All the labels denoting the contents were handwritten, and the strangest thing was that every single one—even those that were discolored with age—were in exactly the same handwriting.
The ridiculous suspicion that had begun to take root in Annika’s mind was confirmed when she turned her attention to the photographs. Erik and Albert stood side by side in front of the stables; Albert was holding the hand of a little boy who was presumably Robert. Then there were older, black-and-white photographs of men with mustaches, wearing traditional hats, and beside them stood Erik in overalls, leaning on a scythe.
Annika found what was probably the oldest photograph in the collection. The paper had begun to turn yellow and the emulsion had cracked; the figures were slightly blurred, as if they hadn’t been standing completely still. There was a mill in the background, with two men displaying a handmade sign: AXRYD’S BAKERY.
That meant the picture must be at least a hundred years old, and it was the only one in which Erik definitely looked younger than in the others. In his thirties, perhaps.
Annika backed away from the bookshelf, shaking her head.
I think you’d better have a word with your husband.
Just as Albert had had a word with Robert at the wedding, just as Albert’s father had had a word with him and so on and so on all the way back to—
The back of Annika’s thighs collided with the desk; she gasped and spun around. And dropped the crowbar.
A laptop and a telephone had been pushed to one side to make room for the task in hand. Bottles and jars were arranged next to a case containing knives of various sizes. There was a small box of black glass beads, and a larger one containing something that looked like sawdust.
And in the middle of the desk, the skin of the small creature she had adopted as her own. The skull was held open with tiny clamps, and both the brain and eyes had been removed. The skin itself was stretched out on a piece of wood that was exactly the right size for the purpose, and the flesh had been scooped out. If it hadn’t been for the white, downy fur, she would never have recognized her kitten.
Annika’s hand flew to her mouth and she swallowed hard and closed her eyes tightly a couple of times to force back the tears. She would not throw up; she would not cry. But she would get rid of that fucking psychopath, regardless of who or what he was.
As she picked up the telephone she heard a discreet cough behind her. Erik was leaning against the doorframe, a scornful smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
“And who were you intending to call?” he asked.
Without letting go of the phone, Annika crouched down and picked up the crowbar. She pointed the curved end at Erik. “Don’t come any closer!”
Erik raised his hands as if that were the last thing on his mind, then folded his arms.
“Do tell me. I’m interested. Who were you intending to call? The police? And what exactly were you going to say to them? Robert? He already knows. So who are you going to call now?”
She had been going to call Robert and tell him she wasn’t staying in his house for one more second unless he came home right now and sacked Erik on the spot.
He already knows.
Annika put down the phone so that she could grip the crowbar with both hands. She took a step toward Erik.
“Move.”
“Why?”
Annika imagined her throat as a metal tube to stop her voice from shaking as she took another step toward him and said, “I’m leaving right now. And if you stand in my way, I promise you—”
She raised the crowbar to illustrate exactly what she was promising. Erik shook his head and stood his ground. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
Annika struck small blows in the air with the crowbar in order to wind herself up, to get her hands ready for action. Could she do it? Was she really capable of hitting another person with a heavy object and hurting him, perhaps killing him?
Perhaps she wouldn’t have done it if Erik had stayed where he was. Perhaps she wouldn’t have been able to walk up to him and strike him. But he helped her along the way by taking a step toward her, and she reacted instinctively. She swung the crowbar at his head with all her strength.
The next moment a shock ran up her arm as if she had struck a thick tree trunk. Erik had raised one hand with lightning speed and seized the crowbar. He snatched it from her and threw it on the floor. His expression was sympathetic as he gazed at her and said, “Don’t you realize that you ought to be grateful?”
She barely had time to register what happened next. One minute she was on her feet, then she glimpsed something from the corner of her eye that could have been the palm of Erik’s hand and she was thrown to the floor. A gigantic bell tolled once inside her head, and the world disappeared.
III
She woke up in the double bed she normally shared with Robert with no idea of how much time had elapsed. Her head was pounding, one arm was bent at an odd angle and she needed the toilet. Judging by the fading light from the window, a couple of hours had passed, possibly more.
With some difficulty she managed to push her leg over the edge of the bed, but when she tried to get up, it proved impossible. One hand was attached to the bedpost with a pair of handcuffs. Her eyes widened as she stared at the shiny metal encircling her wrist, the short chain and the other cuff fixed to the dark oak of the post. She laughed out loud.
This was ridiculous. This kind of thing happened in isolated cottages deep in the forest; you could read about it in the tabloids, be appalled by the pictures of the terrible rooms, the dirty mattress, the sicko being taken away with a jacket over his head. It didn’t happen here.
“Robert! Roooobeeert!” She twisted around and looked at the alarm clock. Just after three. Robert might well be home by now.
“Roooobeeert!”
Erik appeared in the doorway. He stood there looking at her for a while, then said, “He’s not home yet. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Get this damn thing off me. I need the toilet—what the fuck are you doing?”
“First of all, you have to do me a favor.” He produced Annika’s cell phone, then sat down on the bed beside her and scrolled through the list of calls. The revolting smell of his breath made her headache even worse.
“Leave my fucking phone alone,” Annika said. “Do you think—”
She fell silent as Erik raised his hand to remind her that the bell could easily toll once more. She clamped her lips together and he nodded and said, “Have you told anyone about your condition?”
Annika shook her head, and Erik gazed intently at her for a long time. Then he said, “I believe you. But there are a couple of calls here from what is apparently a gynecology clinic. Is that how you found out?”
Annika nodded. Erik nodded. They understood one another. He clicked a button and handed the phone to Annika. When she looked at the display, she saw that the gynecologist’s number had been selected.
“Ring them,” Erik said. “Ring and tell them that you had a miscarriage a month ago, while you were abroad. That’s why you haven’t called until now. You’ve been away. Do you understand?”
“Why would I do that?”
Erik’s shoulders slumped and he sighed. “Does this have to be so difficult? Because otherwise I will kill Robert when he gets home.”
Annika looked into Erik’s eyes. They were no longer blue, but green: the green of the forest, steady and calm. She had no doubt that he was telling the truth. She pressed the call button and did exactly what he had told her to do.
Her gynecologist expressed deepest sympathy, and said that she ought to come in for an examination. Annika said she’d already had an examination in … Italy. Surely that would satisfy Erik and he would let her go? She thanked the gynecologist and ended the call. Erik took the phone off her, slipped it into his breast pocket and said, “Good. Number one or number two?”
“What?”
“The toilet. Number one or number two?”
He took a thin chain out of his trouser pocket. There was a small key hanging from one end; he unlocked the cuff around the bedpost and pointed toward the door. “You know where it is.”
He followed one meter behind as she moved away from the bed. They reached the landing and her eyes darted around the other rooms and the stairs leading down to the front door.
“I wouldn’t bother,” Erik said. “You wouldn’t manage even two steps.”
She thought about the speed with which he had parried her blow and delivered his own. With hunched shoulders she lumbered toward the only upstairs toilet. Erik held the door for her, then left it open a fraction and stood outside.
Annika looked over at the window as she sat on the toilet. Escape route. At the large ornamental pebbles beneath the washbasin. Weapons. At the bottle of sleeping tablets Robert had started taking. Alternative escape route. She shook her head as she dried herself. If only Robert would come home, then …
She flushed the toilet and Erik opened the door, held out his hand and asked, “Where would you like to be?”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. Where would you like to be? Which room?”
“Do I have to decide now?”
Erik’s expression made it clear that he was irritated; as if he were speaking to a child, he explained, “I have other things to do. I can’t spend all day hanging around like your personal assistant.”
“Nobody’s asked you to.”
Erik’s voice dropped to a menacing growl. “Annika, as far as I’m concerned, I’m happy to chain you to the bed and leave you there until you’re lying in your own shit, crying for your mommy. Would you be kind enough to tell me which room you would like to be in?”
Annika swallowed and said, “The library.”
Erik grabbed the loose handcuff and dragged her down the stairs. When they reached the hall and were heading toward the double doors of the library, a key was inserted in the front door and Annika thought: Thank God.
Erik stopped with Annika by his side. Together they awaited the arrival of the owner of the house. The front door opened slowly and Robert walked in. His shoulders were dark with moisture, and Annika could see by the outside light that a steady drizzle was falling. When Robert caught sight of Annika and Erik, he gave a start and stopped dead.
Erik pulled the cuff and lifted Annika’s hand to shoulder level, as if he were showing off a hunting trophy, and said, “Unfortunately this is the way things have to be.”
Robert nodded wearily and began to remove his boots. He was looking down, and the dark rings under his eyes became black as the light from the chandelier fell at an angle across his face.
“Robert?” Annika said. “Robert?”
He didn’t even glance at her; he just carried on fiddling with his boots as Erik dragged her into the library. Annika was dumbstruck, and didn’t even protest when Erik hauled an armchair across to one of the radiators that was fixed to the wall and chained her to it. He placed a small table with a pile of magazines on it by her side, and asked, “Is that all right?”
She looked at the magazines and her brain struggled to cope. The only problem she could come up with at the moment was how she was going to be able to read and turn the pages with one hand.
“In that case, I have other things to do, as I said.” Erik made a move to leave the room.
“Who are you?” Annika asked. “What are you?”
Erik smiled. “Oh, I think you’ve worked that out by now.”
Then he left her.
Annika remained sitting in the armchair for just over two hours. From time to time, she called out to Robert. She begged, she cursed, she pleaded with him, but the only response was the faint clink of bottle against glass from upstairs.
She caressed her belly, whispered that everything would be all right, We’re going to get out of this mess. She didn’t know whether she actually believed that anymore.
It was after six when Erik came back and released her. He led her to the kitchen and placed a microwaved ready-meal in front of her. He sat down opposite her, his chin resting on his hands.
“The cook won’t be coming anymore. Nor will the cleaner. So this is the way things are going to be for a while, I’m afraid.”
“What does ‘a while’ mean?”
“Haven’t you worked it out yet? In that case, I’ll leave you to think about it for a bit longer. I have my rights; that’s all there is to it.”
Annika took a mouthful of something that was supposed to resemble cod with mashed potato, but it tasted of nothing but fat and ashes. She swallowed the hot mush with difficulty, then put down her fork.
“You’re a tomte, is that what you’re saying? A fucking tomte?”
Erik pulled a face. “I prefer ‘guardian of the house.’ That other word has such unfortunate connotations.”
“Tomte,” Annika said. “So where’s your pointy hat, you fucking tomte?”
Erik’s eyes darkened, and now they were no longer green or blue. Through clenched jaws he said, “I don’t think you’ve realized that, from now on, you are entirely reliant on my goodwill.”
“Oh, yes I have,” Annika said, dipping one hand into the hot food on her plate so that it burned her fingertips. She flicked the food in Erik’s face. “Eat your fucking porridge.”
She leapt up from the chair and ran for the door, but within a couple of meters Erik was standing in front of her with hot mashed potato dripping down his face. Without a word he grabbed her arm just above the elbow and she cried out in pain. It felt as if he was crushing her very bones.
He dragged her up the stairs, threw her down on the bed and handcuffed her to the bedpost. He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
She lay there for three days. Erik came in on a total of six occasions. The first time he threw her a tin of stew and a spoon, and left a bottle of water on the bedside table. The other times he brought only the stew.
Robert never came, nor did she hear the sound of his voice or his footsteps. He had presumably left the house. She stopped calling for him by the evening of the first day.
On the second day she managed to wriggle out of her pants so that she could pee and defecate on the mat by the side of the bed. She wept silently as she did so. When Erik came in a couple of hours later with the third tin of stew and wrinkled his nose at the stench, she apologized for throwing food at him and promised never to use the t-word again. He threw the tin at her and walked out.
On the third day she lay apathetically on the bed. The arm attached to the bedpost had gone numb. She lay there in a semi-stupor, no longer aware of the smell in the room. Erik’s visits passed in mutual silence.
Toward the afternoon, when she had shoveled down some of the cold, pulpy mess out of the tin, her spirit began to return. During the first day she had gone through the possibilities of escaping and had reached the conclusion that the only thing that would work would be to chew off her own hand. Freeing herself quickly was therefore not an option. Instead she used her newly regained ability to think in order to plan a more long-term strategy.
If she accepted that Erik was a fairy-tale creature, a … guardian of the house … someone who made animals and human beings fertile and took care of the family’s wealth and success … It was absurd, of course, but she no longer had the luxury of thinking along normal lines. She was part of the fairy tale.
So what did fairy tales reveal about how to get rid of such a creature? There were tales of wights, tomtar, and evil pixies being driven away from homes, but Annika couldn’t remember what to do. Presumably it involved Christian symbols in some way, but something told her that wasn’t going to work in this case.
She sat up and closed her eyes, walking through Erik’s room in her mind, scanning the walls, and there it was: an antique crucifix hanging above the desk. So that route was closed.
So what remained?
The option that always remains when everything else has
been tried: violence. Erik might have superhuman strength, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was invulnerable. What was it Schwarzenegger said in that film? If it bleeds we can kill it.
Annika lay down again, gazed up at the ceiling and thought about what she would do to make Erik bleed.
When he turned up that evening with yet another tin of stew, she looked him in the eye and asked, “You want my child, don’t you?”
Erik, who had been about to throw the tin at her, stopped in mid-movement. He shook his head, and nothing made sense. She had been wrong.
But then he said, “It isn’t your child.”
Annika glanced down at her growing bump. “Isn’t it?”
“No. It’s mine. The firstborn belongs to me.”
“Like the kitten?”
“Like the kitten.”
Erik had sat down on the end of the bed; perhaps he would let her go if she said the right things. But she mustn’t be too accommodating.
“When you say it’s your child, what do you mean by that? Are you saying you’re the one who—”
Erik waved away her query as if it upset him. “Out of the question. Don’t flatter yourself. Robert is the father, but without me you would never have carried it. I assume you realize that.”
Annika nodded. “I’m very grateful. Really.”
Erik gazed searchingly at her. He seemed to conclude that she meant what she said. Something in his demeanor lightened, and he gently touched her foot. “You will have more children. You wouldn’t have been able to do that otherwise.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Erik gave a wry smile. “You could say that this is my special area of expertise. Yes, I’m sure.”
Annika allowed a little while to pass as she contemplated his hand, resting on her foot. Then she said, “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“You can have the child.”
Once again he stared intently at her. Then he shrugged. “I’ll take it anyway. It’s mine. Sooner or later, I always get what is mine. But if you want to make things easier for yourself … then it’s a wise decision.”
Fearie Tales Page 43