Anxious People(2)

And then things went the way they did: the police surrounded the building, reporters showed up, the story made it onto the television news. The whole thing went on for several hours, until the bank robber had to give up. There was no other choice. So all eight people who had been held hostage, seven prospective buyers and one real estate agent, were released. A couple of minutes later the police stormed the apartment. But by then it was empty.

No one knew where the bank robber had gone.

That’s really all you need to know at this point. Now the story can begin.





2


Ten years ago a man was standing on a bridge. This story isn’t about that man, so you don’t really need to think about him right now. Well, obviously you can’t help thinking about him, it’s like saying “Don’t think about cookies,” and now you’re thinking about cookies.

Don’t think about cookies!

All you need to know is that a man was standing on a bridge ten years ago. Up on the railing, high above the water, at the end of his life. Don’t think about that anymore now. Think about something nicer.

Think about cookies.





3


It’s the day before New Year’s Eve in a not particularly large town. A police officer and a real estate agent are sitting in an interview room in the police station. The policeman looks barely twenty but is probably older, and the real estate agent looks more than forty but is probably younger. The police officer’s uniform is too small, the real estate agent’s jacket slightly too large. The real estate agent looks like she’d rather be somewhere else, and, after the past fifteen minutes of conversation, the policeman looks like he wishes the real estate agent were somewhere else, too. When the real estate agent smiles nervously and opens her mouth to say something, the policeman breathes in and out in a way that makes it hard to tell if he’s sighing or trying to clear his nose.

“Just answer the question,” he pleads.

The Realtor nods quickly and blurts out:

“How’s tricks?”

“I said, just answer the question!” the policeman repeats, with an expression common in grown men who were disappointed by life at some point in their childhood and have never quite managed to stop feeling that way.

“You asked me what my real estate agency is called!” the Realtor insists, drumming her fingers on the tabletop in a way that makes the policeman feel like throwing objects with sharp corners at her.

“No I didn’t, I asked if the perpetrator who held you hostage together with—”

“It’s called House Tricks! Get it? Because when you buy an apartment, you want to buy from someone who knows all the tricks, don’t you? So when I answer the phone, I say: Hello, you’ve reached the House Tricks Real Estate Agency! HOW’S TRICKS?”

Obviously the Realtor has just been through a traumatic experience, has been threatened with a pistol and held hostage, and that sort of thing can make anyone babble. The policeman tries to be patient. He presses his thumbs hard against his eyebrows, as if he hopes they’re two buttons and if he keeps them pressed at the same time for ten seconds he’ll be able to restore life to its factory settings.

“Okaaay… But now I need to ask you a few questions about the apartment and the perpetrator,” he groans.

It has been a difficult day for him, too. The police station is small, resources are tight, but there’s nothing wrong with their competence. He tried to explain that over the phone to some boss’s boss’s boss right after the hostage drama, but naturally it was hopeless. They’re going to send some special investigative team from Stockholm to take charge of the whole case. The boss didn’t place the emphasis on the words “investigative team” when he said that, but on “Stockholm,” as if coming from the capital was itself some sort of superpower. More like a medical condition, the policeman thinks. His thumbs are still pressed to his eyebrows, this is his last chance to show the bosses that he can handle this himself, but how on earth is that going to work if you’ve only got witnesses like this woman?

“Okeydokey!” the real estate agent chirrups, as if that were a real Swedish word.

The policeman looks down at his notes.

“Isn’t this an odd day to have a showing? The day before New Year’s Eve?”

The real estate agent shakes her head and grins.

“There are no bad days for the HOUSE TRICKS Real Estate Agency!”

The policeman takes a deep breath, then several more.

“Right. Let’s move on: when you saw the perpetrator, what was your first react—”

“Didn’t you say you were going to ask about the apartment first? You said ‘the apartment and the perpetrator,’ so I thought the apartment would be first—”

“Okay!” the policeman growls.

“Okay!” the real estate agent chirrups.

“The apartment, then: Are you familiar with its layout?”

“Of course, I’m the real estate agent, after all!” the real estate agent says, but manages to stop herself adding “from the HOUSE TRICKS Real Estate Agency! HOW’S TRICKS?” seeing as the policeman already looks like he wishes the ammunition in his pistol weren’t so easy to trace.

“Can you describe it?”