The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [101]
The Lithuanian stood there on the threshold, with the light at his back so that he looked barely human, a giant form towering above him, filling Jan’s entire field of vision. He had a gun in one hand. The other clutched the back of Aleksander’s head like the timber grab on a bulldozer. An involuntary sound shot up from the depth of his diaphragm. Please no. Not Aleksander.
“For God’s sake,” he whispered, not realizing that he was speaking Danish and that the giant would not be able to understand. “Let him go.”
The Lithuanian was looking down at him.
“Now,” he said, in a voice that made Jan think of rusting iron. “Now you pay.”
ANTON WAS TIRED and surly. “Peepy” was Morten’s mother’s idiosyncratic term for it—possibly an amalgam of peevish and sleepy, and in any case a word that admirably covered the fit-for-nothing-yet-unready-to-sleep state with which his son struggled on a regular basis.
If only Nina hadn’t taken the damn car, thought Morten. Today of all days he could have done without the trek from the daycare to the Fejøgade flat, dragging along an uncooperative seven-year-old. Anton considered it beneath his dignity to hold hands like a toddler, but he kept lagging behind if Morten didn’t chivvy him along. She had called her boss, but not him. Magnus had relayed her assurances, almost apologetically.
“She’s okay,” he said. “She said you shouldn’t worry.”
Of course it was nice to know she wasn’t lying dead in a thicket somewhere in Northern Zealand, but apart from that, it wasn’t very helpful. She was still out there somewhere, in that alternate reality to which he had no access, where violence and disaster always lurked just around the corner. He knew it was irrational, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Nina had somehow single-handedly managed to drag that world back with her to Denmark, disturbing the coffee-and-open-sandwiches tranquility of the family picnic he would have liked his life to be.
“I’m hungry,” whined Anton.
“I’ll make you a sandwich when we get home.”
“On white bread?”
“No. On rye.”
“I don’t like rye,” said Anton.
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t! It’s got seeds in it.”
Morten heaved a sigh. Anton’s pickiness came and went. When he was rested and happy and secure, he cheerfully wolfed down fairly advanced foods such as olives and broccoli and chicken liver. At other times, his repertoire shrunk alarmingly, and he would balk at anything more challenging than cereal and milk.
“We’ll fix something,” he said vaguely.
“But I’m hungry now.”
Morten surrendered and bought him a popsicle.
THERE WAS A smell in the hallway that warned him the second he was about to cross the threshold. He stopped. Two floors below, Anton was making his way up the stairs by a method that involved taking two steps up and hopping one step down. Apparently, it was essential to perform the hops with maximum noise.
Morten switched on the lights. The semi-twilight of the hallway fled, and dark huddled silhouettes became coats, scarves, shoes, boots, and a lonely-looking skateboard. But on the worn wooden floor, there was an alarming pool of congealing blood. And a little further on, a cereal bowl lay on its side in a puddle of spilled milk and cornflakes. And something else—the something that caused most of the smell: urine.
“Anton,” he said sharply.
Anton looked up at him from the landing below without answering.
“Go and see if Birgit is in. Perhaps you can play with Mathias.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“Do as I say!”
Anton’s eyes widened in alarm. Morten wanted to comfort and reassure, but at the moment he simply couldn’t. The fear that rose inside him left room for little else. He closed the door to the flat and rang the doorbell on his neighbor’s side of the landing. Mathias opened, but Birgit was hot on his heels.
“Hi,” she said. “Have you been burgled?”
“Why do you ask that?” said Morten, his fear still crouched right behind his teeth.
“I saw a police car parked outside this morning.”
“Oh. I see. Er, could Anton stay with you for an hour or so? It’s quite a long story, but I’ll tell you