to his neck and feels blood running down inside his shirt as he tries to draw his pistol, but there’s no strength left in his fingers.

The woman strikes again and everything goes black.

Out in the hall George opens his eyes and looks around. He’s lying on his back, and his forehead is bleeding.

‘What the hell just happened?’ he gasps.

He feels his nose and bleeding forehead with trembling hands.

‘Dad?’ he says, noticing that his foot is stuck in the door.

His ankle feels broken, but strangely enough it doesn’t hurt. He pulls, and realises he hasn’t got any feeling in his toes.

Confused, he looks up at the ceiling and sees the spiral of flypaper swaying above him. He hears thuds from inside the kitchen and pushes himself up on to his elbows, but can’t see anything through the crack in the door.

He fumbles and manages to pull his torch from his belt, and points it into the kitchen. His dad is lying on the floor with his mouth open, staring at him.

Suddenly his head rolls over a few times when the woman shoves it aside with her foot. It rolls and spins on the bloody linoleum floor.

George is seized by utter panic, lets out a loud scream, drops the torch and tries to move backwards, kicking at the door with his free foot, but it’s like he’s caught in a man-trap. He fumbles for his pistol but can’t manage to pull it out. He needs to take his glove off first, and puts his hand to his mouth to use his teeth, when the door suddenly opens and he’s free.

Panting, he shuffles backwards and hits his back against a small desk, and a bowl of coins falls to the floor, scattering money around him.

He manages to get his glove off and pulls his pistol from its holster as the woman in the yellow raincoat comes out into the hall. She raises the axe above her head, striking the lamp and bringing the coil of flypaper down. The heavy blade hits his chest with terrible force, cutting straight through the thin protective vest and his ribcage, down into his heart.