‘Some business of Mio’s.’
Jochum, with his large shaved head, sunbed tan, scarred cheek, remained stubbornly silent, just sat there taking up space.
Slobodan leaned forward.
‘He’d like you to have a word with a guy who is selling our goods cut with washing powder.’
Jochum waited. He said nothing. Not until Slobodan’s mobile phone, lying in the middle of the table, rang and he reached out for it. Then Jochum grabbed his wrist.
‘You’re talking to me. Do the rest of your fucking business some other time.’
A flash of defiance in his eyes.
Slobodan withdrew his hand, just as the ringing stopped.
‘Like I said, this guy sells bad shit. And one of the buyers was Mio’s niece.’
Jochum picked up the salt cellar from the starched tablecloth waste between them, rolled it over the table, watched it go over the edge of the table and roll across the floor towards the window.
‘Mirja?’
Slobodan nodded.
‘Mio never bothered about her before. A smack head whore.’
Muzak flowed from wall-mounted speakers, lift music. The women with red cheeks laughed and lit fresh cigarettes, the men undid the top buttons on their shirts, tried to hide their ring fingers as best they could.
‘I think you know the bloke.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Look, it was cut with washing powder. And it was ours. Don’t you get it?’
Jochum didn’t comment and leaned back in his chair. Slobodan had gone red in the face.
‘That little creep is ruining our street cred. The story that punters were mainlining fucking Persil will do the rounds in no time.’
Jochum was starting to get fed up with the whole place: the conference women’s smoke, the smell of cooked breakfasts, the too-polite waitresses. He wanted to get out, out into the daylight, to another day. This posh scene might be everything that some people longed for in Aspsеs, but it wasn’t his idea of the good life. On the contrary. The more years he spent inside, the more he resisted any kind of fancy pretence.
‘Get on with it. Tell me what I’m supposed to do, for fuck’s sake.’
Slobodan responded to his impatience.
‘No fucker’s going to sell washing powder in our name. So, a few broken fingers. An arm, nothing more. That’ll do.’
Their eyes met. Jochum nodded.
The muzak piano played worn-out pop. He got up, made for the car.
The morning had almost passed, but Stockholm’s Central Station was still yawning, still not quite awake. Some people were in transit, some were snatching a little sleep. Always room for those who struggled with loneliness. It had been raining since midnight, and the homeless had sought shelter in the massive doorways, tried to lie down on the benches in the hall that was as large as a football pitch. They had to keep moving to avoid the security guards, hiding in amongst the hurrying crowd of travellers carrying bags and suitcases and paper cups of cafй latte steaming under plastic lids.
Hilding Oldйus had just woken up.
A couple of hours’ kip in the middle of the day. He looked around.
His body ached from the hard bench. Some sodding guard had been prodding him non-stop.
No food, not since the morning, when one of the cops had given him a couple of custard creams at the joke hearing. Not that it made him grass on Jochum.
He wasn’t hungry now. Not randy either.
He was, like… nothing.
It made him laugh out loud. Two old bags stared at him and he gave them the finger. He was nothing. Had to get more kit. Then he could carry on being nothing and shut them all out and have no feelings.
He got up. He smelt of piss, his hair was greasy and matted and the wound on his nose was coated in dried blood. He was thin and filthy and twenty-eight years old, closer to the other side than ever before.
Hilding walked slowly towards the escalator that wasn’t working. When it rocked too much he clung to the black rubber railing. The left-luggage lockers were down a concrete corridor. The door was opposite the johns, where some cow demanded five kronor every time you needed to take a leak. Not fucking likely. Stood to reason you pissed in the metro tunnel instead.
Olsson was tucked away at the back as usual, somewhere between boxes 120 and 150. He was asleep. One foot was bare, no sock, no shoe. The fucker could afford shoes, no problem, but who cares about fucking shoes.
He was snoring. Hilding pulled at his arm and shook him a little.
‘I want some cash.’
Olsson was still half asleep and stared vacantly at him.
‘You hear? I need cash. Now. You were going to settle last week.’
‘Tomorrow.’
Olsson wasn’t his real name. Hilding had no idea what it was, but he knew it wasn’t Olsson. They had been stuck in the same drug rehab place once, down in Skеne.
‘Olsson, you heard. One fucking thousand, right now! Or did you take all the shit yourself?’
Olsson sat up, yawned, stretched.
‘Hilding, lay off. I haven’t got any!’
Hilding scratched the wound. The bastard didn’t have any money. Just like that cow at the Social Services. Like his sister. He’d phoned her and begged for money again, like he had a few days ago from the metro platform. Same again: she’d stuck to the same old tune, like It’s your choice, it’s your problem, don’t try to involve me.
He started on the wound again, the crust came off and it bled quite a lot.
‘Got to get some cash, you fucking cunt. Get it?’
‘I haven’t got none. Tell you what I’ve got. Information, well worth a thousand.’
‘What fucking info?’
‘Jochum Lang is looking for you.’
Hilding couldn’t leave the wound alone. He sighed and tried to make out that he didn’t swallow.
‘So what? I don’t give a shit.’
‘What does he want you for?’
‘I don’t know. Meet up? We did some time together in Aspsеs.’
Olsson’s cheek twitched upwards, over and over, making his eye open and close. He was caught in his junkie tic.
‘Worth a thousand, wasn’t it?’
‘I want my cash.’
‘Haven’t got it.’ Olsson patted his anorak pocket. ‘But I have got some smack. Powder.’
He pulled the plastic bag from its hiding place and held it up for Hilding to see.
‘One gram, what about it? Take it and we’re even.’ Hilding stopped scratching.
‘A gram?’
‘Fucking strong too.’
Hilding reached out, waved his hands around, slapped Olsson.
‘Let’s see.’
‘Pure heroin. Real strong.’
‘I’ll take a quarter now. I’ll just shoot up a quarter. OK?’
The train to Malmö and Copenhagen was late, the loudspeakers in the ceiling filled the hall, fifteen minutes more to go, sit down on your seats, keep waiting. From somewhere else, cafй noises, the smell of brewing coffee and greasy pastries sneaked about and clung to everything. They didn’t notice, didn’t notice the great space around them filling up with commuters hurrying to their platforms – young people with rover tickets and huge, flag-covered rucksacks, families travelling at inconvenient times on the special saver tickets that the businessmen despised. All that passed them by. Jerkily they walked to the photo booth near the main entrance. Olsson stood guard; he was to stop anyone wanting to get in and make sure that Hilding didn’t OD and flake out. Hilding sat on the low folding seat and drew the curtains. He was shaking and his legs showed, so Olsson moved over a little.
The spoon was in the inside pocket of the raincoat.
He filled the spoon with white heroin powder, added a few drops of citric acid on top, cooked the mixture over the flame of his cigarette lighter, then mixed it in the water and drew the solution up into his syringe.
He had lost a lot of weight. It used to be enough to take the belt into the third or fourth hole, but now he got to the seventh. He pulled it tight, and enough was left to go one more time round his arm. The leather cut deep into the flesh.