The Man Who Wasn't There

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She wants to forget. Just like the rest of us,’ Mehran said tentatively.

  ‘She doesn’t want to forget. She wants everything to be the way it used to be. So do I. We just have different ways of getting there.’

  Mehran took her hand. There was a sadness in his beautiful dark eyes that she hadn’t seen before.

  ‘But things can never be the way they used to be, Mum.’

  Shibeka nodded. ‘You are wise, Mehran. I will always listen to you. I promise.’

  He suddenly gave her a hug, and it felt lovely. She had wanted to do exactly the same thing all evening, and from the way he squeezed her she knew he had wanted that too.

  It was the two of them now.

  Shibeka and her eldest son.

  Hamid lived through him.

  Billy was sitting outside. A pale yellow full moon hung in the sky beside the nearest mountain, spreading its cold light over the dark water below and the gnarled, sparse birch forest a short distance away. Apart from the rushing water, he could hear the cry of a bird of prey from time to time, but he had no idea what it was called. There was nothing else, and he was enjoying the cold and the quietness. He hadn’t checked the temperature before he came out, but it couldn’t be much above freezing, if at all. It didn’t bother him; he was well wrapped up. He had come outside to call Maya, not because there was better network coverage, but because he liked being able to walk around without anyone hearing while they talked.

  The conversation had lasted for about fifteen minutes. Billy had told her as much as he could about the case, while she had told him what she had been doing since he left Stockholm. She missed him, her life was boring and empty without him, did he know when he would be home? He didn’t, but he missed her too. As they were talking about how much they missed one another, Billy had expected Maya to bring up the subject of moving in together, but she didn’t say anything, and for a second he thought it might be something she had just mentioned on the spur of the moment, something she had blurted out because he was going away. Perhaps she had regretted it when she got home and was removed from the situation. He caught himself hoping this was in fact the case, and immediately felt guilty. It was as if she picked up the vibe, because he suddenly heard her say:

  ‘Have you given any more thought to what we discussed at the airport?’

  ‘No, I haven’t really had time . . .’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it.’

  Of course.

  ‘I want us to live at your place.’

  ‘At my place?’

  ‘I want to live in Söder.’

  ‘OK . . .’

  Obviously pleased with his response, she changed the subject. Billy assumed that ‘OK’ could have been interpreted as ‘Great, that’s all sorted then,’ but he couldn’t quite bring himself to clarify that he had actually meant ‘Right, thanks for telling me that, let’s see how it goes.’ They had carried on chatting for a few minutes longer before reiterating how much they were longing to see one another and ending the call.

  Now Billy was sitting on the terrace, gazing at the moon. He had been out here for a while, letting his mind wander, but it kept coming back to the same thing. And it wasn’t the prospect of Maya moving in.

  He heard footsteps on the gravel and turned to see Jennifer coming towards him carrying a tray. She had two blankets tucked under one arm.

  ‘Hi, I saw you out here. Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve got beer and tea, I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer,’ she said, putting the tray down on the table.

  ‘A beer would be good.’

  ‘Blanket?’

  She held out two rough, bobbled dark-brown blankets with the Swedish Tourist Association logo in a grubby shade of yellow dotted here and there. Billy got the feeling they were older than him. Considerably older. He took one and put it around his shoulders; Jennifer did the same with hers and sat down beside him. He took a swig of his beer, she sipped her tea and let out a contented sigh, her breath visible in the cold night air.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ she said after they had sat in silence for a little while.

  ‘Nothing; I’m just thinking.’

  ‘About the case?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. When I’m not working I’m pretty good at switching off. I think you have to be able to do that . . .’

  Jennifer nodded in agreement. The ‘leave work at work’ philosophy wasn’t exactly something new, but that didn’t make it any less valid. Personally she hadn’t been able to think about anything but the case since they boarded the plane to Jämtland. She had tried to sleep after the evening meeting, relax, but it was impossible. She had got up to make a hot drink and seen Billy out on the terrace. So here she was. She took another sip of her tea; it would soon get cold.

  ‘You looked as if you were concentrating on something.’

  Billy nodded. He had been thinking about the one thing that kept on coming back to him, the thing that in many ways seemed more important than the case they were working on.

  Could Sebastian Bergman really be Vanja’s father?

  He hadn’t had time to go through it all again; he really wanted to go over what he knew and what he was guessing at, the arguments for and against. He wanted to check dates, places, assumptions. He really should have done it tonight, but he had come out to talk to Maya and ended up sitting here. It wasn’t out of the question, Sebastian and Vanja. It was a possibility, based on a very shaky foundation, on letters he hadn’t read, assumptions he couldn’t verify. But the idea had taken root. The only thing he was sure of was that if Sebastian was Vanja’s father, then Sebastian was the only one who knew. If Vanja had known, it would have been obvious. She adored her father. Or the man she believed to be her father . . .

  ‘You shot Edward Hinde.’

  Billy was jerked back to moonlit reality. He turned to Jennifer, but could hardly see her face; she had pulled up the hood of her jacket and was holding the mug of tea in front of her mouth as she spoke.

  ‘What? Yes, I did.’

  ‘I expect everyone asks you this, but how did it feel?’

  It was the first thing Jennifer had thought when they met at Arlanda and she realised who Billy was. She had never even taken her own pistol out of its holster, but in her mind’s eye she had often seen herself holding her gun, ready to fire.

  Action. Instant decisions. The thrill of the chase.

  But every time she fantasised about that aspect of her profession, hoping she would actually get to experience it one day, the bad guys always gave up. They felt they were outnumbered, defeated, beaten. Her daydreams never ended with her firing a single shot, let alone actually killing someone. She occasionally wondered if she would be able to do it if it came to the crunch.

  She turned to Billy, who was unresponsive. She tried to work out if her question had annoyed him, or if he was thinking about what to say. Probably the former; she could hear what she sounded like. ‘How did it feel?’

  What a stupid question.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she explained. ‘I mean how do you cope with something like that? How did you cope?’

  Billy thought about it. He didn’t have an immediate answer, because as far as he could recall, no one had ever asked him. No one in the team, not even Torkel. They had been concerned about his welfare, assured him that he would be back at work in no time, that he couldn’t have done anything differently, that he had had no choice, but no one had asked him how he felt. Not properly, nothing more than the usual ‘How are you?’ and ‘Are you OK?’, delivered in a tone of voice that made it clear they weren’t expecting a deep or possibly even honest answer. In spite of the fact that they were all trained in dealing with shocked and traumatised individuals, when one of their own was affected they all seemed to think it was best not to talk about it. That was what the psychologists were for. Maya hadn’t asked him either, come
to think of it. They had talked about it a great deal, but the focus had been on how he should use the experience to grow, rather than allowing it to make him question either his choice of profession or his character in a destructive way.

  ‘He would have killed Vanja,’ Billy said with a shrug. ‘That’s how I cope. Sebastian was injured and Hinde would have killed Vanja. I had no choice.’

  ‘Just because it was the right thing to do, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s straightforward.’

  Billy turned to look at her again. He’d just said he had no choice. Most people would have settled for that answer; he had done the only thing he could possibly do. If there was no choice, you weren’t really responsible, but clearly that wasn’t enough for Jennifer. He could see genuine concern and interest in her eyes; she deserved better.

  ‘I don’t think about it,’ he said honestly. ‘I never think about it.’

  ‘And is that a good thing?’

  ‘I don’t know. It works.’

  He looked up at the moon. Jennifer seemed satisfied; she didn’t ask any more questions. She finished off her tea and put the mug back on the tray. His last two responses had presumably made it clear that he didn’t want to talk about it, but in fact he did. He liked Jennifer. She seemed to want to know more, to go beyond the violence and the sensationalism. She seemed to want to know about him, and not many people felt that way. Perhaps it would be stupid to pass up the opportunity.

  ‘It felt good,’ he said, so quietly that Jennifer had to lean closer to hear him. ‘Killing him. It felt good. That’s why I never think about it.’

  He didn’t look at her; he kept his eyes fixed on the moon. It almost seemed as if he was talking to himself. Jennifer didn’t say a word. She didn’t even move. She felt as if the slightest sound would remind him that she was there and make him stop.

  ‘Even though he deserved it and would have killed Vanja, it shouldn’t feel good. I didn’t think I was that kind of person. I don’t want to be that kind of person. It frightens me, and that’s why I never think about it.’

  Jennifer didn’t know what to say; she hoped she didn’t need to say anything at all. Billy was still gazing at the moon. If this had been an American movie she would have taken his hand and squeezed it reassuringly, but it wasn’t a movie, so she sat perfectly still.

  They were sitting in the living room. Melika had been surprised to see them standing at her door so late in the evening, but she had immediately asked them in. She had invited them to sit down on the big black leather sofa that Said had been so proud of once upon a time. She made a pot of red tea and brought it on a tray with cups and a plate of baklava.

  ‘I haven’t got much in, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Shibeka said warmly.

  Melika still looked a little puzzled as she set out the cups and poured the steaming tea from the pretty pot. Shibeka was just about to explain why they were there when Mehran broke the silence.

  ‘My mother has something to tell you.’

  Shibeka gave him a grateful nod and tried to appear as relaxed as possible. She was mentally prepared for the fact that this conversation wasn’t going to be easy.

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘In what way?’ Melika said, sitting down opposite them. She hadn’t poured herself a cup of tea. It was a clear sign.

  ‘I’ve spoken to a TV journalist. About Said and Hamid.’

  They both saw Melika’s face stiffen, as if the faint sense of unease she had felt from the start had suddenly crystallised into pure distaste. However, Shibeka chose to continue.

  ‘He agrees with me; he thinks that what happened is very peculiar.’

  She didn’t get any further. Melika leapt to her feet. Her voice was shrill and she practically spat her words at Shibeka.

  ‘Stop right there, Shibeka! I don’t need some strange man telling me what is and isn’t peculiar!’

  ‘That’s not what I mean.’

  ‘Yes it is! You think you’re the only person in the whole world who is grieving, and now you’ve gone running off to some man who’s telling you you’re right. I’m not interested!’

  ‘I haven’t gone running off to anyone,’ Shibeka replied calmly. ‘I’ve written letters, I’ve made phone calls, and he is the only one who has listened to me.’

  ‘A man? A Swedish man? A stranger?’

  Shibeka gave a faint nod. Melika was swaying back and forth, and seemed unlikely to sit down again while they were there.

  ‘Can you hear what this sounds like, Shibeka?’ She was gabbling. ‘How many times have you met? Have you been alone with him?’

  Shibeka lowered her eyes for a second; the conversation had turned into a nightmare, and there was no escape from disaster. She suddenly realised how stupid she had been; she should have known that Melika would react like this. The other woman’s voice grew even louder.

  ‘Have you been alone with him? Maybe that’s why he’s so interested!’

  Her tone was nasty now, and she glared at Shibeka, who was on the point of losing her temper, even though she knew it was vital to remain calm. To resist provocation. If she fought back it would only make matters worse.

  ‘Of course not, I was there. My mother knows how to behave.’ Mehran’s tone was authoritative and composed. Shibeka couldn’t quite work out how to react. She had definitely not expected this; in fact she had almost forgotten he was sitting beside her. However, Mehran seemed perfectly at ease. ‘He seems to be worth listening to,’ he added, as if he had been lying all his life. He was using his new voice, the one he had acquired that afternoon. Perhaps it had been inside him for a long time; it was too confident to be brand new. Perhaps it had been lying there waiting for the moment when it would be needed.

  Shibeka didn’t move; she was both impressed by her son and stressed by the situation. She needed to say something so that Mehran’s lie wouldn’t be exposed, but it was hard to find her way in the unfamiliar landscape her son had suddenly introduced her to. Mehran, however, seemed to have no problem whatsoever with his new role.

  ‘He wants to meet you too. My mother and I both hope you will be willing to co-operate.’

  Melika was staring at both of them. Shibeka finally plucked up the courage to speak, taking the lead from her son.

  ‘Melika, I know you think I have done wrong on many occasions, but I really do believe that this is the right thing to do.’

  Melika still looked sceptical, but at least she sat down. Mehran’s confident manner had obviously had a calming effect on her too.

  ‘I can’t. I could meet a woman, but not a man. I have too much respect for Said.’

  ‘I understand,’ Shibeka said. ‘I’ll speak to Lennart—’

  ‘I will speak to Lennart,’ Mehran quickly corrected her. ‘I’m sure we can sort something out.’

  Melika nodded, and Mehran smiled reassuringly at her.

  ‘Thank you,’ Shibeka said.

  ‘Thank your son,’ the other woman replied.

  Sebastian had ordered a takeaway from the Italian restaurant on the corner. He had insisted that Vanja needed to eat, and had set the kitchen table. The plates were beautiful, ivory-coloured with a thin silver rim, the cutlery felt heavy and expensive and, combined with the tall crystal glasses and the tempting aroma of the food, the whole thing was so inviting that Vanja had agreed to stay without protesting too much. It had grown dark, and Sebastian lit several candles. They ate with relish, talking quietly. If an outsider had seen them, they would have seemed like two old friends enjoying dinner in his home, probably a frequent occurrence. Vanja found it liberating after everything that had happened. It was as if she suddenly had company inside the bubble in which she found herself. She didn’t want to leave, not ever. She wanted to stay here in the kitchen on Grev Magnigatan with the man who had demonstrated qualities she had never even suspected he possessed. The searing honesty when he had told her about the terrible tragedy that had blighted his life. His hospitality. The way he
listened to her.

  It was as if there were two versions of Sebastian: the one with the huge ego who trampled on everyone around him without giving a damn, and this sincere man who had lost his whole family, but somehow kept on going. Vanja was slightly ashamed, partly because she had felt so sorry for herself and had wallowed in her bitterness, and partly because she had never given him the opportunity to show this side of his character. He had given her perspective. She had no idea what it was like to really lose someone; Valdemar’s betrayal was manageable, when it came down to it. At least he was still alive. She would be able to move on with her life, choose whether that would be with or without him. Perhaps she wasn’t completely alone after all.

  Vanja looked at the food in front of her. The seafood pasta was delicious, and didn’t evoke the irresistible urge. It was just food, with no psychological trigger. Just food. Good food.

  Should she tell Sebastian about the bulimia?

  He had been honest with her about his loss, shared his secret with her, and yet it didn’t feel right. This wasn’t a competition to prove who had suffered the most, and in any case her relapse was merely temporary, a flight mechanism in an extreme situation. She was already feeling much better.

  Sebastian opened a bottle of white wine. He told her he didn’t drink, but he poured her a glass. The wine was chilled to perfection, and tasted fruity and fresh. This was the way life ought to be. She made her decision: she would tell him. One day, but not now.

  She wanted to know more about Sabine, but wasn’t sure if she ought to ask; she didn’t want to pry and upset him. However, she was genuinely interested; she liked the Sebastian who was sitting opposite her, and she suddenly understood why he was so successful with women.

  He didn’t look great. He was overweight and pretty scruffy, he obviously didn’t bother much about his appearance, but he was very much present in the moment, and that was an attractive quality. She guessed that was probably his secret. She had never given it a thought; when it came to that aspect of his life she had always reacted with anger. She had assumed he was just using all those women, but now she was beginning to understand why so many of them went along with it. He said the right things at the right time. Made them feel he was listening to them, and presumably made them feel desirable too. No doubt he had honed his game to perfection over the years.