The Nightmare. Ларс Кеплер

wrong way round, I’m stuck with a big body and a small head,’ Erixon jokes.

      Joona smiles as he gives him a sideways glance and opens the wide door for him. They walk up the steps and look at the list of names, the illuminated light-switches, the hatches to the garbage chute. The stairwell smells of sun and dust and detergent. Erixon grabs hold of the handrail, worn smooth with use, and it creaks as he heaves himself up behind Joona. They look at each other when they reach the third floor. Erixon’s face is quivering from the exertion, and he nods and wipes the sweat from his brow as he whispers apologetically to Joona:

      ‘Sorry.’

      ‘It’s very close today,’ Joona says.

      There are several stickers by the doorbell: a peace symbol, the Fairtrade logo, and anti-nuclear power. Joona glances at Erixon, and his grey eyes narrow when he puts his ear to the door and listens.

      ‘What is it?’ Erixon whispers.

      Still listening, Joona rings the doorbell. He waits a few moments, then pulls a small case from his inside pocket.

      ‘Probably nothing,’ he says, and carefully picks the uncomplicated lock.

      Joona opens the door, then seems to change his mind and closes it again. He gestures to Erixon to remain where he is, without really knowing why. They hear the melody of an ice-cream van outside. Erixon looks worried, and rubs his chin. A shiver runs through Joona’s arms, but he still opens the door calmly and walks in. There are newspapers, adverts and a letter from the Left Party on the hall mat. The air is still, stale. A velvet curtain has been pulled across the closet. The pipes in the walls gush and then tick rapidly.

      Joona doesn’t know why, but his hand moves to his holstered pistol. He nudges it with his fingertips beneath his jacket, but doesn’t draw it. He looks at the blood-red curtain, then the kitchen door. He is breathing quietly, trying to see through the textured pane of glass and the glass door to the living room.

      Joona takes a step forward, but really he just wants to get out of the flat: a strong instinct is telling him to call for backup. Something goes dark behind the textured glass. A wind-chime with dangling brass weights is swaying, but without making any noise. Joona sees the motes of dust in the air change direction, following a new air-current.

      He’s not alone in Penelope’s flat.

      Joona’s heart starts to beat faster. Someone is moving through the rooms. He can sense it, and turns to look at the kitchen door, and then everything happens very fast. The wooden floor creaks. He hears a rhythmic sound, like little clicks. The door to the kitchen is half open. Joona catches sight of movement in the crack between the hinges. He presses himself against the wall, as if in a railway tunnel. Someone moves quickly through the darkness of the long hallway. Just their back, a shoulder, an arm.

      The figure approaches rapidly, then spins round. Joona catches just a glimpse of the knife, like a white tongue. It shoots up like a projectile, from below. The angle is so unexpected that he doesn’t have time to parry the blow. The sharp blade cuts through his clothes and its tip hits his pistol. Joona strikes out at the figure, but misses. He hears the knife slash the air a second time and throws himself back. This time the blade comes from above. Joona hits his head on the bathroom door. He sees a long splinter of wood peel off as the knife cuts into the doorframe. Joona falls to the floor, rolls over, kicks out low, in an arc, and hits something, possibly one of his attacker’s ankles. He rolls away, draws his pistol and removes the safety catch in the same fluid movement. The front door is open and he hears rapid footsteps going down the stairs. Joona gets to his feet, is about to set off after the man when he hears a rumbling sound behind him. He understands instantly what the noise is and rushes into the kitchen. The microwave oven has been switched on. It’s crackling, and black sparks are visible through the glass door. The valves of the four burners on top of the old gas stove have been left open, and gas is streaming into the room.

      With a feeling that time has become incredibly sluggish, Joona throws himself at the microwave. The timer is clicking anxiously. The crackling noise is getting louder. A can of insect spray is revolving on the glass plate inside. Joona pulls the plug from the wall and the noise stops. The only sound is the monotonous hiss of the open gas burners on the stove. Joona shuts the valves off. The chemical smell makes his stomach heave. He opens the kitchen window and then looks at the aerosol in the microwave. It’s badly swollen, and could still explode at the slightest touch.

      Joona leaves the kitchen and quickly searches the rest of the flat. The rooms are empty, untouched. The air is still thick with gas. On the landing outside the door Erixon is lying on the floor with a cigarette in his mouth.

      ‘Don’t light it,’ Joona shouts.

      Erixon smiles and waves his hand wearily.

      ‘Chocolate cigarettes,’ he whispers.

      Erixon coughs weakly and Joona suddenly sees the pool of blood beneath him.

      ‘You’re bleeding.’

      ‘Nothing too serious,’ he says. ‘I don’t know how he did it, but he cut my Achilles’ tendon.’

      Joona calls for an ambulance, then sits down beside him. Erixon is pale and his cheeks are wet with sweat. He looks distinctly unwell.

      ‘He cut me without even stopping, it was … it was like being attacked by a bloody spider.’

      They fall silent and Joona thinks about the lightning-fast movements behind the door, and the way the knife moved with a speed and a purposefulness that was unlike anything he’s ever experienced before.

      ‘Is she in there?’ Erixon pants.

      ‘No.’

      Erixon smiles with relief, then turns serious.

      ‘But he was still planning to blow the place up?’ he asks.

      ‘Presumably to get rid of evidence, or some sort of connection,’ Joona says.

      Erixon tries to peel the paper from the chocolate cigarette but drops it and closes his eyes. His cheeks are greyish white now.

      ‘I guess you didn’t see his face either,’ Joona says.

      ‘No,’ Erixon says weakly.

      ‘But we saw something, people always see something …’

       18

       The fire

      The paramedics reassure Erixon repeatedly that they’re not going to drop him.

      ‘I can walk,’ Erixon says, as he shuts his eyes.

      His chin trembles with every step they take.

      Joona returns to Penelope Fernandez’s flat. He opens all the windows, airing out the gas, and sits down on the comfortable, apricot-coloured sofa.

      If the apartment had exploded, it would probably have been written off as an accident caused by a gas leak.

      Joona reminds himself that no fragments of memory ever disappear, nothing you ever see is lost, it’s all a matter of letting the memory drift up from the depths like flotsam.

       So what did I see, then?

      He didn’t see anything, just rapid movements and a white knife-blade.

      That was what I saw, Joona suddenly thinks. Nothing.

      He tells himself that the very absence of observations supports the idea that they’re not dealing with any ordinary murderer.

      They could be dealing with a professional killer, a problem solver, a fixer.

      He had already had his suspicions, but after his