The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [50]
A shadow dislodged itself from the dark. Patrik came toward her. How big he has become, she thought.
“Hi Mom,” he said, and she started to cry again.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“What is happening? I have to know! Why do you do this? Now when everything …”
“Everything is fine, Mom. It’s only that the police have their own ideas about stuff.”
Patrik told her what had happened the last two days and Eva was amazed at how calm he was, how clearly and methodically he proceeded from event to event.
When he finished his story she was struck by how unreal everything was, that they were standing in a community garden in the middle of the night, with the smell of earth and with the occasional mosquito buzzing around their heads, talking about violence and a world she couldn’t imagine.
Is this my Patrik, she thought. Is this our life? Our neighborhood?
“Shouldn’t you tell this to the police?”“What the hell do you think?”
Eva bounced at the hardness in his voice.
“But if you—”
“They won’t believe me, you know that. And Zero will go crazy, and so will his brother.”
“But drugs, it seems so—Have you done it?”
Patrik shook his head.
“I don’t want to lose control,” he said.
Eva believed him instinctively. It would be so unlike Patrik. He wanted to have control, as he said. He hated the unexpected.
“Let’s go home,” she said, suddenly steady and grateful that he was fine.
To her surprise, Patrik did not protest. He just stood up without a word and started to walk. She watched his silhouette.
That is my boy, she thought again and again. That is my boy.
When they got home Hugo and Johnny were sitting at the computer playing games. Patrik walked straight to his room and closed the door behind him.
“Thanks for staying,” Eva said.
“We’ve been having a good time,” Johnny said. “Isn’t that right, Hugo?”
The boy nodded while he concentrated on the game.
“Would you like anything before going home?”
Johnny shook his head. Despite the late hour he did not feel tired. In fact, he felt the opposite. The trip to Eva’s had livened him up. His own apartment held no attraction for him, but he realized he should get up and leave them in peace.
“We’ve had a good time,” he repeated. “Did you find out what had happened?”
“Not really,” Eva said. “We’ll see tomorrow. I think Patrik has to spend some time alone and think it out.”
“Are you going to the police?”
“I’ll probably call them tomorrow. We’ll see.”
Eva sat down on Hugo’s bed.
“You should get some rest,” Johnny said.
Johnny drove home with mixed feelings. Other peoples’ problems were nothing he needed and now he had fallen into one. He didn’t want to be pulled in and Eva had not made any further attempt to do so. He was grateful for that. He would not have had the energy to stay all night and comfort her.
At the same time he felt uplifted. He had done something for another human being who clearly trusted him. Eva had hugged him before he left. He laughed out loud in the car.
On the last stretch before home he thought about her. How brave of her to raise two teenagers on her own in this world.
Nineteen
Konrad Rosenberg was one of five sons of the infamous Karl-Åke Rosenberg, the drilling and blasting expert, of whom more or less believable stories still circulated on construction sites. Karl-Åke had set off his last load of explosives in Forsmark in 1979 and died shortly thereafter, more or less on the spot, from a heart attack, so shot through with dust and drill residue that he was indistinguishable from the rock. It was said that the body had to be cleaned with a high-pressure hose.
With every son that Elisa Rosenberg bore, it was as if there was not quite enough material. The firstborn, Bertil, was a giant like his father, but thereafter the sons were more and more feeble. Konrad was the youngest, one hundred and fifty-seven centimeters tall, equipped with a sunken chest and shoulders that stuck out like hangers. In elementary school the other kids played the harp on his ribs and his shoe