The Disciple

by Michael Hjorth

  Stefan stepped into the leafy little world where Sebastian was hiding and took his hand.

  ‘I’m not here to stress you out. I’m not here to make you feel bad. I’m here for your sake. If you really want me to go, I will. But deep down you know I’m right. You have to stop this.’

  Sebastian looked at his therapist and quietly withdrew his hand.

  ‘I’m not joining a group. I do have some pride left.’

  ‘Really?’ Stefan gazed at him gravely. ‘Look around you, Sebastian. Look where we are.’

  Sebastian didn’t try to come up with an answer.

  Even he couldn’t find a way out of this one.

  ‘I mean, I said last week I was going to try to clear out the garage so I could get the car in there. Chuck out a load of stuff. Do you think I actually did it?’ The man opposite Sebastian whom the others called Stig had been talking for more than ten minutes. However, it seemed as if he was nowhere near finished. He just went on and on, as if his huge body contained an infinite number of words.

  ‘I haven’t got the energy. I can’t do anything. Just washing up after a meal or taking out the rubbish is a major undertaking. And you know how it is when you get into that state. You get nowhere. Nowhere . . .’

  Sebastian nodded. Not because he agreed – he had written off the man as uninteresting and stopped listening after thirty seconds – but because somewhere in the back of his mind he thought that if he nodded in agreement, perhaps the fat lump would realise he’d made his point, and that he didn’t need to come up with more examples in order to prove his total lack of initiative to the group. This motley collection of damaged individuals who, according to Stefan, might be able to save him. Four women and two men, not counting Stefan and himself. Stig took a deep breath and was about to continue his lengthy diatribe when Stefan jumped in. Sebastian felt a great wave of gratitude, even if he was still annoyed with him.

  ‘But you’ve been diagnosed with mild depression, Stig. Have you been to the doctor for your medication?’

  Stig shook his head, and for a second it seemed as if he might leave it there. But then he took one of those deep breaths that Sebastian had already learned to loathe after only fifteen minutes.

  The breath became a sound.

  The sound became words.

  Too many words.

  ‘The thing is, I don’t want to take a whole load of tablets. I did try once, and I had this reaction . . .’

  Sebastian shut out Stig’s babble with a yawn. How could they stand it, the other people sitting in silence around him? Did they share Sebastian’s frustration, or were they just waiting for their opportunity to take a deep breath and then talk about their own uninteresting lives for far too long? Surely they couldn’t seriously care about each other’s banal problems? Sebastian tried to reach Stefan with an angry, pleading look, but Stefan seemed fully occupied in listening to Stig. What saved him was the slim, almost invisible woman opposite him, dressed in a white blouse and jeans. She leaned forward and, in what was little more than a whisper, interrupted Stig’s monotonous drone.

  ‘But if it helps you to start doing things, then perhaps you should give the medication a try. There’s no shame in getting help that way.’

  The rest of the group nodded and made noises of agreement; Sebastian couldn’t decide whether it was because they were pleased that someone else had stepped into the limelight, or because they actually agreed with what she said. Sebastian looked at her. She was probably somewhere in her forties, slender, with fine, dark hair and discreet make-up. Simply dressed, constantly fiddling nervously with a necklace that was far too big. She looked at each of the others in turn before continuing. Sebastian got the feeling that she wanted to be seen, but wasn’t quite brave enough to step forward. Oppressed too many times? Used to being silenced? He gave her an encouraging smile, trying to catch her eye, but suddenly she was looking everywhere but at him.

  ‘I recognise myself in your situation,’ she said. ‘You feel as if everything is just piling up, that you can’t get anything done.’

  Sebastian continued to smile at her, having realised all at once that he might get more than he had thought out of this evening.

  ‘Exactly, Annette,’ Stefan agreed. ‘If you’re stuck, then you have to find the courage to try something new. That’s certainly what you did.’

  Annette nodded and carried on talking. Sebastian watched her grow with the praise, daring to take up more space, to share her experiences. They know each other well, she and Stefan, he thought as he listened to her. She was a stayer. A patient who had been in therapy for so long that she had started to sound like the therapist. Stefan’s encouraging nods confirmed his theory. Invisible little Annette had been seeing Stefan for a long time. Sebastian smiled to himself. Stefan cared about his patients. He too had experienced Stefan’s weakness a couple of hours ago, when he had come looking for Sebastian under a tree outside Sandhamnsgatan 44.

  He cared just a little too much to be a true professional.

  A little too much to be really effective.

  Invisible Annette was definitely one of the patients he cared about. Sebastian could see that from the interplay between them. He smiled at the dark-haired woman again. Perfect. He knew exactly how he would show Stefan that it was not possible to put Sebastian Bergman into group therapy and go unpunished.

  The group had been sitting in a circle for seventy-five minutes when it was finally time for the obligatory coffee before they broke up. Stefan had summarised the evening with a few well-chosen clichés about being there for each other and the beneficial effects of social interaction, trying to convey to Sebastian with a meaningful look that he had made no contribution on any level. Sebastian had responded with a yawn. When they got up he quickly moved over to the coffee table and the woman. Stefan became bogged down in a discussion with Stig and a younger man who insisted on referring to alcohol as ‘booze’ and his wife as ‘the missus’ or ‘she who must be obeyed’. Perfect company for Stefan, Sebastian thought as he looked over at Annette; she had walked straight past the coffee table without taking anything, and seemed to be on her way out. Sebastian hurried after her.

  Annette was heading for the exit, unsure whether or not to stay for coffee. She normally did; she usually thought it was the perfect end to the evening. She was the one who had been coming to these meetings the longest. She was important. Stefan had once called her a real professional when it came to group therapy, and even though the words had been spoken in jest, she had carried them with her for several weeks.

  A real professional. Annette.

  No one else had ever said anything like that. This was her place, she knew it. When she was sitting in the circle she was brave enough to step forward, to be seen, to play her part, and during coffee afterwards she loved to fish for comments from the other participants and to give positive feedback on their contributions that evening. But tonight was different. Because of the new man, the one who had sat opposite her. The way he looked at her. It was as if he could see right through her; she couldn’t describe it any other way. When she began to speak he listened, really looked at her. Not in a condescending way; it was more of an erotic experience, as if he were undressing her, although intellectually rather than sexually. She couldn’t put the feeling into words. She’d never experienced anything like it.

  He could see her. Properly.

  It was both exciting and frightening, and when Stefan had brought the evening to a close, Annette had decided to go straight home. But she knew that she wasn’t moving towards the exit quite as quickly as she should be. In her peripheral vision she could see the man coming towards her. Confident. Purposeful. She realised that he wanted to meet her. She had to be ready. She would regret it if she didn’t at least try to say a few words. He hadn’t said anything all evening. But now he was speaking.

  ‘Aren’t you staying for coffee?’

  She liked his voice.

  ‘I don’t know. I . . .’ Annette thought
quickly. She didn’t want to sound dismissive, but nor did she wish to seem weak and indecisive. She did want to stay for a coffee, but how could she say so? She was practically halfway out of the door when he stopped her.

  ‘Come on, surely you’ve got time for one cup and a cake beautifully encased in plastic?’

  He saved her. Realised she was on her way. Persuaded her to stay. It would almost have been rude to say no. She smiled at him gratefully.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

  They walked back to the coffee table together.

  ‘Sebastian Bergman,’ said the man by her side, holding out his hand. She took it, clumsily she thought, but his hand was warm and his smile even warmer, if that were possible.

  ‘Annette Willén. Nice to meet you.’ It felt as if all her gaucheness disappeared when he held her hand for just a little too long. He looked at her, and she felt something beyond simply being seen by another person. Far beyond. He saw her as the woman she really wanted to be.

  ‘You didn’t say much this evening,’ she said as he poured her a coffee.

  ‘Did I say anything at all?’ he replied, still smiling.

  Annette shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m better at listening.’

  ‘That’s unusual. Coming here to listen, I mean. Most people want to talk about themselves,’ Annette said, moving away from the coffee table. She didn’t want to be disturbed by any of the others.

  Sebastian followed. ‘How long have you been part of the group?’

  Annette wondered whether to tell the truth: that she couldn’t really remember anymore. No, that would sound pathetic. Weak. He would get the wrong idea about her. Be quick to judge. She decided to lie.

  ‘About six months. I got divorced, lost my job, and then my son fell in love and moved to Canada. I ended up in a kind of . . . vacuum.’

  Too much too soon. He hadn’t asked why she was here, just how long she’d been coming. Annette shrugged her shoulders as if to play down her problems.

  ‘I needed to talk about things. But I’m in the process of reducing my attendance,’ she said quickly. ‘You have to move on, don’t you?’ She smiled at him. For a second Sebastian glanced over at Stefan, who was still deep in conversation with the two men. Annette suddenly got the feeling that Sebastian was already tired of her, that he was looking for a reason to make his apologies and leave, that their encounter would soon be over. She was breathing more heavily. A slight feeling of panic, the panic that came from her deepest fear: that whatever she did, however hard she tried, she was doomed to be alone forever.

  But then he turned to her once more, the charming smile firmly in place.

  ‘So why are you here?’ she went on, in a tone of voice that she felt was very natural and unforced.

  ‘Stefan thought I might get something out of it.’

  ‘What made him think that? What’s happened to you?’

  Sebastian looked around before replying.

  ‘I don’t think we’re quite there yet. In our relationship.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. But maybe we can get there.’

  The directness of his answer surprised her. ‘You mean here, in the group?’

  ‘No, I mean somewhere else, just you and me.’

  His self-confidence fascinated her. She couldn’t suppress a smile as she bravely looked him in the eye. ‘Are you coming on to me?’

  ‘Maybe a little. Does it bother you?’

  ‘Most people don’t come here to meet someone.’

  ‘Good, that means there’s less competition,’ he replied, taking a small but definite step towards her. She could smell his aftershave. He lowered his voice. ‘But I can leave if you think I’m overstepping the boundaries of respectability.’

  Annette took the risk. She touched his shoulder and realised how long it had been since she touched another person.

  ‘No need. Just so you know, I’m a good listener too.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. But I’m not interested in talking.’

  She didn’t look away this time either. His boldness gave her courage.

  Sebastian nodded to Stefan as he and Annette left together.

  It had been a little too easy.

  But he would take it.

  They started kissing after only a few minutes in the taxi. Annette’s kisses were tentative. She refused to meet him with her tongue. She knew she wasn’t a good kisser. And she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe that the man who was caressing the back of her neck really did want her. Perhaps he would suddenly break off and look at her not with warmth and desire, but with coldness and contempt. Smile at her again, but nastily this time. Ask what she thought she could possibly give him, and supply the obvious answer: nothing. If she didn’t let herself go, then she could convince herself that it was of no importance to her either. It wouldn’t hurt so much when he left her. It had worked before.

  Sebastian felt Annette stiffen as his hand moved over her body. But she didn’t push him away. A sexual neurotic, he thought wearily, wondering whether he ought to make his excuses and get out of the cab. But there was something tempting about Annette. Her vulnerability turned him on; it made him forget his own weakness and fed his ego. It didn’t really matter to him if she was incapable of relaxing and enjoying herself. He wasn’t there for her sake. She was a distraction.

  An acceptable end to a crap day.

  Part of a revenge strategy.

  He kissed her again.

  Annette’s apartment was in Liljeholmen, five minutes from the recently built shopping mall with a view over Essingeleden. Once they were home she seemed able to relax a little. The living room was a mess, with clothes strewn around everywhere. Annette apologised; she quickly cleared the bed and ran out of the room with her arms full of clothes.

  ‘No need to tidy up on my account,’ Sebastian said, sitting down on the bed and taking off his shoes.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting company,’ he heard her say. He looked around the room. A perfectly ordinary living room, but with details that told him something about the occupant. First of all a fairly large single bed by the wall under the window. Sebastian had noticed another room when he walked into the apartment. Why didn’t she sleep in there? She had said that she lived alone, and there was only one name on the letterbox.

  The second thing was a collection of cuddly toys on the shelves. Animals of every size and colour. Teddy bears, tigers, dolphins, cats. Toys and rather too many cushions, soft blankets and throws. The whole room signalled a longing for security, a desire for a warm, kind, protective cocoon to stop cold, hard reality getting in. Sebastian saw himself in the mirror that was propped up against the wall. She had invited that cold, hard reality into her life. She just didn’t know it yet.

  Sebastian wondered what had happened in her life to cause such poor self-esteem and this exaggerated longing for security. Some trauma, a bad relationship, the wrong life choice, or was there something worse, an attack or an abusive relationship with a parent? He didn’t know, nor did he have the energy to find out. He wanted sex and a few hours’ sleep.

  ‘Is it okay if I move the mirror?’ he asked, picking it up. The thought of seeing himself having sex with her in this room almost frightened him. He would prefer it if they could slide under the covers and turn off the light before they did anything else.

  ‘Put it in the hallway,’ she said from what he suspected must be the bathroom. ‘I usually move it into the living room when I’m trying on clothes.’

  Sebastian carried it out and quickly found the hook on which it usually hung.

  ‘Do you like clothes?’

  Sebastian turned as he heard her voice. Different. She had put on a sexy black lace dress, with dark lipstick. She looked like a different woman. A woman you would notice.

  ‘I love clothes,’ she went on.

  Sebastian nodded. ‘You look good in that dress. Really good.’ He meant it.

  ‘Do you think so? It’s my f
avourite.’ She stepped forward and kissed him. With her tongue. Sebastian returned the kiss, but now she was the one seducing him. He let it happen. She took what she wanted from him. He tried to take off the dress so that he could feel her body against his, but she wanted to keep it on. He got the feeling that it was important to her to make love wearing that dress.

  Ursula had reached the last few pages in her third reading of the preliminary autopsy report on Katharina Granlund when there was a knock and Robert Abrahamsson stuck his well-groomed head around the door. He was the surveillance team leader she had the least time for.

  ‘Time you fuckers dealt with your own crap.’

  Ursula looked up with an enquiring expression.

  ‘The papers have started ringing me,’ Abrahamsson went on. ‘They’re saying you lot aren’t even answering the phone up here.’

  Ursula looked crossly at Abrahamsson: his tan a fraction too perfect, his jacket a fraction too tight. She hated being interrupted, particularly by a self-satisfied peacock like Abrahamsson. Even if it was justified. She answered as curtly as she could: ‘Take it up with Torkel. He deals with the press. You know that.’

  ‘So where is he then?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Ursula went back to the report, but instead of leaving, Abrahamsson strode purposefully towards her.

  ‘I’m sure you have a great deal to do, Ursula, but when they start ringing me about your cases, it means one of two things. Either you’re not communicating with them sufficiently, or they’ve found an angle they want to push. In this case I suspect it’s both.’

  Ursula sighed wearily. She was the team member who always ignored what the newspapers wrote; she wanted to keep to a minimum any information that could influence her ability to interpret evidence rationally. And yet she understood that this wasn’t great. Riksmord were very keen to avoid the murders of the three women being linked, leading to the inevitable Serial-Killer-on-the-loose-in-Stockholm headlines. Minimising the possibility of journalistic speculation was one of Torkel’s strategic cornerstones. When the press started desperately searching for sensational stories, anything could happen. Particularly within the police service itself. Everything suddenly became political, and politics could be catastrophic for an investigation. That was when ‘decisive’ action was needed in order to ‘bring home results’, which could lead to officers thinking less about the quantity of evidence and more about satisfying their superiors.