The Merman by Carl-Johan Vallgren Page A

remedial class and stuff. A little retarded, hard to grasp things. And incontinent, is that what it’s called, when you piss yourself?’
    I didn’t reply, and just felt round to find where the fear was. In my neck, it seemed; it was completely stiff.
    â€˜And your dad in the slammer. Isn’t that right? Nobody to look after you, like, nobody to look up to. And your mum is round the off-licence pretty much every day, she’s like a regular customer there, isn’t she?’
    He leaned against the lockers and stared at a spot on my left shoulder. Then the reached out and plucked something off: a single hair.
    â€˜Honestly, Ironing Board, who do you think you are? If we assume it wasn’t you, I mean... There were only six of us by the newsagent’s kiosk, after all.’
    â€˜It wasn’t me... ’
    â€˜You won’t know that for sure until I’ve decided. And I haven’t yet. Tell me, who seems more nervous, Peder or Ola?’
    I was hoping the bell would ring; I didn’t want to get drawn into anything else, didn’t want to get any more tangled up in what Gerard and his gang had in mind. I didn’t want him to touch me again, to remove any more strands of hair from my clothes. There were only two lessons left: Home Economics and English, and I wasn’t going to be in either one. I had other plans.
    â€˜What did you think of lunch?’
    â€˜Huh?’
    â€˜Minestrone soup. Even though it’s Monday. Peder hardly ate anything. I was shovelling it in. Five open-faced sandwiches with cheese as well. And salad. I didn’t taste anything odd. Did you?’
    â€˜No.’
    He took the Walkman out of my hand. He pressed Play, even though there was no tape in it, and then Stop.
    â€˜Peder wasn’t hungry. He thought it tasted strange... Isn’t that a sign of nervousness? I’ve changed my mind, by the way: I’ll take care of this for you. You nicked it, right? Your stupid slag of a mother would never be able to afford a Walkman. And like I said: a thousand kronor by Friday.’
    â€˜You just got five hundred!’
    â€˜I don’t remember that. My mind is just a blank.’
    â€˜You’ve got it in your pocket.’
    â€˜I’ve made a deduction. You were talking to L.G. That has a price. And tomorrow I’ve got to go up to the headmaster’s office again. A big meeting with the school administration and the welfare officer. Even my dad has to go. Between you and me, Ironing Board, I’m just laughing at all this. What the hell are they going to do? Tell me how to live my life? What’s right and wrong, what you can and can’t do. I don’t give a damn... I’ve never given a damn about any of it.’
    He looked at me, completely emotionless, as if all this were just a sort of business arrangement, any old thing. And then I suddenly remembered his parents, from school prize days and events over the years: the nervous little couple who always drove up in posh cars, impeccably dressed, but seemingly terrified of their own existence – and Gerard’s expression when he caught sight of them, a look of shame, almost of disgust.
    â€˜I’ll get my money by the weekend,’ he said in a friendly voice. ‘If you want to quibble, we’ll make it two thousand straight away. And it’s not just about you and me, is it?’
    He nodded towards the window that looked out onto the schoolyard. I followed his gaze. Several Year Sevens were standing in the smoking area, huddling against the wind. On a bench by the basketball hoop sat my brother, prodding a pile of leaves with his foot. He was on his own, as usual. He was wearing his Stan Smiths.
    â€˜Remember when we learned about the Second World War last term... what the Germans did with all the retards... ’ He placed ahand on my shoulder. ‘Nobody else would be sad, Ironing Board, only you.’
    I stood there facing the