Unspoken ak-2 Read online

  Unspoken

  ( Anders Knutas - 2 )

  Mari Jungstedt

  Mari Jungstedt

  Unspoken

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 11

  For the first time in a week the sky cleared. The wan rays of November sunshine found their way through the clouds, and the spectators at the Visby trotting track turned their faces with yearning up toward the sun. It was the last race of the season, and there was a sense of anticipation in the air, mixed with a touch of melancholy. A chilly but enthusiastic crowd had gathered in the grandstands. They were drinking beer and hot coffee from plastic cups, eating hot dogs, and making notes in their track programs.

  Henry “Flash” Dahlstrom got out his hip flask and took a good swig of his home-brewed liquor. It made him grimace, but it also warmed him nicely. With him in the stands sat the whole gang: Bengan, Gunsan, Monica, and Kjelle. All of them were rapidly advancing toward various states of intoxication.

  The procession had just started. The snorting standardbreds, glossy with sweat, were lined up and prancing forward as the music blared from the loudspeakers. The drivers, with their legs wide apart, were firmly seated in their lightweight sulkies.

  The odds were posted on a black tote board out near the track, with the numbers ticking past.

  Henry leafed through the racing program. He ought to place a bet on Ginger Star, running in race number seven. No one else seemed to believe in her. She was only a three-year-old. He had followed the horse during the summer races, and even though she had a tendency to break into a gallop, she kept on getting better.

  “Hey, Flash, take a look at Pita Queen. She’s a beauty, don’t you think?” Bengan slurred his words as he reached for the hip flask.

  Henry had been given the nickname Flash because he had worked as a photographer for Gotlands Tidningar for many years before alcohol took over his life full-time.

  “You’re damn right. With that trainer…” he replied and then stood up to take his racing card to the window.

  There was a line of betting windows, all with open wooden hatches. Wallets were eagerly pulled out, banknotes changed hands, and cards were handed in. One flight up was the track restaurant, where invited guests ate steak and drank strongbeer. Honored big-time players puffed on cigars, discussing the current condition of the horses and the technique of the drivers.

  The race was about to begin. The first driver politely saluted the judges by giving a brief nod toward the judging tower. Over the loudspeakers the announcer called for the horses to take their places.

  After four races Henry had an equal number of wins on his card. If luck was with him, he could win the jackpot with five in a row. Since he had also bet on the long shot Ginger Star in the last race, the winnings ought to be significant. If only she came up to his expectations.

  The race began and he followed the sulkies on the track as closely as he could after consuming eight strongbeers and a countless number of shots. When the bell for the final lap rang, his pulse quickened. Ginger Star was running well, damned well, as a matter of fact. With each stride she closed in on the two favorites in the lead, and he seemed to be seeing her more clearly. The powerful neck, the snorting nostrils, and the ears pointing straight forward. She could do it.

  Don’t start galloping now, do not gallop. He was muttering this plea to himself like a mantra. His eyes were fixed on the young filly, who with furious energy was closing in on the leaders. Now she passed one of her rivals. Suddenly he became aware of the weight of the camera around his neck, and he was reminded that he had planned to take pictures. He snapped several photos, his hands relatively steady.

  The red sand of the trotting track spurted up around the hooves that were pounding forward at breakneck speed. The drivers were using their whips on the horses, and the excitement rose among the spectators. Many in the stands were on their feet, some of them clapping, others shouting.

  Ginger Star pulled forward on the outside and was now even with the horse in the lead. Then her driver used his whip for the first time. Dahlstrom stood up as he followed the horse through the lens of his camera.

  When Ginger Star crossed the finish line ahead of the big favorite by a nose, a sigh of disappointment passed through the crowd. Dahlstrom was aware of scattered comments: “What the hell?” “It can’t be true!” “Unbelievable!” “Damn it!”

  But he dropped down onto the bench.

  He had won all five races in a row.

  The only audible sound was the sweep of the broom across the stable floor and the grinding jaws of the horses as they chewed their evening oats. Calm had settled in after the hectic race day. Fanny Jansson was sweeping with brisk, rhythmic strokes. Her body ached after all the hard work, and when she was done, she sank down onto a feed box outside Regina’s stall. The horse peered out, and Fanny stuck her hand through the bars to stroke the horse’s nose.

  The slender, dark-skinned girl was alone in the stable. She had declined an invitation to join the others at a local restaurant to celebrate the end of the season. She could just imagine how rowdy it was bound to get. Worse than usual. She had been there several times before but didn’t enjoy it. The horse owners would drink too much and try to hit on her. They called her “princess,” pulled her onto their laps, and pinched her on the rear.

  Some got bolder the more they drank. They would make comments about her body, both verbally and with their eyes. They were a pack of dirty old men.

  She yawned, but she had no desire to bike home, either. Not really. Her mother had the day off from her job, and there was a good chance that she was drunk. If she was alone she would be sitting on the sofa with her mouth turned down in a sullen frown, with a bottle of wine in front of her. As usual, Fanny would feel guilty because she hadn’t spent the day with her mother instead of with the horses. Her mother couldn’t care less that it was a race day with tons of work to do. Nor did she understand that Fanny needed to get away from home. The stable was her lifeline. If she didn’t have the horses, she didn’t know what she would do.

  Uneasiness seized her as she imagined an even worse scenario: that her mother might not be alone. If her so-called boyfriend, Jack, was there, they would get even drunker, and Fanny would have a hard time sleeping.

  Tomorrow she had to be at school early, and she needed to get some sleep. Ninth grade was a torment that she wanted to get through as fast as possible. Fanny had tried to do her best when the term started, but things just kept getting worse. She was having a hard time concentrating, and she had started cutting classes fairly often. She just couldn’t face it.

  She had enough troubles outside of school.

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 12

  A bubble of saliva had formed at the corner of his mouth. With each exhalation it grew bigger until it burst and dribbled down his chin and onto the pillowcase.

  The room was very bright. The blinds were rolled up and the dirty streaks on the windowpane were clearly visible. On the windowsill stood a solitary pot with an African violet that had long since perished.

  Henry Dahlstrom slowly regained consciousness as the urgent ringing of the phone cut through the thick silence. The sound echoed off the walls in the shabby two-room apartment, persisting until it finally won out over sleep. Disconnected thoughts popped up in his mind, relentlessly bringing him back to reality. He had a vague feeling of happiness but couldn’t remember what it was from.

  The headache started the minute he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Cautiously he sat up. His vision blurred the pattern of the bedspread. Thirst made him get to his feet and stagger out to the kitchen. The floor swayed beneath him. He leaned against the door frame and looked at the chaos.

  The kitchen cupboards stood wide open and the counter was covered with dirty glass
es and plates, as well as scraps of food. There was burned coffee in the glass pot of the coffeemaker. Someone had dropped a plate on the floor. He could make out the remnants of fried herring and mashed potatoes among the pieces of china. On the kitchen table, beer cans were crowded together with liquor bottles, an overflowing ashtray, and a stack of racing cards.

  Suddenly he remembered why he should be happy. He had brought home the jackpot as the sole winner of all five races. The sum was breathtaking, at least for him. Over eighty thousand kronor had been paid out to him, in cash, and gone straight into his pockets. He had never before had so much money in his possession.

  His eyes flicked anxiously up and down over the half-empty cupboards. Surely he’d had enough sense to hide the money. If only none of the others… No, he refused to believe that. Although when it came to liquor or money, you never could tell.

  He pushed aside the thought and tried to recall what he had done when he arrived home from the track the previous evening. Where the hell?

  Oh, that’s right. The broom closet. With trembling fingers he pulled out the package of vacuum cleaner bags. When he touched the bundle of banknotes, he breathed a sigh of relief. He sank down onto the floor, cradling the package in his hands as if it were a valuable porcelain vase. At the same time, thoughts about what he was going to do with the money flickered past. Fly to the Canary Islands and order drinks with little umbrellas. Maybe invite Monica or Bengan to come, too-or why not both of them?

  An image of his daughter appeared. He really ought to send some of the money to her. She was grown up now and lived in Malmo. Contact between the two of them had been broken off long ago.

  Henry stuffed the package back in the closet and stood up. Thousands of stars danced before his eyes.

  The need for a drink became more urgent. The beer cans were empty, as were the liquor bottles. He lit one of the longer cigarette butts from the ashtray, swearing as he burned his finger.

  Then he discovered a bottle of vodka under the table, and it turned out to have a decent slug left in the bottom. He greedily gulped it down, and the merry-go-round in his head eased up a bit. He went out to the patio and breathed in the cold, raw November air.

  On the lawn lay an unopened can of strongbeer, of all things. He picked it up and definitely started feeling better. In the fridge he found a piece of sausage and a saucepan of dried mashed potatoes.

  It was Monday evening. It was past six o’clock, and the state liquor store was closed. He had to go out and find some booze.

  Henry took the bus downtown. The driver was nice enough to let him ride free, even though he could now afford to pay the fare. By the time he got out at Ostercentrum, he was the only passenger. Rain was in the air, and it was dark and desolate on the streets. Most of the stores were closed at this time of night.

  On one of the benches near the Allis hot dog stand sat Bengan with that new guy Orjan from the mainland. An unpleasant type, pale with dark, slicked-back hair and a sharp look in his eye. The muscles of his arms testified to how he had spent his time in the slammer, from which he had recently been released. He had apparently been sent up for aggravated assault and battery. Tattoos covered his arms and chest; part of one was visible inside the dirty collar of his shirt. Henry felt anything but comfortable with him, and things were made only worse by the fact that he always had that growling attack dog in tow. The animal was white with red eyes and a square snout. Ugly as sin. The guy bragged that his dog had bitten a toy poodle to death in Ostermalm in the middle of downtown Stockholm. The fucking upper-class dame who owned the poodle went nuts and starting hitting Orjan with her umbrella until the police showed up and took charge. He had gotten off with a warning to buy a stronger leash. The incident was even reported on TV.

  As Henry approached, a muted rumble issued from the dog’s throat; the animal was lying at Orjan’s feet. Bengan greeted him with a wobbly wave of his hand. It was apparent from far away that Henry’s friend was quite inebriated.

  “Hi, how are things? Congratulations again. It’s so fucking great.” Bengan gave his friend a befuddled look.

  “Thanks.”

  Orjan pulled out a plastic bottle containing a colorless, unidentified liquid.

  “Want some?”

  “Sure.”

  The liquor had a pungent smell. After several sizable gulps, Henry’s hands stopped shaking.

  “That went down nice, didn’t it?” Orjan asked the question without smiling.

  “Absolutely,” said Henry, and he sat down on the bench next to the other two men.

  “How’s it going for you?”

  “Well, I’ve got my head up and my feet down.”

  Bengan leaned closer to Henry and breathed loudly in his ear.

  “Shit, what about all that dough?” he muttered. “It’s amazing. What are you thinking of doing with it?”

  Henry cast a quick glance over at Orjan, who had lit a cigarette. He was staring out toward Ostergravar and seemed to have stopped listening.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” whispered Henry. “I want you to keep your mouth shut about the money. Don’t tell anyone else about it. Okay?”

  “Sure, no problem,” promised Bengan. “Of course, buddy.” He patted Henry on the shoulder and turned back to Orjan. “Give me a swig.” He grabbed the bottle.

  “Take it easy, damn it. Pianissimo.”

  Typical Orjan, thought Henry. He always has to sound so odd. Pianissimo — what the hell is that? The dog bared his teeth.

  All Henry wanted right now was to buy some booze and get out of there.

  “Have you got anything to sell?”

  Orjan dug through a worn bag made of imitation leather. He pulled out a plastic bottle containing home-brewed liquor.

  “Fifty kronor. But maybe you can afford to cough up more than that?”

  “Naw. I’ve only got a fifty.”

  Henry handed over the banknote and reached for the bottle. Orjan kept his grip on it.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yup.”

  “What if I don’t believe you? What if I think that you’ve got more and you just don’t want to pay more than that?”

  “What the hell-let go!”

  He yanked the bottle away from Orjan. At the same time he stood up. Orjan laughed and jeered, “Can’t you take a joke?”

  “I’ve got to go. See you. I’ll be in touch.”

  He headed for the bus stop without looking back. He could feel Orjan’s eyes fixed on his back like needles.

  He was sitting in the living room, comfortably leaning back in the only armchair. On his way home he had passed a kiosk that was open at night, and he had bought some Grape Tonic, which he mixed with the booze to make himself a nice, tasty highball. He studied the glow from his cigarette in the dim light of the room, enjoying his solitude.

  It didn’t bother him that the apartment was still a mess from the party the night before.

  He put an old Johnny Cash record on the stereo. The neighbor woman protested by pounding on the wall, presumably because the music was interfering with the Swedish soap opera on TV. He pretended not to notice because he despised everything that had to do with normal Swedish life.

  During his professional days he had also avoided routines. As the foremost photographer at Gotlands Tidningar he’d had plenty of opportunities to plan his own work hours. When he eventually started his own business, of course, he did precisely as he pleased.

  In moments of clarity he surmised that it was this freedom that had spelled the beginning of the end. It created space for his drinking, which slowly but surely nibbled away at his work, his family life, his free time, and finally took precedence over everything else. His marriage fell apart, his clients disappeared, and contact with his daughter became increasingly sporadic and then ceased altogether after a few years. In the end he had neither money nor a job. The only friends who remained were his drinking buddies.

  He was roused from his reflections by a clattering sound o
n the patio. He stopped with the glass halfway to his lips.

  Was it one of those damn kids in the area who was going around stealing bicycles and then painting and selling them? His own bicycle stood outside unlocked. They had tried to swipe it before.

  Another clatter. He looked at his watch. Ten forty-five. Someone was out there-there was no doubt about that.

  Might be an animal, of course, maybe a cat.

  He opened the patio door and peered into the darkness. The little patch of grass that belonged to his corner property was lit up in the cold glow of the streetlight. Over by the pathway a shadow disappeared among the trees. Presumably just somebody out walking his dog. Henry pulled the door shut and locked it, just to be safe.

  The interruption annoyed him. He switched on the ceiling light and looked around the apartment with distaste. He couldn’t stand seeing all the clutter, so he stuck his feet into a pair of slippers and went down to his darkroom in the basement to check on the pictures he had taken during his evening at the harness races. He had taken a whole roll of Ginger Star, and a couple of shots just as she crossed the finish line. Her head thrust forward, her mane flying, and her nose ahead of all the others. What a feeling.

  The building superintendent had been kind enough to let him use an old bicycle storage room. He had furnished it with an enlarger, trays for developer and fixer, and a rack for drying the pictures. The basement window was covered with pieces of black cardboard to keep out the daylight.

  The only light source was a red bulb on the wall. In the faint glow of this lamp the work could be done without difficulty. He enjoyed spending time in his darkroom. Focusing one hundred percent of his attention on a task in silence and darkness. He had experienced this same feeling of calm only once before, during his honeymoon to Israel. One day he and Ann-Sofie had gone on a snorkeling expedition. As they moved below the surface of the silent sea, it was like being in another dimension. Undisturbed, untouched by the constant noise of the rest of the world. That was the only time he had gone snorkeling, but the experience had stayed with him as a pleasant memory.