Little Star (37 page)

That night Teresa dreamed about
wolves.

First of all she was a human child, a helpless little creature cast out into the forest. Out of the darkness the pale eyes approached, creeping towards her between the trunks of the fir trees. Paws moving silently across the carpet of needles. The circle closing in. She wanted to run, but had not yet learned to walk.

Then rough tongues were licking her body all over. They were in the lair, and the wolves licked and licked her skin. As the tongues rasped over her stomach, it hurt so much that she cried out. Layer after layer of skin was peeled away, and the pain was unbearable. Then the fur began to appear beneath the skin. The pain diminished and the wolves left her.

A small amount of moonlight shone in through the opening of the lair, and she saw herself from the outside. She was lying on the earth floor, wet from the wolves’ saliva, trembling with cold because the sparse fur was not yet able to protect her.

The scene changed, and from the all-seeing perspective of the moon she saw a wolf running through the forest. A crippled or sick wolf with its fur in clumps, a pitiful creature terrified of the least sound. She was in the moon and in the wolf at the same time, she was drifting in the sky and crawling over the ground through the same pair of eyes.

Then time must have passed, because the ground was covered in snow. She was racing through the forest, and every leap was an
expression of joy. There was strength in her muscles, and she saw that her front legs were covered in thick, smooth fur. She was following a trail of blood. Dark patches were visible in the snow at irregular intervals, and she was hunting a quarry that was already injured.

She dashed up a hill, the snow whirling up around her paws. When she reached the top she stopped and stood, her tongue hanging out. She was panting and her breath turned to smoke in the cold air. In front of her the pack was gathered around the injured deer whose hooves still moved beneath the mass of grey fur.

The leader of the pack turned to her. The deer stopped moving, a blown eye reflecting the sky. As the whole pack turned like one single creature, focusing their attention on the lone wolf, she showed her submissiveness. She exposed her throat and lay down on her back, waving her paws; she was a wolf cub, lowest in rank of them all.

They moved closer. She whimpered like the cub she now was, displaying her helplessness, not knowing if they were coming to accept her into the pack or to rip her to shreds.

‘Theres? When you dream—what do
you dream about?’

‘I don’t know how to do that.’

‘Don’t you dream?’

‘No. How do you do it?’

Teresa was lying on the mattress next to Theres’ bed, watching the dust bunnies quiver as she breathed out. She rolled onto her back. The T-shirt she had borrowed from Theres was so small that it stopped just above the wound on her stomach. She ran her hand over the scab that was beginning to form, and it hurt. She stroked it again. If it hadn’t been for the cut, she would have been able to fly. Tell herself she hadn’t done what she had done.

But the cut was there. Inflicted with a Stanley knife, the kind used to open boxes. By someone who worked in a shop. Who was now dead, beaten to death with a hammer. By Teresa. She stroked the cut and tried to make the act real. She had done it, she would never be able to get away from the fact that she had done it. So it might as well be real. Otherwise everything would be wasted.

‘How do you do it?’ Theres asked.

‘It just happens,’ said Teresa. ‘You can’t make it happen. It’s not something you can learn. I don’t think so, anyway.’

‘Tell me how you do it.’

‘You sleep. And pictures come into your head. You don’t have any control over it, it just comes. Last night I dreamed I was a wolf.’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘In a dream it is.’ Teresa propped herself up on her elbow so that she could see Theres, who was staring up at the ceiling. ‘Theres? Do you ever imagine stuff? I mean, do you have, like pictures and actions in your head that you think about?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘No, I didn’t think you would.’ Teresa blew out a puff of air and the dust bunnies danced away under the bed. ‘That thing we did yesterday. To the man in the shop. Do you think about that?’

‘No. It’s over. You’re happy now.’

Teresa curled up as best she could in Theres’ clothes, which were much too tight. They had shoved her own blood-soaked clothes into two plastic bags and thrown them down the rubbish chute the previous evening.

Happy?
No, she wasn’t happy. She was a stranger to herself, she was presumably still in shock. But alive. She could feel that she was alive. Perhaps that was the same thing as being happy, according to Theres’ way of looking at things.

Teresa opened and closed her hands. There was a little bit of coagulated blood underneath the nail of one of her little fingers. She stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked and licked until the blood was gone. Her hands felt bigger, stronger than the previous day. Capable hands. Terrible hands. Her hands.

It was just after eleven, and her train was due to leave at two-thirty. Every normal activity, such as getting on a train and showing her ticket, seemed absurd. She felt so light, as if she would have floated away like a helium balloon if her heavy hands had not been keeping her on the ground.

She looked at herself. Theres’ clothes made her look like a sausage stuffed into a skin that was too small. This was a minor problem under the circumstances, but she couldn’t go home looking like a clown. There would be questions if nothing else.

‘Theres,’ she said. ‘I think we’re going to have to go into town.’

In H&M on Drottninggatan Teresa grabbed the first suitable pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a sweater in her size, then went to the changing room and put them on. When she came out she saw that two girls aged about twelve were edging towards Theres.

‘Excuse me,’ said one of them. ‘You’re Tesla, aren’t you?’

Theres pointed at Teresa, who had come over and was standing next to her. ‘We,’ she said. ‘I sing. Teresa writes the words.’

‘Right,’ said the girl. ‘Well, anyway, I think “Fly” is absolutely brilliant.’ She chewed her lip, trying to think of something else to say, but seemed unable to come up with anything. Instead she offered Theres a notebook and pen. Theres took them. Then nothing happened. The girls looked anxiously at one another.

‘She wants your autograph,’ said Teresa.

‘And yours, I suppose,’ said the girl.

Teresa opened the book at a blank page and wrote her name. Then she gave the pen to Theres, who shook her head. ‘What am I supposed to write?’

‘Just put Tesla.’

Theres did as she was told, then handed the book back to the girl, who pressed it to her chest and turned to her friend, who hadn’t said a word from start to finish; she had just gazed at Theres with big eyes. She had nothing to add. Then the girl who had done the talking did something totally unexpected. She gave a little bow. The other girl did the same. The gesture seemed so out of place that Teresa laughed out loud.

Then Theres laughed too. Her laughter sounded unnatural and barely human, more like something you might hear from a laugh bag in a joke shop. The girls stiffened and scurried off towards the accessories department with their heads close together, whispering.

‘Theres,’ said Teresa. ‘I think you should give up laughing.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it sounds weird.’

‘Aren’t I any good at laughing?’

‘That’s one way of putting it. No.’

At the till Teresa took out her wallet; she didn’t recognise it, because it was so fat. Then she remembered. The takings. The metal box they had broken open with a screwdriver. Seven thousand eight hundred kronor, mainly in five-hundred-kronor notes.

But it wasn’t real money. You worked for real money, or you were given it, as a gift or as pocket money, a little bit at a time. This was a bundle of bits of paper that had been lying in a drawer, and had ended up in Teresa’s wallet. She was disappointed when the assistant told her, after scanning and tugging off the security tags, the amount she had to pay for the clothes. She would have liked to give away more of the bits of paper, got rid of them.

Drottninggatan was packed. Street vendors were demonstrating battery-driven toys and rubbish made of plastic and glass. They were all made of flesh and blood. A well-placed blow could make the flesh burst and the blood pour out.

Teresa didn’t feel too good. She would have liked to hold hands with Theres for support. The feeling of being so light that she might blow away was starting to become acute. It was just like when she had had a high temperature; perhaps she still had it. She felt hot and dizzy.

In a side street Teresa stopped outside a shop window. It was a shoe shop, and in the window there were a couple of dozen different designs of Doc Martens, heavy boots with a high lace-up. A bright red pair with thick soles had caught Teresa’s eye.

She had never been interested in clothes, never had any
style.
When the girls in her class sat sighing over the latest magazine and some jacket that was just ‘sooo cool’, she didn’t understand it at all. It was a jacket, it looked more or less the same as any other jacket. She had never seen an item of clothing and simply known that it was right.

But now she was standing here, and the boots were
glowing
at her. They were hers, to the point where she could have stuck her hand through the glass and taken them. Going through the normal procedure of making a purchase felt unnatural, but she did it. When it turned out that they didn’t have any in her size, she asked if she could
try on the pair in the window, and they fitted perfectly. Of course. They were made for her feet, and cost only three bits of paper.

When they got outside, the world looked different. As if the extra height the soles gave her changed her perspective totally, even if it was only two centimetres. Teresa
walked
differently, and therefore she
saw
differently. The boots gave weight to her entire body, and whereas before it had felt as if people could pass right through her, now they stepped aside, the crowds parting before her.

A plump woman in folk costume was playing a reedy tune on a recorder. Teresa went and stood directly in front of her. The woman’s eyes were weary, and she was so small that Teresa could have swallowed her with one bite. Instead she placed one of the bits of paper in the hat that was on the ground in front of the woman. Her eyes opened wide; a long harangue of gratitude in some East European language came pouring forth. Teresa stood motionless, unmoved, tasting the moment and her own weight.

‘Now you’re happy,’ said Theres.

‘Yes,’ said Teresa. ‘Now I’m happy.’

They took the subway to Svedmyra. The weight of the boots worked even when Teresa wasn’t standing up. Sitting there next to Theres, who had settled deep in the corner as usual, a protection zone was formed around them, and no one came to sit in their square.

‘Those girls,’ she said to Theres. ‘The ones who come to visit you. What are they like?’

‘At first they’re happy. Then they say they’re unhappy. And scared. They want to talk. I help them.’

Teresa looked around the carriage. Mostly adults. A few girls and boys of their own age were sitting with earphones in, tapping away on their mobile phones. They looked neither unhappy nor scared. Either they were hiding it well, or they were just a different kind of person from the ones who found their way to Theres.

‘Theres, I want to meet those girls.’

‘They want to meet you.’

Two police cars were parked outside the local shop; blue and white tape between the lamp posts cordoned off the street. As Theres and Teresa went past they could see there was an ambulance round the back, by the loading bay. Teresa resisted an impulse to try to peer in through the window—
the perpetrator always returns to the scene of the crime
—and carried on with Theres towards her apartment. When they were out of earshot, she said, ‘You do realise we can’t say anything about this, don’t you? Not to those other girls either.’

‘Yes,’ said Theres. ‘Jerry said. You go to prison if you get into trouble. I know.’

Teresa glanced back at the shop. The loading bay was hidden from view, and she didn’t think anyone had seen them going to or from the shop. But she wasn’t sure. If it hadn’t been for the boots, her knees might well have given way. Instead she kept on walking, her footsteps firm and steady.

She didn’t have much time if she was going to catch her train after saying goodbye to Theres, but she stopped dead when they got to the apartment.

Something was wrong.

She looked around the hallway. The clothes hangers, the rug, Jerry’s clothes, her own bag. She had a distinct feeling that someone had been here. Perhaps the rug was slightly out of line, perhaps a pen had been moved on the hall table. Something. They had left the door unlocked, and anyone could have got in.

And could still be here.

Something that would have felt horrible just a couple of days ago now happened quite naturally. Teresa went into the kitchen and fetched the biggest carving knife, then marched through the apartment with the knife held in front of her, ready to attack. She opened every wardrobe, looked under the beds.

Theres sat on the sofa with her hands on her knees, following Teresa’s movements as she secured the area. Only when Teresa was convinced no one was hiding anywhere and came back to the living room did she ask a question: ‘What are you doing?’

‘Someone’s been here,’ said Teresa, putting the knife down on the coffee table. ‘And I don’t understand why. It bothers me.’

Her train was leaving in twenty-five minutes, and she would need to be lucky with the subway if she was going to catch it. But still she stood absolutely motionless for ten seconds, breathing in through her nose. Sniffing the air. There was something there. A scent. Something she couldn’t place.

She grabbed her bag and told Theres to lock the door behind her. Then she raced down the stairs and ran all the way to the subway station. She saw a train coming in, and just managed to slip through the doors before they closed.

The train to Österyd was full, and she got on two minutes before it was due to leave. Since she didn’t have a seat reservation, she pushed her way through to find an empty space. As she moved into the next carriage, she became aware of the same scent again. She stopped and sniffed, looked around.

A group of men in their forties and fifties were sitting on one side of her. There were a few beer cans on the table, and they were talking loudly about someone called Birgitta on reception, and whether she had fake tits or not. The scent of aftershave was coming from the men, and suddenly she knew.

There was an empty seat in the buffet car, and the counter hadn’t opened yet. As soon as she sat down she heaved her bag up onto the table so that she could get out her mobile and ring Theres. She found her phone, and at the same time discovered that something else was missing. With gritted teeth she hit speed dial, and when Theres answered she said, ‘It was Max Hansen who was in your apartment. And he’s pinched my MP3 player.’