Free Clinch by Martin Holmén Page B

take the paddle strop, the cut-throat razor with the mother-of-pearl hilt, and the mirror, and sit opposite Lundin. A few brown grains of lip-snuff stand out against his white collar. The seat of the wooden chair feels rough under my buttocks, but the badger hairs are soft against my cheeks.
    I put the mirror in front of me. Droplets of water in my chest hair make the full-rigger sparkle. My eye is red; the swelling beneath has a colour scheme of yellows and purples.
    ‘Also yesterday.’
    Lundin runs his finger over his moustache. The wad of banknotes on the table flexes under his hand when he gently presses it. I put the strop against my knee and sharpen the blade. The whispering changes tone as I roll the knife onto its back at the end of every movement.
    ‘I was inside.’
    ‘Stockholm – Motala,’ crackles the radio voice.
    ‘Eggs on both occasions. And sausage the day before yesterday.’
    Lundin puts on his hat again. Carefully I test the edge of the knife against my thumb. It’ll do for shaving. Also for castrating piglets, in case the need arises. The blade rasps against cheeks, upper lip and throat. At the end of every pass I flick the stubble and shaving soap into the bathing tub, which I have placed at my feet.
    ‘I hope you ate mine as well.’
    I remove the razor from my throat so I can cough. The radio voice is giving ski-wax tips for the winter holiday in the mountains.
    ‘I’ll have to make a note of it.’ Lundin stands up.
    ‘Obviously.’
    I bend over the bathing tub and rinse my face. I snort and blow my nose into my fingers.
    ‘It’ll have to be noted down. What else is there to do?’
    ‘Please do note it down.’
    I dig out a good scoop of Fandango from the jar and pull my fingers through my hair. The pomade smells of sandalwood.
    Lundin nods at me as he disappears out the door. He lowers his head as he crosses the threshold, to avoid knocking his hat against the top of the door frame.
    I go into the wardrobe and get out my best suit. It’s a black, three-piece number. Herzog himself, the tailor on Biblioteksgatan, sewed it for me a couple of years ago. I keep it for funerals and other cheery occasions. So far I have only used it once. I put on a white shirt and make a knot in a gleaming tie of deep red silk. I put the Viking timepiece with the gold chain in my waistcoat. I fold up yesterday’s copy of Social-Demokraten and put it in my overcoat pocket.
    I go into the kitchen, count out ten five-kronor bills and put them in my wallet. I wrap the cell clothes in newspaper and tuck the package under my arm. Whistling Ernst Rolf’s ‘I’m Out Whenever My Old Girl’s In’, I leave the flat. On my keyring is the key to my left-hand-drive Buick, which broke down this summer.
    At this time of year, the heat and steam from the Roslag laundry on the other side of the street collide with the colder air and wrap our part of the block in a fine mist. The three-point mark of vagrants, scratched with a needle into the brass plate on the door, announces that there are no coins to be had here, but certainly the odd sandwich for someone in need. A little bell on the door tinkles. I’m enveloped by the harsh stench of ammonia.
    ‘Well, if it isn’t Kvisten!’ Beda slaps her wrinkly hands together and sways from side to side behind the counter of dark wood that divides the premises in two. ‘Pay attention, Petrus, hold the door open for our customer!’ She wipes her hands on her apron and gesticulates wildly.
    Petrus, her son, is posted with a broom in a corner, as usual. He’s the sort of unfortunate that everyone addresses by his first name, a large bloke of about my own age, with a sheepish smile under his blond fringe. As deaf as an artilleryman. He puts down his broom and makes a few slow movements towards me, but then stops halfway, blushing and staring down at the floor. Bedarushes into action, opens a hatch in the counter and frees me of the clothes I’ve brought.
    ‘Don’t pay any