More Bitter Than Death

by Camilla Grebe

“Uh, there’s a guy here who wants to come in,” Elin says. She looks back over her shoulder, concerned, and I notice a shadow behind her.

  “Unfortunately we can’t let anyone in now,” I say. “We’re in the middle of a session. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to ask him to come back later. Or call.”

  Elin nods and starts to pull the door shut. Then everything happens very fast. The shadow moves away from the wall and shoves Elin ahead of it into the room.

  “You have to let me in. I have to say something. You have to listen to me! Listen to me!” The man roars. His shaved head is glistening with rain, or maybe sweat, under the overhead light. He’s wearing that big down jacket this time too. I immediately recognize Henrik, the man who may have killed his girlfriend. The man who showed up out of the darkness on Medborgarplatsen.

  He looms in the doorway and I notice that he’s staggering. His eyes have a feverish gleam and the faint but distinct scent of alcohol spreads through the room.

  Elin looks like a little doll, down on her knees in front of him.

  “You have to listen to me!” His voice is loud, his face desperate. His sunburn from the last time is peeling, making his skin look ashen. Stubble covers his emaciated cheeks.

  “I’m very sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” I say, and walk over to Henrik slowly, trying to appear calm but decisive, to give the impression of certainty. Inside me there is only a void filled with terror, the sound of my heart beating hard, hard, magnified by a hundred decibels, my stomach tightening, a sound in my ears that grows into a loud recurrent howl, a scream.

  Henrik looks at me. His light blue eyes are rimmed with red.

  Rage, sorrow, desperation.

  Looking into his eyes is like drowning in bleakness.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll go, but you have to listen to me first. You have to listen. She has to listen,” he says, pointing at Kattis, who is curled up in her chair. She’s covering her head and her whole body looks like it’s trembling.

  “Well, look at me, then. Look at me, Kattis! We’re going to talk now. You wanted to talk, right? Now’s your chance. Here I am. Let’s talk!” Henrik stumbles, almost trips over Elin, but catches himself at the last second by grabbing my chair. “Shit,” he mutters, mostly to himself. He is swaying slightly.

  Aina and I look at each other. She looks resolute and starts to get up from her seat.

  “We’re sorry but we have to ask you to leave now, otherwise we’ll be forced to call security,” Aina says, her voice authoritative, determined. As if we could summon a security guard here just by wishing for one. Because we don’t have an alarm system. The one Vijay was supposed to order hasn’t arrived yet, or maybe he forgot to even order it.

  “You’re not going to call security, you’re going to listen to me! And I’m going to tell you how things really are. Do you hear me?” Henrik growls. Suddenly he sniffles and I can see tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. “Damn it, damn it, damn it all to hell,” he mutters, as if he were cursing at himself.

  I scan the room. Sirkka is sitting bolt upright, staring straight ahead. Her wrinkled face is completely unreadable, devoid of expression. Sofie has started crying, huddled up next to Hillevi’s side, as Hillevi carefully strokes her hair. Kattis is still hiding her head in her arms. And Malin is glaring at Henrik. Elin is sitting on the floor, huddled amid a heap of black clothes and necklace strands.

  “Absolutely, of course you’ll have a chance to speak,” Aina says soothingly, slowly approaching Henrik, speaking calmly, enunciating clearly, as if she were speaking to a child.

  “Don’t come over here! Don’t come close,” Henrik snarls, raising one arm. I see something flash in his hand. Metal. A gun?

  “Aina, sit back down!” I exclaim. “Let Henrik talk. Henrik, you can talk now. Tell us what you want to say.”

  I wave my hand to get Aina to back away. I don’t know if she’s seen the weapon in Henrik’s hand, but I understand that we suddenly find ourselves in a totally different situation. A drunk, aggressive abuser of women, possibly also a murderer, is here to settle things and he has brought a gun. The only thing I don’t understand is why Henrik is here. Maybe to hurt Kattis, but why? Why not somewhere more private, why attack her like this, publicly?

  “You have to listen to me!” Henrik’s eyes are locked on me, pleading for confirmation.

  “We’ll listen. Please tell us,” Aina says, again in her gentle voice.

  “You have to understand, she’s nuts! Do you get that? Crazy,” Henrik declares, pointing at Kattis with the metal object. She turns her face to look at him and their eyes meet. She looks naked, vulnerable, desperate.

  But not scared.

  “She’s not what she’s pretending to be,” Henrik continues, his voice slurred. “I never touched her. Do you get that? I never . . . hit her. I swear to God. I’ve never laid a hand on a girl. Don’t you understand? She’s the one who’s a . . . monster, who follows me. She’s crazy and she’s going to manipulate you too. And you—”

  Suddenly he laughs. At first it’s a stifled little chuckle, but it grows into a full-fledged laugh, a belly laugh that bubbles out, uninhibited, filling the entire room.

  “She’s already tricked you. Do you see that?” He’s laughing again, so hard now that he’s hardly able to speak, so much that he has to lean forward and brace himself with an arm on his knee. “Do you get that? She’s already . . . You’ve already fallen for it, all of you. It’s a lie. She’s already . . . Don’t you get it?”

  Then his laughter stops and the room gets quiet. No one says anything and Henrik doesn’t seem to know what to do either. He looks at Kattis, and when he speaks again, it’s as if the words are meant for her, not for the rest of us. We’re just extras.

  “Susanne is dead. I loved her. I love her. And now everything is ruined, you whore. Are you satisfied now?”

  He is sobbing now. His sorrow and pain, so strong and palpable.

  “You’ve ruined my life.”

  His voice is just a faint whisper, and I can hear the dishwasher rumbling in the kitchen and the cars whooshing past in the rain out on Götgatan. It’s as if time is holding its breath. The hands on the wall clock are slowly moving forward. The ticking sound of seconds passing echoes through the room. No one moves. No one says anything.

  Henrik pulls up a chair and sits down. He’s breathing hard, wiping snot and tears off his face with the sleeve of his down jacket, which rustles when he moves. He is holding the weapon out in plain sight now. I don’t know anything about guns, don’t know if it’s a pistol or a revolver, don’t know what type or caliber. I think of Markus, of his service revolver, which he takes care of as if it were a baby and which he won’t even let me touch. He keeps it locked up like he’s supposed to.

  I don’t know what kind of weapon Henrik has, but I know it can kill people. Henrik looks tired, as if his life is already over. Images of hostage situations flash through my head: dead and injured bodies, the hostage taker threatening suicide, specially trained police officers called in to speak calmly, establish contact, talk him down.

  But for the police to respond, someone would have to know we’re here, to know Henrik is here. And no one knows. There isn’t anyone else in the office today. Sven took some time off to go down to his summer house—and fall off the wagon, I’m guessing.

  “Why, Kattis? And what the hell are you doing here with these women?” Henrik asks, glancing around again and raising the gun. Sofie sniffles and squeezes closer to Hillevi.

  Aina says, “How can we help you, Henrik? We want to help you. Tell us what you need to make this better. We’re listening to you.” She sounds confident. There’s nothing to indicate that she’s scared or worried.

  “You just need to understand that she’s crazy and lying about everything. Nothing she says is true. She’s evil!” Henrik screams the last part.

  Aina’s attempts don’t seem to be working. Henrik is somewhere else, in another world. Suddenly
Kattis gets up. Holds out her hands to Henrik.

  “I’m sorry, Henrik. It’s all my fault. I see that now,” Kattis says, her face expressionless, cheeks pale, eyes big.

  I see that she’s crying and so I want to hold out a hand to her, comfort her.

  She approaches Henrik with her head down. Looks as if she’s going toward her own execution, and I wonder if that’s what she’s planning, to sacrifice herself.

  I wish I could prevent her, stop her in midmotion, but I don’t dare. Somewhere inside me I am forced to realize that I don’t dare, that I’m not prepared to give up my life for someone else’s.

  The only thing I want is to be home in my cottage. I think of the life in my belly, of the life that’s growing there.

  My baby.

  I think about Markus, about his warm hands, his body, his laugh. Markus and a baby. Once so complicated, and now suddenly so simple.

  “No!” Hillevi’s scream cuts through the silence. She positions herself between Kattis and Henrik.

  “No,” Hillevi repeats. “Leave her alone. Get out of here. Get out of here.”

  Henrik stares at Hillevi in confusion as if he doesn’t understand what’s going on. Hillevi stands there shaking her head.

  “You need to get out of here now,” Hillevi insists. “Give me your weapon. We’ll help you. We’ll make sure you get help.”

  “But you don’t understand.” Henrik is whispering now, and I can just make out something resigned in his intonation. His eyes are glassy and he looks almost afraid of Hillevi. Then he backs up a step and raises the gun.

  “Just fucking stop right there,” Henrik orders.

  There it is again, the feeling that time has ceased to exist, that we’re all prisoners of this moment, unable to influence the course of events.

  Hillevi moves closer to Henrik and everything inside me goes cold.

  Henrik is drunk, possibly crazy. He is probably scared, has paranoid delusions about Kattis. If he feels threated by Hillevi, anything could happen. She shouldn’t get so close. She should back away.

  Kattis is standing still, her eyes closed. Sofie is alone, now that she can’t lean on Hillevi anymore. Malin and Sirkka are frozen in their seats.

  Suddenly I see Elin, forgotten in one corner of the room. She’s holding a cell phone in her hand. The screen glows faintly. She looks at me and nods slowly and I understand. Somehow she has sent a message. Help is on the way. She quickly hides the cell phone somewhere in her clothes.

  Hillevi holds up her hands as if to signal that she isn’t dangerous, doesn’t mean to do any harm. Little Hillevi against that pumped-up behemoth, Henrik, who stands motionless and astonished, staring at her with the gun gleaming in his hand.

  And then.

  The second hand keeps ticking. Somewhere a car honks. The dishwasher beeps, indicating that it’s done. Someone takes a deep breath. Hillevi takes a step forward; it’s not a big step, not a rapid movement, just a small but definite advancement. But Henrik jumps and a shot rings out.

  Hillevi’s delicate, black-clad body tumbles backward over the table, knocking the plate of cinnamon buns and the Kleenex box onto the floor. From the corner of my eye, I see the buns scatter across the brown carpet, slowly soaking up the blood.

  Henrik looks at his own hand in surprise, as if he can’t understand what’s happened, doesn’t realize what he’s just done.

  Then silence.

  * * *

  I would never have believed how loud a gunshot is.

  Deafening.

  And how the silence that comes afterward is somehow even louder.

  * * *

  Later: Sound, motion, people running in and out of the room, blue lights blinking across the walls from the ambulances and police cars that have arrived. Elin in a Lamino armchair staring straight ahead with a blanket wrapped around her. A friendly woman kneeling down next to Elin asking her how she’s doing, if she needs to go to the hospital.

  Sirkka, Sofie, and Malin sitting in a corner, looking small and abandoned. Kattis standing in another corner talking to the police. Her face is white and there’s something stiff and robotic about her movements. I’m guessing she’s in shock.

  Suddenly someone puts a hand on my shoulder. I jump. I’m still really worked up. I turn around and there’s Markus, in jeans and a baggy hooded sweatshirt.

  “I heard. I heard about a gunshot at a psychology clinic on Medborgarplatsen. I got here as fast as I could. I thought you’d been—” He pauses and turns his face away, as if to hide his emotions. “Damn it, Siri, I thought you’d been—”

  I don’t say anything, just let him hold me in his arms, rock me like a little kid as I finger his sweatshirt, feeling the pilled cotton.

  “Markus, boy, am I glad to see you!” Aina is next to us. Her face is red and smeared with mascara. She’s crying but doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Do you know anything? Anything about Hillevi?” She is watching Markus tensely and I release him. I don’t want to let go, but I realize I have to. I take a few steps back and look at him. Look for clues.

  “I don’t know anything, or I just know what I heard over the radio. A woman was shot. The shooter is at large, fled from the scene on foot.”

  I remember Henrik’s face right after the shot was fired. He looked like a child who just woke up: vulnerable, tired, and expressionless. The way he was looking at the gun, almost amazed, as if it were a new toy and he’d just figured out how it works.

  And Hillevi.

  How she was lying on her back on the table like an animal on a butcher’s block. Her rugged but very diminutive men’s shoes were dangling over the edge, way above the floor, and her black dress was awkwardly hitched up so her small, slender hips showed.

  Sirkka was hovering over her body, trying to stop the bleeding with her wrinkled, blood-soaked hands.

  Blood.

  There was blood everywhere, running down onto the floor, dyeing the sisal carpet a dark red.

  “We haven’t found him yet, but it’s just a matter of time. We’ll get him,” Markus says.

  Aina looks at Markus, trying to convey to him what we saw, explain what can’t be explained.

  “We have to check on them,” I say, pointing to Sirkka, Malin, and Sofie, who are still sitting in their chairs, frozen, forgotten.

  “The EMTs and the police will do that. They’re witnesses, they’ll be taken care of. And you too, someone will come and take care of you,” Markus says, looking calmer now. He’s on his home turf. He sees crime scenes and catastrophes all the time.

  “Hillevi. You have to find out what happened to Hillevi,” Aina pleads, turning to face Markus.

  Markus nods and walks over to a man who looks like he’s in charge. They talk for a bit and I see Markus turning toward us. Maybe he’s explaining to the guy which ones Aina and I are. The man talks and nods. His gestures give nothing away. I can’t tell what he’s saying or what happened to Hillevi. Markus comes back again. I study his eyes and they give away nothing. Just that neutral, professional look. I don’t know, can’t tell, can’t even guess.

  Markus leads us out of the room and into the kitchen, which is empty. We sit down on the chairs. My hands are shaking. I can’t stand the sight of them. I don’t know what’s going on, but suddenly I’m exhausted. I can’t take these shaking hands, a reminder of what we’ve been through, of what I can’t process.

  “Hillevi was hit in the abdomen.” Markus looks at us as if to confirm that what he’s saying is true, that it matches what we saw.

  Aina nods weakly.

  “She was bleeding from the abdomen, very heavily. No one can lose so much blood without . . .”

  “She lost a lot of blood from the gunshot wound. That’s true,” Aina confirms.

  Markus clears his throat, looks pained, and I suddenly feel a lump in my throat. I know what he’s going to say. I know that no one can lose so much blood and survive.

  “Hillevi was taken to Söder Hospital, where she was pronoun
ced dead. She probably died in the ambulance, but she wasn’t pronounced dead until the hospital. It has to be done that way. We can’t just pronounce a death . . .”

  He stops, as if he realizes that we’re tuning out, not interested in the procedural details. Aina and I look at each other and it slowly sinks in.

  Hillevi is dead.

  I’m curled up on the couch with my blanket wrapped around me. I’m still cold. Will the shivering never end? There’s a mug of tea that Markus made me sitting on the coffee table. Maybe he hopes that the warmth from the hot drink will calm me down.

  Outside, I can hear the wind whipping through the tops of the pine trees. It’s blowing hard and rain beats against the windows.

  I want a glass of wine. I know there’s a box in the cupboard above the fridge—there’s always a box in the cupboard above the fridge—but I think about the baby and I know that I need to refrain. I can’t let myself drink anymore, even though the fear is paralyzing my body, eating at me. My craving for a drink is so much stronger than I want to admit, have ever allowed myself to see. But I also know how dangerous it is to drink alcohol when you’re pregnant. I think of the unborn baby inside me and the baby that I once lost, and I know that I can’t take any risks. The wine will have to wait, despite the burning sensation in my stomach, the mild nausea, and my racing pulse. Markus wanted me to accept the Valium from the doctor, but even antianxiety drugs can cause birth defects. No alcohol, no medications.

  Just unabated fear.

  Markus is walking around the living room with restless energy, and I know that he’s torn between staying home with me and wanting to get away, throw himself into his work. Even if Hillevi’s murder doesn’t wind up on Markus’s desk, Markus’s colleague at the Nacka Precinct is still investigating Henrik’s girlfriend’s death. And of course they’ll look into whether the two crimes are connected.

  “Why didn’t you arrest him?” My voice sounds weird, the words are hard to enunciate. They sit like heavy stones in my dry mouth.

  “You mean Henrik?” Markus stops, his restless pacing temporarily interrupted.

  “Of course I mean Henrik. Why didn’t you arrest him? I mean, he’d already killed his girlfriend. If you’d arrested him, then Hillevi would still . . . And now he’s disappeared. What if you never catch him?”