Chapter 28
Admittedly it is not the two policemen’s fault, it really isn’t.
They’ve come to Borg from town and are just trying to do their jobs as best they can.
But Britt-Marie is possibly just slightly irascible. That is how you get when people shoot at you.
“We can appreciate that you’re in shock, but we need our questions answered,” one of the policemen tries to explain.
“I see you’re not at all concerned about stomping in with muddy shoes on a newly mopped floor, I see that. It must be very nice for you.”
“We’ve already said we’re sorry about that. Really sorry. But as we’ve already explained now several times we have to question all the witnesses on the scene,” the other policeman tries to say.
“My list has been destroyed.”
“What do you mean?”
“You asked for my testimony. My list is destroyed. None of this was on my list when I left home this morning, so now my entire list is in disarray.”
“That’s not quite what we meant,” says the first policeman.
“Aha. So now my testimony is wrong as well, is it?”
“We need to know if you got a good look at the perpetrator,” the other policeman attempts to say.
“I should like to inform you that I have perfectly good vision. I’ve spoken to my optometrist about it. He’s an excellent optician, you should understand. Very well brought up. He doesn’t walk around indoors with muddy shoes.”
The police emit synchronized sighs. Britt-Marie exhales very pointedly back.
“It would be a great help to us if you could describe the perpetrator,” one of the policemen asks.
“Of course I can do that,” hisses Britt-Marie.
“And how would you describe him?”
“He had a pistol!”
“But you really don’t remember anything else? Any distinguishing characteristics?”
“Isn’t a pistol a distinguishing characteristic?” wonders Britt-Marie.
This is the moment when the police decide to go back into town.
Britt-Marie mops the floor again. So hard that in the end Somebody has to stop her.
“Careful with mop, Britt-Marie, expensive mop for God’s sake!” She grins.
Britt-Marie does not think this is the best of days to roll about in your wheelchair, grinning at people, she certainly doesn’t. But Somebody makes sure she drinks her beer and eats a bit of pizza, and then she hands over her car keys.
“I was under the distinct impression that the car had not been repaired yet!” Britt-Marie bursts out.
Somebody shrugs, ashamed of herself.
“Ah, you know. Been ready many days, huh, but . . . you know.”
“No. I absolutely don’t know at all.”
Somebody guiltily rubs her hands in her lap.
“The car is ready many days. But if Britt has no car: can’t drive off and leave Borg, huh?”
“So you pulled the wool over my eyes? You lied to my face?” Britt-Marie says in an injured tone of voice.
“Yes,” Somebody admits.
“Might I ask why you did that?”
Somebody shrugs. “I like you. You’re, what’s-it-called? A breath of fresh air! Borg is boring without Britt, huh?”
Britt-Marie doesn’t have a particularly good answer on hand for this, it has to be said. So Somebody fetches another beer and calls out, as if in passing:
“But Britt, you know, let me put question to you: how do you feel about blue car?”
“What do you mean by that?” pants Britt-Marie.
Then they spend a fairly lengthy amount of time on the soccer pitch, arguing about this, because Somebody is quite persistent about explaining that she could without any trouble respray Britt-Marie’s car the same color as the new blue door.
It wouldn’t be any trouble at all. In fact, Somebody is almost a hundred percent sure that at some point she registered a paint-shop business with the local authority.
In the end Britt-Marie gets so worked up about this that she takes her notebook and tears out her list for the whole day, and starts one completely fresh. She has never done this in her whole life, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
She walks back through Borg with Vega and Omar, because Britt-Marie has by this point consumed half a can of beer, meaning it’s quite out of the question for her to get behind the wheel.
Especially not in a car with a blue door.
What would people think? Omar stays absolutely silent until they get home, which is more minutes of silence than Britt-Marie has ever heard from him since they first got to know each other.
Vega keeps calling Sami without getting an answer.
Britt-Marie tries to convince her that Sami may not have heard news of the robbery, but Vega tells her that this is Borg.
Everyone knows everything about everyone in Borg.
So Sami knows and Sami isn’t answering because he’s busy tracking Psycho down and killing him.
Under these circumstances, Britt-Marie can’t bring herself to leave the children on their own, so she goes up to the flat with them and starts making dinner.
They have it at exactly six o’clock. The children eat staring down at their plates, as children do who have learned to expect the worst. When Britt-Marie’s telephone rings the first time they bounce up, but it’s only Kent so Britt-Marie doesn’t answer.
When Sven calls a minute later she doesn’t answer either, and when the girl from the unemployment office calls three times in a row she switches off the telephone.
Vega calls Sami again. Gets no answer. That’s when she starts washing up, without anyone having asked her, and then Britt-Marie realizes the situation is really serious.
“I’m sure nothing serious has happened,” says Britt-Marie.
“The hell you know about it?” Vega says.
Omar mumbles from the table:
“Sami is never late for dinner. He’s a dinner-Nazi.”
Then he picks up his plate in the dishwasher.
Voluntarily. Which is the point at which Britt-Marie understands something extremely drastic has to be done, so she concentrates on breathing in and out half a dozen times, and then she hugs the children hard.
When they burst into tears she does the same.
When the doorbell finally rings they’re stumbling over one another to get there.
None of them gives a second thought to the fact that if this was Sami coming back he would just have opened the door with his key, so when they tug at the door handle only to find the white dog sitting outside, Omar feels disappointed, Vega is angry, and Britt-Marie anxious.
Because these seem to be their most basic emotions in life.
“You can’t come in with dirty paws,” Britt-Marie informs the dog.
The dog glances at its paws, and seems overwhelmed by a lack of self-confidence.
Next to it stands Bank, and next to her stand Max, Ben, Dino, and Toad.
Bank points her stick, gently poking Britt-Marie in the stomach.
“Hi there, Rambo!”
“How dare you!” protests Britt-Marie instinctively.
“You scared off the robber,” explains Toad. “Like Rambo. That means you’re an ice-cool motherfucker!”
Britt-Marie patiently puts her bandaged hand in the other and turns her eyes to Ben. He smiles and nods encouragingly.
“And that’s, like, good.”
Britt-Marie absorbs this information and then her eyes wander all the way back to Bank.
“Ha. Very nice of you to say so.”
“Don’t mention it,” mutters Bank impatiently and makes a gesture at her wrist, as if she was wearing a watch: “What about training?”
“What training?” asks Britt-Marie.
“The training!” answers Max, who’s wearing his national hockey team jersey and dancing up and down as if he needs the bathroom.
Britt-Marie uncomfortably rocks back and forth from her heels to her toes.
“I assumed it was self-evident that it had been canceled. In view of the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“The robbery, my dear.”
Max looks as if he’s working his brain hard to bring clarity to what these two separate things could feasibly have to do with each other. Then he comes to the only possible logical conclusion: “Did the robber nick the ball?”
“I’m sorry?”
“If he didn’t nick the ball we can still play, can’t we?”
The group gathered on the landing takes this conclusion into consideration, and when none of them seems able to come up with any rational line of argument to oppose it, there’s not much else to do.
So they play. In the yard outside the apartment block, between the refuse room and the bicycle stand, using three gloves and a dog as the goalposts.
Max tackles Vega just as she’s about to score, and she takes two swings at him with both fists. He backs off. She roars: “Don’t touch me, rich kid!” They all shuffle away. Omar avoids the ball as if it’s frightening to him.
The black car stops on the road just as Toad has hit one of the goalposts on the nose for the third time, and it’s refusing to take part anymore. Omar rushes into Sami’s arms, and Vega turns around and marches into the house without a word.
The goalpost is having some sweets from Bank’s pocket and getting scratched behind its ears as Sami draws closer.
“Hey there, Bank,” he says.
“Did you find him?” asks Bank.
“No,” says Sami.
“Lucky for Psycho!” yells Toad excitedly, waving his thumb and index finger like a pistol, then cutting this activity short when Britt-Marie gives him a look as if he just refused to use a coaster.
Bank pokes Sami’s stomach with her stick.
“Lucky for Psycho. But mainly lucky for you, Sami.”
She heads for home with Max, Dino, Toad, and Ben in tow. Before they go around the corner Ben stops and calls out to Britt-Marie:
“You’re still coming tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Coming to what?” Britt-Marie wants to know, and is met by a collective stare from the group as if she’s lost her reason.
“To the cup! Tomorrow’s the cup!” thunders Max.
Britt-Marie brushes her skirt so they don’t see she’s got her eyes closed and is sucking her cheeks in.
“Ha. Ha. Obviously I will. Obviously.”
She doesn’t say anything about how it will be her last day in Borg. They don’t say anything either.
She sits in the kitchen until Sami comes out of Vega and Omar’s bedroom.
“They’re sleeping,” he says with a somewhat forced smile.