Souls of Air (Malin Fors 7)

by Mons Kallentoft

  She sucks her cheeks in, takes a sip of the coffee, then another, until the cup is empty.

  The old, broken wall clock from Ikea has finally been replaced by a silvery digital monster. No more pointless ticking from a second hand that isn’t there, just an angry red glow.

  Time to get to the station.

  No hurry yet, but soon, and she can’t help hoping that something’s going to happen after several weeks of summer stillness.

  She wonders what Tove is doing over at the Cherub, wonders what’s going on there in God’s waiting room.

  6

  In the changing room in the basement Tove pulls on her mauve cotton tunic. It reaches her knees, and beneath it she wears a washed-out T-shirt that must have been there since the council ran the home.

  She puts on her white Birkenstock sandals.

  Her mum bought them for her.

  Tove is alone in the cramped, stuffy room. She can hear the ventilation rattling above the false ceiling. Looks at the battered blue metal lockers along the walls. Some of the people she works with must have had the same lockers for the past twenty years; on their lockers they have pictures of their children, grandchildren and summer houses, and beaches – Tenerife, perhaps.

  I must be the last to arrive, Tove thinks.

  Looks at her wristwatch.

  Shit.

  The handover with the night staff started one minute ago: hope they aren’t waiting for me. The night staff tend to get grouchy if you hold them up, especially if it’s because you didn’t get there on time.

  Tove leaves the changing room and heads for the staffroom they use for meetings. The textured wallpaper looks shabby in the sharp light, and dust particles swirl in the air. Everyone is seated around a low, white coffee table. The night staff, three women, are all hollow-eyed and tired. Apart from them there are two more women and one man. The day shift, her closest colleagues.

  At one end of the table, on a ladder-backed chair with her back to the window facing Djurgårdsgatan, sits Hilda Jansson, manager of the Cherub. She straightens her thin body and fixes her dark brown eyes on Tove.

  ‘So you’ve decided to join us, Tove?’

  No one else around the table says anything. Instead they drink their coffee and yawn, and Tove apologises, slips on to a chair and waits for Hilda to go on. Tove isn’t worried about being told off, she knows the old people like her. And that gives you a degree of leeway. Besides, Hilda seems impressed by Tove’s mum, by what she’s read about her in the paper. She thawed out a bit when she realised who Tove’s mum was.

  Who are the others around the table?

  The man is about forty years old.

  Kent. An assistant nurse. Family man.

  The two women are Stina and Lisbeth. Both around sixty, and real stalwarts, plump and wrinkled from smoking, and likely to end up as ‘clients’ here soon, Tove has often thought.

  The night staff are also veterans, all three of them. It’s regarded as slightly more prestigious to work nights; on a full-time rota you only have to work thirty-five hours a week, and you get several days off in a row.

  But the nocturnal work makes the women look more like demons than people. Especially Siv. She’s sitting closest to the window, and her face almost seems to blur into the grey façade of the block of flats opposite.

  Berit looks like she’s being pressed into the sofa by a huge fist that’s holding her short, fat body in place, and her appearance betrays the fact that she has long since stopped believing that anything good will ever happen to her.

  Next to Berit sits Maj. Her short hair is dyed red, her eyes have been dulled by alcohol, just like Mum’s, and Maj’s thin, almost emaciated face is furrowed by too much hard smoking.

  This is what it looks like, Tove thinks.

  The backbone of Swedish social care.

  Hard work, aching limbs, exhaustion. But somehow coping, with a smile.

  How can anyone bear a place like this for twenty years? Thirty? One summer is OK, that feels fine. But longer than that? Under these working conditions, and with such crap wages?

  How does anyone do it?

  By refusing to participate in Merapi’s stupid cost-cutting competition between its various establishments, where they want to see who can save the most disposable resources in terms of percentage. Like some fucking sales contest.

  Sure, they whinge. But far less than they could.

  Tove’s thoughts are interrupted when one of the cleaners comes into the room.

  She’s wearing a veil to complement her white coat.

  ‘Can you come back later?’ Hilda Jansson snaps. ‘We’re just about to start.’

  The cleaner slips out and the handover meeting begins.

  It’s been a quiet night. All twenty residents have slept more or less as expected, and none of the ones who have been a little under the weather recently because of the heat has got any worse.

  Tove now has a cup of coffee, even though Hilda glared at her angrily when she stood up and went over to the coffee machine in the corner. The taste of the bitter liquid lingers in her mouth as she looks at the solitary print by Peter Dahl on the wall above Maj’s head. The picture is the colour of fire, and seems to show a dance hall. And then she looks at Maj’s hands, which are trembling slightly, probably from an urge to smoke, or an urge for something else, something worse.

  Weary questions are tossed out into the room, and receive even wearier replies.

  Name after name after name.

  Tyra, Weine, Åke, Gerda.

  She smiles as she thinks of the faces belonging to the names. But then her smile stiffens as she thinks of another way of looking at it: the names merely signify human flesh that has to be preserved and looked after.

  Several of the Cherub’s residents have no relatives who care about them, and some never receive visitors. A couple of them are immigrants, and their families visit more often, almost daily, but it never seems to occur to the relatives to take their old folk home.

  It doesn’t work like that in this country.

  Here we follow Swedish traditions and customs.

  Wolfram.

  Beatrice.

  Victoria.

  Several of the old people share their names with princesses and future queens, and the men’s names sound like ancient relics.

  Hilda could gabble the residents’ names, ailments, medication, and planned doctor’s appointments in her sleep.

  Special diets.

  Pressure sores that need dressing.

  Favourite food.

  Prunes. Linseed.

  Injections.

  Catheter bags that need changing.

  Tests that need taking.

  This is the residents’ home. Their reality.

  Hilda can seem hard as a commanding officer, but Tove knows that deep down she cares about the old people.

  ‘We did our last around an hour and a half ago,’ Berit said. ‘Everything was fine then. They’ll start waking up soon.’

  ‘OK, our turn now,’ Kent says. Tove knows that he paints in his free time, he’s received a grant of fifteen thousand kronor from the district council, and she can’t help thinking that Merapi are unlikely to give him a grant for his watercolours of the Östergötland landscape.

  ‘Well, thank you, night owls,’ Hilda says, getting up. ‘Any questions about today’s work?’

  ‘We’ll do them in the usual order,’ Stina says.

  And they all get to their feet.

  The morning routine is about to start. The old folk will get to enjoy another day of life.

  Malin leaves the window open in the flat, and hurries through a Linköping that is still waking up. She walks along Hamngatan, past H&M, cuts across Trädgårdstorget and up towards Skolgatan.

  The investigating team is now back to full strength after the holiday months of June and July. She herself had three rainy weeks off in June. She didn’t do anything special, just counted off the days until she could go back to work again.

/>   She thinks about Elin Sand, their thirty-year-old star player, a promising detective, who seems to prefer to keep most of her life private. Malin’s been wondering if she’s a lesbian, but knows that it’s entirely up to Elin who she chooses to sleep with.

  Sometimes they exercise together down in the gym, and Malin finds herself getting annoyed that Elin can lift ten kilos more than her without any problem, and can do many more reps. And Elin seems apologetic about the fact that she’s younger, stronger, but she can go to hell with her apologies. She shouldn’t be in the gym at all. She ought to be focusing on becoming a better detective.

  Waldemar Ekenberg is smoking more than ever, and the way he dresses has got even scruffier. These days he walks about with the same coffee and ash stains on his synthetic brown trousers for weeks on end, and he still resorts to violence occasionally.

  Johan Jakobsson has been on a course in Tokyo. On information gathering, and he came home full of enthusiasm, complaining about how ‘sick’ it was that everything was so expensive in Japan, everything but the underground, but he’s learned a lot of new things.

  ‘You can ask me to look for anything, Malin, and I’ll get it for you.’

  He and his family have moved to a bigger house in Linghem after his father-in-law died and left them a decent amount of money.

  Malin turns into Linnégatan, towards the Horticultural Society Park.

  She walks past the building where Peter lives, looking the other way, but she refuses to take a different route: painful memories aren’t going to rule her life. It’s the curse of living in a small town, never being able to get away from anyone, least of all yourself. You’re constantly reminded of who you were, who you are, and – in all likelihood – who you’re going to remain. And that’s rarely pleasant.

  Sven Sjöman, head of the Violent Crime Unit, is in his last year now, and once again he’s asked her to take over the reins after him. But she’s still resisting. Has asked him to stop going on about it. She won’t let herself be persuaded.

  Sven is too old and tired for his persistence to have any effect. Karim joined in for a while, but he’s given up now. When it comes down to it, he’s not really interested. It’s obvious that Karim Akbar is focusing on other things, this autumn he’s going to be getting married to his prosecutor girlfriend, Vivianne Södergran. Rumour has it that she’s pregnant and wants him to make an honest woman of her.

  Karim’s book on immigration issues and integration was published in January, and was considerably more politically correct than Malin had expected. He’s done well on the television chat shows, and she knows that the Social Democrats have noticed him and that he’s working as a consultant for the group responsible for the party’s future policies.

  Zeke Martinsson. Her partner. Her mainstay at work, and occasionally outside as well. He’s happy with his new life, with Karin and Tess.

  Börje Svärd.

  He’s shaved off his moustache, and still has the same number of Alsatians, even if one of them died and had to be replaced. His colleagues joke that he’s stepped up his efforts to be the late-middle-aged Casanova of Linköping.

  Good for you, Börje, Malin thinks, and feels jealous, wishes that she could relax and indulge in some time-honoured no-strings-attached fun.

  But where would it end?

  In a mental-health ward, Accident and Emergency, a treatment centre?

  Does she even have it in her any longer?

  Can she feel happy?

  Malin opens the gate to the Horticultural Society Park, thinking:

  This city is full of people just as confused as I am.

  7

  No dead squirrels today either.

  The wheel steady in my thin, arched hands. Fingernails stained by little flashes of gunpowder.

  I’ll have to file them off at home, once I’ve cleaned my gun.

  Ammunition’s expensive, but when I bought the pistol I got a fair bit as part of the deal.

  I’m calmer now. Like the day itself.

  But then I turn on the radio. The news. Any damn news at all, and as I hear the newsreader’s voice crackle and hiss from the single working speaker I get angry again.

  Red mist furious.

  There isn’t even any justice in the way we absorb a voice on the radio.

  I clutch the wheel. Take deep breaths.

  I mustn’t let rage get the better of me.

  Unless maybe I should.

  I don’t drive down Drottninggatan on the way home. I take the detour around the cemetery, past the old fire station and on towards Vasagatan.

  I drive straight into what has become my life.

  The pistol is in the glove compartment.

  Must clean it.

  Must file my nails.

  It will just have to take the time it takes. The time I’ve got, I tell myself.

  8

  Tove received one day of training. On a course for her and the other summer temps.

  She starts with Eivor Johansson, and will move on to Konrad Karlsson.

  Eivor is a former social worker, and suffers from mild dementia; her brain is no longer capable of sending the signals to her legs telling them to move or bear her weight.

  Eivor is also alone.

  During the month Tove has worked at the Cherub, Eivor hasn’t received any visitors, not even the woman from the Philadelphia Church who has power of attorney for her. But Eivor is always in a good mood regardless, and considers herself to be living in the best of all possible worlds. From her flat she has brought a portrait of her deceased husband, and a photograph of a seven-metre-long sailing boat to the home. She also has a lacquered mahogany bureau, and a couple of ornate candlesticks that are never lit, in spite of her pleas. Candles are forbidden at the Cherub because of the fire risk, as they are in all of Merapi’s healthcare facilities.

  Eivor is more tired than usual this morning.

  She had trouble sleeping last night, and was given an extra Stesolid to stop her getting anxious and calling for help. Her bony back is sweaty yet surprisingly soft under her nightdress as Tove helps her sit up on the edge of the bed. The thin veins in her legs look like they’re trying to get out of the body they belong to.

  Once Eivor is sitting steadily Tove wheels across the over-bed table. Pours some warm water and gentle soap into a stainless steel bowl, wets a washcloth and asks Eivor to wash the sleep from her face.

  Slowly, slowly, Eivor moves the cloth across her cheeks.

  ‘And now your teeth.’

  Tove holds out a toothbrush.

  Eivor brushes, and her eyes seem to focus on the trees out in the park, on the greenery, as she listens to the constant stream of birdsong.

  When she’s finished brushing her teeth she rinses her mouth and spits, then Tove asks if she needs a bedpan, and Eivor shakes her head in silence.

  ‘What would you like to wear? It’s going to be a hot day. Very hot, for August.’

  ‘Is it summer?’

  Eivor’s blue eyes sit deep among layers of wrinkles and Tove can see genuine surprise in them, and how taken back the old lady is at this news.

  ‘It’s summer,’ Tove says, ‘just like it was yesterday and will be tomorrow. Have you forgotten?’

  Eivor doesn’t answer. Instead she says, after some consideration: ‘The pale blue dress,’ and Tove helps her remove her nightdress, underwear, and incontinence pad, gives her a fresh washcloth, and Eivor washes between her legs.

  She doesn’t need an incontinence pad. But she gets one anyway, day and night, because it isn’t always clear that the staff, we, I, will have time to help her to the toilet, and washing and staff are more expensive than pads.

  So, on with a fresh pad.

  Suppressed shame on Eivor’s face.

  On with her bra and fresh briefs, then the dress, and Eivor’s body is frail and transparent, yet somehow full of a peculiar energy, as if a mass of inaccessible memories were keeping it going.

  Tove combs Eivor’s thin grey
hair, rushing because she knows she has to move on.

  Leaves it hanging down rather than setting it up the way she knows Eivor prefers.

  Tove adjusts the sheets.

  ‘Do you want to sit in your chair or on the bed until breakfast comes?’

  ‘I’ll lie on the bed,’ and before Tove hurries out she makes sure that the top end of the bed is raised at the correct angle and that the over-bed table is pushed across so that breakfast can be served quickly and efficiently.

  She turns the television on.

  Breakfast news. Some rock group playing a terrible ballad.

  ‘A bit of company,’ Tove says, and Eivor nods, her face a complete blank.

  The worn veneered door of Konrad Karlsson’s room.

  Room number seven.

  Tove knocks, once, twice, three times, but there’s no answer, and she feels a pang of anxiety.

  Not like Konrad.

  He’s always awake when she arrives. And she’s there every day. The days she works, anyway.

  If possible, they go to the same people every day, they’ve divided the work that way so the old people don’t have to cope with too many different faces, but also so that the workload is shared fairly, taking into consideration the different care requirements of the residents.

  There’s always more than enough lifting to do, no matter how the work is allocated.

  Tove has read shocking articles about old folk who have had forty different home helpers in a month. There’s no respect in that. No security. It would take less than that to make you ill.

  She knocks again. Feels a faint breeze blow in from the window at the end of the corridor and move past her, a sudden coolness in the heat.

  It must be ten degrees warmer now than it was an hour ago, and the building’s ventilation is no good at dealing with heat.

  ‘Konrad?’ she says loudly to the door. ‘Are you awake? Can I come in?’

  No answer.

  He’s asleep.

  You’re asleep, aren’t you?

  And she pushes the door inward and is confronted by a sight that makes her clap her hands to her mouth, then scream, a scream that moves out of her, into the familiar yet alien room.