H01 - The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  Peder continued about the involvement of the U.S. and the rest of the world in Lebanese politics, Syria’s retaking of and later departure from Lebanon, the murder of Rafi1 Hariri, and the current situation. Petra listened with great interest. She hoped that all this useful information would not be completely gone tomorrow, and convinced herself that the essentials would stick in her mind anyway. Two hours later, when yet another glass of wine was put in front of her, it occurred to her that she was in desperate need of a restroom visit. She had been so consumed by the sympathetic man’s monologue and—she believed and hoped—her newly won knowledge about her colleague and his background, that she had forgotten herself.

  “How do you happen to be so well-informed about all this?” she asked when she returned.

  On her way back from the restroom she determined that she was not particularly intoxicated, but decided that it was time to go home after this glass anyway. Three beers and two glasses of wine in five hours was no problem, but it was more than enough.

  “I’ve worked down there,” Peder answered. “True, it was a long time ago, but I love that country and keep up with what’s going on.”

  “What did you do there?” Petra asked.

  “I worked as a doctor for an organization called ’Doctors without Borders’.”

  Petra laughed at his modesty. “Are you kidding me, you’re a Nobel Prize winner! Let me congratulate you.”

  “I’ve never looked at it that way, but maybe you’re right,” Peder said. “Let’s drink to that.”

  They did, and Peder also had a few things to say about the refugee camp in Beirut where he worked and then revealed, to a direct question from Petra, that he was now working as an anesthesiologist at Karolinska hospital.

  “What kind of work do you do?” he then asked.

  Petra was in no way ashamed of her choice of occupation, but over the years she had discovered that people’s reactions sometimes disappointed her when she answered that question truthfully. For that reason she had a standard response that she gave to people she did not meet on duty, and whom she had no intention of seeing again.

  “I’m an insurance agent at Folksam,” she replied, absent-mindedly fingering her watch.

  The answer was so uninteresting there were seldom any follow-up questions, and that was the point of it.

  “Then you’re close to work anyway,” Peder said.

  Petra smiled back and downed the last drops in the glass. She noticed that it was almost midnight and she was starting to feel extremely tired. The week had taken its toll after all, although she had not really accomplished anything. She waved at the bartender and showed him the four hundred kronor piled neatly on the bar. She knew that would be more than enough, tip included.

  “Well, I think it’s time to move along,” said Petra, getting down from the barstool.

  “I agree,” said Peder, anticipating her attempt to take her coat from the hook under the bar.

  He helped her with her coat and handed her the bag she had set down on the counter, then he put on his own jacket. Petra had spent twenty minutes in the shoe store trying to decide whether to buy the better-looking boots with a little higher heel, or the not-as-fashionable but more comfortable ones with a lower heel. In the end she chose the trendy boots with the slightly higher heels. Which she regretted now, when one foot folded under her.

  “Whoops,” said Petra, with a vague thought going through her mind that had something to do with flirting.

  “I’ll follow you to a taxi, young lady,” said Peder Fryhk, taking her arm under his.

  DIARY OF A MURDERER,

  NOVEMBER 2006, SATURDAY

  IT’S ELEVEN THIRTY. A man in his sixties, in a leather jacket with fur collar and checkered old-man cap, comes out. The first thing I notice is his hand, and sure enough—there’s a ring on it. That’s the way to take care of your marriage. Have a lot, want more. I’ve never had anyone myself. No one to love, no one to talk to, no one to eat with, no one to sleep with. But tonight I’m going to talk with someone. And sleep with someone.

  I ring the doorbell. She opens the door and looks at me in surprise, but lets me in right away and closes the door behind us. I’m sure she’s worried the other tenants will notice the traffic in and out of her apartment.

  “Who are you?” she asks.

  “A customer,” I answer.

  She studies me suspiciously up and down.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I’ve seen you,” I answer truthfully.

  “What’s your name?”

  “John Holmes,” I answer disarmingly.

  She bursts into laughter and shrugs.

  “Well, what the hell!” she says, still laughing. “So, what do you want?”

  “Same as everyone else,” I answer. “Sex.”

  She helps me off with my jacket and hangs it up. I take off my shoes without feeling at all nervous. I feel like I’m finally in my element. The forbidden fifth dimension.

  “Is this the first time?” she asks, probably meaning something different than me when I answer, “Yes, it’s the first time.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Yes, I am,” I lie. “Let’s have a little something to drink first.”

  She didn’t hesitate to take me up on my suggestion, and I offer her the drink I brought with me, while she provocatively takes off one piece of clothing at a time, until finally she is standing naked in front of me, in all her flabby shame. Then she eases my clothes off, as carefully as if I were made of glass. She kisses me all over my body except on the mouth, which I appreciate. Never will this repugnant creature touch my mouth with her disgusting, sticky lips. But she knows her stuff, I must admit, and as her lips and tongue wander between my legs I cannot hold back the tears. She leads me to the bed where we wallow in our shameless nakedness.

  She is lying under me and her movements are languid and slow now. I slide my fingers inside her and she moans quietly, as I whisper in her ear, through worn, bleached hair, “May I tie you up...?”

  And she nods in response, with closed eyes, while her thighs are still arching around my hand. I carefully remove my fingers, retrieve my scissors and twine, and then bind her hands and feet gently, but tightly and meticulously, to the bedposts. She is sleeping now, but awakens with a shriek when I shove my knee into her crotch with all my strength. Her wide-open eyes look at me in stunned terror, but I continue talking in a smooth, almost whispering voice as I straddle her and wave the scissors.

  “Now it’s time for a haircut...”

  She screams, but I smother the sound with a corner of the sheet that I force into her mouth. I feel just as gloriously soft and diffuse as when we were having sex, and her quivering body and frightened eyes cannot alter my state of mind. I cut her hair, one strand at a time, and do not neglect showing her the result. All the while I tell her who I am and what she did to me, and she nods energetically to confirm that she knows. I take the sheet out of her mouth and she promises not to scream. Instead she apologizes and she promises and promises to make it up to me, to do anything, while I cut off her eyelashes and finally her eyebrows, although some pieces of flesh come off too.

  The blood is running in steady streams down her tear-stained whore’s face smeared with makeup, and I ask if it hurts as I cut a little inside her with the scissors. She screams that it hurts and I shove the sheet back in her mouth and tell her that there are many, many different kinds of pain. She shudders in convulsions, so I am nice to her and take the sheet out of her mouth again. She begs and pleads, and so I light a cigarette for her. She thanks me and smiles desperately. I say “no problem”, then I put the sheet back and take the cigarette and burn a deep hole on her belly with it. All the while I am telling her more childhood memories, but the cigarette goes out after a while. I wonder how a little salt in the wound might feel, so I get salt from the kitchen and pour it on the wound, but it doesn’t seem to feel good at all, and I explain to her what loneliness feels like and self
-contempt. I am starting to get tired of the physical violence, because I’m really not a physical person at all, I prefer to stay on the mental plane instead, but I can’t think of anything more to say, so for the last time I take the sheet out of her mouth and ask her nicely to really beg me for forgiveness from the bottom of her heart, then it will be over, and she does that and I strangle her and then it’s over.

  Now here I go again, not without a little pride, venting my feelings about people’s—and my own—evil. Now I’m no better than they are—never really was—but now the roles are reversed. Now they’re the victims and I’m the bully. I have reached a turning point in life and stopped pitying myself. I choose action instead of brooding. The sands of navel-gazing have run out of their hourglass, and the time for retribution has come.

  Imagine that Ann-Kristin—pretty, strong, tough, self-assured, unbeatable Ann-Kristin—ended her days as a low-life hooker in an inhuman gray concrete suburb! The thought makes me dizzy. In reality maybe I did her a favor by putting an end to it all. Then again, she probably would have been glad to trade her last half-hour of life for another fifty years in the brothel of this concrete ghetto.

  And what did I get from the events of these last few days? Happiness? Self-respect? Sunny childhood memories and a bright upbringing? No! I couldn’t even say that justice was done, because justice would have been for them to suffer for thirty-eight years and for me to have thirty-eight happy years ahead of me. But, unfortunately, it’s too late for either. A broken childhood can never be repaired. Never forgotten, never changed, never gotten over. It’s a kind of chronic pain condition. What kind of world is it, where happy little children like Hans and Ann-Kristin are allowed to smash other, less fortunate, people’s lives to pieces?

  What I got out of the past few days in my miserable life is revenge. Which in turn has given life to a new, exciting dimension—insanity. The five dimensions of life: right-left, up-down, in-out, tick-tock, and cuckoo. They stole my time, I took theirs—cuckoo, I gave myself the new dimension of insanity.

  SATURDAY MORNING

  SHE TURNED HER HEAD carefully and determined that she was alone in the bed. Carefully, she eased up into a sitting position and looked around. The lights were off, but a door leading into a bathroom was ajar, emitting enough light for her to form an impression of the room she was in. It was sparsely, but fashionably, furnished. On the wall to her right was a window with designer venetian blinds. On the windowsill was a large, square pot of a gray, cement-like material with a well-tended plant, the name of which she did not know. Straight ahead was a wall covered by large, white custom-built armoires, and to their left a closed door. To her left was the bathroom. The large double bed had expensive Egyptian-cotton sheets in shades of beige and brown. On both sides were small wall-mounted nightstands. On the one closest to her were two empty beer bottles. Had she had even more to drink? Behind her, a fabric-clad headboard and two wall-mounted lamps. On the ceiling, four built-in speakers and track lighting.

  Shit. Her whole body hurt and her heart was racing. Drunk as a skunk, with no clue of where she was. Maybe in a hotel room? In that case, a suite. At a very expensive hotel. How could she be so damn stupid? Why didn't she leave the bar with Jamal? He had told her earlier that she wasn't sober. Why didn't she listen to him? Staying there to sit and court strange men. Flirting.

  But is that what she was doing? After all, they had just talked. About politics. There hadn't been any flirting. And she wasn't the least bit interested in fifty-year-old men. She was twenty-eight and had never been attracted to older men. Not last night, either. There were no vibes like that in the air. He had simply been nice to talk to. True, he was handsome and charming. Educated. But the thought of sleeping with him never crossed her mind.

  So how had she ended up here? Wherever that was. Had she been so drunk that she couldn't get home on her own? Maybe she had simply slept here? No, never. The pain she felt in her nether regions spoke for itself. But her ass...? Anal sex was not really her thing. Never had been and never would be. Had she been so drunk that she went along with that? Then she must have been practically unconscious. Would that nice guy—Peder, she recalled—have taken the opportunity to exploit her when she was dead drunk? And both front and back besides. Doctors Without Borders...she had been into that. So she must have offered it to him. What a slut she was, a drunken slut.

  She had a vague recollection that they got into a taxi together. They were heading in the same direction—that was it. She would let him off somewhere on the way home to Telefonplan, where her apartment was. She leaned against him as they made their way out of Clarion's bar. Now she remembered. She suddenly felt extremely drunk and had a hard time walking in her new boots. He helped her, called for the taxi and would follow along part of the way. But after that it was a complete blank. She remembered she had some difficulties getting into the taxi, but what happened after that...it was gone. She should have eaten properly. Had less to drink.

  Don't be so hard on yourself, Petra, she thought. No damage done. After a nice evening you go home with a nice man—or to a hotel or wherever the hell she was now—and have a nice night together with him. A little roll in the hay. He was handsome, smart, and well-educated besides. It was just what you needed. Get drunk and get laid. A life, as Jamal called it. Fine.

  But what if he wasn’t even the one she ended up in bed with? Peder. Fryhk. Maybe it was the taxi driver or someone else who got his hands on her in the miserable condition she was in. Suddenly she was struck by yet another unpleasant thought. Maybe she'd been robbed. She threw the blanket off and got out of bed. Hell, how it hurt. In her head and down below. No more sudden movements. There it was. On the floor below the bed was her handbag along with her clothes in a pile. And two used condoms alongside, my God. She leaned down carefully for her bag and sat on the edge of the bed to investigate the contents. The cell phone was there. Her keys. And her wallet, too. She opened it and could see that nothing was missing—the money and credit cards were untouched. Her police ID was still behind the driver's license where it should be, and everything was in order. That was nice anyway. And the watch she got from her parents when she got her law enforcement degree was still on her wrist. It was quarter past four in the morning. What should she do?

  She gathered up her clothes and with her thumb and forefinger carefully picked up the two condoms from the floor and slipped out into the bathroom. She did not want him to hear her if he was outside. She was not really clear why, he had already seen her naked. She was staggering and her vision was blurred, but she managed to make her way into the bathroom and close the door behind her without making too much noise. As she looked around she quickly ascertained that she was in a home, not a hotel. The bathroom was a designer's dream. Large and airy, Italian tile and mosaics, Jacuzzi, and a shower with glass doors. Showering was not an option, not here. She wanted to get home as quickly as possible and sleep off the intoxication in her own bed. Wash away everything that had to do with this damned night.

  She was about to drop the condoms into the toilet bowl when something made her change her mind. Somewhere in the fog in her head there was still a gnawing doubt. Had she been raped after all? However drunk and...flirtatious she may have been last evening, no one had the right to exploit her in that situation. Sex with an unconscious woman was tantamount to rape. Even if she mostly blamed herself, no man had the right to do that. Not according to the law, not according to common decency.

  She stood a while, wondering, with her gaze fixed on her own mirror image. Tall and slim with straight, ash-blonde hair down to her shoulders, divided by a straight part almost in the middle. Her eyes were an indefinable color, between brown and dark gray. Personally, she preferred to call them green. She had thin lips, but her nose was narrow and rather pointed and just the right size, she thought. She refused to look below her face. This bathroom was the wrong place to stand naked in.

  Should she take the condoms with her? The man who had used them
might wonder where they had gone. On the other hand her intention had been to flush them down the toilet, wasn't that the most natural thing for her to do? But no, she would not take any risks, did not want to draw suspicion to herself. Didn't she have a packet of condoms in her purse?

  She took two out and managed, with fumbling fingers and blurred gaze, to pour about half of the unappetizing contents of the condoms into two of her own. The two used ones she sealed with a knot and placed in a little compartment with a zipper in her handbag. The new ones she set carefully on the bench by the sink so the contents would not run out. Then she got dressed, picked up the condoms and soundlessly opened the door to the bedroom. She slipped over to the bed and set the new condoms down approximately where she had found the other two. She took the two beer bottles on the nightstand, disrespectfully emptied the last drops onto the bed, and then put them in her handbag.

  Her head felt clear now, despite a throbbing pain in her temples. But her balance was a different matter. By pure force of will she managed to force her legs to obey her, but more than anything she wanted to go to bed and sleep. She needed to get out of here, and hoped she could avoid meeting the man she had spent the night with.

  Carefully she pushed down the door handle, and without a sound the door glided open. Before her a large room opened that epitomized the concept of an open floor plan. The ceiling was high: dining room, living room, and kitchen all in one, with more square footage than her entire apartment. Everything about the furnishings was in accord with the trends of the time: light wood, large windows with no curtains, and no frills. She was in a villa. To the right she took note of a stairway that led down to the basement level. She had a definite feeling that someone was down there—she seemed to hear faint sounds from below.