The Caller

Chapter 30

The day, a Sunday, began like any other, with his mother shuffling about in her bedroom. She was searching for something to wear, more than likely. In the sea of dirty laundry she would find something random. Utterly fresh the hyena was, not poisoned at all. She was on the move and more alive than ever. Listening to the noises she made someone might think there was a powerful storm raging in the house. In her wanderings around the room she brushed against furniture and other objects. Like a whirlwind out of control, she had no order; she plucked something up only to throw it down again somewhere else, continuing her crazy roaming. Things were spread everywhere, across bedposts and the backs of chairs, in piles on the floor. She rarely did any washing. But then again, she never went out with other people. Never went to work, never went out in public — unless she had to leave home to scrape together some money.

In the spotted coat.

Johnny Beskow decided to remain in bed until she had dressed. He lay listening to the water pipes in the bath, which whooshed when she turned on the taps. Afterwards she would go into the kitchen to boil some water, stir instant into a cup and drink her coffee standing by the kitchen window. Her cheeks were sunken, her nails were unkempt. She was visibly marked by the affliction — as though it had spread into all her joints like a chronic inflammation. She had probably made some rudimentary plans for the day. But because she always had to drink a shot of vodka first, and because this always led to a second, the plans never amounted to much. Instead she would plop down in a chair to ponder her own unhappiness and, at the same time, reflect that she was in fact pretty and resourceful and badly misunderstood. Fate had been cruel and unjust to her; it had pushed her into a wasteland of misery.

Who could demand that she get up?

And anyway, she was comfortable in her familiar misery.

It was so easy.

Johnny lay quite still, waiting. He heard Butch running around in his little red-and-yellow maze, his tiny feet scratching at the plastic. After about a quarter of an hour he sneaked into the bathroom, put on his jeans and T-shirt, drank cold water from the tap and left. She didn’t notice he’d gone, didn’t get to ask any questions. In a flash he was on his moped, accelerating and zooming down the road.

No doubt she saw him from the window.

He could feel her eyes on the back of his neck, like a knife.

Rolandsgata was deserted.

He didn’t see the Meiner girl.

But maybe she saw him from the window. Maybe she sat with her forehead pressed against the glass, cursing him. He figured that she suspected him of being behind her new hairdo. He didn’t mind being the subject of someone’s anger. Wasn’t that the meaning of his life? Wasn’t that the very objective of his little game? To make people talk about him and say, That bastard, who the hell does he think he is?

I am Johnny Beskow, he thought, and I am invincible.

‘Is it you, lad?’ Henry called out when Johnny walked into the house.

‘Yes, Grandpa, it’s me.’ He paused to breathe in the aroma of the house. There was a lemon scent in the hallway and in the kitchen, and another scent in the living room, possibly furniture polish. ‘Has someone been here?’

‘Mai Sinok was here. She gave me a bath. I’ll smell like pine needles all evening.’

‘But today’s Sunday.’

Henry Beskow had to clear his throat and hock. Slowly he raised an arthritic hand to his mouth. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he coughed. ‘She comes on Sundays, too. But no one down at social services knows she’s here every day. I pay her a little under the table, so don’t tell anyone or she might lose her job. But come over here, I want to show you something. A miracle has happened since you were here last. By God, it’s never too late for an old bag of bones.’

Johnny went into the lounge. He stood looking at his grandfather.

‘They were here Friday,’ Henry said. ‘Two fellows from the council, both were black as coal. I think they were Tamils. But you know what, Johnny? Black muscles are as good as white muscles. If not better. They brought a big box. Come here now, chop-chop. You’re young and spry! Has someone nailed your feet to the floor?’

Johnny did as his grandfather asked. As always, Henry sat, wearing his green cardigan and his coarse, checked slippers. Some kind of pillow lay on the seat of his chair. Fifteen centimetres thick, it was soft and gelatinous and the colour of blue clay. When Johnny drove his fist into it, his fist sunk in and left behind a depression, which slowly filled. It was so fascinating that he tried it several times. The pillow, it seemed, had a life of its own.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Henry said. ‘Mai ordered it, and I didn’t have to pay a penny.’

‘You’ve paid taxes all your life,’ Johnny remarked.

To demonstrate the pillow’s elasticity, Henry twisted and turned his old arthritic body. ‘They say astronauts sit on pillows like this when they’re launched into space,’ he said, ‘The gel is perfect because it doesn’t press on the bones. You know, because the force, Johnny — what is it called again?’

‘G-force.’

‘Exactly. The G-force is really something else entirely. Social services is paying,’ he added. ‘It costs several thousand kroner, you see. But it was Mai’s idea. Mai, my good Mai, my little Thai.’ He laughed. ‘Sit down. Do I smell like pine needles? Eh, Johnny?’

Johnny sat on the footstool. It sank under his weight and the plastic cover creaked; obviously it didn’t compare with the designer gel pillow.

‘May I try it?’

Henry chuckled contentedly. ‘I thought you’d ask. Yes, of course. Even though you’re young and your body is soft like rubber. Just help me up.’

With some difficulty he leaned forward and pushed against the seat, rising slowly. He held on to the armrest the whole time, but finally was up, bent like a troll woman.

‘That’s it. Try it now, you rascal.’

Johnny sat. At first he felt nothing and thought he might not weigh enough. But just as he was about to express his disappointment, he began to sink. The gel grew warm, and the warmth filled his entire body, until it felt as though he was being held by a thousand chubby hands.

‘Wow,’ he said excitedly.

‘You see what I mean?’ Henry said. ‘Isn’t it just sheer luxury?’

Johnny gave the chair back to its rightful owner then returned to the footstool.

Something caught his eye.

The Sunday paper lay on the table — Mai had brought it in — and he saw the front-page headline: TORN TO DEATH BY DOGS.

He read these vivid words and looked at the photograph of a little boy with his coarse blond tufts of hair. Further down the article was a subhead: Suspicion of sabotage.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Was he killed by dogs?’

Henry looked at the newspaper. ‘Yes, something terrible happened to him. At Glenna, up near Saga. Mai read the article to me. A little boy on a hike, and out comes a pack of dogs.’

Johnny read the article. And while he read, his mouth dried up completely.

‘But did they just attack him? For no reason?’

‘Dogs do that sometimes when they’re in a pack,’ Henry said.

‘But why? The dogs were pets, weren’t they? Someone owned them?’

He continued reading, rushing through the sentences. The boy was attacked, it said, by seven dogs and died of substantial injuries. He hadn’t stood a chance.

Henry shook his head. ‘The laws of humanity no longer apply when they run off like that,’ he said. ‘The hunting instinct takes over. They grow wild again. People would too, I tell you. In extreme situations. The dog owner — what was his name again?’

‘Schillinger,’ Johnny said.

‘Right. Schillinger. He says it’s sabotage. He says someone must have opened his dog kennel as a lark. Just to see the dogs run off.’

‘And who would that be?’

The old man rested his eyes on him. They were filled with a surprising intensity. ‘You need to ask? We have enough riff-raff around here. They’re everywhere with their horrible pranks. The man who’s calling people, they haven’t caught him, have they? And he’s been at it for weeks.’

Johnny set the newspaper down. He could no longer sit still. He had to get up and pace. After a few moments he returned to the footstool.

‘The dogs can’t open the gate on their own,’ Henry said, ‘and their owner swears he’s always mindful to close it. When something like this happens, it’s no surprise the prankster gets blamed. After so many weeks of terrorising people, he’s going to have to put up with it.’ He tapped his gel pillow. ‘He’ll probably have some sleepless nights. Whether he’s guilty or not. Because this is negligent homicide. They’re out searching for leads. And he’ll have to pay for it!’

‘But,’ Johnny said weakly, ‘the guy who’s calling and placing announcements and all that, he’s just playing. They’re just innocent jokes.’

‘Innocent jokes?’ Henry got worked up. ‘Did you hear about the little girl displaying her two angora rabbits at an exhibition? She got her photograph in the paper and all of that. Two days later someone crucified a stuffed bunny on her door. Do you think that’s a joke?’

Johnny stared at the newspaper on the table, then turned it over so the front page was face down. Sitting motionless, he let his arms dangle at his sides. ‘How convenient for Schillinger to have someone to blame,’ he mumbled.

Irritated, Henry gesticulated with his hands. ‘Are you defending the joker now or what? You know what he’s been up to? I’ve thought about it often; one day he’ll go too far, and he’ll get a taste of his own medicine. It’s no longer a joke. But you’re a caring lad, Johnny, and you don’t understand such mischief.’

Johnny didn’t have anything to say.

‘Did you read the entire article?’ Henry asked. ‘It’s awful about that boy. One arm was torn off. They found it in the woods, several metres from the body. Think about his mother and father. I mean, think about them!’ Henry’s eyes began to run, and he had to wipe away some tears. ‘When I was a boy,’ he went on, ‘I grew up near a mink farm. We would gather there, a group of us boys, and look at them through the fence. They certainly smelled. You could smell it for miles around. None of the neighbours were especially happy about them, that’s for sure. To be honest, Johnny — because we’re always honest with each other, are we not? — we let them out of their cages a few times. Just for the fun of it. We weren’t against the fur trade or anything like that. We hadn’t a clue about those things. If old ladies wanted to wear fur, it was OK with us. But it was awfully funny to watch them dash off in every direction. So they put up an electric fence and the fun was over. But as you know, these are the things boys do.’ He coughed. ‘When I buy strawberries at the shop —’ He paused and started over. ‘Well, I never go to the shop any more. But before, when my legs held up, I would sometimes go to the shop to buy strawberries, and in some of the baskets I would find a rotten berry on top. So I would immediately think the entire basket was rotten. Isn’t that right? That’s how we humans function. No,’ he added, ‘perhaps that’s a bad comparison. But you know what I mean.

‘You look a little pale, Johnny. Why don’t you go to the kitchen and get yourself a drink from the fridge.’

Johnny got up, disappeared into the kitchen and found a Coke. He uncapped it and stood bent over the worktop drinking.

‘The scoundrel ought to go from door to door in the whole area,’ Henry Beskow shouted. ‘Kneel on every single doorstep and beg for forgiveness. What do you think of that, Johnny?’

Johnny clutched at the worktop. It was as if the room spun wildly and he stared down into an abyss so deep and so black that he grew dizzy.

‘Johnny!’ Henry shouted from the living room. ‘Don’t you think he should kneel on every doorstep?’

‘It’s too late,’ Johnny mumbled. ‘People will think what they want to think. And anyway, you can’t beg forgiveness for everything.’