Anxious People(43)
ROGER: I’m not going to answer any questions about my wife!
JACK: No, okay, fine. Can you answer some questions about the perpetrator, then?
ROGER: How can I answer that until you’ve asked them?
JACK: To start with: Where do you think he’s hiding?
ROGER: Who?
JACK: Who do you think?
ROGER: The bank robber?
JACK: No, Waldo.
ROGER: Who’s that?
JACK: You don’t know who Waldo is? It’s the title of an old kids’ book, Where’s Waldo?. Forget it, I was being sarcastic.
ROGER: I have no reason to read kids’ books.
JACK: I’m sorry. Can you tell me where you think the perpetrator is hiding?
ROGER: How should I know?
JACK: I hope you’ll forgive me pressing you for an answer, but we have reason to believe that the perpetrator is still in the apartment. I thought perhaps you might be able to help, because your wife says you do exhaustive research before each viewing. And that you check all the measurements on the plans.
ROGER: You can’t trust real estate agents. Some of them couldn’t even measure a ruler using another ruler.
JACK: That’s exactly what I mean. Did you discover anything special about this particular apartment?
ROGER: Yes. The real estate agent is an idiot.
JACK: Why?
ROGER: There were three feet missing from the measurements, between the walls.
JACK: Really? Between which walls? Can you show me on the plan?
ROGER: There. You can hear it if you knock. The gap.
JACK: Why would it be there?
ROGER: Probably because this apartment and the one next door used to be one single larger apartment once upon a time, when people around here had more money and apartments were cheaper. Now the whole housing market’s being manipulated to screw ordinary people. It’s the real estate agents’ fault. And the banks’. And people from Stockholm. Driving the prices up and everything. What the hell are you rolling your eyes for?
JACK: Sorry. I don’t want to get involved. But haven’t you and your wife bought and sold a number of apartments as speculative investments in recent years? Surely that must push prices up as well?
ROGER: So now there’s something wrong with making a bit of money, too?
JACK: I didn’t say that.
ROGER: I’m a good negotiator, and that isn’t a crime, you know!
JACK: No, no, of course not.
ROGER: At least I thought I was a good negotiator.
JACK: I don’t follow you?
ROGER: I used to be an engineer. Before I retired. Does it say that in your notes?
JACK: What? No.
ROGER: So that’s not relevant, then? A whole life spent doing a job, and it isn’t relevant enough to be included in your notes? Do you know what my colleagues did in those last years?
JACK: No.
ROGER: They were faking it. Just like her.
JACK: Your wife?
ROGER: No, Waldo.
JACK: What?
ROGER: You think people in your generation are the only ones who can be sarcastic, boy?
36
Julia nodded toward the bathroom door, held her hand out toward the bank robber, and demanded: “Give me the pistol.”
“Abso… absolutely not! What are you thinking of doing?” the bank robber stammered, hiding the pistol from view like it was a kitten and someone had just asked the bank robber if anyone had seen a kitten anywhere.
“I’m pregnant and I need to go to the toilet. Give me the pistol so I can shoot the lock out,” Julia repeated.
“No,” the bank robber whimpered.
Julia threw her arms out.
“You’ll have to do it yourself, then. Just shoot the lock out.”
“I don’t want to.”
Julia’s eyes narrowed in an unsettling way.
“What do you mean, you don’t want to? You’re holding us all hostage and the police are outside and you’ve got an unknown individual in the bathroom. It could be anyone. You need to have a bit of respect for yourself! How else are you ever going to be a successful bank robber? You can’t let people tell you what to do the whole time!”
“But you’re telling me what to do—” the bank robber started to say, but Julia interrupted: “Shoot the lock out, I said!”
For a moment it looked like the bank robber was going to do as she said, but suddenly there was a small click, the door handle slowly swung down, and a voice said from inside the bathroom: “Don’t shoot. Please, don’t shoot!”
A man dressed in a rabbit costume emerged. Well, if we’re being completely truthful, not a complete costume. It was really just a rabbit’s head, because apart from that the man was wearing nothing but underpants and socks. He appeared to be in his fifties and, if we’re being diplomatic, had the sort of body that wasn’t exactly flattered by the ratio of clothing to skin.
“Don’t hurt me, please, I’m just doing my job!” the man whined from inside the rabbit’s head in a Stockholm accent as he stuck his hands up. He was evidently a Stockholmer, one of the ones who was born there, not just a “Stockholmer” in the sense that Jim and Jack used it when they actually meant “idiot.” (Which of course doesn’t mean that the man wasn’t an idiot as well, because it’s still a free country.) And he certainly wasn’t a “Stockholmer” in the way that Estelle used the word to describe the sort of family unit that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with (and if he had been, then obviously there wouldn’t have been anything wrong with that at all). He was just a perfectly ordinary Stockholmer, who happened to be saying from inside the rabbit’s head: “Tell them not to shoot me, Anna-Lena!”