Behind Blue Eyes

by C S Duffy

  I crossed the footbridge onto the little island of Långholmen where Sanna’s memorial was being held. The narrow canal that separate the smaller island from Södermalm was lined with speedboats, some flashy and new, others rickety and wooden. Johan’s family owned one of them, I remembered. He’d told me that no one had used it in years, but that his mother dutifully fixed it up each spring just in case. He had promised he would take me out in it soon, to which I’d smiled and nodded and decided that ‘soon’ would be ‘never.’

  With one last look at the boats, I shuddered and pulled out my phone to check the directions. Good old Linda Andersson had tagged Mia and Gustav Lindström in the Facebook event that morning. Johan wasn’t on the guest list for the event, but he must have seen it. All morning I’d been half on tenterhooks, wondering if he would announce he was going. Or worse, claim to be meeting Krister for a drink or something, and instead come here.

  Which was in fact what I had done.

  But for good reason, I reminded myself as I approached the crowd gathered in what looked like a little picnic clearing. Through the trees I could just spot the crooked roofs and steeples of the Old Town across the huge expanse of calm, inky water, shrouded in shadow under the pinks and purples of the sunset. I spotted a red pleasure balloon floating high overhead, cruelly incongruous against the muted atmosphere of the gathering. Somewhere just out of sight some evening swimmers were screaming and splashing.

  The crowd was predictably glamorous. It would be difficult to identify a trendy Stockholmer in mourning, I thought, they seemed to dress head to toe in black regardless of their emotional state. In fact, I realised as I accepted what seemed to be an order of service from a quietly sobbing girl, I was the only one in the entire crowd not wearing some variation of a black leather jacket. I quickly covered my face with the card so as to hide my ghost of a smile.

  It would be extremely handy if there was some kind of app that could translate live conversation. Eavesdropping proves something of a challenge when you don’t understand a bloody word of what’s being said, but even so, as I moved through the crowd, pretending to be looking for friends to join, I was picking up a vibe. There were one or two women in tears, a couple of clumps of people standing solemnly with their arms around one another, but I wasn’t picking up on deep or untamed sorrow.

  It could be that after nine months the initial horror had numbed, but in my experience, even after someone has been missing a long time, the discovery of the body tears apart any semblance of closure, exposes the rawness of grief. I’d once covered the memorial of a minor associate of the Krays’ who had gone missing sometime in the late sixties. His body had finally been found when they bulldozed a warehouse in Bethnal Green and uncovered the remains of several henchmen in the concrete floor. Nearly half a century later, his widow, brothers and kids who hadn’t seen him since they were toddlers, were howling as though he’d dropped dead in front of them they day before.

  If I had to put money on it, I’d say that not many people here knew Sanna particularly well, much less truly gave a monkey’s about her. There was something performative about the mournful expressions, the silver candles that were being passed out and held aloft like at a stadium rock gig. It was like a terribly stylish performance art funeral, the sort of thing pretentious idiots would queue round the block in Shoreditch or Brooklyn to witness. Most of the tears I could see were what an old editor of mine used to call reality TV tears, glistening eyes hinting at emotion, but nowhere near enough to run the risk of ruining impeccable eye makeup.

  That didn’t reflect badly on Sanna, necessarily. I’d had my own club days once upon a time, in the heady years of my early twenties when I would roll in from Ministry at dawn and be chugging Red Bull at the news desk of wherever I had blagged a week’s freelancing at an hour later. For about three years I existed on toast, caffeine and enough Columbian marching powder to fell a horse, and I wondered why I didn’t manage to form a functional relationship with an adult human male in all that time.

  Not that I was remotely fussed about that then. I was having much too much fun waking up next to a succession of skinny boys with pretentious indie boy haircuts and politely enquiring as to why they were wearing my pants. If I’m honest though, I didn’t have a single real friend during that period either, and it didn’t take Freud to figure out that I stuffed my loneliness up my nose.

  That’s just the nature of that scene though. It’s all shadowy strangers, ships that pass in the ladies’, the love of the night based on whomever still had the digital dexterity to unbutton my jeans come kicking-out time. It was what it was. Aren’t everyone’s twenties a bit messy? This lot seemed a bit too shiny-haired to be sinking to the cheerful depths I did, but I sensed a detachment that was chillingly familiar.

  I’d managed to find Gustav Lindström’s Instagram earlier that afternoon, and though it gave no hint of his life beyond the fact that he liked to lift heavy shit and was inordinately fond of protein shakes, there had been a couple of decent headshots. I was scanning the crowd for him, wondering if I would detect true grief etched on his face, or if he’d be like the guy I was passing now, his eyes closed, face contorted in a way I assumed was intended to convey deep emotion but actually made him look severely constipated. Maybe it was too painful for Gustav to come at all, I thought, and a coldness seeped through me as I wondered if that was why Johan wasn’t here.

  ‘Hey, Ellie,’ called a voice, and I turned to see Mia heading for me. My heart sank. ‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ she said, enveloping me in a hug. ‘Is Johan here?’

  ‘No, he — it was just — because I found her —’ I improvised wildly. ‘I felt I should be here. I hope I’m not intruding.’

  ‘You have such a kind heart,’ she said, smiling though her tears. She stroked my hair with an odd, faraway look in her eyes, and I stood there awkwardly, not wanting to interrupt her grief. ‘Sanna was so full of life,’ she said. ‘So fun. I just can’t quite —’

  She gave a shaky breath, and I squeezed her hand, feeling like the most callous person ever to walk the planet.

  ‘You would have loved her,’ she added, then thankfully turned away before she could see my expression. Given that she was going out with my boyfriend — or I was going out with hers — I felt that things between us would have been socially awkward to say the least. It felt churlish to point that out given the circumstances, so I stayed quiet.

  A few moments later, the crowd quietened and a little guy with long, straight blond hair that made him look a bit like a miniature version of Legolas, stepped onto a stone mound. He looked vaguely familiar, and I wondered if I had seen him in one of Sanna’s Facebook photos. He began to speak, his voice low, but steady and confident. He was used to public speaking. The crowd was rapt, a couple of muted chuckles here and there.

  ‘That is Olaf,’ Mia whispered. ‘Sanna’s brother.’

  That was why he looked familiar, I realised. The family resemblance was strong.

  ‘He is talking about how crazy Sanna could be,’ Mia continued softly. ‘She persuaded him to climb onto the roof of their family’s house when they were children. He fell and broke his leg and she felt so guilty she also used crutches for the entire summer.’

  Olaf’s speech was followed by a few people Mia informed me were colleagues, an old school friend, her yoga teacher. Mia whispered running translations of their Sanna anecdotes, all painting a picture of a warm, funny, kind hearted, generally perfect person. Of course, to be fair, it was her funeral. How likely would it be that speakers would take the opportunity to air their grievances?

  The last speech over, the crowd began to disperse and Mia was greeted by a couple dressed alike in black jeans and the requisite black leather jackets. I took the opportunity to have a final scan for Gustav Lindström, and suddenly found myself face to face with Olaf.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I muttered, touching his arm. He withdrew it as though I were filthy.

  ‘Is it true
you are Johan’s girlfriend?’ he spat.

  ‘Yes, I —’ I stammered. I glanced around for Mia but she had disappeared into the shadows.

  ‘What are you doing here? Are you spying for him?’

  ‘No, of course not, absolutely not,’ I said in horror. ‘I just — I’m so sorry, I —’

  ‘Get out of here. Go home and fuck your murderer.’

  I turned and ran.

  15

  He was the love of my life. That’s such a cliché, I know, but as many of you know, he was the boy next door and I adored him long before I knew that that meant. He didn’t adore me, of course, not back then. He thought that girls were weird and annoying and he ignored me for years. It broke my heart of course, but deep down I wasn’t worried. Deep down, I knew that our time would come. And it did.

  After university I went travelling, hoping, perhaps, to try to forget him, maybe even meet someone new. But everything — sunsets in Nepal, the mountains of Bali, the Great Barrier Reef — all made me think of him, made me wish he was there to share it with me.

  Then I got home and there he was. Finally. He had missed me. Had finally seen what I had known since we were six years old. We had eight, perfect, precious years together.

  Often, he would talk about the years we had missed out on, how he wished he had seen sooner, that we could have shared more —

  That is why I know that he would never leave me.

  I know this isn’t what today is for — I know I promised I wouldn’t — but I have to. Those of you who are here today knew him the best, loved him the most — you must know what I do, that he wouldn’t leave any of us. The police won’t listen any more but I can’t —

  Please — I’m not finished, I have more to say — just one more moment, I promise I won’t —

  In fact, no. No. Why am I lying? I can’t promise. I won’t promise.

  I promise the opposite. I promise never to give up. To fight for him until my dying day. Until the truth comes out. I have nothing left. He is gone. I have nothing to lose.

  16

  I walked blindly for goodness knows how long, propelled through quiet streets by horror and shock and guilt. The shadows were long but the sky was still a blinding white, and as I felt tears building I cursed the bloody Swedish summer. If I were at home at least I’d have the privacy of darkness to have a good old cry.

  I blundered my way to the park where Johan and I had sat with ice creams in that first week, when he told me about his grandparents working at the button factory. I walked along the waterfront and into the trees, until I found a tiny patch of sand where I sat down and stared out blindly at the glass-like lake. It was a perfectly still night, the full moon in the pale blue sky reflecting on the shimmering water. On the opposite shore was a row of modern blocks of flats, stark white boxes surrounded by deep green pine trees.

  I didn’t want to cry. This wasn’t my thing to cry about. I didn’t even know the woman. I watched a couple of ducks land on the water, silhouetted by the fading light, causing ripples to cascade all the way to my tiny beach for one, and realised that wasn’t entirely true.

  Sanna hadn’t wanted to come to Krister’s that weekend. She’d wanted to leave as early as possible. That sounded familiar. Could it have been because she had already spent plenty of weekends being ignored by Liv and patronised by Krister? Johan had said she spent the whole time in a bad mood. Hadn’t I found her precisely because I’d retreated from them in a bad mood? Unlike me Sanna would have been able to understand their conversation, but I had a sneaking suspicion that not even fluent Swedish would have made twenty years’ worth of in-jokes accessible to an outsider.

  I’d been desperate to leave. If I hadn’t been so terrified of boats, would the kayak have crossed my mind? I could see Sanna, in my mind’s eye, in her red sundress, blinking back tears as she yanked the kayak into the water and climbed aboard. Telling herself Johan didn’t mean to be distant in the company of his friends, that he didn’t understand what it felt like to be the odd one out. Promising herself she would talk to him properly when they got back to Stockholm, make him understand that she wanted to be with him, not his friends. Maybe it was finally bursting into tears that made the kayak capsize, plunging her forever into the ice-cold depths.

  ‘Ellie! Shit, I am so glad I found you.’ Mia sat down next to me and put her arm around my shoulders. ‘Are you okay? I wasn’t sure if I should call Johan, I was so worried.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I muttered. ‘I just needed to get away. It was my fault. I should never have intruded.’

  ‘I heard about what Olaf said to you. I should not have left you alone, I never thought that he would even recognise you. I am so sorry. Of course he is crazy with grief. You cannot take anything he says seriously.’

  I nodded. ‘I understand,’ I said. My voice echoed curiously dull in my own ears. ‘I can’t begin to imagine what he is going through.’

  ‘It is so terrible. Olaf was the only one who never gave up hope. Of course we all knew months ago what must have happened, but he kept insisting that she was either somewhere in the archipelago with a head injury and no memory, or that she had come back to Stockholm and got on a plane for a new life.’

  Got on a plane for a new life? No one does that in real life, surely.

  ‘Why would he think that?’ I asked.

  Mia shrugged. ‘I don’t know if he actually believed it as much as just needed to pretend,’ she said. ‘They did not always have such a good relationship, I think he is dealing with a lot of guilt as well as grief. The poor guy is just turned inside out.’

  ‘I suppose it’s easier to blame Johan than deal with what he is feeling,’ I said.

  ‘Absolutely. I am sure he does not believe it really, no one who truly knows Johan believes. You know that, don’t you? It was just stupid, cruel gossip.’

  I nodded. The sky had turned a deep pink. A motorboat chugged slowly across the shimmering water into a nearby jetty. ‘Does Olaf know Johan well, then?’

  ‘Not really, they met a few times when Sanna and Johan were together. But he knows he did not kill her.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘If he doesn’t know Johan well?’

  ‘Because anyone who thinks Johan killed anybody is stupid,’ said Mia firmly.

  I nodded. A chilly breeze danced through the trees, and I shivered. Somewhere nearby, some ducks squawked contentedly.

  ‘Were he and Sanna happy together?’ I asked.

  Mia thought a moment before answering. ‘Maybe, I’m not sure. They were new. It’s always wonderful and terrifying when it is new, isn’t it?’

  I smiled tightly, hugging my knees for warmth. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘He was not happy like he is with you.’

  ‘I wonder,’ I said softly.

  ‘Oh there is no question. I have known Johan since many, many years and I have never seen him as he is with you. He comes alive when he looks at you. You are the love of his life.’

  My smile froze. I knew she was being kind, but — but it was ridiculous. We had known one another for less than seven months, five and a bit of which consisted of snatched weekends in London and a lot of Skype sex. We couldn’t be the loves of one another’s lives yet. We hadn’t even weathered our first storm.

  ‘We have been so worried about him, Krister and I, and Liv too. He has been a shadow of himself for so many months, and we are so grateful to you for bringing our friend back to us.’

  ‘Any time,’ I said with a forced grin.

  ‘You promise you will not worry about what Olaf said? I am sure he already feels terrible.’

  ‘I sincerely hope I am the last thing on his mind,’ I said firmly. ‘I’d better get home,’ I added, getting to my feet and brushing the sand off my skirt. ‘Johan will be wondering where I am.’

  17

  There are few places more depressing than a club during the day. At the height of my clubbing days, I worked here and there for promoters I’d got friendly with. I ran the gues
t list on the door at a few clubs, taking pleasure in letting in hen dos from Essex chancing their luck, and telling reality TV stars and obnoxious breakfast DJs to fuck off. I’d only get away with it a few times before the promoters got wind that I was infecting their glitzy fantasies with actual human people and sack me, but it was so worth it.

  I even took up the odd spot of podium dancing when I was seriously skint. I only worked a handful of shifts as a podium dancer, but it left me with the permanent affliction of dancing bitch face. Seriously, ten years later and the minute I hit a dance floor my face just goes ice cold and there’s nothing I can do about it. My friends have had to explain to startled tourists that I’m not angry with them, and once I caused a whole wedding party of small children to start crying in fear.

  Sometimes in those days, I’d have to pop by the club during the day to check the rota or pick up cash-in-hand wages, and trust me, you do not want to see the grotty tat behind the wizard’s curtain. In the dark, when the the music is pounding and drinks are flowing, literal smoke and mirrors create magic. In the harsh light of day, it’s like seeing your Hollywood idol up close. Nobody wants to see the lipstick bleeding into crevices around their mouth or the tit tape holding their face up by the ears.

  The Stureplan club where I waited for Linda Andersson the following day was no exception. I sat on a silver barstool by a black formica bar that probably shimmered beguilingly after a few shots. The walls were draped in black satin and the velvet couches took on a cheap sheen under the glare of the overhead lights.

  ‘Hej Ellie, so nice to meet you!’

  In her social media profile picture, Linda Andersson stared moodily at the camera like a mid-nineties heroin chic model, her slash of dark lipstick looking almost black in the grainy shot. In person, she grinned brightly as she held out her hand to me. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail back from a makeup-free face, and she wore jeans — probably designer, but still — and a Ramones T shirt.