Black Ice

by Ian Giles

  There wasn’t one. Hallin was certainly a rapist, but there was nothing to suggest that he made light of life and death in the same way. He had let Sandra live even though she could report him. He hadn’t bothered to threaten or punish the blackmailer. And not raising the alarm when passing the scene of an accident wasn’t punishable, especially not if you were acting in good faith.

  Kerstin’s subdued rage would probably be directed in a different, unknown direction, while Sandra was henceforth alone in her aversion towards Hallin. His only crime was a rape almost four and half years ago, of which no trace remained. Except for her son, who no one except Sandra could claim had been conceived in circumstances that weren’t consensual.

  She shivered when she thought about that afternoon and about that dreadful wretch who had taken the liberty of turning her body and integrity into his temporary plaything. She wanted to torture him, crush him—a feeling that had grown stronger than the unwillingness to hear his voice, perhaps even meet him. She hadn’t felt that way before she had known who he was, when she had stoically plodded on in resigned ignorance.

  And she could do something small to Hallin, it occurred to her. Even if it was out of proportion to the crime he had committed. She could shake him up, drive a wedge into the idyll of family life.

  She could demand child support.

  That ought to be straightforward and painless. All he had to do was cough up a one-off fee to cover the years that had passed and what remained of Erik’s school years. Without getting the authorities involved, of course, which he would probably want to avoid—as would Sandra, on reflection. She had no other intentions other than claiming what was rightly hers. It would be a welcome addition to her limited funds, while also functioning as an acknowledgment from Hallin. And it was definitely better than nothing.

  But did she dare?

  Sandra remembered how during a previous call she had told Kerstin off for putting herself in danger by attempting blackmail against a man with a lack of respect for human life. But now there was no longer anything to suggest that Hallin had such a careless disregard for life. And a demand for a sum equal to the state-regulated child support levels wasn’t extortion.

  SHE WAS IN such turmoil that she had felt like she needed beta blockers ahead of this conversation. But she didn’t really understand what those were—she suspected they were some sort of prescription drug that was difficult to obtain unless you had some kind of heart problem. Instead, she helped herself to two glasses of red wine to dampen her anxiety, and it helped a little.

  It’s just one phone call, Sandra, she told herself. Show your best side. He can’t see you—don’t show your uncertainty.

  She was carefully prepared, had written down all the points that were to be ticked off, and had gone over the list several times so that she knew it by heart. She had practiced her tempo and tone and tried out various phrases, but her mind still went blank when he picked up.

  “My name is Sandra,” she began. “I’m the mother of a three-and-a-half-year-old boy who was conceived through rape in January 2014.”

  There was silence for several eternally long seconds, then he said, “That’s an interesting conversation starter. Would you like me to congratulate you or commiserate? Never mind—how can I help?”

  “It just so happens that you are the father of the child. Do you remember?”

  Why the hell had she said that? Talking over old memories with the rapist was not what she had planned. Now there was an even longer silence.

  “Now I definitely think you’re mistaken, Sandra,” he said, finally. “Perhaps you’ve dialled the wrong number?”

  “I’m sure I haven’t,” Sandra said. “And you know that too.”

  “You know, this is a startling conversation at this time of evening—even if I do say so myself. Are you sober?”

  “Let’s skip the bullshit and get to the point.”

  “Oh right—there’s a point to this. Exciting.”

  Not a trace of worry in Hallin’s voice. All comments so far had been condescending—in an almost amused tone. What exactly had she been expecting? That he would break down and beg for forgiveness?

  “I’m offering you the opportunity to make things right.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. I suggest you contact the child’s father instead—he’ll probably pay up.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing. I thought you might be more inclined to take responsibility if we talked about this tête-à-tête, as it were. But if you would rather involve the authorities and so on, we can do it like that.”

  “You’ve come to the wrong person,” Hallin said, this time without the ironic tone she had begun to get accustomed to.

  Sandra was unsure whether it was a threat or yet another attempt at denial.

  “I can always speak to your wife,” she said. “I assume she takes the same view as I do that men should take responsibility for their children.”

  “Don’t even try it, sweetheart. My wife and I don’t keep secrets from each other, so that’s a nonstarter.”

  Well, of course. It seemed highly probable that Hallin had gone straight home after raping a young woman and told the missus about the day’s big news . . .

  “I take it you would prefer me to contact the authorities about the matter?” Sandra said provocatively.

  “What the hell is it you want?” Hallin snarled in a way that suggested pent-up rage.

  “I had a package deal in mind,” Sandra said. “In return for a one-off fee, you will never hear about the kid again, you will not hear from the authorities, and you won’t hear from me.”

  “What sort of sum are we talking about?” he said angrily. “I’m asking out of curiosity, not because I have any intention of even considering your so-called offer. Since I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Patchy memory? Doesn’t surprise me given how drunk you were. I thought three thousand kronor per month for nineteen years would be about right. A total of six hundred and eighty-four thousand kronor.”

  “Six hundred and eighty-four thousand? You’re having a laugh.”

  “I would say it’s a very generous offer. You won’t have to buy Christmas presents or birthday presents. We can set up an instalment plan if you like—in that case it’ll be three thousand seven hundred and seventeen kronor per month up to and including December 2033, assuming you start payments immediately.”

  “So you’re a gold digger trying her hand at extortion are you?” Hallin said in a tone completely devoid of human warmth.

  “I consider it a comfortable way out for you, without all the bother of involving the authorities. Police, prosecutors, social services—well, you know. And as for my son and me, we avoid being associated with a slimeball who has to rape to get some.”

  “Way out? Ha ha. Call it what you want. But let me tell you that things didn’t work out well for the last person who tried to blackmail me, so don’t count your chickens.”

  “I’ll text you my account details,” Sandra said coolly. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Crazy bitch,” Hallin said and hung up.

  27

  Jeanette

  THE NEXT TIME Jeanette and Nanna had a heart-to-heart, it was chance that saw them end up together. Nanna was on the periphery of the group on the outermost bench near Östertorg, which was where Jeanette had cast off her rucksack. Now she needed to root through it looking for her rain gear—threatening clouds were looming above the city wall to the northwest. Nanna, who had already layered up, had her hood up and was awaiting the storm. It was blowing in gusts and the wind brought the first few drops of rain.

  “She walked by again,” said Nanna. “Perhaps she works down on Adelsgatan somewhere.”

  Jeanette sat down next to her to pull on her waterproof trousers over her jeans. She didn’t need to ask—for some reason she already knew who Nanna meant.

  “What a shame I didn’t see her,” Jeanette said casually. “Then
I could have explained who crumpled the sheets in her bedroom when she was at work.”

  Nanna gazed at her inscrutably.

  “You blame me,” said Jeanette, sticking out her lower lip.

  She did so despite knowing that simple statements like that had no impact on Nanna. Nanna took a swig from a plastic bottle, contents unknown, without dropping her gaze.

  “Pfft, I’m full of shit,” said Jeanette. “Obviously, I’ve never been in her house.”

  No comment. Jeanette felt ill at ease, and as though she had behaved disrespectfully. As if that woman with the long ponytail had deserved what had happened to her.

  “I didn’t get to grieve,” she said anyway. “But it was such a damn pity about that blonde and their cute kids.”

  Nanna raised her eyebrow and took another swallow.

  “It was a pity,” said Jeanette, her tone gentler. “But, you know . . . You’re only human. I needed comforting too. Her life would still have been smashed to pieces, she just didn’t know. He would have left her for me, if . . .”

  She stopped herself. She was on thin ice again—she didn’t want to go there.

  “Can I have a sip of that?” she asked to divert attention.

  Nanna passed her the bottle but wasn’t taken in.

  “If . . .?” she said encouragingly.

  “If whatever it was that got in the way hadn’t,” Jeanette replied, hoping for a smile at least.

  She didn’t get one. Jeanette drank, the spirit creating a pleasant warm feeling inside her chest. She took care to drink a little more before returning the bottle.

  “Hotel or what?” Nanna said.

  Jeanette didn’t understand what she meant at first. She shook two cigarettes out of the pack and offered one to Nanna. She lit them both. Then the penny dropped.

  “Oh right—no. We couldn’t afford it. And it was too risky. Someone would have recognised us and drawn uncomfortable conclusions.”

  Then she leant forward and cupped her hand around her mouth to stop anyone overhearing, even though no one was nearby.

  “We fucked in the boot of the car,” she said in a low voice.

  Nanna pursed her lips and nodded. She squinted at the rain as it increased in intensity. Jeanette wanted follow-up questions. Having ended up here with Nanna by chance, she wanted to talk.

  “In Peter’s car,” she clarified—as if it mattered.

  But it had been a wonderful time, hadn’t it? Now that she came to think about it without being melancholy. She picked up her own bottle from the rucksack, not wanting to take further advantage of Nanna.

  “We would head out into the countryside in the afternoons. Anywhere, really. Somewhere different each time. We would stop on small tracks in the forest where no one went in winter. Tractor tracks—a strip of grass running up the middle, you know. We once stopped on the drive outside an abandoned cabin—an old man turned up with a shotgun and knocked on the window. Jesus, what a fright! That was the only time anyone discovered us; otherwise we were very discreet.”

  Words poured out. It was a day for that—and it was a good day. It was Nanna who had started this conversation and Jeanette might as well babble on since no one else was talking and the subject clearly interested her benchmate.

  “There was a blanket in the back,” she recollected. “For outings. It was covered in burrs that wouldn’t come off—probably hundreds of them. Or rather, you could pick them off, but who has the patience to remove hundreds of mini burrs from an old blanket? We wrapped it around us with the burrs on the outside, folded down the back seat, and put some slow jams on the stereo. On a low volume so that we would hear if anyone was coming. And we rocked the car with our shagging.”

  Jeanette grinned from ear to ear. Nanna concentrated on her cigarette, blowing smoke rings that sailed into the air and were pulled apart by the squall of rain that was now beginning to dissipate. Jeanette felt that she had lost interest and wondered whether she was even listening. But it didn’t matter; Jeanette wanted to linger among her memories for a little while longer.

  “He was a fantastic person,” she continued. “Much tougher than me. He always saw the bright side in things, saw the opportunities where I saw the risks. But I wasn’t so sentimental back then either. I dared to spread my wings, dared to be young again and to taste love again. Do you think I’m a bad person, Nanna? Do you?”

  Nanna blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth. She flicked the stub onto the wet asphalt and saw it extinguished by the rain. Then she crossed her arms with her hands in her armpits and curled up. Without looking at Jeanette, she shook her head.

  “You think that yourself, and surely that’s enough? You’re judging yourself too harshly.”

  Jeanette was unsure what she was getting at.

  “What do you mean?” she asked hesitantly.

  “You wanted to tell us,” said Nanna. “Right now it’s just me here. Who am I to judge?”

  “Wanted to tell you what? When?”

  “At your place. When the police turned up.”

  “But . . . You weren’t there, how . . .?”

  “I was there. I wouldn’t let you go home with two pissed blokes.”

  The rain pattered on the hood and formed puddles on the ground in front of them. Jeanette pulled the bottle from her rucksack and took a swig and then another, before concealing the bottle inside her anorak. Of course Nanna could have been there at home—Jeanette’s field of vision had been limited to the bed, where Lubbi and Jimmy were. And she was unlikely to forget anytime soon how Lubbi had persuaded her to tell that awful story in the first place. How she had almost looked forward to it being over—of course they would hate her, but it would still be better than carrying the burden alone. And now she was here, one-on-one with Nanna, who would never say anything, never judge or reject her. An opportunity had emerged for Jeanette to simply eject the poison, and perhaps—just maybe—the burden would be less onerous.

  Common sense pricked her consciousness: it would never be a good idea to tell this story—not to anyone. The last time she had got out of the trap at the last moment—this time there was no rescue in sight. Did she really know what she was getting herself into?

  Her emotions also made themselves known. She was already there, in Peter’s arms, and that was where she wanted to stay. She was in a good mood, talkative, blunt, and unsentimental. This was offering her the chance to offload what was weighing her down—she wouldn’t have the same chance in the same favourable circumstances again.

  “You’ll hate me,” said Jeanette.

  “Hate is a strong word,” said Nanna.

  Jeanette took a deep breath, and felt the urge to light a cigarette, but the chances of success in this rain weren’t good.

  “It was in January,” she began. “The last time I would see Peter—although I didn’t know that at the time. We were heading into the forest somewhere, neither of us really knew where, but we never did. We talked about the future—our shared future. Danced around the subject without either of us saying anything plainly. Were we prepared to sacrifice everything we had built for this passionate infatuation that might be nothing more than that? I had a lot of gloomy thoughts. Felt dirty—so filled with lust for a man who belonged to someone else. Lying and deceitful towards my husband. I know that you can and perhaps even should let yourself feel that strongly about someone else—to do what I did. But the betrayal . . . and it was the small one in the context.”

  Nanna listened without comment, leaning forward slightly to shelter her face from the rain. Jeanette decided to try lighting a cigarette—she could also lean forward and protect the glowing tip with the palm of her hand and her body.

  “It was freezing, so we decided not to go all that far from town. We stopped at the first good spot and ended up on a tiny road—for forestry work perhaps—next to a bigger road. We parked as far in as possible, which wasn’t that far from the road—thirty metres perhaps—but we were well concealed behind the trees. When he touched me
, when he undressed me, I forgot about the daily grind and all the greyness. Everything I was questioning about the relationship and our future was forgotten. I was in the here and now, in his arms, and that was what I lived for. I was convinced that applied to him too. Peter.”

  Jeanette handed the cigarette over to Nanna. She thought they could share it—they were about to share even more. Or perhaps it was the final time they were going to share anything.

  “But we were interrupted. There was a deafening noise that broke the silence around us. We sat up, but couldn’t see anything from where we were. I hauled on my trousers and jumper and got out of one of the rear doors. I pulled on my boots that were outside and dragged my coat with me as I ran towards the main road. The noise had stopped, but when I came through the trees I saw what had happened. A car had come off the icy road and was at the bottom of a deep ravine. It was completely crushed—like a scrunched-up piece of paper. The engine had stopped, but there was still smoke coming from it. I assumed that no one could survive a crash like that. Then I raised my gaze and spotted another car—a blue Audi a little farther up the road. It reversed back to the spot where the car had left the road so the driver could look down into the ravine—that was my interpretation. So I got my mobile out of my pocket and photographed it. And I was probably right, because after standing there for a minute or so without the door opening, it drove off. The driver didn’t even bother to get out and see what they had done before they left the scene of the accident.”

  Nanna nodded thoughtfully and took a final drag before handing the cigarette back to Jeanette. She still hadn’t given up faith in her. But it was probably just a matter of time. Jeanette finished the cigarette, flicked the stub into the rain and took a deep breath in preparation for the final and most frightening part of the story. The bit that kept her awake at night and tortured her, day in day out.

  The bit about the big betrayal. The two big betrayals, to be precise.

  28

  Sandra