Hasse stops shaking abruptly.
Biggan smiles before saying, ‘No. We tried for a long time. But then we had to give up.’
Then the ice rattles in the cocktail shaker again.
65
Her head.
It’s heavy, and the pain is like a fruit-knife thrust between the lobes of her brain. If you feel pain like that you don’t sleep. In dreams there is no physical pain. That’s why we love them, dreams.
No, no, no.
She remembers now.
But where’s the engine? The car? She isn’t in the car any more.
Stop it. Let me go. I’ve got someone who needs me.
Take this blindfold off my eyes. Take it off. Maybe we could talk about this? Why me?
Is there a smell of apples here? Is that earth under my fingers, cold but still warm earth, biscuit crumbs?
There’s a stove crackling.
She kicks in the direction the warmth is coming from, but strikes no metal; she tenses her back but doesn’t get anywhere. Only a dull thud, a vibration through her body.
I am . . . Where am I?
I’m lying on cold earth. Is this a grave? And I am dead, after all? Help me. Help me.
But it’s warm around me and if I was in a coffin there’d be wood.
Take this rope off, for God’s sake.
The rag in her mouth.
Strain hard enough and it might break, the rope. Twist back and forth.
Eventually the cloth is pulled away from her eyes.
A flickering light. A vaulted cellar? Earth walls? Where am I? Are those spiders and snakes moving around me?
A face. Faces?
Wearing a ski mask.
The eyes. Looking, yet not looking.
Now they’ve gone again, the faces.
Her body aches. But now is where the pain starts, isn’t it?
I wish I could do something.
But I am powerless.
I can only watch, and I will do, because the look in my eyes may give you some comfort.
I shall stay even if I would rather avert my gaze and disappear to all the places I can disappear to.
But I stay in the fear and the love and all the other feelings. It isn’t over yet, but do you have to do that? Do you imagine they’ll be impressed?
It hurts, I know, I had to feel the same. Stop it, stop it, I say, but I know, you can’t hear my voice. Do you think her pain will eradicate another pain? Will her pain open the doors? Mine didn’t, after all.
So I beg you: stop, stop, stop.
Did I say stop?
How can a single noise come out of my mouth when it is taped up, the rag pressed deep between my teeth?
She is naked. Someone tore off her clothes, splitting the seams with a knife and now someone brings a candle close to her shoulders and she is frightened, the voice mumbling, ‘This must, must, must happen.’
She screams.
Someone brings the candle close, close, and the heat is sharp and she screams as if she doesn’t know how to scream, as if the sound of her burning skin and the pain are one. She twists back and forth but gets nowhere.
‘Shall I burn your face off?’
Is that what the mumbling voice is saying?
‘Perhaps that would be enough. Perhaps I wouldn’t have to kill you then, because you won’t exist properly without a face, will you?’
She screams, screams. Soundlessly.
The other cheek. Her cheekbone burns. Circular movements, red, black, red, the colour of pain, and there is a smell of burned skin, her skin.
‘Shall I get the knife instead?
‘Hang on now.
‘Don’t faint, stay awake,’ the voice mumbles, but she wants to be gone.
The blade shines in the light, the pain has disappeared, adrenalin is pumping through her body and the only thing is her fear that she might never get away from here.
I want to get home to my loved ones.
He must be wondering where I am. How long have I been here? They must be missing me by now.
The knife is cold and warm and what is that warmth running down my thighs? A woodpecker with a steel beak is pecking at my breasts, eating its way down to my ribs. Let me vanish; my face burns when someone hits me in vain attempts to keep me awake.
But it doesn’t work.
I’m going now.
Whether you like it or not.
How much time has passed? I don’t know.
Are those chains rattling?
I’m tied to a post now with forest around me.
I’m alone.
Have you gone? Don’t leave me here alone.
I’m whimpering. I can hear it.
But I’m not freezing and I wonder when the cold stopped being cold.
When does pain stop hurting?
How long have I been hanging out here now? The forest is thick around me; dark but white with snow. There’s a little clearing, and a door leading down to a hole.
My feet don’t exist. Nor my arms, hands, fingers or cheeks. My cheeks are burning holes, and everything around me lacks any smell.
Away.
Away from here.
That’s all that’s left.
Away, away, away, at any cost.
But how can I run if I don’t have any feet?
Something is approaching again.
Is it an angel?
Not in this darkness.
No, it’s something black approaching.
‘What have I done?’
Is that what the black thing says?
‘I have to do this.’ That’s what the black thing says.
She tries to lift her head but nothing happens. She makes a real effort and there, there, she slowly lifts her head and the black thing is close now and is swinging a cauldron of boiling water backwards and she thinks herself away, and then the sound, someone roaring as the water is thrown at her.
But it doesn’t reach. No heat arrives, just a few drops of warmth.
Now the black thing itself again.
With a branch in its hand?
What’s that for?
Shall I scream?
I scream.
But not because anyone will hear me.
66
Candles are burning in the dining room and on the wall behind Hasse and Tove hangs a large oil painting by an artist called Jockum Nordström, who according to Biggan is supposed to have become some sort of big noise in New York. The painting is of a coloured man dressed in boy’s clothes against a blue background, and Malin thinks the painting looks naïve and mature at the same time; the man is alone but still anchored in a sort of context on the blue background, and in the sky drift guitars and billiard-cues.
The pheasant tastes good, but the wine is even better, a red from a region of Spain that Malin doesn’t know, and she has to exert all her willpower not to slug it down, it’s so good.
‘More pheasant, Malin?’ Hasse gestures towards the pot.
‘Have some more,’ Markus says. ‘It’ll make Dad happy.’
The conversation during the evening has covered everything from Malin’s work to weight-training, the reorganisation of the hospital and local politics and the ‘reaaally dull’ programme at the city’s concert house.
Hasse and Biggan. Equally politely and genuinely interested in everything, and no matter how Malin has tried, she hasn’t been able to find a single false note. They seem to like us being here, we aren’t intruding. Malin takes a sip of the wine. And they know how to get me to relax.
‘Great about Tenerife,’ Hasse says, and Malin looks at Tove across the table. Tove looks down.
‘Are the tickets all booked?’ Hasse asks. ‘We need an account number before you go so we can pay in some money. Remind me, will you?’
‘I . . .’ Tove begins.
Malin clears her throat.
Biggan and Hasse look at her anxiously and Markus turns towards Tove.
‘My dad changed his mind,’ Malin says. ‘I’m afraid t
hey’ve got other guests that week.’
‘Their own grandchild!’ Biggan exclaims.
‘Why haven’t you said anything?’ Markus says to Tove.
Malin shakes her head. ‘They’re a bit odd, my parents.’
Tove breathes out, and Malin realises that the lie has made her feel relief, at the same time as she feels ashamed at not having the bravery, the honesty to come out with the simple truth: that it was Markus who wasn’t welcome.
Why am I lying? Malin thinks.
So as not to disappoint anyone?
Because I’m ashamed at my own parents’ social incompetence?
Because the truth hurts?
‘How strange,’ Hasse says. ‘Who could possibly be more welcome than their own granddaughter and her friend?’
‘It was an old business acquaintance.’
‘Well, never mind,’ Biggan says. ‘Now the two of you can come with us to Åre instead. As we suggested in the first place. I don’t mean to criticise Tenerife, but winter is for skiing!’
Malin and Tove are walking home along the well-lit villa-lined streets.
A cognac after the meal makes Malin’s mouth run away with her. Biggan had one, but Hasse didn’t, had to work the next morning. ‘A small martini and a glass of wine. No more than that if I’m going to be wielding a scalpel!’
‘You should have explained how things were to Markus beforehand.’
‘Maybe, but I—’
‘And now you’ve made me lie. You know what I think about that. And Åre, have they asked you to go to Åre? You could have mentioned that. Who am I really, you—’
‘Mum. Can’t you just be quiet?’
‘Why? I’ve got things I want to say.’
‘But you’re saying such stupid things.’
‘Why haven’t you mentioned Åre?’
‘Oh Mum, you know why. When was I supposed to tell you? You’re hardly ever at home. You’re always working.’
No, Malin feels like shouting at Tove. No, you’re wrong, but she stops and thinks. Is it really as bad as that?
They walk on in silence, past Tinnis and the Hotel Ekoxen.
‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Mum?’ Tove asks as they pass the City Mission’s charity shop.
‘They were nice,’ Malin says. ‘Not at all what I imagined.’
‘You imagine so much about people all the time, Mum.’
67
I’m bleeding.
Something is lifting me up, away from the post and down on to a soft, hairy bed.
I’m alive.
My heart is beating.
And the black thing is everywhere, laying cloth, wool on my body and it’s warm and the black thing’s voice, voices, say, ‘He died too soon. But you, you’re going to hang the way it’s supposed to be.’
Then the trees above me, I’m moving through the forest. Am I lying on a sledge? Can I hear the sound of runners over the crust of snow? I’m tired, so tired, and it’s warm.
It’s a real warmth.
It’s in my dream and in wakefulness.
But away from the warmth.
It kills.
And I don’t want to die.
The engine sound again. I’m in a car now.
In the sound of the engine, in its persistent running is a suspicion. That my body has one more chance, that it isn’t yet too late.
I breathe.
Welcome the pain from every battered and smashed body part, the tearing of my bleeding innards.
It is in pain that I exist now. And it will help me survive.
I am drifting here.
The field lies open. Between Maspelösa, Fornåsa and Bankeberg, at the end of an unploughed road covered by just a thin layer of snow, stands a lone tree, like the one I was hanging in.
The car with the woman in the boot stops there.
I wish I could help her now.
But she must do that herself.
The black thing has to open up. It has to help me out. Then I shall be an engine. I shall explode, I shall get away, I shall live.
The black thing opens the boot, heaves my body over the edge and down on to the snow by the exhaust.
It leaves me lying there.
A tree trunk, thick, ten metres away.
The stone is covered by snow, but I still see it. Is it my hands that are free, is it my hand, that swollen red lump I see to my left?
The black thing at my side now. Whispering about blood. About sacrifice.
If I twist to the left and then grab the stone and strike at what must be its head, it might work. That could get me away.
I am an engine and I am turning the key.
Now I ignite.
I exist again and I grip the stone, and the whispering stops; now I strike, I am going to get away and I strike myself away from here. Don’t try to fend me off, I strike, I want more, my will is what sits deep, deep down, it’s brighter than the darkness can manage to blacken.
Don’t try.
I strike at the blackness, and we roll around in the snow, and cold does not exist and it gets a tight grip on me, but I explode once more and then I strike. The stone against its skull and the blackness goes limp, glides off me, on to the snow.
I crawl up on to my knees.
Open field in all directions.
I get up.
In the darkness. I have been there.
I stagger towards the horizon.
I am on my way, away.
I drift beside you as you stumble on across the plain. You will arrive somewhere, and wherever you go, I will be there to meet you.
68
Thursday, 16 February
Johnny Axelsson puts both hands on the steering-wheel, feels the vibrations of the vehicle, how the cold is making the engine run unevenly.
Early morning.
Clouds of snow are drifting in across the road from the fields and farms, in shifting, almost blinding veils.
It takes nearly fifty minutes to get from Motala to Linköping, and at this time of year it can be dangerous as well, with the uncertain state of the roads, ice that comes and goes, no matter how much they salt them.
No, best to take it cautiously. He always goes via Fornåsa, much prefers that road to the main road through Borensberg.
And you never know what’s going to come out of the forest. He’s come close to hitting deer and elk before now.
But at least the roads are straight, built as they were to be able to function as runways in case of war.
But how likely is it that war will ever come?
Unless it’s already here.
Motala. Junkie capital of Sweden.
Few if any jobs, unless you want to work in the public sector.
But Johnny Axelsson grew up in Motala, and that’s where he wants to live. So what if he has to spend a couple of hours commuting? That’s a price he’s willing to pay to live somewhere he feels at home. When the job advert from Ikea appeared in the paper he didn’t hesitate. And he didn’t when he was offered the job either. Don’t be a burden. Contribute. Do the right thing. How many of his old friends are living off benefits? Still claiming unemployment even though their jobs disappeared ten years ago. God, we’re thirty-five, how can they even bear to think about it?
Go fishing. Out hunting. Play the pools. Watch trotting races. Do a bit of carpentry on the sly.
Johnny Axelsson drives past a red farmhouse. It’s close to the road and inside he can see an elderly couple. They’re eating breakfast, and in the light of the kitchen their skin looks golden, like two fish in an aquarium, safe and sound in the middle of the plain.
Keep looking ahead, Johnny thinks, the road, that’s what you should be concentrating on.
Malin goes straight to the coffee room when she gets to the station. The coffee in the pump-action flask is fresh.
She sits on a chair at the table by the window facing the inner courtyard. Only a white mass of snow at this time of year, a little paved area with a few dubious flower-bed
s in the spring, summer and autumn.
There’s a magazine on the table next to her. She reaches for it. Amelia. An old issue.
Headline: YOU’RE GREAT THE WAY YOU ARE! Headline on the next page: AMELIA’S LIPOSUCTION SPECIAL!
Malin closes the magazine, gets up and walks off to her desk.
There’s a yellow Post-it note on top of it, like an exclamation mark among the mess of paper.
From Ebba in reception:
Malin.
Call this number. She said it was important. 013-173928.
Nothing else.
Malin takes the note and walks out to reception, but Ebba isn’t there. Sofia is sitting on her own behind the counter.
‘Have you seen Ebba?’
‘She’s in the kitchen. She went to get coffee.’
Malin finds Ebba in the kitchen, sitting at one of the round tables, leafing through a magazine.
Malin holds up the note. ‘What’s this?’
‘There was a woman who rang.’
‘I can see that from the note.’
Ebba wrinkles her nose. ‘Well, she didn’t want to say why she was calling. But it was important, I understood that much.’
‘When did she call?’
‘Just before you got in.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Yes,’ Ebba says. ‘She sounded scared. And hesitant. She was sort of whispering.’
Malin tries to identify the number through Yellow Pages.
Nothing.
It must be ex-directory, and not even they could get round that without a load of time-consuming paperwork.
She calls.
No answer, not even an answer-machine.
But a minute later her phone rings.
She picks up the receiver. Says, ‘Yes, this is Malin Fors.’
‘Daniel here. Have you got anything new for me about the Andersson investigation?’
She gets cross, then strangely calm, as if she had been wanting to hear his voice, but pushes the thought aside.
‘No.’
‘The harassment accusation, any comment?’
‘Have you suddenly turned stupid, Daniel?’
‘I’ve been away a few days. Aren’t you going to ask where?’
‘No.’ Wants to ask, doesn’t want to ask.
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