Chapter 34
This is no slow grief. It does not emerge at the tail end of denial, anger, negotiation, depression, or acceptance.
It flares up at once, like an all-consuming fire within her, a fire that takes all the oxygen from the air until she’s lying on the ground, lashing at the gravel and panting for air.
Her body tries to twist into itself, as if there’s no spine, as if it is desperately trying to quench the flames inside.
Death is the ultimate state of powerlessness. Powerlessness is the ultimate despair.
Britt-Marie doesn’t know how she gets back on her feet.
How Sven gets her into the car. He must have carried her.
They find Vega halfway between the flat and the recreation center, and she’s lying in the gravel.
Her hair is plastered to her skin, her words come out in stuttered gurgles, as if tears have filled her lungs.
As if the girl is drowning from the inside.
“Omar. We have to find Omar. He’ll kill them.”
Britt-Marie doesn’t know if, sitting there in the backseat, she’s holding Vega so tightly herself, or if, in fact, it’s the other way around.
Around them, the dawn gently wakes Borg like someone breathing into the ear of someone they love.
With sun and promises. Tickling light falls over warm duvets, like the smell of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread.
It shouldn’t be doing this. It’s the wrong day to be beautiful, but the dawn doesn’t care.
The police car hurtles along in these first few moments of morning, the only thing moving on the road.
Sven’s fingers are curled so hard around the steering wheel it must surely be hurting him.
As if he has to keep the pain in some place.
He speeds up when he sees the other car.
The only car that has any reason to leave Borg at this time of morning. The only brother left for Vega to save.
Every death is unjust. Everyone who mourns seeks someone to blame.
Our fury is almost always met by the merciless insight that no one bears responsibility for death.
But what if someone was responsible? And what if you knew who had snatched away the person you love?
What would you do? Which car would you be sitting in, and what would you be holding in your hands?
The police car roars past and cuts off the other car.
Sven’s feet hit the asphalt before any of them have even come to a stop.
For an eternity he stands there in the road, alone, his face streaked with red lines and his lip buckled with bite marks.
Finally a car door opens and Omar steps out.
A man’s eyes in the body of a boy. Is this the end of a childhood?
It’s the sort of night that can’t be undone in a person.
“What, Sven? What are you going to tell me? That I have too much to lose? What the fuck do I have to lose?”
Sven holds out his palms. His eyes flicker towards what Omar is holding in his hands. His voice hardly makes itself heard.
“Tell me where it ends, Omar. When you’ve killed them, and they’ve killed you. Tell me where it ends after that.”
Omar just stands there dumbly, as if he also has to focus his pain somewhere.
Two young men in the back of the car open the doors, but they don’t get out, merely sit there waiting for Omar to make a choice.
Britt-Marie recognizes them. They play soccer with Sami and Magnus in the glare of headlights from Sami’s black car .
. . how long ago did they last play? Days?
Weeks? A whole lifetime ago. They are almost boys.
Death is powerlessness. Powerlessness is desperation.
Desperate people choose desperate measures.
Britt-Marie’s hair moves in the draft when the door of the police car opens and Vega steps out.
She looks at her brother. He’s on his knees now.
She keeps his head pressed against her throat and whispers:
“Where would Sami have stood?”
When he doesn’t immediately answer she repeats:
“Where. Would. Sami. Have stood?”
“Between us,” he pants.
The two young men give Sven one last look. At another time, perhaps, they could have been stopped. One day it may be possible to stop them again. But not tonight.
The car leaves Britt-Marie, Sven, and two children in the road.
Dawn rises over them.
The police car slowly drives back through Borg, exits on the other side, continues down a gravel track. Keeps driving forever, until Britt-Marie no longer knows if she has fallen asleep or just gone numb. They stop by a lake.
Britt-Marie wraps the pistol in every handkerchief she’s got in her bag, she doesn’t know why, perhaps mainly because she doesn’t want the girl to get dirty. Vega insists she’s got to be the one that does it. She gets out and throws it as hard as she can into the lake.
Britt-Marie doesn’t know how the hours turn into days, or how many of them pass by.
By night, she sleeps between the children in Sami’s bed.
The beating of their hearts in her hands.
She stays there for several nights. It is not something she plans, no decision has been made, she just stays there.
One dawn after another seems to merge with dusk.
Looking back, she has a vague memory of having spoken to Kent on the telephone, but she can’t remember what was said.
She thinks she may have asked him to arrange some practical things, possibly she asks him to make some telephone calls, he’s good at those things.
Everyone says Kent is good at those things.
One afternoon, she’s unsure when it is, Sven comes to the apartment.
He has brought a young woman with him from the social services.
She is warm and pleasant. Sven’s neck doesn’t seem capable of holding up all his thoughts any longer.
The woman sits with them all at the kitchen table, speaking slowly and softly, but no one is able to concentrate.
Britt-Marie’s eyes keep straying out of the window, one of the children is looking up at the ceiling, and the other is looking down at the floor.
The following night, Britt-Marie is woken by a sound of slamming in the flat.
She gets up and fumbles for the light switch.
The wind is blowing in through the balcony door.
Vega moves maniacally back and forth in the kitchen.
Tidying up. Cleaning everything she finds.
Her hands scrub frenetically at the dish rack and frying pans.
Again and again. As if they were magic lamps that could give her everything back. Britt-Marie’s hands hesitate in the air behind her shaking shoulders.
Her fingers grip without touching.
“I’m so sorry, I know you must feel—”
“I don’t have time to feel things. I have to take care of Omar,” the girl interrupts vacantly.
Britt-Marie wants to touch her, but the girl moves away, so Britt-Marie fetches her bag. Gets out some baking soda. The girl meets her eyes, and her sorrow has nothing else to say. Words cannot achieve anything.
So they keep cleaning until morning comes again. Although not even baking soda can help against this.
It’s a Sunday in January. While Liverpool are playing Stoke six hundred miles away, Sami is buried next to his mother, sleeping softly under a carpet of red flowers. Mourned by two siblings, missed by a whole community. Omar leaves a scarf in the churchyard.
Britt-Marie serves coffee in the pizzeria and makes sure each of the mourners has a coaster.
Everyone in Borg is there. The graveled parking area has lit candles around its boundary.
White jerseys have been neatly hung up on the wooden plank fence next to it.
Some of them are new, and some so old and faded that they’ve turned gray. But they all remember.
Vega stands in the doorway, in a freshly ironed dress and with her hair combed.
She receives people’s condolences as if they have a greater right to mourn than she does.
Mechanically shakes their hands. Her eyes are empty, as if someone has turned off a switch inside her.
Something is making a thumping noise outside in the parking area but no one listens to it.
Britt-Marie tries to get Vega to eat, but Vega doesn’t even answer when spoken to.
She allows herself to be led to the table and lowered into a chair, but her body reacts as if it’s sleeping.
It turns so that she faces the wall, as though she wants to avoid any possible physical contact. The thumping gets louder.
Britt-Marie’s despair intensifies. People have different ways of experiencing powerlessness and grief, but for Britt-Marie it’s never so strong as when she’s unable to get someone to eat.
The mumbling voices from the crowded pizzeria grow into a hurricane in her ears, her resigned hand fumbles for Vega’s shoulder as if it were reaching over the edge of a precipice. But the shoulder moves away. Glides towards the wall. And the eyes flee inwards. The plate remains untouched.
When the thumping from the parking area gets even louder, as if trying to prove something, Britt-Marie turns angrily towards the door with her hands clenched so tightly that the bandage comes loose from her fingers.
She’s just about to scream when she feels the girl’s body pushing past her, through the throng of people.
Max is standing outside, leaning on his crutches.
He suspends himself from his armpits, his whole weight swinging through the air, and then swings his uninjured leg at the soccer ball, firing it at a tight angle so it flies first against the wall of the recreation center, then at the wooden fence where the white jerseys are hanging, then back at him.
Du-dunk-dunk, it sounds like. Du-dunk-dunk. Du-dunk-dunk.
Du-dunk-dunk.
Like a heartbeat.
When Vega gets close enough he lets the ball roll past him without turning around. It rolls up to her, and stops against her feet. Her toes touch it through her shoes. She leans over it and runs her fingertips over the stitched leather.
Then she cries without measure.
Six hundred miles away, Liverpool win 5-3.