The Invisible Man from Salem (29 page)

I couldn't say anything. I didn't even know what to do. I picked her up and put my arms around her, pressing as hard as I could on her back. I tried to stop the flow of blood, but I could feel it running between my fingers, forcing its way out in waves. I could feel her heart against my chest, at first very, very hard and fast, but soon slower and slower, weaker and weaker. I don't think I cried.

I DON'T REMEMBER
what happened after that. I can't even remember how I got to the hospital in Södertälje. I didn't go in the ambulance. Julia had been hit in the back, on the left side, somewhere around the heart. That's how it looked, anyway, but all the blood made it hard to say where the wound was. The ambulance was there, I've since found out, after just a few minutes. That's what gave me hope — that it came so quickly. At least school nurse Ulrika said it should. She got to us before the ambulance arrived.

When Ulrika came, she took Julia from me, and shortly afterwards we heard the ambulance sirens. Julia's forehead was shiny and her skin was pale, but she was breathing. It was strained, as though an invisible weight were lying on her chest. My jeans were flecked with red.

I BLINKED,
and found myself at the hospital. Grim was there, somewhere. Klas and Diana, too. Julia was in theatre. The bullet had missed her heart, but had ripped apart several major arteries. They struggled to repair them, but she had lost so much blood that they couldn't say whether she would survive the strain of the operation.

A police officer, a woman who said her name was Jennifer Davidsson and that she was a detective inspector, wanted to talk to me. She wondered if it would be okay to ask a few questions. I only remember small details from that conversation, me saying that the police had arrived quickly. The inspector told me that Tim Nordin had made his way from the school to the police station in Rönninge and handed himself in. He admitted that he'd shot someone. But he had hit the wrong person.

‘He said that he was aiming for …' she began and then hesitated. ‘Well, you. Do you know why that might be?'

‘I used to … He was … I bullied him.'

I knew deep down that I had done something much worse, but at that moment I wasn't capable of explaining it.

‘That doesn't make what he's done okay.' She put her hand on my shoulder, where Julia had grabbed me, and I pushed it away. ‘I'm going to see if I can find you some new clothes,' she said quietly.

I was still wearing my flecked jeans, my red-splattered top. I nodded. The inspector looked at me for a long time.

‘She might have saved your life. And maybe you have saved hers.'

After that, she didn't say any more.

I'VE NEVER BEEN ABLE
to get used to the noise, the lights, the commotion that is a hospital, since that day. Sitting there in one of the many waiting rooms, waiting for my parents, it seemed bizarre that this was just another workplace. People came, got changed, did their jobs, got changed again and went home, cooked meals for their kids, and watched telly with their families. Like factory work. Absurd, that they had people's lives in their hands.

I'd got some new clothes — Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a too-big T-shirt that the inspector had gotten hold of. The school had been closed. People were worried that Tim Nordin might not have acted alone, that maybe he'd made a pact with someone else, that others might be at risk. The police assured everyone that nothing pointed to that, but the school was closed anyway.

A nurse took me into a treatment room, measured my blood pressure and took my pulse, and checked that I was okay physically. Then she said that someone would soon be along to talk to me.

‘About what?'

‘He'll give you information about things that can make it easier after this kind of … after what you've been through.'

‘Oh, right. Okay.'

I sat there on the trolley. She left me alone. Julia had been in theatre for over two hours. The door opened after a while, and my parents and my brother rushed in. I didn't say very much. They asked what had happened, but at that moment the door opened again and a white-haired man came in. He asked them to go and talk to the police for a little while. Once they were satisfied that I wasn't hurt, they nodded and left.

The man was a psychologist, and he asked matter-of-fact questions. I answered as best I could, because I liked him. He gave me a load of leaflets and brochures, and said he'd be back.

‘Do you know how she is?' I asked.

‘No.'

I wondered if I'd already asked him that. I asked everyone I saw.

BACK IN THE WAITING ROOM
. Three hours since the operation started, and still nothing from anyone. The scene in the corridor was playing on repeat in my head. The shot that echoed between my temples. The warmth of her blood on my hands.

Someone sank, silently, into the chair next to mine. I turned my head.

‘Hi,' Grim said.

His voice sounded absent, had an almost mechanical ring.

‘Have you heard anything?' I asked.

‘Not about Julia.' He looked up at the clock. ‘She's having an operation. But I've heard something else.' He avoided looking at me. ‘Like it was you he was after.'

I glanced over at his fingers, which were solidly knotted together, as though he was bracing himself.

‘Tim. Is that right?'

‘I think so.'

‘Why was he after you?'

I didn't answer.

‘If it turns out that he did it because of you, and if she dies … I will never forgive you.'

‘I understand that,' I said, looking at my hands.

‘You had a … you were together, weren't you?'

‘Yes.'

He nodded slowly.

An hour-and-a-half later, Julia Grimberg was pronounced dead on the operating table. The time of death was 5.27 p.m.

XXII

Because Tim Nordin had intended to shoot me, and had missed, he was convicted of attempted murder, aggravated manslaughter, and weapons offences. The prosecutor had wanted a custodial sentence because of the premeditated nature of the crime, but the court sentenced him to secure care under the supervision of Social Services.

I remember the trial like a sort of grey mist. As the intended victim, I was in the defence team's line of fire, and in the end I was sure I was going to faint. Since we were both minors and the crime was so serious, it was all conducted in closed sessions. Behind those doors, the past was unravelled.

It came out that I had tormented Tim Nordin for two years.

It came out in front of everyone, except Julia Grimberg. She was dead.

And I had lost my best friend.

He banned me from going to the funeral. There were no photographs, so I couldn't even see what it had been like. It was only then — several weeks later — that the shock started to recede and I realised I would never see her again.

I couldn't stay in school. It was impossible. I switched to a school in Huddinge. Grim changed schools, too, but he went to Fittja. Shortly after that, the Grimbergs left the Triad and Salem. I don't know where they went — possibly Hagsätra. Just before they moved, I'd tried to get back in touch with Grim, without success. The only one who would talk to me when I called was Diana.

‘You know,' she said. ‘His hatred towards you is … so strong right now.'

She sounded surprisingly composed and normal, I remember thinking. Perhaps this was just what was needed to shake Diana out of her depression, to let her move on. That was a horrible thought.

And wrong. I later heard from someone in the triad that Diana Grimberg was being cared for at a psychiatric unit in Södertälje after a failed suicide attempt. She was probably going to be staying there for a long time. Grim's dad drank more than ever, got sacked, and ended up unemployed.

NOT LONG AFTER THAT
came the anger. I wanted to hurt Tim Nordin. I wanted to hurt Vlad and Fred, who'd hit me, left me wanting to do the same — and then I found Tim. I wanted to hurt whoever had hurt them. After a while I could see that there was no point; the chain was infinite. I would never be able to find where it all started, never find the source. The original force that had set everything off might never have existed. I didn't want to hurt someone, I realised; I wanted to hurt everyone.

I tried to find out where Vlad and Fred lived. I spent several nights wandering around with a knife inside my coat, looking for them. I went from one estate to another without finding them. I alternated between a feeling of unbearable shame and guilt, and a feeling of being the victim of injustice. Was it my fault? Was it my responsibility? Tim was the one who'd held the gun. Julia had stepped in between us. I hadn't done anything, but was I innocent? I was the one who'd started on Tim; if I hadn't done that, he would never have gone so far. And I was the one who Julia was in love with, the one she wanted to protect. I was the common denominator. But if it hadn't been for Vlad and Fred … I was tying myself in knots, confusing myself. There was no end to it.

That's when I realised I needed help. I looked up the white-haired man who'd talked to me at the Södertälje Hospital. His name was Mark Levin — apparently, he'd said so the first time we met — and he could see that I needed to start treatment and therapy straight away. He took it upon himself. I only started feeling better when Julia had been dead for six months, but I hadn't been to her grave yet. Mark Levin reckoned I wouldn't be able to move on until I'd done that.

I DREAMT ABOUT HER
, almost every night. It went on for years. It surprised me, just how much I could bear and yet still be able to stand on my own two feet. The thought of what we are actually capable of living with scared me, but maybe when it gets unbearable the brain switches off, and the grief comes up in your sleep. When your defences are down. Losing Julia felt like losing something fundamental, one of the elements. As though the air had disappeared, and all that was left was a gasping for something that wasn't there.

When I set out to visit Julia's grave for the first time, it was the end of February and it was cold — so cold that new record lows were being reported every day. All over Stockholm, homeless people and animals died because they couldn't cope with the strain and they couldn't make it inside in time. Despite that, there was only a dusting of snow on the ground as I passed through the gates and made my way over to the new part of the cemetery where Julia lay. I saw fresh footprints in the snow, and I felt strangely reassured by the knowledge that I wasn't alone there. It was the middle of the day, and the sky above me was white and matte like paper. From a distance, I noticed a shadow standing by one of the graves. It was a woman wearing a long brown coat, whose hair was the colour of wire wool. I walked past, and further along there was another person. As I looked down at the ground, I saw that the footprints in the snow led to him — another shadow, with a shaved head and a thick black jacket with a fur-trimmed hood.

He was standing with his hands in his pockets, staring at the grave. I heard him sniffing. That was the first and only time I saw Grim cry.

I moved off the gravel path, in behind a tree, while I tried to decide what to do. My back was warm and I undid my coat, and felt the cold rush in. My hands were shaking. I never thought I'd react like this. While I stood there I saw him walk past, on his way out. His eyes were swollen, but he seemed composed.

I took a deep breath, waited until he was out of sight, and stepped back out onto the path, following Grim's tracks in the snow.

It was smaller than I had expected. But until I got there, I hadn't realised I was expecting anything at all.

JULIA MARIKA GRIMBERG
1981–1997

The grave was framed by frost-ravaged flowers and a burnt-out candle. A thin layer of snow had settled on the rounded headstone, and I carefully leant down, struggling against the resistance that seemed to exist between my hand and the stone, before brushing away the snow with my palm.

I think I whispered something. I felt my lips moving, but I couldn't tell what I'd said. That she was gone, that she no longer existed, was incomprehensible. It was a hoax, a bad joke; someone had tricked us all. She must still be there somewhere, just out of reach. That's how it felt.

I stood there for a while. I think I said sorry. That it was my fault. After that, I turned around, did up my coat, and started walking away. Beyond the trees loomed the water tower — dark grey, mute.

HE WAS STANDING THERE
with his hands in his pockets, and his stare was fixed on the tower, perhaps on the ledge where we'd met less than a year earlier.

‘Are you spying on people now?' he said, without looking at me.

‘What do you mean?'

‘In the cemetery.'

‘Right. Sorry.'

‘It's okay.'

His voice was calm and quiet.

‘Do you visit it often?' I asked.

‘The grave?'

‘Yes.'

‘As often as I can. It's a bit of a way from Hagsätra. You?'