Chapter 23
The service went poorly. Everyone was on the same page about that, in hindsight.
What no one could agree on was the exact point at which it began to go south.
Some said they could sense it in the air the moment they stepped into the chapel.
Others claimed it was when Sander and, especially, Killian arrived, given Killian’s appearance.
Some people claimed it all started with the police. They walked in in their uniforms, both Gerd and Siri, and took seats in the back.
According to Isidor himself, it was when the Soderstrom family, or what was left of it, arrived.
People had already been talking about them in the pews, of course, wondering if they would attend, but no one had actually expected them to.
Yet there they were: Karl-Henrik, Lillemor, and Filip, with the ghost of Mikael a cold, dark absence trailing after them.
This Sunday, attendance at the chapel was better than it had been in years, probably on account of Friday night’s tragic incident.
A small choir, among them Sander’s and Killian’s mothers, would stand outside in the chilly air to sing after the service, and mulled wine and gingerbread cookies would be served.
Isidor waited up in the chancel, surrounded by Christmas decorations.
Two Christmas trees with warm lights and deep-red ornaments glowed alongside candles in a variety of holders.
It looked peaceful, but Isidor felt doubt and the itch of gambling grow within his hands. It was where he always felt the expectations of the motley congregation as they waited to hear him speak.
Everyone was thinking of Mikael. Where was he now?
Was he listening? Who knows what really happens to the dead?
Several times over the weekend, folks had experienced a shimmer in the air, a sudden will-o’-the-wisp.
Could have been an illusion, light reflecting off a closing door somewhere nearby or a truck passing on the road.
Maybe not. It almost felt like he was still around.
The world of Skavboke was no longer solid. It had begun to shift like melting ice.
Killian’s father, Sten, arrived late and last of all. He stepped in like a larger, more haggard version of his son and glanced at Linda, who turned to stare stubbornly at the windows. Sten strode up to Isidor and shook his hand.
“It’s been a while since I was last here,” he said to the pastor. “But I felt like…I thought I ought to…you know.”
Isidor smiled and nodded kindly.
Madeleine sat on the other side of the center aisle, her crutches leaning against the pew, busy trying to keep her injured leg straight. When she and Sten noticed each other, their gazes lingered.
This was the first time many of the young folks had seen each other since the party. That was why some were only now noticing Killian’s nose. People tried to keep from staring.
“Do you know what happened?” Jakob whispered to Sander, who was sitting closest to him.
As Sander briefly recounted the accident, Jakob looked perplexed.
“He fell on his nose?”
“That’s what he said. I don’t know, I wasn’t there.”
The service began and Isidor spoke about them, about the village and the terrible thing that had happened.
Gathering here, all together, was one way to find strength in one another.
So far so good, but suddenly he seemed clueless about what to say next, if only that they should start to search for that strength, without detailed instructions of how to begin.
“On the fourth Sunday of Advent, the angel Gabriel appeared to Mary and told her she would give birth to the son of God,” he said tentatively.
Then he spoke about the Lord, who was tender, slow to wrath, and full of love. Gracious to all, benevolent toward his creation. In response to the tribulations of earthly life he offers a single comfort: mercy.
Isidor tried to choose his words carefully, and this was certainly obvious, but it still seemed as though he kept slipping up. Afraid of missing the important words, he said far too many.
He reached for a hymnal and opened it.
During the hymn, which was sung without accompaniment, Sander leaned toward Jakob and whispered, “Did you talk to them?”
Jakob shook his head.
He had come home after the party to find the house unusually chilly. Someone had broken a pane of the glass door in the back, facing the yard, and had stuck in their hand to turn the lock.
“You should tell them,” Sander whispered, nodding discreetly back at the rear of the chapel, where the cops sat. “Since they’re here.”
Jakob shrank back as though Sander had demanded he confess his sins, and shook his head. The hymn faded and a sense of emptiness trickled into the pews. Someone coughed.
“Why not?” Killian said, and when Jakob looked confused, he added, “Your parents are going to figure it out when they see the hole in the glass. They’re going to ask questions.”
“Yeah.” Jakob looked helpless. “I know. They’re not home yet; they’ll be here after lunch.
But we argued, you know? Me and Mikael. First the crap when we were on the sofa, and then, even worse, what happened upstairs.
When the police called me yesterday, and I told them about it, I could tell it made them suspicious.
If I take this to them now, they’ll ask why I didn’t tell them right away. ”
People sitting nearby heard them whispering and glared. Isidor had begun to read from the Gospels.
“They only called you?” Sander whispered harshly in surprise. “They came to my house.”
“Mine too,” Killian said.
“They just called. But I could tell it made them react.” He gave a pointed look. “When I told them about the fight. And now, with this theft, what if they come arrest me or something, what the fuck am I going to say then?”
But it wasn’t all that unusual—fights happened at parties, they just didn’t typically end in someone’s death. The cops knew that. Besides, it was better for Jakob to tell them about the stolen money. They would find out eventually anyway and wonder why he’d tried to hide it, and it would—
Karl-Henrik Soderstrom whipped his head around as though someone had suddenly grabbed him by the hair on his nape. His face was red and puffy, his eyes shiny as he stared the guys down.
“Shut the hell up, for Christ’s sake,” he said, so loudly that Isidor fell silent up at the front.
The words ricocheted around the chapel.
Karl-Henrik’s gaze slid away, trying to find something to focus on. The two cops watched attentively from their seats.
“To all generations,” Isidor began anew, but he stopped when he saw Karl-Henrik struggling to rise from the pew.
“Can you explain it to me?” He stepped into the aisle, resting one hand on the back of the pew for support, gazing unsteadily at Madeleine and Felicia. “Huh? Everyone knows. Doesn’t it matter?” His voice was thick. “Everyone knows he was in your car.”
Up in the chancel, Isidor said, more to the police in the back than to Karl-Henrik: “Please allow me to continue.”
“Karl-Henrik, please,” Lillemor tried, trying to grab his hand, but Karl-Henrik waved it away and pointed at Felicia.
“You and Mikael,” he said, his voice losing its strength. “Right, the two of you were—”
Karl-Henrik’s eyes darted. Felicia opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Gerd had already stood up. She was standing in the center aisle, perfectly calm, as though everyone weren’t following her every move. She rested a hand on the bereaved father’s shoulder.
“I think we should go get some air, Karl-Henrik.”
Siri came to stand on his other side, and he followed them to the exit without any fuss.
Lillemor was left behind. She put her arm around Filip, who was slumped in the pew.
Afterward, everyone tried to remember if he had moved at all during his father’s outburst, but no one could say for certain; it seemed he had been completely paralyzed.
Then, suddenly, Lillemor stood up and pulled Filip with her.
They left the chapel, a listless son and a mother breathless, like she was trying to keep panic at bay.
Isidor cleared his throat. It was probably a moment for him to speak, but in retrospect no one could reproduce his words.
The choir arranged themselves outside, dutiful but rather bewildered, and the mulled wine and gingerbread cookies were served.
O, come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, they sang, their voices bright and fragile, as Sander and Killian looked around, worried that something else—what, they didn’t know—might happen.
The extent of what had happened didn’t become clear until the next day, when everyone learned that Inger Nilsson, an old newshound at Hallandsposten, had managed to infiltrate and witness the whole spectacle.