Guiltless

by Sten, Viveca

  Vendela was all too familiar with that feeling; letters didn’t make much sense to her either. That was why she preferred to keep quiet, to avoid drawing attention to herself so no one would realize how stupid she was.

  When she was younger, she had hidden behind her appearance. Her lovely blond hair and those blue eyes enchanted everyone around her; no one expected her to be smart on top of it.

  She was constantly worried that someone would discover her secret and expose the fact that she was too useless to learn anything. She could barely read bible verses, which meant she wasn’t even worthy of the beauty others praised. She had known that since she was a child.

  It was a relief when her body grew bloated and that beauty was buried under layers of fat. It lessened the gulf between the outside and the inside, and the risk of being found out was no longer so frightening. She was equally wretched on both counts.

  “Mom.” Thorwald was calling her.

  Vendela kept walking, the hem of her black skirt brushing the ground. It was covered in a layer of fine gray sand, as were her boots. She kept an eye out for mushrooms as she went.

  “Mom,” Thorwald said again.

  They were only yards apart now. The boy looked nervous, his eyes were full of sorrow. He seemed to be working up to something important. He opened his mouth, and although he spoke quietly, she heard him with heartbreaking clarity.

  “Why doesn’t he like me?”

  The question hung in the air; they both knew who he meant.

  Gottfrid’s absolute power was never mentioned at home. It was a truth that didn’t need to be spoken out loud; it was as self-evident as it was incontrovertible. Gottfrid’s word was law.

  Now Thorwald had brought it out into the light of day.

  Gottfrid didn’t like his own son.

  Slowly Vendela lowered her basket to the ground. She took a step toward the boy, but stopped and tried to think. She desperately wanted to offer him an acceptable explanation, something that could ease his pain.

  “Wherever did you get such a foolish idea?” she said. “Thou shalt honor thy father and thy mother—that’s what it says in the bible.”

  Her response was all wrong—she could see that right away in his eyes. What was she thinking? She should have consoled him instead of chastising him. He was only thirteen years old; he needed a father who could provide support and guidance, but Gottfrid was totally indifferent. It had been the same ever since the child was born. Sometimes the indifference turned to rage, which was even worse. There was only one person in the family her husband cared about, and Vendela had known for years that it wasn’t her.

  They carried the same burden, she and her son.

  Thorwald seemed to pluck up more courage, even though she saw the fear in his eyes. She recognized that fear—it was the same as her own.

  She didn’t have an answer that would make him feel better, but she understood the effort it had taken to ask the question. She had no intention of telling him to be quiet. She had sought refuge in silence for far too long, and now the habit was so ingrained that she no longer knew if there was any other way.

  It was too late for her, but maybe not for Thorwald. If only she knew how to help him. The sense of impotence was suffocating.

  She looked around, stalling. She ran a hand over her hair; it was peppered with gray, pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck, just above the collar of her dress.

  “He doesn’t like me.”

  It wasn’t even a question; it was an assertion. His voice was monotone, as if he couldn’t bear to reveal what he was feeling, but his chin trembled and his hands were pushed deep inside his pockets.

  Years of disappointment filled her son’s eyes. The unresolved sorrow over Gottfrid’s lack of love made her own eyes fill with tears as well.

  Her words were suffused with despair when she spoke.

  “Sometimes I think your father has loved only two people in his whole life, and they both have the same name.”

  She glanced over at her daughter, squatting in the sand as she searched for sulfur-yellow caps. Then she clumsily reached out her hand to Thorwald, but he took a step back as if he didn’t want to accept what she had said.

  He’s so thin, she thought, no more than skin and bones. And his face is old, old and unhappy. What has he done to you, my son? What have we done to you?

  And yet she knew there was nothing she could do. She had neither the strength nor the cunning to force Gottfrid to change. The bitterness within her husband, the deep conviction that he must follow the words of the bible to the letter, the rage that increasingly replaced love and forgiveness—she couldn’t do anything about any of it.

  She feared his moods and she feared his punishments. Fear colored her existence and ruled their lives. She did not dare step in when Gottfrid disciplined their son.

  She failed Thorwald every day, and the shame was choking her.

  I can’t do it, she thought. God has not given me enough strength. It’s not my fault.

  “Your father can’t help it,” she ventured. “God has given him a heavy burden to bear.”

  That was the best she could come up with. She spread her hands wide in an apologetic gesture. “Life hasn’t been easy for him.”

  Something in Thorwald’s eyes changed. He looked at her with contempt, just like Gottfrid did when she was guilty of some stupid behavior that he couldn’t tolerate.

  “Do you seriously believe that God made Father like this? Do you?” His voice had risen to a falsetto. He threw down his basket and ran.

  “Thorwald!”

  Vendela shouted after him, but she knew it was a waste of time. The boy needed to be left in peace. The only consolation was that Gottfrid was away; otherwise she would have had to invent excuses.

  “Mom?”

  Kristina came skipping over, looking puzzled; her brother had already reached the pine trees.

  “Where’s Thorwald going? I thought we were supposed to pick mushrooms.”

  Vendela gazed at her daughter, her beautiful, sweet little girl who was the apple of her father’s eye, and suddenly she knew exactly how to use that fact to her advantage.

  A heavy weight fell upon her breast, leaving her barely able to speak. She bent down as if she had suddenly spotted a particularly fine mushroom in the sand.

  “Mom?”

  “He’s a little bit upset, honey, but he’ll be fine.” She repeated the words, as if to convince herself. “He’ll be fine. Absolutely fine.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Thomas opened the door of Nora’s house without knocking.

  “Hello?”

  “Come on in and close the door quickly,” Nora’s voice came from upstairs, as Simon appeared from nowhere.

  “And how’s my godson today?” Thomas picked the boy up in his strong arms. “Do you want to fly?”

  He swung the child around as best he could in the small hallway, then pretended to drop him. Simon was beaming, and Thomas gave him a big hug before putting him down.

  “You’re getting heavy, young man; soon I won’t be able to lift you.”

  Nora came down the stairs and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  “Hi. Coffee’s almost ready. Where’s Margit?”

  “She’s on her way; we split up.”

  They went into the kitchen where three mugs had already been set out, along with a plate of cinnamon buns and gingerbread cookies. They sat down and Nora poured the coffee.

  “Where’s Adam?” Thomas asked.

  “Over at a friend’s. He’s growing up; sometimes I hardly see him.” Nora’s smile betrayed a hint of melancholy. “But it’s good that he’s not sitting at home brooding over what happened in the forest. Do you remember Annie, my friend who’s a psychologist?”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “She said it’s important to keep things as normal as possible, so that the horrible memories fade away.” Nora picked up a box of matches and lit the candle in the glass lantern in the middle
of the table.

  There was a knock on the door, and she went to answer it. Thomas heard Margit come in; she hung up her jacket before she came into the kitchen and sat down beside him.

  Margit shivered. “Goodness, it’s cold out there today!”

  Nora leaned forward and looked at the thermometer outside the kitchen window. “Practically a record.”

  “Do you know the Sandgren family?” Thomas said as he helped himself to a cookie.

  “The Sandgrens?” Nora thought for a moment. “They have a place by the shore in Trouville. They haven’t been on the island for long.”

  “What does ‘long’ mean on Sandhamn?” Thomas wondered. “Twenty years?”

  “More like five or six. They’re not very popular. They put up a fence leading down to the water, and it’s difficult to get by. There’s a lot of tension here about the right to walk around the island.”

  “But if it’s their property?” Margit said.

  “Yes, but we’ve always been able to walk the shoreline, so when new homeowners try to stop that, everyone gets very upset.”

  “Upsetting people on a small island like Sandhamn doesn’t seem like such a smart idea,” Margit said.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Do you ever have anything to do with them?” Thomas asked.

  “No. They’re in their fifties; their kids are much older than ours.”

  “They have a son, Jakob—do you know him?”

  Nora frowned. “About twenty or so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he sail?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’m just wondering if Jakob was the one involved in a sailing accident during the regatta a few years ago. Henrik told me about it. A boy got hit in the head by a boom and had to be flown to a hospital in Stockholm. Henrik was there racing, and he helped out while they were waiting for the helicopter.” She stirred her coffee. “Why do you ask?”

  “His name has come up in our investigation,” Thomas explained. “Anything else you know about him?”

  Nora reached for a cookie.

  “Not really, but there is something I wanted to tell you.” She hesitated briefly. “It seems as if someone is spying on the Rosén house late at night.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Nora had gone to bed at the same time as the boys in an effort to get a good night’s sleep, but she ended up lying wide awake anyway, her thoughts all over the place.

  What if the unknown watcher came back tonight? What should she do?

  Thomas and Margit had said it was probably just someone taking a late stroll who’d happened to stop for a moment. That reassured her initially, but now the anxiety was back.

  Eventually she gave up, pulled on her robe, and went down to the kitchen. She would have one more glass of wine to help her nod off. She knew she shouldn’t drink every night, but she opened the pantry anyway without switching on the light, and took out the box of Australian red. A little wine would help her relax, especially if she downed it fast so that the effect would kick in quickly.

  She ventured a glance through the window; the Rosén house was in darkness. The roof blended into the night sky, and the old lilac hedge was completely covered in snow.

  No one was standing outside Lina’s home tonight.

  Nora sighed in relief. The strange figure had really scared her, as had her unexpected encounter with Pelle Forsberg. She realized she’d been reluctant to look out, and more frightened than she’d allowed herself to admit.

  A sudden noise made her jump. It sounded as if someone was trying the front door handle. Nora knew the door was locked—she had checked earlier, before she’d sat down to watch TV. Now someone was knocking. Who could it be at this time of night? It was after eleven.

  She put down her glass and tried to think. Should she answer? Another knock, fainter this time. Should she switch on the light, look out the window, or stay where she was, in darkness? She decided to stay put; she didn’t have the nerve to do anything else.

  Another knock.

  Did someone really need her? She couldn’t possibly open the door right now. She pressed herself against the wall.

  Where was the toolbox?

  She edged over to the cleaning closet and groped around. Her fingers closed on a handle: the hammer. That made her feel a little better. She stood between the kitchen and the hallway gripping the weapon and cursing Henrik; it was his fault she was here on Sandhamn, frightened and alone, with two small boys.

  If she’d had her phone she could have called Thomas, but it was in the living room, and she’d left the lamp on when she’d gone to bed. She would be visible from outside if she went in there; no way.

  She realized then how easy it would be for someone to break in. All they had to do was smash a pane of glass, reach through, and unlock the door. The house was filled with light thanks to all the windows, but now they seemed to be staring ominously at her, black panes of glass concealing a potential intruder. Every single one offered the chance to get into her home with little effort.

  Feeling sick with fear, she slumped down by the kitchen door. The hand holding the hammer was shaking. She listened hard but heard nothing. The knocking seemed to have stopped. She made up her mind to wait ten minutes; if all was still quiet, she would go and look through the window.

  Slowly, she counted to six hundred. Was that ten minutes? She waited a little longer, then crept forward and peered through the glass in the front door. All she could see was the deserted winter landscape, not a soul in sight.

  Had she imagined the whole thing?

  Nora sat down on the stairs, and the hammer slipped from her grasp. Someone had been there, she was sure of it. She hadn’t imagined the knocking.

  She sat there for a while, then made her way upstairs and into the boys’ room on trembling legs. There was a lock on their door, and she silently turned the key before crawling into Simon’s bed. He murmured something as she gently shuffled him over to make room. His forehead was sweaty, and he was clutching his teddy bear. She lay awake beside him for a long time.

  Sandhamn 1927

  It was the worst autumn storm in living memory. The wind howled and the waves came crashing over the tarred jetties. No sane person ventured out; everyone huddled indoors, listening to the rain hammering on the windows. Boats tugged at their moorings as their owners worried that the timbers wouldn’t survive the tempest.

  The gale whipped up the sand, the fine grains blowing in through ill-fitting windows and cracked doors. However much the women swept, it was impossible to keep the floors clean. The villagers suffered as the sand found its way into their food and drink, into every nook and cranny, irritating their eyes and making their throats sore.

  Sandhamn cowered.

  The storm battered the island for two days, and when it finally abated, everything was covered with a fine layer of pale sand—boats, machinery, tools, everything. The villagers had their work cut out cleaning up after nature’s show of force.

  The community came together for a meeting. The sand must be held back somehow; another storm like this, and the place would be uninhabitable. The sand field had already spread much too far.

  A decision was taken: trees would be planted in order to bind the sand. Hundreds, no thousands, of pines would serve to anchor the loose grains. A huge order was sent to Stockholm, and the schoolchildren were recruited to carry out the task.

  Lessons were suspended for an entire week, and the children spent all their time planting saplings at regular intervals, all the way from the hill above the Royal Swedish Yacht Club’s clubhouse down to the churchyard.

  They worked side by side, baskets over their arms. It was hard making sure the slender plants were buried deep enough to ensure that they took root, but the storm and the howling gale were still fresh in everyone’s memory; they didn’t want to go through it again.

  And that was how it began.

  Her name was Karolina, and she had long brown braids that hung all th
e way down to her waist. She was slender, and not very tall. Her nose was a little too big for her face, but she had beautiful blue eyes and a warm smile.

  Karolina and Thorwald were put next to each other on the first day of planting. When she found it difficult to dig a deep enough hole, he helped, and she thanked him with such a radiant smile that it made his heart race.

  From then on, everything changed.

  In school he stole secret glances at her during lessons. At night he replayed every look she had given him, every word she had spoken. All he could think about was Karolina Brand. His heart sang whenever he saw her, and he would do anything just to make her laugh.

  Karolina.

  Thorwald repeated the name to himself, over and over again; that was all it took to produce a glow of happiness.

  Karolina.

  There wasn’t much smiling at home. His father’s face was closed, his voice harsh and serious. Vendela’s anxious gaze followed him, devoid of any joy. The only person who smiled was Kristina, and there was always a hint of calculation in her eyes. She might still be little, but she had already learned to use her sweet smile to get her way.

  But Karolina smiled for no particular reason. She was always sunny, and Thorwald couldn’t help getting swept up in her happiness. They’d been classmates for years, but he’d never really noticed her before.

  Not in that way.

  Thorwald hadn’t paid attention to any girls, really. He hadn’t had any reason to. He spent most of his time with Arvid and his siblings; they’d play in the forest, kick a ball around, or dig up worms and fish from the jetty.

  The girls from school made him feel embarrassed. They stood around in groups down by the harbor, giggling among themselves. When he walked by, he often wondered if he was the butt of their joke. Were they laughing at his inability to read properly? He still stumbled through every sentence when he read aloud, and he wasn’t too good at spelling either. It didn’t matter how hard he worked at home; whenever he was asked to perform in front of the class, he just couldn’t.