Prime Time

by Liza Marklund

  ‘One minute to go,’ the floor manager shouted.

  Highlander raised a hand in protest and waved in dismissal at the producer. Nervously, he began to shuffle papers around. Then he walked up to the microphone and said: ‘One-two, one-two’, earning a thumbs-up from a sound engineer who was gazing towards the control room.

  The cameras started whirring softly, spreading an electronic smog that made your skin prickle. It got relentlessly hotter, Annika wiped her face with her sleeve.

  Then she heard Barbara Hanson’s voice, shrill and a tad tipsy: ‘Oh, my God, it’s so hot in here. Do we really have to stand up the whole time? What kind of an affair is this, anyway?’

  On the other side of the room she caught sight of Carl Wennergren, a frown on his blotchy face, propelling Mariana von Berlitz forward with a firm hand on her elbow.

  Stefan Axelsson stood at the very back of the room, his arms folded across his chest, his face white.

  And there, of course, was Sebastian Follin. He had some business up by the stage, and was whispering something to Highlander.

  ‘Thirty seconds to go.’

  Karin Bellhorn retired to the right of the stage. Bambi Rosenberg had parked herself right in front of Highlander’s lectern and was already crying so hard that her shoulders were shaking. Gunnar Antonsson had stationed himself right next to the door, he looked vaguely confused and seemed ready to pick up and run at any moment.

  Everyone was here, Annika reckoned, except for John Essex, the little Nazi girl and Anne.

  The journalists and the press photographers huddled by the stage. She spotted Bertil Strand and Sjölander. When she caught sight of the delegation from their competitor, she became more attentive. But Bosse wasn’t there. She swallowed her disappointment.

  ‘Fifteen seconds to go.’

  Annika’s left leg started to shake; the windowsill was too narrow. She looked for somewhere else to stand, couldn’t find anything, and braced herself against the radiator. Looking up at the large TV screen to the left of Highlander, she tried to shift her weight to the other foot.

  ‘Seven, six, five, four …’

  The floor manager illustrated the last three counts with his fingers.

  Intro music began to play. A bombastic piece in a minor key spilled out of the loudspeakers at ceiling level, making the walls and windows vibrate. Annika was overwhelmed by emotion. Her chest constricted and she had to breathe with her mouth open, in shallow gasps, to hold back the tears. Bambi’s sobs up by the stage grew progressively louder, a jarring sound in stark contrast to the sweeping melody.

  As the music faded, Highlander walked out into the spotlights focused on the lectern.

  ‘Dear friends,’ he began in a serious voice, ‘colleagues and … well, friends. On behalf of TV Plus I would like to welcome you to this ceremony dedicated to the memory of our dear friend and esteemed associate, Michelle Carlsson, and I will also inform you all about how the TV Plus network plans to commemorate Michelle’s memory.’

  Annika swallowed. The sentimental atmosphere created by the music had been compromised, and irritation took its place.

  ‘We will continue to carry on in Michelle’s spirit,’ Highlander continued from the screen on high, ‘and follow a route we know she would have appreciated. We are also proud to present a new associate: Sebastian Follin, Michelle Carlsson’s best friend and colleague will be working full time for this network to commemorate Michelle’s memory.’

  The manager stepped forward, lit from within by an inner fire, and flung out his arms as if he was expecting a cheering crowd. A smattering of applause made him blush.

  ‘This is why we have decided to air Michelle’s final production in its entirety,’ Highlander continued. ‘The first show of the series titled Summer Frolic at the Castle will be aired on Saturday, as originally planned.’

  Annika surveyed the audience, trying to interpret their reaction.

  They were neutral. Expectant. A bit moved.

  Sebastian Follin continued to stand next to Highlander at the edge of the stage, the beams of the spotlights reflected in his glasses.

  He won, Annika thought. He’s turned this into a victory.

  ‘The shows will be aired in the order in which they were taped, just as originally planned. We will be seeing Michelle Carlsson in the way she would prefer it, as a professional taking part in a production that she was committed to.’

  The silence grew more intense. The audience was waiting, the cameras were whirring. Highlander cleared his throat.

  ‘I would like to point out,’ he said, ‘that this decision has been carefully considered. The network management has discussed the issues very carefully with the production staff and, above all, with Sebastian Follin. Our decision is a unanimous and wholehearted one. Michelle Carlsson was one of the driving forces behind this series: she had asked for a chance to increase her repertoire here at TV Plus, and we welcomed her proposal with open arms.’

  A reporter by the door left the room, distracting Highlander momentarily.

  ‘We are very proud of this series,’ he went on, speaking now in a louder voice, trying to reach even the people who didn’t want to listen. ‘It is our absolute conviction that this is what Michelle would have wanted. She wouldn’t have wanted to see her final production tossed in the waste-paper basket, all that work for nothing. So we made this decision for Michelle’s sake.’

  ‘And I’m the King of Denmark,’ one of the men below Annika quipped in a hushed voice.

  ‘There is some truth in it, though,’ another man said. ‘I do think Michelle would have wanted the shows to be aired.’

  ‘I’ll grant you that,’ the first man said. ‘But not two weeks before her funeral. You should be able to expect some decency, even from a TV network, shouldn’t you?’

  ‘We are presently faced,’ Highlander said on stage, ‘with the problem of finding a worthy successor to Michelle Carlsson, someone who can take over the helm at The Women’s Sofa and carry on in her spirit. This task is painful, but we know that Michelle would not have wanted to see her creation go off the air, a show that she made into a smash hit for that particular demographic’

  ‘Oh, please,’ a third man at Annika’s feet protested.

  A split second later, Annika caught sight of Q over by the door. She stopped breathing, wanting to call out to him and almost falling.

  The police officer made his way over to the stage, murmuring excuses to the wall of backs that made room for him in surprise. Three cops in uniform trailed after him, rigid and silent. The atmosphere in the room changed. Unease prevailed, and the dominant sound was of people murmuring and shuffling their feet.

  ‘Now,’ Highlander continued, unaware of the turbulence in the room, ‘I would like to stand down in favour of Michelle’s closest friend and associate, Sebastian Follin.’

  Anne Snapphane stared at the monitor and saw Sebastian step up to the lectern. The spotlights had made his forehead all shiny. The camera zoomed in on his face, catching the slight twitching of his mouth, the expectancy, the apprehension. The way he held his head signalled that he was affected by the seriousness of the occasion, while the fire in his eyes was that of the true believer. The man cleared his throat, unfolded a piece of paper, adjusted his glasses better, and was leaning closer to the mike when suddenly the image on the TV screen began flickering. Sebastian Follin looked up and scanned the audience, his gaze darting.

  ‘Dear friends …’ he began. But the camera had already moved away from his face and now swept the room.

  Live broadcasts were produced from the control room next to Anne’s editing cubicle. The technical director, a consultant, cued another camera, producing a change of perspective. Anne caught sight of Annika, perched in a window, hanging on to the window frame for dear life. The room next door got noisier – people were upset and distracted. What was going on?

  A tape stopped at Anne’s feet, she heard the sound but decided to ignore it.

  Camera th
ree took over, an overview shot of the entire conference room. The crowd, a dark mass with bobbing heads where one particular face popped out at her.

  It was Q. Holy shit. He was here.

  Anne leaned closer to the monitor. The warm sensation radiating from her stomach spread waves of relief throughout her body.

  Q was here. It would be over soon.

  She looked attentively at the screen. Stefan was at the back, there were Mariana and Carl Wennergren, and Karin Bellhorn was over by the stage, to the right.

  The director cut back to camera one, the shot with the stage and the lectern, right when Sebastian Follin stepped out of range.

  Anne gritted her teeth, ashamed even though she had done nothing. What a messy and shoddy job.

  ‘Well …’ someone whose mike was switched on, probably Highlander, said. ‘What do we do now?’

  Camera three was cued, and the shot of the whole room was back. Q was on his way over to Karin Bellhorn, three policemen in tow. He said something to her and the producer’s reaction was immediate and aggressive. She held out her hands and Anne could hear what she was saying in spite of the static and the noise in the room.

  ‘Why? For what reason?’

  Q said something she couldn’t make out and Karin Bellhorn took a step backwards.

  ‘No way!’ she shouted. ‘I most certainly will not!’

  The woman turned around, away from the policemen, and ran.

  Annika Snapphane stared at the screen, her cheeks blazing.

  Camera two zoomed in on the back of Karin Bellhorn’s head. The plastic comb that held her hair up was bobbing towards the exit. Wide-eyed members of the audience moved to let her pass, blinking in confusion at her, at the police and into the camera.

  One of the uniformed policemen caught up with the producer, grabbed her upper arm and said something to her. The woman turned around and slugged the policeman who tumbled into the camera while the crowd drew back …

  ‘Take it easy!’ Anne heard Q say from somewhere behind camera two, his voice hard and steady.

  ‘Take it easy?’ Karin Bellhorn screamed into the camera, the mike picking up every last breath. ‘You’re accusing me of murder, and I’m supposed to take it easy?’

  Anne could hear the crowd gasp. There was more light by the producer now and people were backing away.

  ‘I didn’t do it!’ she screamed, looking at the crowd. ‘I didn’t do it, I swear! It was Anne Snapphane, our researcher, I saw her! I saw her go over to the bus, then I heard a gunshot!’

  The floor disappeared beneath Anne’s feet. She was conscious of the fact that she was falling, but she couldn’t stop herself. The air ran out of oxygen and she couldn’t breathe.

  The frightened eyes of Karin Bellhorn darted back and forth on the screen. She flicked her tongue over her lips and smoothed her hair.

  Anne’s head was ringing with the words: It’s not true, you’re lying, I didn’t do it!

  ‘She did it!’ Karin Bellhorn shouted, the loudness of her voice causing distortion.

  Apart from the scuffle, everyone and everything was silent. The entire building was holding its breath, and so was the screen.

  ‘Anne hated Michelle, because Michelle got the job, she was the host. So … that’s what happened. She … couldn’t stand her!’

  Anne struggled to get air and to stay up. The words echoed, reverberating through her feet, her belly and her brain.

  ‘She … isn’t here! Isn’t that right? Well, there you are!’

  A triumphant and shaky smile spread across the dry lips of the producer.

  ‘Anne Snapphane hated Michelle so much that she didn’t even show up at her memorial service!’

  Rage lit up the editing room like a white flash of revelation, burning away paralysis and consideration. Shaking all over, a dry-mouthed Anne got up. Almost hyperventilating, she forced her breathing to steady while her mind occupied itself with wiring circuits and cable connections. She had been involved in Zero’s technical development, so she had a fair idea how things worked. Closing her eyes, she came to a swift conclusion.

  It could work.

  With mercurial speed she threw herself down on the floor, crawled behind the console, and rewired two connections from the mixer to the four-wire, the talk box. Then she crawled back into her cubicle, quickly and breathlessly, picked up the unmarked reference tape and popped it into the VHS player.

  She pressed play, got to her feet and turned up the volume of Zero Television’s internal communications system as far as it would go.

  There was a deafening silence in the room after the producer had spoken. No one so much as breathed. Annika felt as though her heart had stopped. She swayed there in the window recess, damp palms making it hard to hold on.

  Jesus Christ, she thought, someone has got to contest this. What should I do? What should I say?

  ‘Well,’ Highlander said as he approached the lectern on stage. ‘This was certainly an unexpected turn of events. Perhaps we should compose ourselves …’

  The TV monitor up by the ceiling flickered as the outgoing image was replaced by a grey screen. Loud static filled the air and a series of scraping and rattling noises poured out of the loudspeakers in the conference room. This was followed by a voice, hauntingly clear and familiar, a spectral presence in the room.

  ‘What do you mean? This place doesn’t have any security.’

  ‘Is she always like this?’

  ‘Well yeah, now you know what I mean.’

  The roomful of people froze as Michelle started talking. Annika realized what was going on, even though she had no clue about how it was possible. She looked around to check out the response. Stefan Axelsson was as pale as death: he looked like he was going to pass out. Mariana and Carl Wennergren were wide-eyed and gaping. Gunnar Antonsson had a wary look on his face. Karin Bellhorn’s face had gone blotchy with sheer panic.

  ‘Get out! Get out!’ she screamed from the loudspeakers.

  Q looked around, not understanding where the voices were coming from. The police officer next to him let go of Karin Bellhorn.

  Crashing sounds. Shouts. Clattering.

  ‘John! Wait!’

  ‘Are you going to run after him? Come on, there’s got to be a limit to how much you’re willing to degrade yourself!’

  The numbness wore off and the members of the audience began searching for answers in each other’s eyes, without finding any.

  ‘… Fucking crazy bitches …’

  ‘Damn you! Why did you do that? Make him leave?’

  ‘Pull yourself together …’

  ‘What are you doing here, anyway? Why did you come in here?’

  The room began to buzz, the murmurs of the crowd mixing with the unintelligible words on the tape.

  ‘Michelle, you’re acting like a slut. You’ve got to think of your reputation. When a person’s as famous as you are, they can’t behave like this, people won’t want to see you …’

  All stares fixed on Karin Bellhorn, who had remained frozen to the spot, stunned.

  Drunken giggles spilled out of the loudspeakers. They tipped over into hysteria.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’

  Michelle’s raucous laughter filled the entire room, rolling along the walls and floors, slapping the audience in the gut.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You are. You’re such a fool. What’s the point of making it big, if you never get to do what you want?’

  ‘I’m responsible for a whole crew, and it all depends on you if they’ll be able to put food on the table. You have an obligation to behave.’

  There was a crash that made people jump.

  ‘Don’t you tell me what to do!’

  The voice was hysterical. Its owner was coming apart at the seams.

  ‘Everybody’s always telling me what to do. You think you can wind me up like a doll and I’ll do whatever you want. Do you think I’m some kind of fucking robot? I’m a real live person, you kn
ow, and I won’t take any more crap. I can’t take any more of your disgusting expectations. Highlander can fire me a hundred times over, I would have quit anyway. I can’t stand this bullshit any more!’

  Now people looked away from Karin Bellhorn and fixed their gazes on the network CEO. Two red spots burned on his cheeks, and he rushed over and whispered something to a sound engineer. It wasn’t hard to figure out what he’d said, Annika thought.

  What the hell is this and where is it coming from?

  ‘You spoiled brat,’ Karin Bellhorn said on the tape in a slightly slurred voice. ‘You actually feel sorry for yourself, don’t you? Isn’t that right?’

  The sound engineer pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared down the corridor.

  ‘I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for people like you my whole career,’ the producer’s voice continued. ‘Egotistic morons who just act on their instincts. I’m the one with the expertise, I do all the work and people like you get all the attention. Do you realize how sick I am of the whole thing?’

  The crowd was swirling now, agitated whispers and eyes as big as saucers. One of the policemen went over to stand in the doorway, blocking Karin Bellhorn’s route of escape.

  ‘Some people are worthy of attention,’ Michelle countered. ‘Others aren’t.’

  The tape buzzed and someone was panting.

  ‘What exactly do you mean? I’ve been appreciated, I’ve worked in this business for thirty years now, and I’ve always been in demand. I was married to … He could have had anyone he wanted, and …’

  Karin Bellhorn turned her back on the crowd in the conference room.

  Michelle’s laughter rang out through the loudspeakers again.

  ‘That’s the greatest achievement of your entire lifetime, isn’t it? You caught yourself an English pop star. But guess what? Do you know what he tells people about you?’