The Dangerous Game

by Mari Jungstedt

  She still hadn’t told anyone about that incident. She didn’t want to worry her parents. Yet the murder of Robert Ek had shaken her badly. Maybe she should talk to someone. Maybe even the police. Superintendent Knutas seemed very nice. Although that seemed a fairly drastic measure. He might even laugh at her. After all, the man hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t threatened her or even come close enough to speak to her. She was probably just imagining things.

  She felt the warmth of everyone around her as she listened to them talking and laughing. All those horrible events couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her. She was just a model who worked for the agency. One of many. She could even switch agencies if she liked. Although she wasn’t yet prepared to go that far.

  She needed a cigarette, but she didn’t want to go out into the cold to have a smoke right now. Instead she accepted another glass of wine and decided not to think any more about all the craziness at the agency. She had a couple of minor jobs in Stockholm during the coming week, and then she’d be going to New York for a prestigious show for Diane von Furstenberg. And after that, Paris. The whole world lay at her feet, and she had no intention of letting what had happened at the agency stop her. On Christmas Day she would go into Visby with all her old friends. She was longing to see them again and to be plain old Jenny. At least for a while.

  ARE YOU ALL right, sweetie?’ Agnes’s pappa bends down and cautiously kisses her on the cheek as she lies on the sofa. He straightens the blanket that is wrapped around her.

  ‘You’re not cold, are you? I’ll be back in plenty of time to watch Donald Duck and His Friends Celebrate Christmas, and then we’ll have coffee. Are you sure you don’t want anything?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’

  It’s Christmas Eve, and he’s going to drive over to his parents’ house to deliver their gifts. They wanted Agnes to come, too, but she doesn’t have the energy. They live over in Klintehamn, and Pappa has explained to them that Agnes is too weak. She talked to her grandmother on the phone, and they agreed to see each other on Christmas Day instead. She hasn’t seen them in several months.

  The front door closes as her father leaves the house, and the only sound is from the TV. He has rented several films for her, since she doesn’t feel up to doing much else. She is watching an American comedy that seems very stupid. She can’t really concentrate. Pappa has piled pillows and blankets on the sofa. But she’s feeling restless. Her gaze shifts, and she looks at the walls in the room. Her father has brought out the old Christmas star they always put up in the living room. It’s a bit fancier than the others. He has even bought a Christmas tree, a sweet but rather lopsided tree, which they decorated last night as they both shed a few tears. The holiday always brings back memories of Mamma and Martin. This is the third Christmas without them. It feels strange to be lying here on the sofa, home alone. It’s like going back in time. The sofa, the wallpaper and the coffee table are all the same. Mamma embroidered the cloth on the table. Agnes leans forward and sniffs at it. As if it might still hold her mother’s scent. On the bookcase there is a photograph of Mamma and Martin. Next to it, Pappa has set a family photo from Greece, taken the summer before the accident. The whole family, sunburned and laughing, with Naxos harbour in the background. They had rented a house on the Greek island with another family for two weeks. That holiday was the best they’d ever had. Agnes remembers how they would sit in the shade on the terrace in the late afternoon, playing cards after a long day at the beach. They had talked about going back there. But life had made other plans.

  She feels tears welling up, but she doesn’t want to cry any more. She sits up straighter, takes a sip of water from her glass, and tries to focus on the film. But she can’t. She breaks out into a cold sweat and the prickling sensation in her hands and feet is getting worse. She’s hungry. They’ve just had lunch, but when Pappa’s mobile started ringing in his jacket pocket in the front hall and he left the room to take the call, she dumped half of her food in the rubbish bin. Afterwards, she felt guilty. She did want to get well. Deep in her heart, she really did. Maybe it was dumb to throw out her food. Maybe that’s why she is feeling so weak right now. She ought to eat something. Just a little. Then she’ll feel better.

  She goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge. Hunger is screaming inside her. She’s just going to look at the food. Just look. And maybe choose a small piece of something so she won’t keep feeling so ill. The refrigerator light casts a gentle glow in the dim kitchen, and she hears its faint, familiar droning sound. She holds on to the door for support as she inspects what’s inside. Everything looks so good. She sees cheese, ham, beetroot salad, Christmas sausages. Her eyes stop on a bowl of homemade meatballs, big and dark and slightly irregular in shape. Just like they’re supposed to be. Just like the ones Mamma made, which Agnes always loved. Pappa said that he had made them according to Mamma’s recipe. And they look just as good. But she can’t eat them. If she does, she will be utterly lost. If she eats one, she won’t be able to stop herself from eating the whole bowl. She wishes someone would come in and force her to eat them all. Then she wouldn’t have to decide for herself. On the shelf underneath is a carton of cherry tomatoes. They seem less dangerous than anything else. She takes a few.

  Then she discovers a dish of red Christmas apples on the worktop next to the fridge. Those crisp, shiny apples that are a dazzling white inside and taste so sweet. She chooses the smallest apple, takes out a plastic cutting board and a knife, and then sits down at the kitchen table. She cuts the apple into two pieces. It should be okay for her to eat half an apple; it doesn’t have many calories, and she’s really feeling awful. She eats half. It tastes better than she imagined. The moment she swallows the last bite, she realizes she has upset the entire day’s routine. So she might as well continue. She eats the other half of the apple, too. It tastes amazing. She has to have another one. She gets up and brings over the entire dish, setting it on the table. She takes another apple, not bothering to slice it in half this time. Sweet apple juice runs out of her mouth. Greedily, she eats the whole apple. It tastes so good, yet she is filled with feelings of shame and disgust. She starts to cry. Now she has lost all control. She eats fast, finishing off two more apples as tears run down her face.

  A suffocating sensation abruptly sets in. She feels stuffed. Her stomach is heavy. What on earth has she done? Quickly, she clears away all traces. She puts the dish back on the worktop with the few apples that are left. She wipes down the chopping board and washes the knife. She has to try to throw up. She doesn’t usually do that, but it now seems the fastest solution. She goes to the bathroom, raises the toilet lid and kneels on the floor, sticking two fingers down her throat. She tries several times without success. Then she stuffs all the fingers of one hand as far down as they’ll go, but she still can’t vomit. Why is it so damn hard? She is sobbing in despair. She has to get rid of those apples. It’s absolutely essential. Good Lord, she has eaten four of them.

  She dashes out to the kitchen and pulls open the drawers, looking for some sort of tool. She takes a spoon back to the bathroom and sticks it down her throat. That should activate the gag reflex. But, after several attempts, the only thing that happens is that she feels nauseated and a tiny little piece of apple comes up. Nothing more.

  Desperate and distraught, she finally stands up and catches sight of her face in the mirror. What she sees is frightening. Her face is bright red from the strain, her eyes are swollen and bloodshot. She realizes there is only one thing to do. Her mind is working frantically. How many calories are in an apple? She did throw out half of her lunch, so that means the situation isn’t really so dire. She checks her watch. Quarter to one. At best, she has at least two hours before her father comes home. She does a quick calculation in her head, figuring out how many jumps and sit-ups she needs to do to burn off all the fruit. Then she’ll be back where she started.

  She knows she can do it.

  She takes up position on the soft rug in
front of the TV and starts jumping.

  THE TEMPERATURE HAD plummeted in Stockholm, and it had snowed all night. Karin Jacobsson had booked a room at the same hotel in Gamla Stan where she usually stayed. She’d been given an address in Södermalm and the name of a café; that was all. She was supposed to turn up there at eleven o’clock on the morning of Christmas Eve.

  For the first time, she was going to celebrate Christmas with Hanna, but not at home in her flat on Mariatorget. That much, Karin understood. The door slammed behind her as she stepped out of the hotel and into the quiet lane glittering with snow. Christmas decorations hung between the beautiful old buildings in Gamla Stan, and the windows of the small shops gleamed. The narrow streets were covered with snow, which creaked under her boots in the cold. A few other people were walking along the main street of Västerlånggatan. Almost everyone she met gave her a friendly look and nodded a Christmas greeting. That hadn’t happened to her before in Stockholm – strangers saying hello. In a plastic carrier bag was her present for Hanna, the first she’d ever bought for her daughter. It hadn’t been easy to choose what to give her, since she hardly knew Hanna. But the old enamel signs in her kitchen had given Karin an idea.

  In a little antique shop, she’d found an old advertising sign for Göta chocolate. She had decided that was the perfect present. She didn’t want to go overboard this first Christmas. She needed to proceed cautiously. The situation was still so fragile.

  She walked south across the bridge at Slussen and continued up Katarinavägen. Across the water to the east was Djurgården and the frozen ground of Gröna Lund with its roller-coaster, now motionless. It would be months before the ride was once again filled with people. From there, it was easy to see how narrow the lanes were in Gamla Stan, spreading out like octopus arms from Stortorget in the centre and down towards the wide avenue of Skeppsbron. The rooftops and ground were blanketed with snow, and all the church towers reached for the sky.

  She took a detour through Vitaberg Park, which was bustling with life. Children were sledging down the steep slopes, laughing and shouting, and their parents seemed to be having as much fun as the kids. Some youngsters had launched themselves headlong down an ice slide, and she was alarmed to see them bouncing over a rock at the bottom.

  Karin continued through the pleasant neighbourhood locally known as Sofo, meaning south of Folkungagatan. Quiet streets with hardly any traffic but plenty of small shops, cafés, bakeries and restaurants.

  She finally found the café she was looking for. It was on a corner, only a stone’s throw from Katarina Church. In spite of the sign, which read ‘Closed on Christmas Eve’, the door was unlocked and a bell chimed as she stepped inside. Hanna popped up from behind the counter.

  ‘Hi, Karin!’

  ‘Hi! Merry Christmas!’

  Hanna put down what she was holding.

  ‘I see you found the place all right.’

  ‘Sure. No problem. It’s amazing how beautiful Stockholm is. I’m more impressed every time I come here. I walked through Vitaberg Park.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Hanna with a laugh. ‘A big crowd over there, right? We went sledging in the park yesterday. It was great!’

  They gave each other a hug. A quick and slightly awkward embrace.

  ‘So, have a seat. Would you like coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  Karin took off her cap, gloves and scarf, then removed her big anorak, looking around. The room had an intimate feel to it. The walls were painted warm colours, and the café was furnished with old, worn sofas and easy chairs. The lamps all had interesting shades from the fifties and sixties. And there were candles everywhere. Against one wall stood a long table where stacks of plates, glasses and cutlery had been placed. A copiously decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner with a big pile of presents underneath.

  ‘Looks like everything is ready for Christmas in here,’ she called to Hanna, who had disappeared into the kitchen.

  ‘You better believe it.’

  ‘Why aren’t you celebrating Christmas with your family?’

  ‘Mamma and Pappa are spending the holiday in Brazil. They invited me and Alex to come with them, but neither of us wanted to go. He has a new girlfriend, and so do I.’

  Hanna came back from the kitchen carrying a coffee mug, but she wasn’t alone. She was holding hands with a young woman who Karin immediately recognized as Hanna’s friend from the restaurant on Mariaberget.

  ‘This is Kim,’ said Hanna, and Karin instantly understood. She stood up to shake hands.

  ‘Hi. I’m Karin. Hanna’s biological mother.’

  This was the first time she’d introduced herself as Hanna’s mother. It felt good. Hanna handed her the coffee mug.

  ‘So tell me,’ said Karin, ‘what’s going to happen here in the café?’

  ‘Well, the thing is,’ Hanna began, ‘Kim and I had this idea to arrange a Christmas for the homeless instead of just sitting in the flat and enjoying ourselves in our nice, cosy, safe bubble. So we rang up Situation Stockholm and various shelters. But they told us that if there’s one day when the homeless don’t need more meatballs and ham sandwiches, it’s on Christmas Eve. Because so many of the churches in town organize a Christmas meal for them. So we asked ourselves: Who are the most needy in this society? Who are the ones that nobody ever thinks about? And we decided that it has to be women with children staying in residential shelters and LGBT refugees. There are a lot of gay young people from other countries in Stockholm, and they can’t go back home because of their sexual orientation. They’ve been disowned by their families. And then there are also all the illegal workers who are invisible in society and hounded by the police. So we’ve invited them here for a Christmas celebration. Could you possibly forget that you’re a cop for one night?’

  ‘That’s fine. Don’t worry,’ said Karin, smiling.

  This wouldn’t be the first time she had broken the rules.

  They went into the cramped kitchen, which was overflowing with food. Ovenproof dishes held potatoes au gratin, as well as the traditional casserole Jansson’s Temptation – sliced herring, potatoes and onions baked in cream. Next to them were multiple platters of pickled herring, salmon and boiled eggs. On the two hobs Karin saw meatballs frying in big pans and potatoes simmering in enormous pots. The kitchen benches were piled high with boxes of chocolates, cartons of table napkins and candles, tins of ginger biscuits, and loaves of sourdough and rye bread, along with packages of saffron buns.

  ‘How did you manage to collect all this food?’ asked Karin, impressed.

  ‘We asked for donations. You wouldn’t believe how generous people can be. We went around to the local supermarkets, bakeries, restaurants and shops. They showered us with food, and they also gave us a lot of really nice toys for the kids.’

  ‘And how did you find the people that you’ve invited?’

  ‘We have our contacts,’ said Hanna slyly.

  They started setting out the food. It was just about time for the party to begin. A short time later, a red-bearded man with a shaved head and tattoos covering both arms appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Merry Christmas, girls. Anything to eat for a guy before we get started?’

  Hanna gave him a hug and introduced him to Karin.

  ‘This is Mats. He’s going to be our doorman for tonight. You never know who might try to barge their way in. A lot of the women are scared to go out because their husbands may come after them. And there’s always a risk that some drunk might turn up. Since there are going to be children here, we can’t have any heavy drinking going on.’

  She filled a plate with meatballs, beetroot salad and potatoes and handed Mats a Christmas beer.

  ‘Here you are, Mats. But you’ll need to sit out there in the café. As much as we love your company, you’ll just be in the way here in the kitchen.’

  An hour later, the first guests arrived. A short, dark-haired woman with four children of varying ages stopped outsi
de the big café window that faced the street. She paused to glance in both directions before stepping inside. She had a frightened look in her eyes, and she seemed nervous. The children were well-dressed but silent, their expressions solemn. Much to Karin’s surprise, Hanna began speaking fluent Spanish with the family. The woman’s face lit up, and for a moment she seemed to forget her fear. It turned out that they were from Chile, and the woman had been abused and harassed by her ex-husband. After he threatened to kill both her and the children, they’d gone to stay at the shelter for battered women a few blocks away. Now, she’d mustered enough courage to venture out to attend this Christmas party, for the sake of her kids, who ranged in age from five to fifteen. Their eyes opened wide when they saw all the food and the big pile of presents under the tree.

  Hanna pointed at the various dishes arranged on the buffet, and Karin assumed that she was explaining what they were. The woman held the hand of her youngest child. She murmured and nodded, constantly casting wary glances out of the window. After a while she seemed to relax, and they helped themselves to the food. Karin sat down at a table with them. The woman spoke only broken Swedish, but the kids were fluent in the language and had almost no accent, even though they gave only brief answers to Karin’s questions.

  People dropped in all evening. A few men, but mostly women and children living under assumed names. Three gay guys who looked to be no more than eighteen or nineteen sat down next to Karin. They wore elegant trousers and neatly pressed shirts. They told her that they were from Iraq and had been forced to flee; their lives had been threatened because of their sexual orientation. It wasn’t immediately obvious that they’d been disowned by their families and were all alone in the world. But it was impossible to miss the sorrow in their eyes.