Never Fuck Up: A Novel Read Free

wrinkles deepen by almost half an inch.
    He kept studying her. Pink cardigan—her favorite color. Tight jeans. A necklace with a gold heart around her neck. Her hair had blond highlights. Niklas wondered if she still had it done at Sonja Östergren’s salon. Some things never change, as Collin used to say.
    She was actually the nicest person in the world. Too nice. It wasn’t fair.
    Marie. His mother.
    Whom he loved.
    And still despised.
    Because of that—the niceness.
    She was too weak.
    It wasn’t right.
    But they would never be able to talk about everything that’d happened.
    Niklas put the groceries away in the kitchen. Went back into the living room.
    “I’m moving out soon, Mom. I’m going to buy a firsthand rental contract for an apartment.”
    There they were again: the wrinkles. Like cracks in a desert road.
    “But Niklas, isn’t that illegal?”
    “No it’s not, actually. It’s illegal to sell rental contracts, but not to buy them. It’ll be fine. And there’s no other way to get a rental in this city, you know that. Stupid socialist housing system. But I have some money and no one’s going to rip me off. Promise.”
    Marie mumbled something in response. Went into the kitchen. Started making dinner.
    Insomnia was having its way with him. Not even during the worst nights down there, when the grenades’d made more noise than a New Year’s Eve fireworks display in the middle of the living room, had his sleep been this shitty. Earplugs used to be a blessing; his CD player, salvation. But nothing helped now.
    He lay watching the gap under his mother’s door. Lights off at twelve-thirty. For some reason, he already knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He turned over and over again. With every turn the sheets slipped more and more to one side of the cushions. Got twisted. Annihilated the chance of sleep.
    He was thinking about what he’d bought the other day. Unarmed, he was unsafe. Now he felt better. He’d arranged what he needed. His thoughts drifted on. He considered his work options. How much of his résumé should he include, really? He almost chuckled to himself in the dark: maybe in-depth knowledge of more than forty types of weapons wasn’t the kind of thing that was valued too highly in Sweden.
    He thought about Him. He had to get out of this apartment, away from this building. It was giving him bad vibes. Difficult memories. Dangerous intimacy.
    Niklas was planning to live according to his own philosophy now. A temple of thought he’d been building meticulously over the past few years. Ethical rules only mattered to yourself. If you were able to rid yourself of them, you’d be free. All that stuff died down in the sandbox. Morality dried up like a scab that disappeared on its own after a few weeks. He was free—free to live his life in the way that suited him best.
    He thought about the men. Collin, Alex, the others. They knew what he was talking about. War made humans become self-aware. There is only you. Rules are made for other people.
    The next day, he tried an off-the-books apartment broker. The guy sounded shady over the phone. Probably a nasty type. Niklas’d gotten his number from an old school bud, Benjamin.
    First he had to leave a message on the illegal broker’s voice mail. Four hours later: a call from a hidden number.
    “Hi, I’m a broker. I heard your message. You’re interested in looking at some properties. Is that correct?”
    Niklas thought, Some people lived well off other people’s crises. The guy was a snake. Consistently avoided words like
apartment, contract,
or
off the books
—knew not to mention anything that could be used against him.
    The broker gave him instructions: I call you, you never call me.
    They arranged to meet the following day.
    He stepped into McDonald’s. Totally beat, but ready to meet the broker. The place looked just as he remembered it. Uncomfortable metal chairs, cherrywood-colored paneling, linoleum flooring. Classic McDonald’s