‘Damn!’ Christian brusquely shook off his five-year-old son, but it was too late. Both trouser legs now had bright splotches of ketchup around the knees. He struggled to keep his temper – something that was proving more and more difficult lately.
‘Can’t you keep the kids in line?’ he snapped, demonstratively unbuttoning his suit trousers so he could change.
‘I’m sure I can clean that off,’ said Sanna as she grabbed for Melker, who was on his way towards the bed with his sticky fingers.
‘And how do you expect to do that, when I have to be there in an hour? I’ll just have to change.’
‘But I think I can …’ Sanna sounded on the verge of tears.
‘Look after the kids instead.’
Sanna flinched at every word, as if he had struck her. Without replying, she took Melker by the arm and hustled him out of the room.
After she left, Christian sat down heavily on the bed. He glanced at himself in the mirror. A tight-lipped man. Dressed in a suit jacket, shirt, tie, and underwear. Hunched over as if all the troubles of the world were resting on his shoulders. He tried straightening up and puffing out his chest. He looked better already.
This was his night. And nobody could take it away from him.
‘Anything new?’ asked Gösta Flygare as he held up the coffee pot towards Patrik, who had just stepped into the police station’s little kitchen.
Patrik nodded that he’d like some coffee and sank down on to a chair at the table. Ernst the dog, hearing that they were taking a break, came plodding into the room and lay down under the table in the hope some morsel would be dropped on the floor for him to lick up.
‘Here you go.’ Gösta placed a cup of black coffee in front of Patrik and then sat down across from him.
‘You’re looking a bit pale around the gills,’ said Gösta, studying his younger colleague.
Patrik shrugged. ‘Just a bit tired. Maja isn’t sleeping well and that makes her cranky. And Erica is totally worn out. Understandably so. Which means things haven’t exactly been easy on the home front.’
‘And it’s only going to get worse,’ said Gösta.
Patrik laughed. ‘Wow, that’s encouraging. But you’re right, it probably will.’
‘So you haven’t come up with anything new on Magnus Kjellner?’ Gösta discreetly sneaked a biscuit under the table, and Ernst happily thumped his tail against Patrik’s feet.
‘No, not a thing,’ said Patrik, taking a sip of coffee.
‘I saw that Cia was here again.’
‘Yes, it’s like some sort of obsessive ritual – but I suppose that’s not surprising. How is a woman supposed to act when her husband suddenly vanishes?’
‘Maybe we should interview some more people,’ said Gösta, sneaking another biscuit under the table for Ernst.
‘Who do you have in mind?’ Patrik could hear how annoyed he sounded. ‘We’ve talked to his family and his friends. We’ve knocked on doors throughout the neighbourhood, and we’ve put up notices and appealed for information via the local paper. What else can we do?’
‘It’s not like you to give up so easily.’
‘Well, if you’ve got any suggestions, I’d like to hear them.’ Patrik immediately regretted his brusque tone of voice, even though Gösta didn’t seem to take offence. ‘It sounds terrible to hope that the man will turn up dead,’ he added in a calmer manner. ‘But I’m convinced that only then will we work out what happened to him. I’ll bet you he didn’t disappear voluntarily, and if we had a body then at least there’d be something to go on.’
‘I think you’re right. It’s horrible to think that his body will float ashore somewhere or be discovered in the woods. But I have the same feeling you do. And it must be awful …’
‘Not to know, you mean?’ said Patrik, shifting his feet, which were getting hot underneath the heavy weight of the dog.
‘Well, just imagine not knowing where the person you love has gone. It’s the same thing for parents when a child goes missing. There’s an American website devoted to kids who have disappeared. Page after page of pictures of missing kids. All I can say is Jesus H. Christ.’
‘Something like that would kill me,’ said Patrik. He pictured his whirlwind of a daughter. The thought of her being taken from him was unbearable.
‘What on earth are you guys talking about? The atmosphere in here is positively funereal.’ Annika’s cheerful voice broke the dismal mood as she joined them at the table. The station’s youngest member, Martin Molin, came in right behind her, lured by all the voices coming from the kitchen and the smell of coffee. He was working only part-time now, since he was on paternity leave, and he seized every possible opportunity to hang out with his colleagues and take part in adult conversations.
‘We were discussing Magnus Kjellner,’ said Patrik, his tone of voice making it clear that the conversation was over. To make sure the others understood, he changed the subject.
‘How’s it going with the little girl?’
‘Oh, we got new pictures yesterday,’ said Annika, taking some photos out of the pocket of her tunic.
‘Look how big she’s getting.’ She put the pictures on the table, and Patrik and Gösta took turns looking at them. Martin had already been given a preview when he arrived that morning.
‘Ah, she’s so pretty,’ said Patrik.
Annika nodded in agreement. ‘She’s ten months old now.’
‘When do you two get to go there to collect her?’ Gösta asked with genuine interest. He was fully aware that he had played a part in convincing Annika and Lennart to seriously consider adoption. So he took a slightly proprietary interest in the little girl in the photographs.
‘Well, we’re getting some mixed messages,’ Annika told him. She gathered up the pictures and put them carefully back in her pocket. ‘But in a couple of months, I should think.’
‘It must seem like a long wait.’ Patrik got up and put his cup in the dishwasher.
‘Yes, it does. But at the same time … At least the process has been started. And we know that she’ll be ours.’
‘Yes, she certainly will,’ said Gösta. On impulse he put his hand on Annika’s and then snatched it away. ‘Right, back to work. Haven’t got time to sit around here chatting,’ he muttered in embarrassment, getting to his feet.
His three colleagues looked at him in amusement as he slouched out of the kitchen.
‘Christian!’ The publishing director, reeking of perfume, came over to give him a big hug.
Christian held his breath so he wouldn’t have to inhale the cloying scent. Gaby von Rosen was not known for subtlety. Everything was always excessive when it came to Gaby: too much hair, too much make-up, too much perfume, all combined with a fashion sense that, putting it politely, could best be described as startling. This evening, in honour of the occasion, she wore a shocking pink ensemble with a green cloth rose on the lapel, and teetered on dangerously high stilettos. But despite her slightly ridiculous appearance, as the head of Sweden’s hot new publishing house she was a force to be reckoned with. She had over thirty years’ experience in the field and an intellect as acute as her tongue was sharp. Those who underestimated her as a competitor never made the same mistake twice.
‘This is going to be such fun!’ Gaby held Christian at arm’s length as she beamed at him.
Christian, still struggling to breathe in the cloud of perfume, could only nod.
‘Lars-Erik and Ulla-Lena here at the hotel have been simply fantastic,’ she went on. ‘What delightful people! And the buffet looks wonderful. This feels like the perfect venue to launch your brilliant book. So how does it feel?’
Christian finally managed to extricate himself and took a step back.
‘Well, a little unreal, I have to admit. I’ve been working on this novel for so long, and now … well, now here it is.’ He glanced at the stacks of books on the table by the exit. He could read his own name on the spine of each copy, along with the title: The Mermaid. He fe
lt his stomach flip. It was really happening.
‘So this is what we have in mind,’ Gaby said, tugging at his sleeve and pulling him along. Christian followed, offering no resistance. ‘We’ll start by meeting with the journalists who are here, so they can talk to you in peace and quiet. We’re very pleased with the media response. Journalists from Göteborgs Posten, Göteborgs Tidningen, Bohusläningen, and Strömstads Tidning – they’re all here. None from the national newspapers, but that’s all right, considering today’s rave review in Svenska Dagbladet.’
‘A review?’ said Christian as he was escorted to a small dais next to the stage where he would talk to the press.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Gaby, pushing him down on to a chair next to the wall.
He tried to regain some control of the situation, but he felt as if he’d been sucked into a tumble drier with no possibility of escape. The sight of Gaby already on her way out, leaving him behind, merely reinforced that feeling. Assistants were dashing about, setting the tables. Nobody paid any attention to him. He permitted himself to close his eyes for a moment. He thought about his book, The Mermaid, and all the hours he’d spent sitting at the computer. Hundreds, thousands of hours. He thought about her, about the Mermaid.
‘Christian Thydell?’
A voice roused him from his reverie and he looked up. The man standing before him was holding his hand out and seemed to be waiting for him to respond. So he stood up and shook hands.
‘Birger Jansson, Strömstads Tidning.’ The man set a big camera bag on the floor.
‘Oh, er, welcome. Please have a seat,’ said Christian, not sure how to act. He looked around for Gaby, but caught only a glimpse of her shocking pink outfit, fluttering about near the entrance.
‘They’re really putting a lot of PR behind your book,’ said Jansson, looking around.
‘Yes, it seems so,’ said Christian. Then both of them fell silent and fidgeted a bit.
‘Shall we get started? Or should we wait for the others?’
Christian gave the reporter a blank look. How should he know? He’d never done anything like this before. But Jansson seemed to take the whole situation in his stride as he placed a tape recorder on the table and switched it on.
‘So,’ he said, fixing Christian with a penetrating gaze. ‘This is your first novel, right?’
Christian wondered whether he was supposed to do more than confirm this statement. ‘Yes, it is,’ he said, clearing his throat.
‘I liked it a lot,’ said Jansson in a gruff tone of voice that belied the compliment.
‘Thank you,’ said Christian.
‘What did you intend to say with this novel?’ Jansson checked the tape recorder to make sure it was recording properly.
‘What did I intend to say? I don’t really know. It’s a novel, a story that I’ve had in the back of my mind and that needed to come out.’
‘It’s an awfully dark story. I’d almost call it bleak,’ said Jansson, studying Christian as if trying to peer inside the deepest recesses of his soul. ‘Is this how you view society?’
‘I don’t know if it’s my view of society that I was trying to communicate through the book,’ said Christian, searching frantically for something intelligent to say. He’d never thought of his writing in this way before. The story had been part of him for so long, inside his head, and finally he’d felt compelled to put it down on paper. But did it have anything to do with what he wanted to say about society? The thought had never even occurred to him.
Finally Gaby came to his rescue, arriving with the other reporters in tow, and Jansson turned off his tape recorder as they all greeted one another and sat down around the table. The whole process took several minutes, and Christian used the opportunity to gather his thoughts.
Gaby then motioned for everyone’s attention.
‘Welcome to this gathering in honour of the new super-star in the literary firmament, Christian Thydell. All of us at the publishing company are incredibly proud of producing his first novel, The Mermaid. And we think this marks the beginning of a long and amazing writing career. Christian hasn’t yet seen any of the reviews. So it’s with great joy that I can tell you, Christian, that today there were fantastic reviews in Svenska Dagbladet, Dagens Nyheter, and Arbetarbladet, just to name a few. Let me read a few quotes to all of you.’
She put on her reading glasses and reached for a stack of papers lying in front of her on the table. A pink highlighter had been used to mark phrases against the white newsprint.
‘“A linguistically virtuoso performance depicting the plight of ordinary people without losing sight of the larger perspective.” That was from Svenska Dagbladet,’ Gaby explained with a nod to Christian. Then she turned to the next review. ‘“It’s both pleasant and painful to read Christian Thydell’s book, since his pared-down prose shines light on society’s false promises of security and democracy. His words cut like a knife through flesh, muscle and conscience, which kept me reading with feverish urgency and seeking, like a fakir, more of the torturous but wonderfully cleansing pain.” That’s from Dagens Nyheter,’ said Gaby, taking off her glasses as she handed the small stack of reviews to Christian.
In stunned disbelief, he took the reviews. He’d heard the words, and it felt good to be showered with praise, but he honestly didn’t understand what the critics were talking about. All he’d done was write about her, told her story. Let out the words and everything about her in an outpouring that had occasionally left him completely drained. It wasn’t his intention to say anything about society. He just wanted to say something about her.
But he bit back the protests. No one would understand, and maybe it was better just to let things be. He’d never be able to explain.
‘How marvellous,’ he said, hearing how the words fell meaninglessly from his lips.
Then came more questions. More praise and comments about his book. And he realized that he couldn’t give a sensible answer to a single question. How could he describe something that had filled the smallest corners of his life? Something that wasn’t merely a story – it was also about survival. About pain. He did the best he could, trying to speak clearly and thoughtfully. Apparently he succeeded, because Gaby kept nodding her approval.
When the interview session was finally over, all Christian wanted to do was go home. He felt totally drained. But he was forced to linger on in the beautiful dining room of the Grand Hotel. He took a deep breath and prepared himself to meet the guests who had started to stream in. He smiled, but it was a smile that cost him more effort than anyone would ever know.
‘Could you manage to stay sober tonight?’ Erik Lind quietly snapped at his wife so that the others waiting in the queue to get into the party wouldn’t hear him.
‘Could you manage to keep your hands to yourself tonight?’ Louise replied, not bothering to whisper.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Erik. ‘And lower your voice, please.’
Louise eyed her husband coldly. He was an elegant man – that much she couldn’t deny. And once upon a time that had attracted her. They’d met at the university, and plenty of girls had looked at her with envy because she’d nabbed Erik Lind. Since then he had slowly but surely fucked away any love, respect, or trust she’d ever felt for him. Not with her. God, no. On the other hand, he didn’t seem to have any problem finding willing lovers outside of the marriage bed.
‘Hi, there! You’re here too? How nice!’ Cecilia Jansdotter made her way over to them and gave them both the obligatory kiss on the cheek. She was Louise’s hairdresser, and she and Erik had also been lovers for the past year. But of course they didn’t think Louise knew about that.
‘Hi, Cecilia,’ said Louise with a smile. She was a sweet girl, and if Louise held a grudge against everyone who had slept with her husband, she wouldn’t have been able to carry on living in Fjällbacka. Besides, she’d stopped caring years ago. She had the girls. And that wonderful invention: wine in a box. What did she ne
ed Erik for?
‘It’s so exciting that we have another author here in Fjällbacka! First Erica Falck, and now Christian.’ Cecilia was practically jumping up and down. ‘Have either of you read his book?’
‘I only read business journals,’ said Erik.
Louise rolled her eyes. How typical of Erik to flirt by saying that he never read books.
‘I’m hoping that we’ll get to take a copy home with us,’ she said, drawing her coat tighter around her. She hoped the queue would move a little faster so they could get inside where it was warm.
‘Yes, Louise is the big reader in the family. But then, what else is there to do when you don’t have to work? Right, sweetheart?’
Louise shrugged, letting the spiteful remark roll right off her. It wouldn’t do any good to point out that it was Erik who had insisted that she stay home while the girls were young. Or that she slaved from morning to night to make sure that everything ran smoothly in the well-ordered home that he took for granted.
The small talk continued as they slowly moved forward. At last they were able to enter the lobby and hang up their coats before descending the stairs to the dining hall.
With Erik’s eyes burning into her back, Louise headed straight for the bar.
‘Now don’t wear yourself out,’ Patrik told Erica, giving her a kiss before she swept out the door, her stomach leading the way.
Maja whimpered a bit when she saw her mother disappear, but she stopped fussing as soon as Patrik set her down in front of the TV to watch Bolibompa. The show with the green dragon had just started. Maja had been much more fretful and difficult to handle during the past few months, and the fits of temper that followed whenever she was told ‘no’ were enough to make any diva envious. Patrik could partly understand. She must feel the excited anticipation, combined with apprehension, regarding the arrival of her two siblings. Good Lord. Twins. Even though they’d known from the very first ultrasound, done in Erica’s eighteenth week, he still hadn’t really been able to take in the news. Sometimes he wondered how they were going to manage. It had been hard enough with one baby; how were they going to cope with two? How would they handle the breastfeeding and trying to get some sleep, and everything else? And they needed to buy a new car that was big enough for three kids and their pushchairs. And that was just one of many matters to consider.
The Drowning Page 2