by Mikaela Bley
Ellen thought about Helena’s voice, how sharp it had been. Just as sharp as the angles of her face. She could not understand why so many people were acting as if Lycke were dead.
Ellen took hold of the little pendant hanging on the silver necklace she was wearing. The pendant was shaped like a water lily. She hadn’t worn it for many years.
Jimmy tapped her lightly on the shoulder, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Well done, Ellen. I never thought you would get her here. Nice that you had time for the survey this morning, too. You really felt the panic growing among the parents around Karlaplan.’
‘Meaningless, if you ask me,’ she said quietly.
She could tell from his sour breath that he’d been out the night before. He must have gone on somewhere after he dropped her off.
‘Two nights in a row? A bit much,’ she said accusingly, immediately regretting the sharpness in her voice.
‘Yes, you have to take the opportunity when the ratings are this good,’ he said, laughing. ‘But I am a bit tired today.’
She wanted to ask where he’d gone, but stopped herself. She hadn’t been keeping track of him for over a year. Why should she care now? He wasn’t worth it.
‘Yes, I sense that,’ she said, waving away the stench of his breath — she guessed, at this point, that it had been beer.
Two sides of the same coin. Some celebrated the high ratings thanks to a missing girl, and, in another part of the building, a lonely mother grieved for her missing daughter.
Ellen had to be happy that it wasn’t her mother who’d just been interviewed on Tilde’s show. And again she had to remind herself why she’d arranged the interview in the first place.
What if she were to run down to the green room and talk with the mother? Get a sense of her. Get a few answers. But, no, she had to restrain herself. That had been insisted upon by the mother and by Ove. None of the journalists, except Tilde, were to talk with the mother.
But no one could stop Philip from talking to her in make-up.
The phone rang and Ellen left the control room to answer it.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Are you at work?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you were coming home today. It’s Mother’s Day, and we’re going to have dinner together at Örelo. Your brother and his family are coming.’
She’d completely forgotten about it. Ellen bit her lip.
‘Sorry, Mum, but I can’t come today. I have to work.’
There was a long silence. ‘I understand, that’s more important.’
‘It’s a little girl. She’s eight years old, Mum. I have to —’
It sounded for a moment as if they’d lost the connection, but then Margareta could be heard saying, ‘I know.’
After they’d hung up, Ellen felt the familiar sense of emptiness.
She had to focus on the police paedophile investigation before the broadcast this evening. Otherwise she would get a talking-to from Jimmy. And perhaps they were right. The face of Lars flashed through her mind.
That morning, Agatha and Ellen had gone through the list of sex offenders released from prison. But it was hard to get any clear picture. Obviously, Ove didn’t want to give them any names to go on, and it somehow felt as if she could let go of that angle anyway. If the police were focusing on anything in this case, it was the paedophiles.
The police maintained that they were doing what they could. They were checking with taxis about what fares they’d had to and from Rålambshovsparken and around the Royal Tennis Hall. They’d checked illegally parked cars in the areas, and knocked on doors in nearby buildings at both locations.
‘We’re talking with news carriers, night patrols, security guards, personnel in the subway. We’re checking surveillance cameras to the extent possible. We’re doing the best we can,’ Ove told her.
But it’s not enough.
She emailed Agatha. Can you compile a list of old cases involving missing children within the past twenty years? However horrid and disturbing it would be, maybe she would find something.
Her phone beeped. A text from Philip.
Meet me at the loading dock in 30 mins!
MONA
9.55 A.M.
The tears were still stuck in her throat, like an immovable cork. For the first time in a very long while, she was reluctant to take part in the Sunday service.
She was tired. Exhausted. Even though it was almost ten o’clock, she wasn’t yet dressed. On the table in front of her was today’s newspaper. She hadn’t even opened it. The picture of Lycke on the front page frightened her, the headlines screaming so loudly she wanted to cover her ears.
It was all so terrible, and the most tragic thing was that no one really cared. Except her.
Amid disturbing articles detailing misfortune and darkness, the newspaper had distastefully chosen to place an article on Mother’s Day and the best way to celebrate your mother. She pushed the newspaper away and reluctantly thought of her own mother.
According to the doctors, the drug abuse had rotted her from the inside. This was not a person you celebrated on Mother’s Day. There were many mothers who didn’t deserve to be celebrated. For a moment, Mona wondered if that was what happened to bad people, that they rotted from inside. She almost hoped it was true.
She took a gulp of her tea, which by this time was cold. The wall clock was ticking. Laboriously, she pushed herself up from the kitchen chair. Her legs felt heavy and every movement was an effort. But she had to make herself go to church and pray for little Lycke.
As she went out the front door, she opened her umbrella. The storm hadn’t let up during the night. It was a nasty downpour; she could hardly remember when it had rained so much, and it added to her worry.
The ribs of the umbrella splayed in all directions, and water dripped through some small holes in the material.
With every step she took, the pain tormented her, but she couldn’t decide where exactly it hurt — it felt as if the ache could be felt in every part of her body.
Her red Golf was parked on the hill on Abrahamsbergsvägen, and she fished her car keys out of her pocket as she approached.
As usual, she chose to drive past the house on Leksandsvägen in Nockeby and stopped among all the beautiful 1920s villas, farthest up in the turnaround area. She got out of the car and opened the umbrella again, looking down the steep hill. This was no street for little kids to learn to ride a bike on, but for her purposes it was perfect. From here, she could see into the garden.
The memories were strongest during the summer months. In summer, it was easier to picture how it had looked when she’d peered into the garden that day in June forty-six years ago. She could still remember the rush of happiness that passed through her body when she saw him for the first time.
He was lying in the hammock, reading the newspaper, and it creaked as he rocked back and forth. He looked stylish. The most gorgeous man she’d ever seen.
She’d watched as a young woman served lemonade to a little boy, who sat with his legs dangling from a chair that was part of a set of outdoor furniture on the verandah. In the shade of the apple tree was a stroller.
It had all been so beautiful and so wonderfully idyllic. Exactly like she’d dreamed her life would be. She had a strong desire to jump over the fence and embrace the man, become a part of the whole — but instead she did as the social services woman had told her.
She would remain in the background. And there she had stayed. Some wounds never heal, though, and even today she could feel the pain of it.
It was cold and the wind was strong. She had to hold firmly onto the umbrella. The garden was still just as beautiful, with the same blossoming apple trees. She could sense a faint aroma of bird-cherry, even though the rain had deadened most of the spring smells. The bird-cherry tree grew bigger and more magnificent with e
very passing year.
Many different families had lived in the house. The facade had changed colour a number of times, and the curtains and outdoor furniture had been replaced, but nothing could make her forget.
She shook her head, closed the umbrella, and got back in the car to drive to the church in Bromma.
***
After the service, she stayed behind to pray and gather her strength. She remained seated all alone on the church pew.
Here she felt secure. She’d been coming here all these years. Ever since her mother had passed away.
The wind howled outside, but the forces of nature did not reach her. Not here.
When she closed her eyes, she could see Lycke’s innocent face.
Mona wrung her cold, chapped hands together, and murmured quietly to herself:
When the daylight hours cease
Let me take my rest in peace.
Send to our abode an angel
To protect us from all danger.
ELLEN
10.15 A.M.
Ellen said hello to Viljar and the guys at internal service and went out onto the loading dock, where you had to go nowadays if you wanted to smoke. It was also where you went if you wanted to talk undisturbed.
There was a small table and two chairs next to the wall. She sat down on one of the chairs and waited for Philip. The rain worked its way in under the roof, and Ellen regretted that she hadn’t brought her jacket. On the table were a couple of used coffee cups, an ashtray, and today’s papers folded up. Even though she’d already read everything that had been written about Lycke over the past twenty-four hours, she opened the paper to the middle spread, but only had time to scan through the lead paragraph before she was interrupted.
‘I saw you come down. I want to talk with you about something.’
It was Jimmy.
Ellen folded up the newspaper, wondering why he’d followed her down to the loading dock. ‘Okay.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘Fine.’
‘I went in and read some of the comments from the viewers after yesterday’s broadcasts. There are some really harsh words.’
‘Oh yeah?’ She bit her lip. She couldn’t understand where he was going with this.
‘Especially about you and your news stories. Do you feel threatened?’
‘Threatened?’ She looked up at him.
‘Yes. Like I said, those weren’t nice comments.’
‘No,’ she said, trying to sound unperturbed, but she knew exactly what he was talking about. Internet hate. Trolls. It had been getting worse and worse. Even though she wasn’t one of the best-known people in the industry, there were still many who went after her hard. All she had to do was appear onscreen for the comments to start pouring in via her email, the TV4 website, and her Facebook page.
‘Many of them allude to sex.’
She stood up. She didn’t like having him looking down at her while talking about such things.
‘They comment on your body,’ he continued.
No. You have to back off now, she thought, feeling almost embarrassed. She was afraid of what he would say next.
‘Why are you reading the comments about me?’
‘It’s part of my job. And it’s not that you can’t wear what you want, I was just thinking that —’
‘Yes, I know,’ she interrupted him. ‘But I’m trying not to read such comments. It’s always worse on the weekends. People are drunk and have nothing more sensible to do than sit and comment on things on the net. It’s best to just ignore them.’ She wanted to put an end to this conversation.
‘Well, I don’t know. You speak up if you feel it’s becoming unpleasant. In any case, I want you to know that I take these types of issues seriously. I’m just thinking about your best interests.’
Yeah, right, she thought, but nodded. Why should he stand here and be worried about her now, just because he happened to be her boss?
‘Okay. Thanks,’ she said, sitting down again.
She thought about checking the comments that had caused him to have such a reaction, but decided to let it be. Her psyche probably couldn’t take any more today.
Internet hate had become a major problem. Management had considered removing the comment field on the site, but it would still be possible to email. Besides, she had her official Facebook page. If you were on TV, it was part of the job. She tried not to think about it or to take it personally. She’d had worse things happen in her life. As long as she avoided seeing them, she was able to distance herself. It was worse when threatening letters were sent to her home address, but that very seldom happened.
‘Okay, let’s see how it develops,’ he said, opening the door to internal service.
‘Yep,’ Ellen said.
Just as the door closed behind him, Philip jumped up onto the loading dock.
‘Ma chérie!’ He threw out his hands and smiled as he sat down next to her. ‘Imagine that we’re sitting in Paris now, you and I, at a little neighbourhood café, one with that genuine, rustic feeling, you know? You have to ignore the parking lot, the loading dock, this rotten furniture, and all the ugly brick buildings around us.’
‘Sure,’ said Ellen, laughing. ‘We’ll go to Paris today.’
Even if it wasn’t the most beautiful sight, Ellen loved sitting here.
‘How are you doing?’ Philip asked her, pinching her gently on the cheek. ‘What did Jimmy want?’
‘Nothing, Boss,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Do you have a smoke?’
‘Course I do,’ he said, pulling the organic cigarettes from his pocket and handing over the pack.
They each lit a cigarette and looked out over the parking lot.
‘Shall we order oysters before we go up the Eiffel Tower?’
‘Pfft, tell me now, what did she say?’
Viljar came out onto the loading dock. He was whistling something Ellen didn’t recognise, but it was a nice melody. He started picking up some packages.
‘What’s that around your neck?’ Philip asked.
Ellen took hold of the necklace, squeezed it hard, and slipped it under her sweater. ‘Nothing.’
‘Honestly, Ellen, I’m saying this now for the last time. I don’t think you should be working on this.’
She avoided answering.
‘You’re not doing well. I can see it all over you.’
Ellen looked out at the rain, pattering on the asphalt.
‘What did she say?’ she asked, pointing at the newspaper, the front page of which was taken up with a large picture of Lycke’s mother, shot during the press conference. ‘I want to know everything. What do you think about her?’ Ellen turned to pages six and seven. ‘Have you read this? If you read between the lines, they’re accusing her of having forgotten her daughter at tennis, saying that it’s her fault that Lycke is missing.’
‘You think it was her, too,’ said Philip.
‘No, I didn’t say that, just that there’s something that doesn’t add up. And for that reason I wouldn’t have broadcast my suspicions on TV before I had all the information.’
‘No, but you’re reading between the lines. They aren’t accusing her. But yeah, I don’t know, she seems really creepy.’
‘In what way?’
‘She was ice-cold, and hardly said a word. I can get most of them to talk anyway, but she was completely impossible.’
‘So what did the two of you say to each other?’
‘I don’t know. We talked about the coffee, about the weather. I said I was sorry about what had happened — well, what the hell do you say? It wasn’t that easy. I did what I could, but it didn’t go too well. I was shocked when she babbled away on screen later. It was like she’d memorised it or something. And it’s extremely strange that she wanted to look like that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Disturbed.’
‘Yes, of course she is, her daughter is missing. You never would have commented on the dad’s appearance.’
‘Uh, yes, I would.’
‘Okay, maybe you would have, but not other people.’
‘But the sick thing is she wanted me to do her make-up so that she looked sad and disturbed. Isn’t that just about the nuttiest thing you’ve heard? Who wants that?’
HELENA
5.50 P.M.
Before she went through the entryway on Strandvägen, she looked around one more time to be sure that no one saw her. The last thing she needed now was to be criticised for working. Considering the circumstances, she shouldn’t be holding any open houses. She could picture the headlines. But it drove her crazy just sitting at home, waiting for the police to contact her. Looking at the clock, and not being able to do anything.
She set the open-house sign by the entry and went into the stairwell. There were ten minutes until the open house would start.
The musty odour spread out into the stairwell when she turned the keys to the apartment in the lock and went to open the door. No one had lived here for several weeks. It smelled of death. All estate properties had a similar odour.
She went into the small guest toilet in the hall and looked at herself in the mirror. The bitterness was visible all over her, impossible to wash away. It didn’t matter how many diets or gym sessions she went to or how many happy pills she took. She couldn’t get rid of it.
She hoped that none of the prospective buyers at the open house would recognise her.
After turning on several lamps and opening the windows, the apartment felt a little more cosy.
In the kitchen, she caught sight of an old radio. She twisted the knobs. There was a crackling sound and the music of ABBA filled the apartment. She started to feel better.
In the living room, she stood by the window and looked out. The wind had picked up and there was foam on the water at Nybroviken. There was as much traffic on Strandvägen as usual. For other people, life continued to roll on as if nothing had happened, while she’d found herself stuck in a kind of vacuum. She wished she was sitting in one of those cars, on her way somewhere.