Studio Sex

by Liza Marklund

  He let go, staring at her in disbelief.

  She turned around, kicked the door open, and ran away.

  Nineteen Years, Eleven Months, and Twenty-Five Days

  Yesterday the tears never came, nor the panicky fear after the attack. The heat got too much, it rose until the red became black. They say he saved my life. The kiss of life brought back the spirit that his hands tried to extinguish. I can’t speak yet. The damage could be chronic. He says a piece of meat got stuck in my throat, but I can see in the doctors’ eyes that they don’t believe him. But no one asks any questions.

  He cries with his face against my blanket. He’s been holding my hand for many hours. He begs and pleads with me.

  If I do what he wants, I’ll dispose of the last barrier. I’ll be erasing what’s left of my personality and then there’ll be nothing left. He’ll have reached his goal. Nothing stops him from taking the final step. When he won’t bring back my spirit.

  He says

  he will kill me

  if I go.

  Monday 10 September

  Ho Lake sparkled like an icy sapphire in the morning sun. Annika walked slowly toward the water with Whiskas at her heels. The cat was bouncing and dancing around her feet, wild with happiness. She laughed and picked him up in her arms. The animal rubbed its nose against her chin, licked her neck, and purred like a machine.

  “Aren’t you the silliest little cat?” Annika said, and scratched him behind the ears.

  She sat down on the jetty and looked out over the lake. The wind, gentle and mild, rippled the glittering surface. Annika screwed up her eyes and saw the flat, gray rocks across the lake rise out of the water and melt into the dark green wall of fir trees. Even farther away, where the lake ended and the real forest began, Old Gustav lived. She would look in on him someday. It had been a long time.

  The future lay open before her like an unpainted watercolor. She could choose how she wanted to continue with the picture.

  She’d make it warm and rich, she thought, light and bright.

  The cat rolled itself up on her lap and fell asleep. She closed her eyes and let her fingers play with the animal’s silky fur. She breathed deeply and was filled with an intense feeling of happiness. This is what living should be like, she mused.

  Her grandmother called from the cottage. Annika straightened up, listened. Whiskas started and jumped down on the jetty. The old woman cupped her hands and called out, “Breakfast!”

  Annika ran up to the house. Whiskas thought it was a race and rushed off like a maniac. He lay in wait on the steps and attacked her feet. Annika picked up the wriggling animal, burrowed her nose in his fur, and blew on his stomach. “What a silly kitty you are.”

  Her grandmother had put yogurt and wild raspberries, rye bread and cheese, on the table. The smell of coffee wafted in the air. Annika realized how ravenous she was.

  “No, get down,” she said to the cat, who was trying to jump up onto her lap.

  “He’s going to miss you,” her grandmother said.

  Annika sighed. “I’ll come and visit often.”

  Her grandmother served coffee in fine china cups. “I want you to know that I think you’re doing the right thing. You should concentrate on your work. I always thought that being able to support myself gave me a sense of self-esteem and satisfaction. You shouldn’t be with a man who holds you back.”

  They ate in silence. The sun was shining in through the window, making the surface of the plastic tablecloth soft and warm to the touch.

  “Are there a lot of mushrooms?”

  Her grandmother chuckled. “I was just wondering how long it would be before you asked. The ground is covered!”

  Annika jumped to her feet. “I’ll go out and get some for lunch.”

  She dug out two plastic bags from a drawer and hurried out into the forest.

  In the gloom of the forest, it took a few minutes before the pattern in the moss became visible to her blinking eyes. The ground really was covered with brown funnel chanterelles. They grew in clusters of hundreds, maybe thousands, on the edge of the forest clearing.

  She filled both bags; it didn’t even take her an hour. While she was picking the mushrooms, Whiskas caught two wood mice.

  “Who’s going to clean all these?” her grandmother said with mock alarm.

  Annika laughed and emptied out the first bag on the table. “Let’s do it!”

  As usual, cleaning the mushrooms took longer than picking them.

  *

  They each had fried bread with a mountain of fried funnel chanterelles for lunch.

  “I’ve run out of milk and bread,” her grandmother said when they’d done the dishes.

  “I’ll cycle to the village and get some.”

  The old woman smiled. “That’s nice of you.”

  Annika combed her hair and got her bag. “You stay with Grandma,” she said to the cat.

  Whiskas wasn’t listening but merrily jumped ahead of her toward the barrier.

  “No,” Annika said, picking up the cat and carrying him back to the cottage. “I’m going to ride on the road, where you could get run over. Stay here.”

  The cat wriggled free and ran into the forest. Annika sighed.

  “Put him inside when he comes back,” she told her grandmother. “I don’t want him running around on the road.”

  With swinging arms she walked to her bike. The sun shone over the landscape, clear and bright. She saw the chrome of the bike, resting against the barrier, from a long distance.

  She didn’t realize that something was wrong until she reached the bike. She grabbed the handlebars and looked. Both tires were slashed, the saddle as well. She stared at it in disbelief, not quite knowing what she was looking at.

  “That’s just the beginning, you fucking whore!”

  She gasped and looked up. Sven was standing a few yards away. She knew what was coming.

  “I’ve smashed up your whole goddamn place. I’ve cut all your fucking whore’s clothes to pieces.”

  He sobbed and swayed. Annika saw that he was drunk. Watching him closely, she cautiously rounded the barrier.

  “You’re upset, Sven. And you’re drunk. You’re not yourself. Don’t say anything you’ll regret later.”

  He started to cry, waving his arms about. He came toward her.

  “You’re a whore and you’re going to die!”

  She dropped her bag on the ground and ran. She couldn’t see. Everything went white. She ran, raced away; a branch hit her in the face, scratching her. She fell, got up. The sounds, where were all the sounds? Oh, God, run, run, legs hitting the ground, shit, shit, where is he, oh my God, help!

  She ran blindly, in among the trees, across the road, down in the ditch, disappearing in the brush. She stumbled over a root and fell flat on her face, ants crawling over her cheek. She shut her eyes tight and waited for death, but it didn’t come. Instead the sounds returned, the wind in the trees, her own panting breath, then silence.

  He’s not behind me, she thought. And then: I’ve got to get to where there are some people. I’ve got to get help.

  Warily, soundlessly, she got to her feet and brushed away ants and bits of the forest floor. Listened. Where was he?

  Not right here, not now. She looked around, she couldn’t be far from Old Gustav’s.

  Cautiously, half crouching, she ran toward Lillsjötorp. The chanterelles squashed underneath her trainers. The tree trunks were brown and rough against her hands. She crossed a creek over by the deserted sawmill.

  There, she glimpsed it between the trees, Old Gustav’s red cottage. She straightened up and ran as fast as she could up to the house.

  “Gustav!” she screamed. “Gustav, are you there?”

  She dashed to the porch and tugged at the door. It was locked. She looked around, over to the woodshed where the old man spent most of his time, and someone was there— but it wasn’t Gustav.

  “I knew you’d come here, you little whore!”


  Sven rushed toward her with something in his hand.

  She jumped over the porch balustrade, landing in Gustav’s bed of roses. Sweet fragrances filled her nose.

  “Annika, I just want to talk to you. Stop!”

  She stumbled into the forest, back down in the hollow, over the creek, rounding the fen— but the panting behind her didn’t stop. Her feet crashed onto the moss, she flew over brush and stone, gasping, the surroundings dancing by.

  I’m running, she thought, I’m not dead. I’m racing, I’m alive, it’s not over, I’ve got a chance. Running isn’t dangerous, running is the solution, I’m good at running.

  She summoned up the idea of a tough workout, forcing the adrenaline back, focusing on breathing and the absorption of oxygen— breathe, breathe. Her vision returned, the roar inside her head lessened, thoughts began to take shape.

  He can run faster than me, she thought, but he’s drunk and I know the forest better. He’s a better runner on flat ground so I’ll have to stick to the rough terrain.

  She immediately turned north, stopped following the road. Up there was Gorg Lake and Holm Lake; if she skirted them, she could go east, hit the big Sörmland Footpath and get to the village via the works.

  Her legs were getting numb— she’d just eaten a pound of chanterelles. She forced them to speed up, gritting her teeth against the pain. The panting behind her was gone. She glanced over her shoulder: trees and bushes, sky and stones.

  He could have taken one of the small roads to intercept me, she suddenly thought, and stopped dead.

  Her pulse was beating hard and loud, she listened to the forest around her. Nothing, only the wind.

  Where were the roads?

  There was a rustle behind her, and she swung around, feeling the panic rising.

  Oh, God, where is the road? There is a road here, but where?

  She breathed and forced herself to think. What did the road look like?

  It’s a logging road, they drove timber on it, it’s becoming overgrown, the brush is as tall as a man.

  Run for the brush, she thought.

  At the same moment her cat jumped out and rubbed against her legs so that she stumbled over him.

  “Whiskas, you silly thing. Get out of here.”

  She kicked him lightly, tried to push him away.

  “Run to Lyckebo. Run home to Grandma.”

  The cat meowed and jumped into the bushes.

  She sprinted eastward and suddenly the terrain became more scrubby. She was right, over there was the road. She waited for a few seconds in the bushes by the road before she emerged, holding her breath; all clear. She walked past Gorgnäs, nobody at home; Mastorp, nobody at home; then headed straight east, toward the footpath, straight ahead.

  *

  He was standing in the last bend before she hit the Sörmland Footpath. She saw him three seconds before he spotted her. She dashed north, up toward the cooling pond. She’d seen something gleaming in his hand and she knew what it was. She lost her wits. She ran, screamed, stumbled, scrambled, reached the water, and rushed out into it, gasping from the cold. She swam until she hit the beach snorting and spitting. She staggered toward the sheds, fences, ran to the left, climbed a tall ash tree, in among the buildings, into the works compound.

  “You can’t get away from me, you fucking whore!”

  She looked around but she didn’t see him. She dashed past a white building, pulled a faded light-blue door open, and rushed into the dark. Blinded, she stumbled over a slag heap and got ash in her mouth, moved farther in, farther away, crying. She began to see in the gloom: the shadows took shape— a blast furnace, empty ladles. Rows of grimy windows under the roof, soot and rust. The door she had come through was like a rectangle of light far away, with the silhouette of a man slowly approaching her. She saw the knife flashing in his hand. She recognized it, his hunting knife.

  She turned around and ran, the metal flooring booming under her feet, past the shaft furnace. Stairs, up; darkness, new stairs; she stumbled and cut her knee; the light returned, a platform, windows, winches; she hit her head on a valve or something.

  “End of the line.”

  He was breathing hard, his eyes gleaming with hatred and alcohol.

  “Sven,” she sobbed, backing up as far as she could. “Sven, don’t… You don’t want to…”

  “You whore.”

  At the same instant she heard a faint meowing from the stairs. Annika peered into the shadows, searching among soot and slag. The cat; oh, the little cat, he’d followed her all the way.

  “Whiskas!” she called out.

  Sven took a step forward and she backed up. The cat came nearer, meowing and purring, making little turns and capering about, rubbing its nose against the rusty machine parts, playing with a piece of coal.

  “Forget about the fucking cat,” Sven said hoarsely. She knew that voice, he was on the verge of tears. “You can’t leave me like this.”

  He cried out. Annika couldn’t respond, her throat was constricted, couldn’t produce a sound. She saw the contours of the knife glint in a beam of sunlight, waving aimlessly while the crying intensified.

  “Annika, for Christ’s sake, I love you!” he screamed.

  She sensed rather than saw the cat go up to him, stand on its back legs to rub against his knee, followed the shiny steel of the knife as it sliced through the air and landed in the cat’s belly.

  “No!”

  A nightmarish, unconscious cry. The cat’s body soared through the air in a wide arc over the coke chute, leaving a bright red trail of blood, the intestines falling out of his body, coiling like a rope under his belly.

  “You bastard!”

  She felt the surge of power like fire and iron— like the mass her ancestors had melted and molded in this damned building— blazing, raging, and uncontrollable. Her field of vision turned red, everything came to her in slow motion. She bent down and reached for a pipe, black and rusty. She grabbed it with both hands, strong as iron. She wielded it with a power that she didn’t really have. She walked down to where he stood, her eyes fixed on his.

  The pipe hit him flat on the temple. She saw in her slow-motion vision how it smashed his skull bone, cracked it like an eggshell; his eyes rolled up and showed the whites; something squirted out from where she had hit him. His arms flailed out to the sides and the knife flew through space. His body was thrown to the left, tumbling; his feet scraped the ground, dancing, falling down.

  The next blow hit his midriff, she could hear the ribs crack. His whole body moved with the power. He stood. Blindly he flailed around, swept along by fire and iron. He staggered to the rail and slowly tipped over the edge, down into the furnace throat.

  “You bastard,” Annika panted.

  Using the pipe, she heaved him into the furnace. The last she saw of him was his feet following the rest of the body over the lip.

  She dropped the pipe on the concrete floor, the metal ringing out in the sudden silence.

  “Whiskas,” she whispered.

  He lay behind the stockhouse, his breastbone slit open, a bubbling, sticky mass inside. Still breathing faintly, his eyes looked into hers and he tried to meow. She hesitated before picking him up. She didn’t want to hurt him even more. She carefully pushed some intestines back into the belly with her forefinger, sat down, and held him in her arms. She gently rocked him as his lungs slowly came to rest. His eyes let go of her, turned blank and still.

  Annika cried, rocking the torn little body in her arms. The sounds coming from her were plaintive, drawn-out, monotonous howls. She sat there until the crying stopped and the sun was setting behind the factory.

  The concrete floor was hard and cold. She was shivering. Her legs were numb, and she clumsily struggled to her feet with the cat still in her arms. She walked toward the stairs, the dust dancing in the air. It was a long climb down; she moved toward the light, toward the shining rectangle. Outside, the day was just as clear, a bit chillier, the shadows longer. She wave
red for a moment and then walked off toward the factory gates.

  *

  The eight men still employed at the works had obviously just been leaving for the day. Two of them were already in their cars. The others stood talking while the foreman locked up.

  The man who spotted her gave a shout and pointed in her direction. She was covered in blood from her head down to the waist, carrying the dead cat in her arms.

  “What happened?” The foreman was the first to collect himself and run over to her.

  “He’s over there,” Annika said in a flat voice. “In a furnace.”

  “Are you hurt? Do you need help?”

  Annika didn’t respond, just walked toward the exit.

  “Come here, we’ll help you,” the foreman said.

  The men gathered around her; the two who’d started their cars switched the engines off and walked back. The foreman unlocked the door and escorted her into his office.

  “Has there been an accident?”

  Annika didn’t answer. She sat on a chair, clutching her cat tight.

  “Check the forty-five-tonner in the old plant,” the foreman said in a hushed voice.

  Three of the men walked away.

  The foreman sat down next to her, looking at the dazed woman. She was covered in blood but didn’t seem to have any injuries herself.

  “What’s that you’re holding?”

  “Whiskas. My cat.”

  She leaned her head and gently rubbed her cheek against his soft fur, blew softly into his ear. He was so ticklish, always used to scratch his ear with his back leg when she did that.

  “Do you want me to take care of him?”

  She didn’t reply, only turned away, clutching the dead cat tighter. The man sighed and walked out of the room.

  “Keep an eye on her,” he said to one of the men standing in the doorway.

  She had no idea how long she’d been sitting there when a man put his hand on her shoulder. How clichéd, she thought.

  “How are you, miss?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “I’m Captain Johnsson from the Eskilstuna police department. There’s a dead man in a furnace over there. Do you know anything about that?”

  She didn’t react.