The Invisible Man from Salem by Christoffer Carlsson Page A

just then, but I did call back later. It turned out to be a call full of silence and unspoken words. Maybe that was why, a few days later, I called her again. This time I was high. Sam put the phone down, and I didn’t ring back — at least not for a few days. Then I called again. I don’t know why; I think I just wanted to hear her voice. It reminded me of how everything had once been so straightforward, so promising. I’d turned thirty without anything dramatic happening, but perhaps now the consequences of being an adult had arrived. I still dream about Viktor.
    â€˜SAM,’ SHE ANSWERS sharply when I call.
    I don’t know what to say. So I say nothing, and I’m ashamed of myself.
    â€˜Hello?’ she says wearily. ‘Leo, you have to stop calling me. Are you high?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜I’m going to hang up now.’
    â€˜No, wait.’
    â€˜What, Leo? What do you want?’
    Someone moves in the background — a naked man, in bed, trying to get his girlfriend to stop talking to the man who may still love her. At least that’s what I convince myself I am hearing.
    â€˜I miss you,’ I say quietly.
    She says nothing, and it cuts me up inside.
    â€˜Don’t say that,’ she says.
    â€˜But I do.’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜How do you know that?’
    â€˜Stop calling here, Leo.’
    â€˜I’m not high. I’ve stopped.’
    She scoffs.
    â€˜You haven’t.’
    â€˜I have.’
    â€˜What do you want?’
    â€˜I told you. I miss you.’
    â€˜I’m not going to say it back.’
    We breathe out, and we do so simultaneously. I wonder what that means.
    â€˜I need to see you,’ I say.
    â€˜What for?’
    â€˜I need your help.’
    â€˜With what?’
    I hesitate.
    â€˜Did you hear about the woman who got shot at Chapmans-gÃ¥rden?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Something doesn’t add up. I think you can help me.’
    â€˜Are you serious?’
    â€˜Deadly serious.’
    â€˜Tomorrow, around twelve maybe?’ she says, hesitantly. ‘I’ve got a customer at ten, and I won’t have time before then.’
    â€˜Thanks. Good.’
    â€˜Good,’ she says.
    I wonder what she’s thinking.
    â€˜Are you happy?’ I eventually ask.
    Sam puts the phone down, and this time I don’t call back.
    IT’S NOW LATE EVENING . I’m surrounded by darkness. From my balcony, I can see the building where BAR is located, and I think of Anna, who wanted me to call her. Maybe I should. It might be good for me. Then I think that I ought to go to Salem again, and the thought of it makes me feel terrible. I hear a report about the investigation on the radio. Rebecca Salomonsson’s parents in Eskilstuna have been informed of her death. I wonder how they took that news. Losing one another hurts. It’s cold out on the balcony, and I smoke one last cigarette. My phone vibrates in my pocket as I walk back in: an anonymous text.
    i see you, Leo
    I flop onto the sofa, and reply:
    who is this?
    I hear you’re looking for a murderer
    tell me who you are , I send.
    I pop a Serax from the blister pack lying on the coffee table, swallow it, and take a deep breath.
    guess , comes the reply.
    is this a joke? I ask.
    no
    A car starts up, down on the street. I go out onto the balcony and I see it pull away, the city’s lights reflected in its dark, glossy paintwork, the back lights glowing red, the inside dimly lit by the light from a mobile phone.

I am twelve. My dad calls me his only friend, everyone else is against him. Beverly Hills 90210 is on the telly. Dad says that I’m like Dylan. I don’t see it myself but it feels good. He’s got his arm around me. It’s just the two of us at home. Afterwards we get into the car. We’re not heading anywhere in particular, just driving. We listen to music and the sun is shining. It’s spring. After a while a