Two Soldiers by Anders Roslund Page B

Råby and the exit, slowly, but not too slowly, into the area called Råby Allé and the entrance to a garage, a vast concrete underground space that linked thousands of apartments. A short and extremely overweight man in his thirties had great difficulty getting out of the confines of the passenger seat, but managed on the third attempt by putting his hand on the gearshift and levering himself out. He punched in a code and nodded to the driver as the door slowly slid up, then followed the car on foot as it drove down into the garage before stopping.
    Night, silent, not a sound.
    Except for a faint clatter, a loose steel blade that fluttered in the warm air blowing out of one of the many ventilators.
    The driver closed the car door without locking it and they walked together toward one of the many exits, and as they continued toward the metro station, one of them got out a cell phone and whispered “ PSW 656 ,” then hung up.
    ———
    Gabriel snapped shut his phone. PSW 656 . And he had the whole wide world in his hand. A feeling he recognized, the rush, as if it grabbed hold of something inside, all the anger and all the tears and all the hate at the same time, and he almost laughed, he who neverlaughed, who couldn’t laugh, had once so long ago, but he remembered it was a bit like this, as if everything deep inside was released and he was light.
    He got up from the bench on Råby Torg and walked toward the garage entrance, feeling the rush, the power, the whole fucking world. He took a gun out of the front pouch on his hoodie, he’d had it a long time and loved it and when he saw the car standing there exactly where it should be, he opened the cylinder and took out the six bullets and let them rest in the palm of his hand before putting only one back. He held the butt tight in one hand and spun the cylinder with the other, lifted the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger, a clicking sound that was brittle but could have been an almighty bang, he nearly laughed again, opened the cylinder, and put the other bullets back in.
    They all came at the same time.
    Jon from Råby Allé 6, Bruno from Råby Allé 36, Big Ali and Javad from Råby Allé 77. Identical metal doors into the garage, and over to a light gray Mazda with the registration number PSW 656.
    They waited there in a random circle while Gabriel took out his phone again and dialed a number that only he had.
    To a phone that right then was lying on a bed, close to a hand under a lit lamp.
    ———
    He had switched it to silent, but was lying awake, waiting.
    Now it vibrated and flashed.
    The one that was just his, the one he’d collected in between the lawyer and Pereira coming to the unit, the one he kept in the kitchen, inside the fridge door, where he’d made a hole.
    “Brother?”
    Gabriel’s voice. He almost felt a warmth in his chest.
    “Best brother.”
    He’d never trusted any bastard, ever. And he knew that Gabriel hadn’t trusted anyone, ever. Two people who didn’t trust anyone, but did trust each other.
    “It’s here.”
    “Registration?”
    “PSW 656.”
    “Left-hand front wheel. Back of the driver’s seat.”
    Leon straightened the bedside lamp, it was crooked and the cell was darker than normal.
    “The judgment.”
    “Yeah?”
    “I read it.”
    “And?”
    “They talked, brother.”
    A lawyer had stood with his back to him and known that every court case against a gang member was built on someone grassing on his brothers, his colleagues.
    “Who?”
    “Javad.”
    IL: Which color?
    JK: Dark, I think. Reza’s were lighter.
    “You take care of him. In Masmo. Mom’s place.”
    “Who else?”
    “Danny.”
    IL: So you met Leon Jensen that day?
    A lawyer who knew that the consequences for someone who cooperated were always sufficient violence to punish them, tidy up, prevent any repetition.
    “And I’ll take care of him here. In his cell. One floor up.”
    Leon didn’t want to hang up, it was almost like being with him out