The door to the outhouse slides open with a grating sound and I hurry in out of the wind. The little bathroom is bare-bones, and the only decoration is the collage of Bowie pictures on the one wall. I sink down onto the toilet and pee and brush my teeth at the same time, thinking that if I ever do move, I want a proper bathroom, one with tile on the walls, a heated floor, and a bathtub.
A luxury to dream about.
The air feels even colder and rawer, if that’s possible, as I make my way back through the yard to the cottage. The windows gleam like yellow eyes in the darkness as I approach the door. I take one last, big step to avoid the mud puddle that has formed just at the base of the steps. In the distance I hear a boat approaching.
Once I’m safely back in the relative warmth, I shove some wood into the woodstove and get the fire going, then go to the kitchen to put the teakettle on. And it is then, as I stand there holding the retro-trendy pistachio-colored teakettle my sisters gave me for Christmas, that I hear the sound. It sounds like someone knocking in the living room.
Hesitantly I tiptoe out of the kitchen. The floorboards feel colder than usual, but in the living room the heat from the fire has started to spread and I can hear the crackling of the burning wood.
I don’t see her right away. At first I can only make out the contours of a white face outside the black glass doors. Pale and bleary-eyed, the face seems to inspect me as I stand there in the middle of the room, frozen in fear. Then the face comes closer, presses up against the windowpane, and I see who it is.
Malin.
* * *
I open the glass door slightly. She’s not wearing a jacket, just a thin cardigan and sneakers. Her eyes are swollen and red and her skin is white as paper.
“Can I come in?”
“What in the world happened?”
“Please, let me in. You remember how you said we could always get in touch with you if something came up and . . . I couldn’t stand it at home, so I drove out here. I’m sorry I didn’t call first. I should have called, but . . .”
Without saying anything, I open the door, and she slips in like a cat.
“Come in,” I say. “I’m sure you’re freezing.”
She nods at me and rubs her hands together, walks right over to my worn, yellowish-brown couch, and plops down.
I approach her cautiously, wrap the plaid blanket around her shivering, chilled body.
“You’re not even dressed. What happened?” I ask.
“I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t do it,” Malin says, staring vacantly, shoulders tensely pulled up, her wet hair plastered to her head.
I sit down next to her on the couch and take her hand in mine, feel her shivering, from the cold and maybe from something else. Fear?
“Malin, what happened?”
But it’s as if she doesn’t hear me. She’s just shivering under the blanket, staring straight ahead with a vacant look in her eyes. Suddenly I’m worried that she actually has hypothermia, that maybe I need to take her to the hospital.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” I ask.
She nods without looking at me, and I hesitantly return to the kitchen.
“Do you want anything else? A sandwich maybe?”
She shakes her head.
The situation feels uncomfortable. I’m not close to Malin, would never invite her to my home under normal circumstances. Obviously Aina and I urged all the women in the group to call if they wanted to talk, but coming to my house like this, at seven o’clock in the morning? That really isn’t normal. I bring Malin the steaming cup of tea and sit down next to her.
She’s shaking so much that when she raises the cup, hot tea sloshes onto the couch and her hands, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“You know, for a while I felt like I had everything under control,” she whispers.
“What did you have under control?” I ask.
She looks at me and smiles weakly.
“Myself. After the rape it was like my whole world fell apart. For a while I thought I was going crazy for real, losing my mind. Then . . . I forced myself to be unbelievably disciplined about my training and food, and I totally gave up drinking since I was so afraid of losing control. And you know what? It actually worked. I got my life back, my mind back. It’s just that every once in a while, it all sort of . . . comes back to me. Like when I ran into him, the rapist, downtown. I had the worst panic attack. And I’m scared that I’m losing it again and . . . I don’t want to, because I want to be in control of my life. I don’t want to fall down into that abyss, don’t want to go crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re going crazy, Malin. I think it just feels that way. And the more you run away from your feelings, the more power you’re giving them. It would be better if you got up the courage to tackle your feelings head-on instead of going out running as soon as the fear starts closing in.”
“But now everything is all shot to hell—” She buries her head on her knees, resting it on the plaid blanket. I carefully take the teacup out of her hand and set it on the table.
“What’s happened now that is making you feel like this?” I ask.
“I’m back in that black hole and it feels like I’m going crazy again.”
“You have to tell me about it, Malin. Otherwise I can’t help you.”
“Okay.” She sighs, pulling her head back up out of the blanket to look at me. “That woman who was kicked to death by her boyfriend, Susanne. She was one of the people who gave my rapist an alibi. I didn’t realize that at first. But when Kattis said her name and where she lived, I recognized it right away. I mean, there were a bunch of people who gave him an alibi, five people, so it wasn’t just her fault. But . . . do you know how many hours I’ve spent hating those people, wishing they would die? And then she did die, and it’s like I don’t know if I should be happy or think it’s awful. On the one hand, I think she deserved to die, on the other hand I totally get how sick that is, and I don’t want to be sick. And then the police came and started asking a bunch of questions about the rape and whether I knew Susanne and what I thought about her. They were trying to see if I was involved in some way, like I haven’t suffered enough. I mean, I told them that I’m the victim. I just want my life to be the way it used to be. Before. But it can’t, because now everything that happened to me is, like, coming back. I can’t sleep anymore, can’t eat, can’t even concentrate for long enough to watch a normal TV show. I feel like I’m losing it now. For real.”
* * *
The rain has finally stopped. The heavy clouds have moved on, revealing a pale-blue November sky. The wind has let up and the bay is glossy; only gentle ripples are visible on its surface. A few seabirds bob on the water, periodically diving and then resurfacing.
I don’t know anything about birds. Don’t know what kind they are, what they eat, where they nest. If Markus were here, he could tell me. He’s more of an outdoorsman than I am. He knows the plants and animals. He can start a fire with two sticks, has an uncanny sense of direction.
A real boy scout.
But Markus is still in Västerås and I’m left alone in the cottage. Left to my own thoughts and devices.
Malin has gone home. She slept for several hours on my couch and then left. Mostly she seemed guilty about bothering me. I’m sitting at the computer, working. I decided to work from home since today’s only patient canceled.
I think about Malin’s story, wonder if she might have something to do with what happened to Susanne, try to understand her reaction, how extreme discipline can protect a person from feelings of powerlessness, humiliation, and fear.
No matter how I try, I can’t shake the thought of her. I do a little cleaning, wash the dishes, measure the bedroom yet again to decide if the crib will really fit.
Then twilight falls and yet another day is over.
There are five messages on my cell phone the next morning. Four are from Elin at the office, who wants to change around appointments, but the messages she lea
ves are so confused that I can’t understand what she means. I make a note in my calendar to call her Monday and clear things up.
The fifth message is from a Roger Johnsson. He introduces himself as a police officer investigating the murder of Henrik’s girlfriend, Susanne Olsson, and says he wants me to call him back as soon as possible.
* * *
Roger Johnsson answers his phone before I even hear it ring, as if he had had spent his whole Saturday morning just waiting for my call. He explains rather brusquely that he wants to see me, preferably today. I suggest Monday instead, but he says that it’s important and that he would appreciate it if I could stop by. When I ask what it pertains to, his answer is evasive, a strategy I am familiar with from Markus. He wants me not to know when we meet, so he can observe my reactions, my spontaneous reactions. We decide to meet that afternoon in Nacka Strand where he works.
Where he and Markus work, same precinct station.
Markus and Roger are colleagues, which Roger quickly mentions to me. They know each other, chat sometimes, occasionally get coffee. But they’re not working together on this case.
I open the glass door. The birds are gone and a strange silence has spread over my little bay. There’s almost no wind and the water is smooth and leaden gray. Dark clouds have spread across the sky from the north and the air feels colder.
It looks like there’s a storm coming.
Roger Johnsson is middle-aged. He’s wearing jeans, a dress shirt and blazer, and a leather belt with a big brass buckle. He’s also one of very few Swedish men with a mustache. For some reason it makes me think about the men on the TV show Dallas. He looks like one of Bobby Ewing’s buddies straight out of 1980s Texas, just without the cowboy hat—a sort of anachronism in a cowboy shirt plunked down in a small town in Sweden.
“Ah, Siri. I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here.” He looks at me and I make out a restrained smirk behind his bushy mustache. “I want to talk to you about Malin Lindbladh. You were a witness to the fatal shooting at Medborgarplatsen, and I have some questions that relate to that and to another violent crime. Markus might have mentioned the investigation?”
Roger leans forward and gazes at me, studying me intently, in a way that makes me uncomfortable, as if I were sitting naked in front of him. I’m grateful that I’m here voluntarily and not as a suspect. I’m guessing that Roger would be really uncomfortable to have to deal with, the kind of person you want on your side.
We’re in his office at the Nacka police station. It’s already dark outside, even though it’s only three in the afternoon, one of the pleasures of living so far north. The glow of the streetlights reflects off the wet asphalt, and a few people scurry by, huddled over, toward the bus station or maybe the ferry, in the heavy rain that has moved in from the north. Roger’s office is small and cluttered with books, papers, and files. A radio is on low playing easy listening. Someone named Monica dedicates a song to her honey, and then Ronan Keating starts singing.
“Weren’t you involved in some other case several years ago? Wasn’t a patient murdered in your yard? It seems like having you for a therapist is dangerous. Shit, I didn’t know therapy could kill,” Roger jokes.
He laughs a brief, horselike laugh, and I feel even more unsettled. He must be aware of my background, know what I’ve been through. And yet he’s sitting here teasing me about what happened to me and my patient. It’s preposterous and offensive. Plus he’s asking questions about one of my current patients. I feel increasingly irritated.
“Yes,” I say, in a tone that says, Get to the point, would you?
“Right, Malin. She is in some kind of group for abused women that you’re leading. Is that correct?”
Roger studies me, in his eyes a mixture of compassion and condescension. I feel small, vulnerable. Aren’t the police supposed to be helping people like me? To serve and protect? Or is that just on American TV?
“It’s a group for women who have been the victims of violence, not just domestic abuse. And as for Malin, I actually can’t discuss her. Information about my patients is confidential. Nor can I divulge who my patients are.”
“Confidential, I see. But Malin herself said that she is in therapy with you and that we could talk to you. We know that she is. We questioned her after the fatal shooting of . . .”
He hesitates, as if he can’t remember Hillevi’s name.
“Of the female patient in the same group. Anyway, we would like you to confirm some information. Could you maybe tell me a little about the group?” He gives me an encouraging look.
“Yes, well . . . It’s a sort of support group for women from the municipality of Värmdö who have experienced violence. The idea is for the participants to gain strength from working through their problems on their own, even after the group ends.”
“Ah, yes, that sounds uh . . . good, I guess. We here at the police rarely have time to give crime victims the attention they deserve.”
I see a spark of something in his eyes. It’s weak and yet there’s something there, pathos maybe. Empathy? And I suspect that behind the cop façade and the oversized mustache, he actually is committed to helping.
“Malin Lindbladh was raped in Gustavsberg two years ago. Are you aware of this?” he asks.
“Absolutely, that’s one of the things we’ve discussed in the group.”
“So she told you what happened?”
“She explained in detail what happened to her, yes. She also told us that you let the perpetrator go free.”
“Well now, we’re not the ones who decide whether criminals are guilty or not and what consequences they receive. The court acquitted him.”
“Because some of his buddies gave him an alibi, yes.”
Roger shrugs and says, “Stuff like that happens. You can’t catch everyone. I’m sure you understand that. If you’re so familiar with what happened to Malin, perhaps you also know that Susanne Olsson was one of the five people who gave her accused rapist an alibi?”
“Yes, she told me that. Not the others in the group, but me,” I say.
“What did she say about it?”
“That’s all she said. That Susanne gave him an alibi and that you had questioned her. She was upset.”
“Upset, why?” Roger asks.
“Well, surely that’s not so unlikely, what with everything that happened. Your questioning her stirred up memories of the rape and the trial, and that upset her.”
Roger nods and runs his hand over his graying mustache.
“And what is your take on Malin Lindbladh? Is she sane, clinically speaking? Is she credible?”
I picture Malin, how she looked when she showed up at my cottage, her tired face, her hunched posture, the fear, the dejection.
“I absolutely think she’s sane, a little peculiar perhaps, but absolutely sane.”
“Peculiar? In what way?”
I squirm a little on the uncomfortable visitor’s chair, afraid of putting it the wrong way and arousing unnecessary suspicion of Malin.
“I think she had a really tough time after the rape. She subjects herself to rigorous training, dieting, and other types of self-discipline to control her anxiety. That’s my impression, my clinical impression,” I say, and cock my head to the side.
Roger smiles.
“And what about her reliability, do you think? Do you trust her?”
I contemplate Malin’s story for a bit. Nothing she said seems to have been a lie or an exaggeration. I don’t see any reason not to believe what she says.
“Yes, I think she’s reliable. I mean, you can never know for sure, of course, but I still think . . . yes, I believe her.”
Roger grins.
“Interesting that you say you can never know for sure. You have a bunch of forensic psychology colleagues who are willing to swear under oath to all manner of things. Just think about all the testimony in Thomas Quick’s murder trials, talk about incompetence.”
Roger shakes his head, as if he pities me for
belonging to such a pathetic profession, full of naïve know-it-alls and quacks.
“My assessment is that she is reliable, and that you can never know.”
He nods again, looks at me, and slams his little black notebook shut. Our conversation is over.
Excerpt from Investigative Notes, in Accordance with the Provisions of the Social Services Act Regarding Young People
The 14-year-old boy was charged with the aggravated assault of a 34-year-old shop owner after the shop owner accused the boy of shoplifting in his store. The event was reported to the police and is under investigation. The boy claims that he did indeed hit the shop owner but that the shop owner was holding on to him and threatening to call the police, and that he panicked and struggled to escape. He also admits that he entered the store, which sells athletic clothing, with the intent to steal a heart rate monitor, but refuses to comment on what happened.
The boy’s parents say the boy has had a very troubled history at school throughout his entire adolescence. In recent years he has only been attending school sporadically and has instead been hanging out with a gang of older boys downtown. There is suspicion of both criminality and drug use among these teens. The family had previously been working with Pediatric Psychiatric Services but didn’t feel like that was going anywhere. The guidance counselor did not have any success either in changing the boy’s destructive behavior or getting him to return to school.
The parents say they’re desperate and no longer know what to do. They are very worried about their son’s trajectory. They also say that all the conflict about their son has taken a toll on their relationship and that they are now considering separating. However, they believe this might cause even more trouble for their son since he has a hard time dealing with change. The mother also admits that she is afraid to be alone with her son since he sometimes has awful angry outbursts if he doesn’t get what he wants. He attacked her physically a few days ago when, after repeatedly warning him to stop, she switched off his computer because he had been playing computer games for longer than the agreed time. On that occasion he shook her and called her a bitch. The parents think their son might need some alternative living arrangement.
More Bitter Than Death Page 19