The house is surrounded by thick vegetation. I can’t see what’s growing under all the snow, but I can tell that the yard hasn’t been taken care of in years.
As I approach, I see that there are a lot of things besides just plants in the yard. There are a couple of old junk cars over to the right, buried under the snow, like cadavers someone dragged home. There’s a pile of car tires next to that. To my left I can make out the outlines of an overturned shopping cart. Just the little wheels are sticking up out of the snow. In front of the steps there’s a snowy mound, which I quickly realize is actually a tarp covering something else, maybe firewood or more junk. The stairs are littered with broken washing machines, microwaves, and bicycle wheels. An old, broken ladder is leaning against the front of the house.
The house itself is made of brick and looks like it was built sometime in the fifties. Warm light shines out of the downstairs windows, painting golden shapes on the snow in front of me.
Everything is silent.
The snow falls down around me, burying the yard’s sad collection of dead appliances and retired cars. With trembling fingers I clear the snow away from something that looks like an old mangle, and sit down on it to catch my breath. It’s awfully cold. I wish someone were with me: Aina, Markus, Vijay, Hillevi.
For some reason, I fixate on Hillevi. Her calm self-confidence would have been a big help out here in the woods.
Then I hear something in the darkness behind me. It sounds like an empty metal bucket plopping onto the ground. A hollow sound. I turn around, squinting into the darkness, but all I see are the snowflakes dancing around in the night. Is it possible that I’m not alone here? Could it be Tobias? But there aren’t any footprints in the snow around the house. And Tobias is in Göteborg, far from here.
After a moment’s hesitation, I decide to walk the last little bit up to the house, sneaking along the walls. I peek into the lighted windows. I think about how easy it is to look in from out here, whereas I can’t be seen from inside.
I’m looking into the kitchen. The counters are covered with pots, pans, and bowls. There are dirty dishes strewn everywhere. Old pizza boxes left on the yellow-and-white checkered linoleum floor. There’s no sign of life. The house seems deserted. I walk toward the front door, sneak up the steps, and grab the handle. The door swings open easily.
The front hall is dark and filled with boxes of magazines. I recognize the smell of cigarette smoke and something else: food, oil, coffee, and that unwashed, old-person smell, a smell that turns my stomach and evokes long, drawn-out dinners at the home of my father’s old, unmarried aunt. The smell of pot roast with anchovies and gravy, cucumber salad, almond biscotti, and then that musty smell of my great-aunt’s unwashed-old-lady body and the fetid grime all around her house.
There’s a cheese grater on the floor just inside the door and a pair of women’s rubber boots. I bend over to take a closer look at them, but before I manage to grab the boot, a shape rushes toward me. It takes a second before I realize it’s a dog, a fat, old golden retriever. The dog seems happy to see me, bouncing around my legs and licking my hands as if we were old friends.
My legs are trembling as I cautiously make my way through the front hall. The doorway to the right opens into the dining room. All the surfaces are covered with food wrappers and newspapers, but for some reason everything is stacked very neatly in piles as if the person living here actually tried to create some sense of order amid the chaos.
Suddenly there’s a shrill sound, like a child blowing on a recorder. My heart pounds harder and my numb legs go weak.
Little tiny figures jump out of an old-fashioned cuckoo clock hanging on the wall over the dining table, announcing that it is six o’clock. I exhale, feel the nausea permeating my body, turn around, and exit the dining room.
The other side of the entry hall opens onto a living room. The doorway is almost completely blocked with stuff—old skis, fishing rods, a welding mask, crates of empty soda bottles with names I recognize from my childhood: Trocadero, Sockerdricka, Pommac. I slowly make my way into the room, trip over some kind of shrink-wrapped packages that are lying in piles on the floor. I grab hold of a curtain to keep from falling. The fabric releases a cloud of dust, filling the air around me, making it gritty and hard to breathe. I cough, feeling my windpipe contract.
The room is filled with dark, heavy, ornate furniture. Chairs are stacked on top of tables. Hanging on the walls are reproductions of landscapes, crying children, and sailboats. Mustard-yellow velvet curtains cover all the windows, making it impossible for me to see out.
I hear the dog trailing behind me, its claws clicking against the worn wooden floorboards. There are no signs of a child anywhere. I feel stupid and begin to question why I’m here. This is all so pointless; Tilda isn’t even here.
When the blow comes, I am completely unprepared. The pain is acute and sharp, and I see stars. I feel strong arms lifting me from behind and a big hand covers my mouth. I smell aftershave mixed with sweat. I try to turn my head and I catch a glimpse of dark hair and pimply skin.
Tobias.
“So you came after all, you goddamn whore,” he hisses in my ear.
“Tilda,” I mumble.
“The kid? You want to see the kid?” he says.
I try to nod.
“Lucky for you she’s still here. Sure, you can see the kid. Of course.”
He starts dragging me back out into the entry hall, past the piles of newspapers and the stacked-up furniture. I try to put my feet down, try to walk on my own, but he hits me again, and I quit struggling against him. A sudden shove makes me lose my balance and I fall headfirst onto the floor. I feel a kick in my side, a very light, almost slightly lazy kick, but still hard enough to make me jump. I think of Susanne, remember her mangled face.
Behind me I hear the creaking sound of rusty hinges and suddenly I’m jerked up again. Tobias pulls me up off the floor and shoves me through a doorway.
“She’s up there. In the closet.”
I hesitate for a moment, but I decide that he’s telling the truth. I believe that Tilda is up there.
“Well, go in, for God’s sake,” he orders, shoving me again toward a set of rickety wooden stairs. I stumble forward in the darkness as I hear the door behind me being shut, followed by a clink.
* * *
Darkness.
I feel my way up the stairs to the attic. I hold my hands out in front of me and feel some kind of cord that runs, snakelike, farther into the space. I take a few hesitant steps across the wooden floor, and it creaks under my weight. Outside the wind races around the corners of the house. I’m forced to step over soft piles of something. Clothes, maybe? Or old newspapers?
Then I feel something else. The cord ends at a little round object, a light-bulb. That means that there must be a switch somewhere. Slowly I back out the way I came, following the cord, stepping carefully over the piles on the floor. I smell mildew and dust.
Then I find the switch.
It makes a snapping sound as I flip it on and suddenly the attic is bathed in light.
And that’s when I see her.
Propped up against the wall like a rag doll, between two old suitcases, a woman in her sixties is slumped over. Her face is swollen and covered with bruises. Her fingers are curled up like claws, frozen in an unnatural position. Her coat is stained and dusty, as if someone has dragged her across the floor. She isn’t wearing any shoes, just a gray knitted sock on one foot.
Instinctively, I scream and take a step back, bump into something, and fall backward into a soft pile of newspapers and old clothes.
Dust flies around me, making me cough.
Still, I can’t stop looking at her. There’s something hypnotic about her; I realize that she’s dead.
I force myself to stop looking at her so I can scope out the room.
The space is smaller than I’d thought and I’m guessing I must be right under the ridge of the roof. There are old parkas, jeans, a
nd stacks of newspapers all over the floor. I squat by a stack of newspapers from 1989. Next to that there are other newspapers, all from 1989, yellowed bundles that testify to what happened that year. I look at the one on top: March 14, “Kerstin Ekman and Lars Gyllensten Leave Swedish Academy in Protest.” I pick up the newspaper. The paper is hard, the pages all stuck together as if it’s been lying in water. Beneath it there’s another paper: March 25, 1989, “No More Clues in Disappearance of Helén Nilsson, Age 10” and “Oil Catastrophe in Alaska.”
With difficulty, I get up and look around. At one end of the long narrow room there’s a dusty little window, and at the other end, a door.
The closet.
I carefully make my way over to the door, trudging through all the junk. I walk in a wide circle around the dead woman; I don’t want to risk knocking her over, don’t want to accidentally end up being touched by those clawlike hands, that cold skin.
“Tilda, are you in there?”
I knock so hard on the rough wooden door that I end up with splinters in my hands.
No one answers. No little girl’s voice calls back to me.
The door has a lock but no handle. I feel my way around the edges of it until I find a crack big enough to slip my fingers in. Then I pull as hard as I can, brace myself against the wall with my foot and the door flies wide open with a sigh.
And there she sits.
She looks skinnier than in the papers. Her arm is hanging awkwardly from a rope over her head. Her face is dirty, but I can clearly see those big, dark eyes, which blink up at me with total confusion in the sudden light. The faint odor of urine fills the tiny space. There’s a dirty blanket and some empty waxed-paper baking cups.
I untie the rope, which is attached to a coat hook on the wall of the closet, bend down, and pick her tiny body up in my arms.
* * *
So light.
To think that a life weighs so little.
I’m surprised by this as I make my way back through the room toward the stairs. She doesn’t put up any resistance, doesn’t say anything, just leans her head against my shoulder as if she were asleep.
I carefully cover her eyes with my hand so she doesn’t have to see the body of the woman in the main attic room. She’s seen enough death and evil.
Through the floorboards I hear Tobias stomping around, clattering and cursing. I don’t know why he just brought me to Tilda so flippantly, but I fear the worst. Something is about to happen, something terrible. I carefully sit down on a pile of clothes, with Tilda still in my arms. I hear her breathing becoming more regular. I close my eyes, give in to the pain and the increasing dizziness.
Suddenly I hear something; it sounds like the walls are full of rats nibbling on the insulation. At the same time I notice a sharp odor, gasoline. The sound gets louder and suddenly I realize what’s going on.
It’s on fire. Tobias has set the house on fire.
Bluish-gray wisps of smoke push their way up through the old floorboards and I realize there’s not much time, all the wood furniture and boxes full of junk will only feed the flames.
It’s still dark in the stairwell, but the light from the attic is enough for me to see by as I hurry down. When I grab the door handle, it’s hot, and I recoil, wrap my scarf around my hand and try again. I push down on the hot handle, coughing from the smoke pouring in under the door. But it doesn’t open. I try again. And then I understand: the bang when he closed the door behind me, the clink I heard on my way up the stairs.
He locked the door.
With Tilda in my arms I rush back up into the tiny attic. I can clearly hear the fire below me, like a faint, drawn-out hiss. I can hear snapping, the sound of glass breaking. I hear the dog bark from somewhere, persistently and loudly.
The lone, black window stands out against the wood paneling ahead of me.
Very carefully, I set Tilda down on the floor in front of me. I wipe the windowpane clean with my shirt and look out. The snow is swirling around outside and makes it impossible for me to see anything. I unlock the window and push with all my weight until it pops open and the cold air steams in. I lean out and look down.
We’re maybe twenty feet up. At first I can’t see what’s below us: the snow is way too deep. Then I notice something down below. First I see only sharp metal pieces sticking up out of the snow, but then I realize that it’s a pile of old bicycle frames.
It would be too dangerous to jump out here.
I see a lanky figure plodding through the snow, the dog following close behind.
“Tobias!” I shout. “You can’t leave us here! Do you understand?”
The figure pauses for a moment, turns around and looks at me. Then he turns back around again and keeps going, not in any hurry.
“Come back here, you asshole!”
He doesn’t react, just disappears into the snowfall.
I collapse onto the floor next to Tilda. Even with the window open, the cramped little room is starting to fill with smoke. Tilda coughs and I take her cold little hand in mine. I hear her mumbling something.
“What did you say, honey?”
“Mama,” she says. “I want my mama.”
I squeeze her hand again without responding and we sit there for a few seconds. Then I feel the kick. It’s so incredibly faint, as if a baby bird just did a somersault inside me, bouncing off the inside of my abdomen. I put my hand to my stomach and feel it again, clearer this time, another little kick. Another life.
And I know we have to get out of this damn house.
I look around the room again. Maybe I can make some kind of a rope out of old clothes and we can climb down?
“Wait here,” I say, and push myself up. I walk through the crowded room, picking up clothes from the floor. I avoid looking at the woman’s body slumped against the wall. Smoke seeps up through all the cracks. I can hear the fire roaring like a hungry beast below us.
I quickly tie the clothes together into a makeshift rope, attach it to one of the beams above the window and hang from it to test its strength. It breaks right away. A pair of jeans in the middle rips from my weight. The cloth is brittle after having lain around for countless years in this damp attic.
I take out the jeans from the makeshift rope and tie it back up again, then pull on it again to test its strength.
Rip.
The coat splits in two and dust swirls around in the air, mixing with the increasingly thick smoke.
“Damn it.”
Tears well up in my eyes. I don’t know if it’s because of the smoke or the situation. I sink down next to Tilda.
“Mama will be here soon,” I lie.
She doesn’t respond.
* * *
We sit still on the floor, listening to the windowpanes exploding downstairs.
Then I hear a voice from somewhere. At first I think the voice is coming from inside the house, but then I realize it’s coming from outside.
When I lean out the window, I see him down below, in the dense snowfall. He’s standing with his legs apart, looking up at the attic window.
“Help!” I scream. My plea comes out hoarse and weak, but he can still hear me.
He rushes over and I notice something familiar about the way he moves, his big strong body, his shaved head.
“Jump!” he hollers.
“I can’t! There’s a bunch of junk under the snow!”
I rack my brain and recall that I saw something by the front door before I came into the house. “A ladder!” I yell down to him. “There’s a ladder by the front door!”
Immediately he turns around and runs to the front of the house, disappearing into the snow. There’s a cracking sound behind us, as if the entire house was about to collapse. Suddenly the floor shudders beneath me and I almost lose my footing, because it feels like the floor is disappearing. But it doesn’t disappear; it just turns into a slope. Now the whole floor is slanted, as if we were standing on one side of a sailboat, and I’m forced to hold on to the wind
ow frame to keep from sliding away toward the stairs.
“Mama!” Tilda cries out.
Without a moment to spare, I grab Tilda’s arm to stop her from sliding away. The little body that I carried so easily not long ago is now heavy as lead. With the last of my strength, I pull her back up to the window.
“You have to hold on here, do you understand?”
She looks at me, glassy-eyed, without responding, but obediently grabs on to the windowsill.
The cardboard boxes, bundles of newspapers and junk slide down the sloped floor into the fire. Out of the corner of my eye I see the woman’s body and the suitcases on either side of her slowly glide away and disappear into the flames with a sizzle.
Then he’s back. He moves several bicycle frames out of the way and props the ladder up against the façade. Without saying anything he starts climbing up. The first rung gives out under him and he falls backward onto the ground, cursing. He lies there on his back, looking at us hanging halfway out the window.
And that’s when I see who it is.
Henrik.
The nausea returns with a force I didn’t think was possible and I sink down onto my knees on the slanted floor in front of the window.
And suddenly I understand how it all fits together.
I realize why the car with the broken headlight was following us in the storm. Henrik was following Kattis, who he thinks killed Susanne and kidnapped Tilda.
Then suddenly he’s there outside the window, at the top of the ladder. His face is level with mine. His eyes are open wide, his arms outstretched.
“Pass me Tilda. I’ll carry her down first.”
“Henrik!” Tilda shouts and stretches those small arms out to him, but I hold her back. How do I know he’s planning to rescue her? I watched this man kill a woman right in front of me.
Henrik can tell what I’m thinking. He looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Oh my God, how could you think that?” he says. “Tilda’s like a daughter to me.”
There’s desperation in his eyes now. Yet another massive cracking sound comes from inside the house and the sloped floor becomes even steeper. Now I feel the heat radiating up from below as if we were atop an enormous oven. And I realize that’s exactly where we are.
More Bitter Than Death Page 28