The Savage Altar Read online

  He wasn’t stupid. Not in the least. The very fact that he’d managed to get where he was today. Right at the top of the church, along with Thomas Söderberg and Vesa Larsson. Without any formal training as a pastor. Without any talent as a fisher of men. That very fact demanded a certain talent.

  She remembered when Gunnar had told her that the Mission had a new pastor. A young married couple.

  A week or so later Thomas Söderberg came to a service in the Baptist church. Sat in the second row nodding in agreement throughout Gunnar’s sermon. Encouraging smiles. Serious consideration. His wife, Maja, like a model pupil by his side.

  They stayed for coffee afterward. Gray winter darkness outside. Clouds full of snow. The day dwindling before it had even arrived properly.

  Maja talked loudly and slowly into Arvid Kalla’s ear. Asked Edit Svonni for her recipe for sugar biscuits.

  Thomas Söderberg and Gunnar having an animated conversation with two of the church elders. Switching between serious nodding of heads and loud laughter, like a well-rehearsed, perfectly coordinated dance. United in brotherhood.

  And the obligatory question to the southerners: How do you like it up here? The darkness and the cold? They answered as one: They absolutely loved it. They certainly weren’t missing the slush and the rain. They’d be celebrating the next family Christmas in Kiruna.

  That was all it took. The fact that they didn’t feel they’d been banished to a distant place beyond the bounds of tolerance. No whining or complaining about the biting wind or the darkness that creeps into your soul. The answers made the congregation’s faces soften.

  When they’d gone, Gunnar said to her: “Nice people. He’s got lots of ideas, that boy.”

  That was the last time he called Thomas Söderberg, ten years younger than him, “that boy.”

  Two weeks later she met Thomas Söderberg in town. She was pushing the pram through a blizzard. Andreas was two and a half months old, and would only sleep in the pram. She pushed him up and down the streets of Kiruna. Dragging the two-year-old, Anna, like a fretful bundle. Hands and feet freezing.

  She felt dreadful. Exhaustion filled her like a gray, rising dough. At any moment she might just burst and go under. She hated Gunnar. Kept losing her temper with Anna. Just wanted to cry all the time.

  Thomas came walking up behind her. Laid his left hand on her left shoulder. Caught up with her at the same time. For a second, just as he drew level with her, it was as if he had his arm around her. Half an embrace for a fraction of a second too long. When she turned her head he was smiling broadly. Greeted her as if they were old friends. Said hi to Anna, who clung fast to Karin’s legs and refused to answer. Peeped at Andreas, who was sleeping like an angel from God in his warm outfit.

  “I keep trying to convince Maja that we ought to have children,” he confessed, “but…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Sighed deeply and let the smile fade away. Then he regained his good humor. “I do understand her,” he said. “It’s you women who bear the heaviest load. It’ll happen when it’s meant to happen.”

  Andreas moved in the pram. It was time to go home and feed him. She wanted to invite Thomas back for lunch, but didn’t dare ask. He walked part of the way with her. It was so easy to talk. New topics of conversation just popped up by themselves, attaching themselves to the old ones like the links of a chain. At last they were standing by the crossroads where they had to part company.

  "I would like to do more for God," she said. “But the children. They take all the strength I have, and a little bit more.”

  The snow was whirling around them like a hail of sharp arrows. Made him blink. An archangel with dark curly hair wearing a blue padded jacket made of some kind of synthetic crackling material that looked cheap. Jeans tucked into high-heeled leather boots. Knitted cap, homemade, with an Inca pattern. She wondered if it was Maja who was so creative. Maja, who didn’t want children.

  “But, Karin,” he said, “don’t you understand that you are doing exactly what God wants? Looking after the children. That’s the most important thing of all right now. He has plans for you, but right now… right now you must be with Anna and Andreas.”

  Six months later he had held the first summer church. A little flock of newly saved children waddled behind him like ducklings. Imprinting him as their spiritual parent. One of them was Viktor Strandgård.

  She, Gunnar, Vesa Larsson and his wife, Astrid, were invited to share in the happiness when they held a baptism for the believers. Gunnar swallowed his bitter jealousy and went along. He knew how to join the winning team. At the same time he started the endless comparisons. The desire to try to shine himself. His face took on a cunning expression.

  She wasn’t without blame herself. Hadn’t she said to her husband a thousand times: “Don’t let Thomas walk all over you. He can’t be allowed to decide everything.”

  She had convinced herself that she was supporting her husband. But wasn’t the truth that she’d actually wanted him to be someone else?

  Thomas Söderberg got up and walked over to the gospel choir. He was wearing a black suit. Normally his ties were colorful, verging on bold. This evening it was a discreet gray. An upside-down exclamation mark inside his jacket.

  He carried his wealth as easily as he had once carried his—not poverty, she thought, his lack of money. Two people living on a pastor’s wage. But it never seemed to bother them. Not even when they had children.

  Then things changed. He stood there now in his fine wool suit, talking to the choir. Said what had happened was terrible. One of the girls began to sob loudly. Those standing closest to her put their arms around her.

  It was okay to cry, said Thomas. It was all right to grieve. But—and here he took a deep breath and uttered each word separately, with a short pause in between—it was not okay to lose. Not okay to go backwards. Not okay to sound the retreat.

  She couldn’t face listening to the rest. Knew more or less how it would sound.

  “Hi, Karin. Where’s Gunnar?”

  Maja, Thomas Söderberg’s wife, sat down beside her. Long, shiny, sandy-colored hair. A little discreet makeup. No lipstick. No eye-shadow. Just a little bit of mascara and blusher. Not that Thomas had anything against women wearing makeup, but Karin guessed that he preferred to see his own wife without. A few years ago Maja had wanted to have her hair cut short, but Thomas had put his foot down.

  “He was here a minute ago. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.”

  Maja nodded.

  “And where are Vesa and Astrid?” she asked.

  Taking a tough line on attendance tonight. Karin raised her eyebrows and shook her head in reply.

  "It’s really important that everyone sticks together at a time like this," said Maja quietly.

  Karin looked at the red rose lying on Maja’s knee.

  “Are you going to put that with the others?”

  Maja nodded.

  “Yes, but I’ll wait until the meeting is under way. I can’t grasp what’s happened. It’s just so unreal.”

  Yes, it is unreal, thought Karin. What’s going to happen without Viktor?

  Viktor, who refused to cut his hair or wear a suit. Who turned down a pay raise and made Thomas give the money to Médecins Sans Frontières instead. She remembered seven years ago, when she’d gone to a conference in Stockholm. How surprised she’d been when she saw so many young men who looked exactly like Viktor. On the underground and in cafés. Ugly knitted or crocheted hats. Soft shoulder bags. Jeans slung low on narrow hips. Suede jackets from the sixties. The slow, nonchalant walk. A kind of anti-fashion reserved for the good-looking and the confident.

  Viktor had belonged to the court surrounding Thomas Söderberg, but he had never become a copy of Thomas. More his opposite. Without possessions, without ambition. Abstemious. Although the latter was perhaps because Rebecka Martinsson had crushed him in her madness. It was hard to know.

  Maja leaned toward her. Hot breath hissing in her ear.

 
; “Aha, here comes Astrid. But where’s Vesa?”

  Pastor Vesa Larsson’s wife, Astrid, pushed her way in through the door of the Crystal Church. On the stage, Thomas Söderberg was leading the gospel choir in prayer before the evening service.

  The trek up the hill from the car park had made her blouse wet and sticky under her arms. Just as well she had a cardigan over the top. She hastily wiped under her eyes with her index finger just in case her mascara had run. She’d once seen herself on one of the church video recordings. It had been snowing when she’d walked to the church, and on the film she had been going around with the collection bag like a trained panda. Since then she always checked in the mirror. But now the cloakroom was full of people and she was so stressed.

  A pile of flowers and cards lay in the central circle.

  Viktor is dead, she thought.

  Tried to make it seem real.

  Viktor is actually dead.

  She caught sight of Karin and Maja. Maja was waving eagerly. No chance of escape. The only thing to do was to go over to them. They were wearing dark suits. She had rummaged in her wardrobe and tried things on for an hour. All her suits were red, pink or yellow. She had one dark suit. Navy blue. But she couldn’t zip up the skirt. Finally she settled on a long knitted cardigan that made her look thinner and disguised her hips and bottom. But looking at Karin and Maja, she felt like a mess. A sweaty mess.

  “Where’s Vesa?” whispered Maja, before she’d even managed to sit down.

  Friendly smile. Dangerous eyes.

  “Ill,” she replied. “Flu.”

  She could see they didn’t believe her. Maja closed her mouth and breathed in through her nose.

  They were right. Her whole body was telling her that she didn’t want to sit there, but she sank down on the chair next to Maja.

  Thomas had finished the prayer with the choir and was walking over to them.

  So I shall have to answer to him as well, she thought.

  She felt a pang as Thomas placed his hand on Maja’s arm and greeted her with a quick, warm smile. Then he asked about Vesa. Astrid replied again: ill; flu. He gazed at her sympathetically.

  Poor me, having such a weak husband, she thought.

  “If you’re worried about him, go home,” said Thomas.

  She shook her head obediently.

  “Worried.” She tried out the word.

  No, she should have been worried several years ago. But at the time she’d been fully occupied with the children and the house being built. And by the time she discovered that she had reason to worry, it was already too late and time to begin grieving. To get over the grief of being abandoned in her marriage. Learn to live with the shame of not being good enough for Vesa.

  It was the shame. That was what made her sit next to Maja, although she didn’t want to. Made her stand in front of the freezer with the door open, stuffing herself with frozen cakes when the children were at school.

  They did still sleep with each other, although it was rare. But it happened in the dark. In silence.

  And this morning. The kids had gone off to school. Vesa had been sleeping in the studio. When she brought in the coffee he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his flannel pajamas. Unshaven, eyes tired. Deep lines around the corners of his mouth. His long, fine artist’s hands resting on his knees. The floor around the bed littered with books. Expensive, beautifully bound art books with thick shiny pages. Several about icons. Thin paperbacks from their own publishing firm. In the beginning Vesa had designed the covers. Then he’d suddenly decided he didn’t have the time.

  She had put the tray of coffee and sandwiches down on the floor. Then she had crept up behind him, kneeling on the bed. His hips between her thighs. She had let her dressing gown fall open and pressed her breasts and her cheek against his back while her hands caressed his firm shoulders.

  “Astrid,” was all he said.

  Troubled and suffering. Filled her name with apologies and feelings of guilt.

  She had fled to the kitchen. Switched on the radio and the dishwasher. Picked up Baloo and wept into the dog’s fur.

  Thomas Söderberg leaned down toward the three women and lowered his voice.

  “Have you heard anything about Sanna?” he asked.

  Astrid, Karin and Maja shook their heads.

  “Ask Curt Bäckström,” said Astrid. “He’s forever trailing around after her.”

  The pastors’ wives turned their heads like periscopes. It was Maja who first caught sight of Curt. She waved and pointed until he reluctantly got up and shambled over to them.

  Karin looked at him. He always seemed so anxious. Walked a bit hesitantly. Almost sidling along. As if it might appear too aggressive to approach head-on. Looked at them out of the corner of his eyes, but always glanced away if you tried to meet his gaze.

  “Do you know where Sanna is staying?” asked Thomas Söderberg.

  Curt shook his head. Answered as well, just to be on the safe side:

  “No.”

  He was obviously lying. There was fear in his eyes. At the same time, they were resolute. He didn’t intend to reveal his secret.

  Like a dog that’s found a bone in the woods, thought Karin.

  Curt looked furtively at them. Almost crouching. As if Thomas might suddenly shout “Away” and hit him on the muzzle.

  Thomas Söderberg looked disturbed. He twisted his body as if he were trying to shake off the pastors’ wives.

  "I just want to know that she’s all right," he said. "Nothing must happen to her."

  Curt nodded, and his gaze slid over the seats, which were beginning to fill up. He held up the Bible in his hands and pressed it to his chest.

  “I want to bear witness,” he said quietly. “God has something to say.”

  Thomas Söderberg nodded.

  “If you hear anything from Sanna, tell her I was asking about her,” he said.

  Astrid looked at Thomas Söderberg.

  And if you hear anything from God, she thought, tell Him I’m asking about Him all the time.

  Måns Wenngren, Rebecka Martinsson’s boss, got home late going on early. He’d spent the evening at Sophie’s, treating two young ladies to drinks, along with a representative for one of the law firm’s clients, a computer company specializing in industrial IT that had recently floated on the stock exchange. It was pleasant to deal with that kind of client. Grateful for every cent you managed to keep away from the tax collector. The clients who’d been accused of tax evasion or dubious book-keeping weren’t usually that keen on sitting in a bar with their lawyer. They sat and drank at home instead.

  After Sophie’s had closed Måns had shown one of the young ladies, Marika, his nice office, then he had put little Marika in a cab with some money in her hand, and himself in another cab.

  When he walked into the dark apartment on Floragatan he thought as usual that he ought to move to something smaller. It was hardly surprising that every time he came home he felt, well, however it was he felt when the apartment was so bloody desolate.

  He threw his gray cashmere coat on a chair and flicked on every light on his way to the living room. As he was hardly ever home before eleven at night, the video timer was always set to record the news. He switched on the video, and as Channel 4’s news titles rolled he went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

  Ritva had been shopping. Good. It must be her easiest job, cleaning his flat and making sure there was fresh food in. He never made a mess, except on the rare occasions he invited people back. The food Ritva bought was usually untouched when it was replaced with fresh. He presumed she took the old stuff home to her family before it went off. It was an arrangement that suited him perfectly. He ripped open some milk and drank straight from the carton, one ear on the news. The murder of Viktor Strandgård was the top story.

  That’s why Rebecka went up to Kiruna, thought Måns Wenngren, heading back into the living room. He sank down on the sofa in front of the TV, the carton of milk in his ha
nd.

  “The religious celebrity Viktor Strandgård was found murdered this morning in the church of The Source of All Our Strength in Kiruna,” announced the newsreader.

  She was a well-dressed middle-aged woman who used to be married to someone Måns knew.

  “Hi there, Beate, how’s things?” said Måns, raising the milk carton to the screen in a toast and taking a deep draught.

  “According to police sources, Viktor Strandgård was found by his sister, and those same sources report that the murder was extremely brutal,” continued the newsreader.

  “Come on, Beate, we know all that,” said Måns.

  He suddenly became aware of how drunk he was. He felt stupid, his head full of cotton wool. He decided to have a shower as soon as the news was finished.

  They were showing a report on the murder now. A male voice was speaking over pictures. First of all, pale blue wintry pictures of the impressive Crystal Church up on the hill. Then shots of the police shoveling their way through the area around the church. They’d also used some clips from one of the church gatherings, everyone singing, and gave a short summary of who Viktor Strandgård was.

  “There is no doubt that this incident has aroused strong feelings in Kiruna,” continued the reporter’s voice. “This was made very clear when Viktor Strandgård’s sister, Sanna Strandgård, arrived at the police station to be interviewed, accompanied by her lawyer.”

  The picture was showing a snow-covered car park. A breathless young female reporter dashed up to two women who were climbing out of a red Audi. The reporter’s red hair stuck out from under her cap like a fox’s brush. She looked young and energetic. It was dark, but you could make out a boring redbrick building in the background. It couldn’t be anything other than a police station. One of the women getting out of the Audi had her head down, and all you could see of her was a long sheepskin coat and a sheepskin hat pulled well down over her eyes. The other woman was Rebecka Martinsson. Måns turned up the volume and leaned forward on the sofa.