The Drowning

by Camilla Lackberg

  She clenched and unclenched her hands, forcing herself to breathe calmly. The temporary sense of relief had already vanished, and she tried in vain to convince herself that everything was as it should be. Reassurance. That was the only thing she desired. She just wanted to know that Christian loved her.

  But deep inside she knew that he had never belonged to her. That he had always been searching for something else, someone else, during all the years they had lived together. She knew that he had never loved her. Not really. And one day he would find the person that he wanted to be with, the one he actually loved, and then she would be all alone.

  Sanna wrapped her arms around herself for a moment as she sat on the desk chair. Then she got up. Christian’s mobile bill had arrived with the post yesterday. It would take her only a minute to peruse it.

  Erica walked aimlessly through the house. This eternal waiting was going to drive her crazy. She’d finished writing her latest book, but she didn’t have the energy to start on a new project right now. And she couldn’t do much in the house without her back and joints protesting. She spent her time reading or watching TV. Or she did what she was doing now – wandering around the house out of sheer frustration. At least today was Saturday, and Patrik was home. He’d gone out with Maja for a short walk so she’d get some fresh air. Erica was counting the minutes until they returned.

  When the doorbell rang, her heart nearly skipped a beat. Before she managed to respond, the door was thrown open, and Anna came into the front hall.

  ‘Are you practically going out of your mind too?’ she said, taking off her scarf and jacket.

  ‘How’d you guess?’ said Erica, suddenly feeling much more cheerful.

  They went into the kitchen, and Anna set a steaming bag on the counter. ‘Freshly baked buns. Belinda did the baking.’

  ‘Really?’ said Erica, trying to picture Anna’s eldest step-daughter wearing an apron and kneading dough with her black-painted fingernails.

  ‘She’s in love,’ said Anna, as if that explained everything. Which, in fact, it actually did.

  ‘Well, I can’t recall it ever having that sort of effect on me,’ said Erica, putting the buns on a plate.

  ‘Apparently he told her yesterday that he likes girls who are the domestic type.’ Anna raised one eyebrow and gave Erica a knowing look.

  ‘Oh, is that right?’

  Anna laughed as she reached for one of the buns. ‘Hey, calm down, you don’t have to go over to his house and give him a thrashing. I’ve met the boy, and believe me, within a week Belinda is going to get tired of him and go back to her black-clad losers who play in obscure rock bands and don’t give a shit whether she’s the domestic type or not.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. But I have to say that these buns aren’t bad.’ Erica closed her eyes as she chewed. In her present condition, freshly baked buns was as close as she was going to get to an orgasm.

  ‘Well, the one advantage to how we look at the moment is that we can stuff ourselves with as many buns as we like,’ said Anna, taking a bite of her second one.

  ‘Sure, but we’ll have to pay for it later on,’ replied Erica, although she couldn’t help following her sister’s example by taking another bun. Belinda really seemed to have a natural talent for baking.

  ‘With twins, you’ll soon lose all that weight and more!’ laughed Anna.

  ‘You’re probably right.’ Erica found herself thinking about something else, and her sister seemed to guess what it was.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. Besides, you’re not alone this time. You have me to keep you company. We can move two armchairs next to each other in front of the TV and watch Oprah as we nurse the babies all day long.’

  ‘And take turns ordering takeaway for dinner when our husbands come home.’

  ‘Sure. You’ll see. Everything’s going to be great.’ Anna licked her fingers and leaned back with a groan. ‘Ow, I think I ate too much.’ She propped her swollen feet up on the chair next to her and clasped her hands over her belly. ‘Have you talked to Christian?’

  ‘Yep. I was over there on Thursday.’ Erica followed Anna’s example and propped her feet on a chair too. Only one bun remained on the plate, and it was practically shouting at her. After a brief battle, she reached for it.

  ‘So what exactly happened?’

  Erica hesitated for a moment, but she wasn’t used to keeping secrets from her sister, so in the end she told Anna everything about the letters and their menacing tone.

  ‘Wow, that’s horrible,’ said Anna, shaking her head. ‘I think it’s odd that he started getting them even before his book was published. It would have seemed more logical if they arrived after he attracted attention in the media. I mean, they seem to be from someone who’s a little cuckoo.’

  ‘I agree. It does sound like that. Christian refuses to take them seriously. At least that’s what he told me. But I could tell that Sanna was upset.’

  ‘I can believe it,’ said Anna, licking her index finger and then dabbing up the sugar left on the plate.

  ‘Today he has his first book-signings,’ said Erica, unable to keep a trace of pride out of her voice. In many ways she felt that she’d contributed to Christian’s success, and through him she was reliving her own debut as an author. Those first book-signings. That was a huge deal. Really huge.

  ‘That’s great. Where are they going to be held?’

  ‘First at the Böcker och Blad bookshop in Torp, then at Bokia in Uddevalla.’

  ‘I hope some people actually turn up. It would be depressing if he had to sit there all alone,’ said Anna.

  Erica grimaced at the thought of her own first signing, at a bookshop in Stockholm. She’d sat there for a whole hour, trying to look unconcerned while all the customers walked past as if she didn’t exist.

  ‘There’s been so much PR about his book that I’m sure people will come – out of curiosity if nothing else,’ said Erica, hoping that she was right.

  ‘Well, it’s just lucky that the newspapers haven’t got word of those threatening letters,’ said Anna.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right about that,’ replied Erica, and then changed the subject. But the uneasy feeling in her chest refused to leave her.

  5

  They were going on holiday, and he could hardly wait. He wasn’t really sure what it entailed, but the word sounded so promising. Holiday. And they would be taking the caravan that was parked outside.

  He was never allowed to play in it. A few times he’d tried to peek through the windows, to see what was behind the brown curtains. But he could never actually see anything, and the caravan was always locked. Now the door stood wide open, so as to ‘give it a proper airing out’, as Mother said, and a bunch of cushions had been put in the washing machine to rid them of the smell of winter.

  Everything seemed so unreal, like a fairy-tale adventure. He wondered if he’d be permitted to sit inside the caravan as they drove, like travelling inside a little house on wheels, headed for something new and unfamiliar. But he didn’t dare ask. Mother had been in a strange mood lately. That sharp, fierce tone in her voice was clearly audible, and Father had been taking more frequent walks, whenever he wasn’t hiding behind his newspaper.

  Sometimes he’d noticed her staring at him oddly. There was something different about the way she looked at him, and it frightened him, even taking him back to the darkness that he’d left behind.

  ‘Are you just going to stand there gaping, or were you thinking of helping me out?’ Mother had her hands on her hips.

  He gave a start when he heard once again that harsh tone and ran over to her.

  ‘Take these and put them in the laundry room,’ she said, tossing some foul-smelling blankets at him with such force that he almost lost his footing.

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ he said, and hurried into the house.

  If only he knew what he’d done wrong. He always obeyed his mother. Never talked back, behaved properly, and never got his clothes dirty. Yet it was as i
f sometimes she couldn’t bear to look at him.

  He’d tried to ask his father about this. Mustered his courage on one of the few occasions when they were alone and asked him why Mother didn’t like him any more. For a moment Father had put aside the newspaper to reply curtly that he was being foolish and he didn’t want to hear talk of such things again. Mother would be terribly sad if she ever heard him say that. He should be grateful that he had a mother like her.

  He didn’t ask any more questions. Making his mother sad was the last thing he wanted to do. He just wished that she would be happy and that she would stroke his hair like she used to and call him her handsome little boy. That was all he wanted.

  He put the blankets down in front of the washing machine and pushed aside all his gloomy, dark thoughts. They were going on holiday. In the caravan.

  Christian drummed his pen on the top of the small table where he was sitting. Next to him was a big stack of copies of The Mermaid. He still couldn’t get enough of looking at the book. It seemed so unreal that his name was actually on the cover. The cover of a real book.

  There wasn’t yet any rush to buy copies, and he didn’t think there would be. It was only authors like Liza Marklund and Jan Guillou who attracted large crowds. He was perfectly happy with the five copies that he’d signed so far.

  Although he had to admit that he did feel a bit lost as he sat there. People hurried past, giving him curious looks, but they didn’t stop. He wasn’t sure whether he should say ‘Hello’ when he felt them staring at him or just pretend that he was busy with something else.

  Gunnel, the owner of the bookshop, came to his rescue. She walked over and nodded at the stack of books.

  ‘Would you mind signing a few of those? It’s so nice to have signed copies to sell later.’

  ‘Sure. How many should I sign?’ asked Christian, happy to have something to do.

  ‘Hmm. Let’s say ten,’ replied Gunnel, straightening the stack, which had got a bit crooked.

  ‘That’s no problem.’

  ‘We did a proper amount of advertising for the book-signing,’ said Gunnel.

  ‘I have no doubt that you did,’ Christian told her with a smile. He could see that she was concerned he would think the meagre turnout could be blamed on the shop’s lack of PR for the event. ‘I’m not exactly a household name, so I didn’t have very high expectations.’

  ‘At least we’ve sold a few copies,’ she said kindly, heading back to the checkout counter.

  He reached for a book, removed the cap on his pen, and began signing. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that someone was standing in front of the table. When he looked up, he found a big, yellow microphone thrust in his face.

  ‘We’re here in the bookshop where Christian Thydell is signing his first novel, The Mermaid. Christian, your name is all over the newspaper placards today. How worried are you about the threats that have been levelled against you? Have the police been brought in?’

  The reporter hadn’t yet introduced himself, but judging by the label on the microphone, he was from the local radio station. He was peering at Christian with an urgent expression on his face.

  Christian felt his mind go blank. ‘The newspaper placards?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you’re on GT’s placard. Haven’t you seen it?’ The reporter didn’t wait for Christian to reply but just repeated the question he’d asked initially. ‘Are you worried about the threats? Have the police provided special protection for you today?’

  The reporter glanced around the shop, but then turned back to Christian, who was holding his pen above the book he’d been just about to sign.

  ‘I don’t know how –’ he stammered.

  ‘But it’s true, isn’t it? You’ve received threats while you were writing the book, and you passed out on Wednesday when another letter was delivered to you at the book launch.’

  ‘Er, yes, well …’ Christian could feel himself gasping for air.

  ‘Do you know who sent the threats? Do the police know?’ The microphone was again only about an inch from Christian’s mouth, and he had to restrain himself from shoving it away. He didn’t want to answer these questions. He had no idea how the press had found out about any of this. He thought about the letter in his jacket pocket. The letter that had come yesterday and that he’d managed to retrieve from the stack of post before Sanna discovered it.

  Panic-stricken, he looked for some way to escape. He caught Gunnel’s eye, and she seemed to realize at once that something was wrong.

  She came over to them and asked, ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘I’m doing an interview,’ said the reporter.

  ‘Have you asked Christian whether he wants to be interviewed?’ She glanced at Christian, who shook his head.

  ‘He’s not interested.’ She fixed her eyes on the reporter, who had lowered the microphone. ‘And besides, Christian is busy. He’s signing books for our shop. So I’m going to ask you to leave him alone.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ the radio reporter began. Then he stopped. He pressed one of the buttons on his recording equipment. ‘We were unable to do a short interview because …’

  ‘Get lost,’ said Gunnel, and Christian couldn’t help grinning.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said after the reporter had left.

  ‘What was that all about? He seemed really determined.’

  Christian’s feeling of relief that the reporter was gone quickly faded, and he swallowed hard before saying:

  ‘He claimed that my name was on the GT placard. I’ve received a few threatening letters, and apparently the press found out about it.’

  ‘Oh my.’ Gunnel looked first upset and then worried. ‘Would you like me to go out and buy you a copy of the newspaper so you can see what they wrote?’

  ‘Would you do that?’ he said, his heart pounding.

  ‘Sure, I’ll be right back.’ She gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder and left.

  Christian sat motionless for a moment, staring into space. Then he picked up his pen and began writing his signature in the books as Gunnel had requested. After a while he realized he needed to go to the toilet. Since there were still no customers heading for his table, he didn’t think a brief absence would be noticed.

  He hurried through the employees’ break room at the back of the bookshop. A few minutes later he was already on his way back to his post. He sat down at the table. Gunnel hadn’t yet returned with the newspaper, but he was steeling himself for what was to come.

  Christian reached for his pen, but then looked with surprise at the books he was supposed to sign. Had he really left them lying on the table like that? They didn’t look the same as when he’d dashed off to the toilet, and he thought that maybe someone had taken the opportunity to swipe a copy while he was gone. Yet the stack didn’t look any smaller, so he decided he was just imagining things. He picked up the top copy and opened it to write a greeting to the reader.

  The page was no longer blank. And the handwriting was all too familiar. She had been here.

  Gunnel was coming towards him with the newspaper, and he saw a big picture of himself on the front page. He knew what the article would say. The past was about to catch up with him. She would never give up.

  ‘Good Lord, do you realize how much money you went through the last time you were in Göteborg?’ Erik was holding the credit-card bill in his hand, staring at the figures.

  ‘I think it must have been about ten thousand kronor,’ said Louise as she calmly continued to paint her nails.

  ‘Ten thousand! How is it possible to spend ten thousand on a single shopping trip?’ Erik waved the bill in the air and then tossed it on the kitchen table in front of him.

  ‘If I’d bought the purse I was thinking of getting, it would have been closer to thirty thousand,’ she said, studying with satisfaction the pink colour of her nails.

  ‘You’re out of your fucking mind!’ He picked up the bill again and stared at it, as if sheer force of will might be abl
e to change the total amount due.

  ‘You mean we can’t afford it?’ asked his wife, looking at him with a sly smile on her lips.

  ‘It’s not a question of whether we can afford it or not. It has to do with the fact that I work around the clock making money, which you then squander on … idiotic purchases.’

  ‘Oh, right. I do nothing at all at home during the day,’ said Louise, getting to her feet as she fluttered her hands to make the nail polish dry faster. ‘I just sit here, eating sweets and watching soap operas all day long. And you’ve been raising the girls all on your own without any help from me, right? You’ve changed their nappies, fed them, bathed them, driven them wherever they needed to go, and kept the whole house neat and clean. Is that what you mean?’ She swept out of the room without giving him another glance.

  This was a conversation that they’d had hundreds of times before. And no doubt they’d have it hundreds of time again, if nothing drastic happened. They were like two well-rehearsed dancers who knew all the steps and were able to carry themselves with consummate elegance.

  ‘This is one of the finds that I made in Göteborg. Nice, isn’t it?’ She was back, holding a leather jacket that she’d taken from a hanger in the front hall. ‘It was on sale, reduced to only four thousand.’ She held it up, then hung it back in the hall and went upstairs.

  Presumably neither of them was going to win the argument this time either. They were equal adversaries, and every single row they’d had over the years had ended in a tie. Ironically enough, it might have actually been better if one of them had been weaker than the other. Then their unhappy marriage could have come to an end.

  ‘Next time I’m going to cut up your credit card!’ he yelled after her. The girls were at a friend’s house, so there was no reason to keep his voice down.

  ‘As long as you continue to spend money on your mistresses, you’re not going to do a damn thing with my card. Do you think you’re the only one who pays attention to the details on credit-card bills?’