What Did I Do?

by Jessica Jarlvi

  Driving towards Drottninggatan, where the man who picked up the letter lives, Frank is amazed by the number of Volvos on the roads. Surely Volvo isn’t even Swedish anymore? Wasn’t it sold off to the Americans? Or was it the Chinese? He should look it up.

  He parks by a row of six-storey houses that he estimates are from the early 1900s and opens up the folder on Niklas Jönsson. Frank always files everything meticulously, which is why he’s surprised to find the folder in disarray and the photos and address information missing. He looks in his bag and under the seats of the car, retracing his steps. Could he have lost the printouts somewhere along the way? No. He clearly remembers picking up the folder in his study, placing it in his briefcase, which he closed and then didn’t leave out of his sight. If anything is missing, he’s lost it at home, in his study.

  He picks up the phone and calls Birgitta. It takes a long while before she answers, and when she does, he gets straight to the point.

  ‘Birgitta, have you been into my study?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘How would I get in there?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I want to know.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t,’ she says. ‘Don’t be paranoid.’

  He needs to push this.

  ‘If you want to know how far I am with Sofia, all you have to do is ask.’

  ‘I know.’

  He pauses.

  ‘Then it looks like we’ve had an intruder. Or have you invited anyone to the house?’

  Could it have been Gabriella? Did she pop over and sneak around his study while Birgitta went to the bathroom? She seemed nosy when he met her and it would have been too much of a temptation for Birgitta to turn her away. Perhaps Frank needs to pay Gabriella a visit?

  ‘I haven’t invited anyone,’ Birgitta says. ‘Why do you want to know? Is something missing?’

  ‘Never mind,’ he says. He doesn’t want to tell her. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Someone must have been in his study, but who? They haven’t even had a cleaner in the house. He’s certain that Birgitta couldn’t have crossed over the old-fashioned threshold. When he first bought the wheelchairs, he sat in them to understand what her movements would be like. He would have been able to get the manual one over the threshold by tipping it slightly backwards, but his arms are strong and hers aren’t. She hasn’t spent a single day of her life in a gym.

  If it’s not Birgitta, then who else could have been in the house? Has Birgitta invited someone behind his back? That would be just like her. Did Birgitta even ask someone to go in there? She would surely be the only one interested in knowing about his progress. Although she could have asked him straight out. Searching through his study seems far-fetched.

  Frank forcefully pushes the papers back into his bag. He never would have left the folder like this and he definitely wouldn’t have been reckless enough to lose the photos. If only he’d set up his email on the phone he could have accessed them now, together with the exact address. He will have to come back. In the meantime, he calls a security company to install cameras at the house. If someone enters his home again, he’s going to find out who it is.

  *

  To let off steam, Frank drives downtown and parks close to the harbour, paying the astronomical hourly rate. Nearby, he spots a large hotel and, in the bar, he positions himself on a stool and orders a non-alcoholic beer, all too aware of the zero tolerance laws in Sweden.

  The place is almost empty, apart from two men in suits drinking draught beer and engaging in a heated discussion. Fortunately, they don’t try and involve him. He’s facing the reception where men and women in business attire come and go, but then a woman appears in heels much too high and a skirt much too short. She’s made no effort to blend in. Since he’s already paid for his drink, he quickly gets up and heads out to the street, unfolding his umbrella.

  ‘Hey, you,’ he calls after the woman.

  She turns around, a slightly frightened look on her face.

  ‘What you want?’ she asks in broken Swedish.

  ‘So much rain,’ he says.

  ‘Yes?’

  He can tell she’s keen to get away but she’s obviously not sure whether this is a potentially wealthy customer.

  ‘I lost my car key,’ he lies.

  ‘I don’t have it.’

  He laughs. ‘I know you don’t but whoever finds the key will also find the car because it has a large Mercedes sign on it. It’s really stupid that car manufacturers do that, lead the thief to the car.’

  Even though she doesn’t seem to follow everything he’s saying, he had her at Mercedes, he can tell. Good.

  ‘Where your car is?’ she asks, her eyes darting around.

  There’s something about her, something frayed and broken.

  ‘I just moved here,’ he says. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No time,’ she says. ‘Where your car is?’

  ‘Are you staying at the hotel?’ he asks.

  She shakes her head. ‘No. I leave now,’ she says but she doesn’t move.

  He becomes uncertain. There’s something harried about this woman that’s making him wary. It’s her darting eyes, as if someone nearby is watching, perhaps someone controlling her, and that’s a risk.

  ‘I’m going too,’ he says. ‘You take care now.’

  He’s tempted to leave his number but she walks off, and he stands there watching her back wondering if this is what his sister would have looked like. Aged, faded and nervous, always looking over her shoulder? Or perhaps he’s made a mistake. Maybe this woman is a successful young sales lady travelling the country. Who knows? There’s just that unreachable itch under his skin. Perhaps he could have been of service to this woman. He blames Birgitta. If only she hadn’t put the photo of his sister up.

  He walks away and drives to a hardware shop, where he fills the van with litres of white paint together with rollers, brushes and tape. He should be concentrating on getting to work in the basement. Not that he will be painting the walls for his daughter’s sake, although once, when she was an innocent baby, he would have. How could it have gone so horribly wrong since then?

  Chapter 27

  Gabriella

  Gabriella wakes up to the sound of knocking. Is Birgitta back or is it Peter already? Disoriented, she hauls herself out of bed, eyes squinting.

  ‘Oh, you were sleeping?’ Frank says when she opens the door.

  He looks more refreshed than she feels.

  ‘Yes, sorry.’ She pulls her hair back in an impromptu knot. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Eight o’clock.’

  He smiles at her and, instead of making his excuses, he holds up a paper bag from a local bakery.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asks, taking a step back to let him in.

  He doesn’t seem like the type of person who does rain checks. She’s in her pyjamas but what the hell? This is her space, not his.

  ‘Do you want me to take my shoes off?’ he asks, and she appreciates the consideration. ‘That’s what people in Sweden do, isn’t it?’

  She nods. ‘Yes, but my floor tends to be messy due to my work.’

  ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘I’ll keep them on.’

  He looks in the direction of Peter’s sculpture, ready to be unveiled when he turns up later.

  ‘New project?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, but she doesn’t want to discuss it.

  She brings out coffee beans and makes a strong espresso on the hob, while he grabs a plate from one of the shelves to put his kanelbullar on. The room fills with a pleasant smell of cinnamon but, sadly, the buns don’t comply with her vegan diet.

  ‘I’ve really missed these,’ he says, obliviously. ‘I used to travel to a suburb in Chicago called Andersonville, which was traditionally a Swedish area, just to buy food and treats.’

  Frank locates napkins on her kitchen counter and puts everything on her coffee table as if she’s the guest. He behaves as if he’s been here before and she’s not t
oo comfortable with his familiarity.

  ‘Do you know that in 1900, Chicago had the second largest population of Swedes after Stockholm?’ he continues.

  ‘I didn’t,’ she admits. ‘I guess they searched for the American dream. Like you did?’

  She brings the coffee and, since he’s already sitting down in her blue armchair, she plonks down on the sofa, pulling her legs underneath her.

  ‘Well, I didn’t travel via boat,’ he says. ‘And I didn’t have to be vetted upon arrival. People were actually turned away if they were blind or sick in those days.’

  ‘The times may have changed but people are still being segregated,’ she says. ‘Now the US wants to turn you away if you’re from certain countries.’

  He nods but doesn’t comment. They probably shouldn’t discuss politics. She has a feeling their views are at different ends of the spectrum.

  ‘So, Gabriella,’ he says, picking up one of the cups. ‘We finally meet properly.’

  On the few occasions that she’s invited anyone to the cottage, no one has ever been quite this focused on her. There’s no scanning of the interior.

  ‘Have you met the other neighbours yet?’ she asks, not wanting to be the only one around here that he’s friendly with.

  ‘Can’t say that I have. Are they worth knowing?’

  ‘Why not?’ she says. ‘Sven up the road to the left lives on his own and is still farming and there’s a new family in the house further down on the right.’

  ‘Are you planning to stay here?’ he asks.

  The question is unnerving. Does he plan to evict her?

  ‘For now this suits me,’ she says.

  He nods as if he’s contemplating this. ‘And your work,’ he says, gesturing towards the sculptures. ‘Is it your passion?’

  ‘Absolutely, yes. I want to keep getting better at it.’

  Why does this feel like an interview?

  ‘You love the human form,’ he states. ‘Would you sell me one?’

  ‘Of course.’ Income is always welcome.

  ‘Name your price,’ he says.

  ‘It depends on which ones you choose,’ she explains. ‘Generally they range from five hundred to one thousand kronor.’

  She’s found that unless she becomes more established, she can’t charge more than that. Still, Frank looks as if he has a few kronor stashed away. She probably could have pushed the price up.

  He picks out three pieces rather than one and Gabriella promises to wrap them up and deliver them to his house since they’re heavy.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Now that we’ve taken care of business. Are you happy, Gabriella?’

  She tries not to laugh. Is he serious?

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Is your life on track?’

  She has a brief vision of Peter’s body pressed against hers. Yes, she’s on track.

  ‘That’s kind of personal,’ she says. ‘Almost like me asking about your marriage.’

  ‘I’m glad you asked,’ he says, picking up a kanelbulle. ‘I understand you met my wife?’

  Chapter 28

  I quickly realised that the girls in the house were divided up into categories, of which there were only two: A and B. The ones on the floor above us were category B. They didn’t go to the same parties as us. Many of them were even moved around. They mentioned casinos and motels and I feared they had to deal with men like the ones X threatened me with. It made the risk of ending up like them feel even more real.

  ‘You have no idea how lucky you are,’ X had said to me. ‘You get to attend glamorous parties. Many girls I know wish they were you.’

  I hadn’t felt lucky at the time but now I did. The girls upstairs were more run-down than we were.

  ‘Those girls don’t get to sleep much,’ the other A girls told me. ‘They get drugs to stay awake.’

  I was horrified. Learning this, I knew I absolutely had to find a way to escape. There was no way I would end up there. If so, the only way out would be in a body bag. But whom could I trust? Two A girls had tried to run away but had been brought back by the same people who had claimed to be helping them. It had just been a mean game by Security, a way for them to test the girls. They were severely punished and I never saw them again.

  I needed to find someone genuine who could help me. At the parties, there were a number of men and women who appeared to care about me but was it real? They were there to have fun: to shed their clothes and have uninhibited sex for hours on end. I was part of their fantasy world. Would they want to know who I truly was, that, unlike them, I hadn’t chosen to be there? If they knew, would they help me or would I disgust them? I decided it was too risky to find out, the threat of being moved to the category-B girls hanging over me.

  While I worked out how X operated and planned an escape route, I inched closer to Stanley. He was usually the one who drove us to the parties where we worked and I would try and sit in the front seat whenever possible to get a chance to speak to him. Sometimes I wondered if the other girls had a similar plan to me though. Had they also realised that he was potentially the weak link we could use to break free?

  ‘Hey, Stanley,’ one of the girls would say. ‘Give us a cigarette.’

  We weren’t supposed to smoke. People at the parties preferred our breath to taste of toothpaste or champagne, but the girls obviously wanted to see if Stanley would give in.

  ‘Sorry, hun. I would love to but you know the rules,’ he would reply but add, ‘I really wish that I could though.’

  That gave me hope. There obviously was some humanity in this guy. The question was: how could I best exploit it?

  Stanley never attended any of the parties where we worked. He would wait for us outside and drive us home in the early hours of the morning. Occasionally he would ask how our night had been.

  ‘I don’t think you want to know,’ I whispered once.

  He moved his hand from the gearbox and touched my hand ever so quickly. The girls in the back wouldn’t have noticed but the brief tenderness sent a jolt through my body, making me think of the boyfriend I had cut out of my life. Where was he now?

  ‘You want the dirty details?’ One of the girls in the back giggled. They had a tendency to drink more than I did. All I needed was a couple of glasses to enable me to step into my work persona, a dazzling sensation who went by the name of Desire.

  ‘I was involved in a foursome,’ one of the girls said. ‘And I licked someone’s pussy until she couldn’t stand it any longer and came in my mouth. Does that turn you on, Stanley?’

  They were teasing him. I knew it and he knew it but his body tensed, his hands clenching around the steering wheel. Would he turn and shout at them for being disrespectful? Pull over and teach them a lesson? Would he tell on them? We all waited to see what would happen.

  ‘Sounds like a good night,’ he said eventually, his hands relaxing.

  He had passed the test. Perhaps I could trust him without getting burned?

  *

  After moving into the house, I saw less of X and that was a blessing. It was impossible to forget about him altogether however, with the constant reminder on my ankle, but every time he did come by, I feared he would move me. As much as I wanted to get away, I didn’t want to end up somewhere worse.

  One day, the girls and I were sitting around feeling bored. We had a party that evening and were supposed to be grooming: waxing, doing our nails and hair and picking out our outfits, but we realised we hadn’t received any new clothes for a while. A debate ensued. Should we ask for new stuff?

  ‘I picked this job because of the heels and dresses,’ one girl said.

  I couldn’t keep quiet. ‘You picked this job?’

  ‘At least I get paid for doing something that my brother was helping himself to for free anyway.’

  I should have been shocked but I was hung up on ‘I get paid’.

  ‘You have cash?’ I asked.

  I hadn’t received any money for months. Every time I ask
ed X he had another excuse. I wasn’t working hard enough or I wasn’t ready to handle my own ‘dough’.

  ‘No, it’s all in an account,’ the girl said. ‘When I have enough, I’m out of here.’

  One of the other girls scoffed. ‘Honey, there’s no way out.’

  Was this true?

  ‘Who puts the money into your account?’ I asked.

  ‘X, silly.’

  ‘Really, and how much do you have now?’

  This was interesting.

  ‘Should be quite a bit.’ She cocked her head. ‘I’ll ask him next time I see him. He usually keeps me informed.’

  ‘And he’s going to let you leave when you’re ready? Just like that?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, sounding convinced.

  I couldn’t work out if she had set this so-called ‘reality’ up to survive or if she actually believed it. The rest of us knew not to trust X.

  ‘Anyone else have accounts?’ I asked the room.

  The others shook their heads. Like me, they hadn’t been paid either.

  ‘You think he’s lying to me?’ the girl with the supposed account said.

  No one dared admit that.

  ‘Maybe you’re lucky,’ I said, wanting to avoid a fight.

  There was a constant, underlying tension, which threatened to erupt into a full-blown conflict. We couldn’t risk getting Security on our case. They would have enjoyed punishing us too much.

  Outside our room, we could hear another commotion breaking out, however. There was shouting and screaming. Were the security guys fighting? The other girls pressed their ears to the thin door but I hung back, not wanting to get drawn into any drama.

  ‘Someone has broken into the house,’ one of the girls said.

  ‘Who’s Amanda?’ someone else said.

  ‘Amanda?’ I said, the words sounding like a croak. I hadn’t been called that in a long time. ‘That’s me…’

  I pushed myself to the front of the group and glued my ear to the door. I could clearly hear my name now.

  ‘Amanda!’

  I recognised his voice immediately.

  ‘I’m here,’ I shouted, trying to pry open the locked door.