The Savage Altar

by Unknown

  Rebecka Martinsson was plodding over to Sivving’s house. Her shoulders were hunched against the wind, and she kept her head down like a charging animal. Snow was blowing up into her face so that she could hardly see. She was carrying Lova under one arm like a bundle, and in the other hand she was carrying the child’s pink denim rucksack

  “I can walk by myself,” whined Lova.

  “I know, honey,” said Rebecka. “But we haven’t got time. It’s quicker if I carry you.”

  She pushed Sivving’s door open with her elbow and dropped Lova in a heap on the hall floor.

  “Hello,” she called, and Bella answered at once with an excited bark.

  Sivving appeared in the doorway leading down to the cellar.

  “Thanks for taking her,” said Rebecka breathlessly, trying in vain to pull Lova’s shoes off without undoing them. “Useless idiots. They could at least have told me yesterday when I picked her up.”

  When she had arrived at nursery with Lova, she’d been informed that the staff had a training day and that none of the children were to attend. That had been exactly one hour before the hearing about Sanna’s arrest, and now she was really pushed for time. Before long the wind would have blown so much snow up against the car that she might not be able to get out. And then she’d never make it in time.

  She pulled at Lova’s shoelaces, but Sara had tied double knots when she helped her little sister get dressed.

  “Let me do it,” said Sivving. “You’re in a hurry.”

  He picked Lova up and sat with her on his knee on a little green wooden chair that completely disappeared under his bulk. Patiently he started to undo the knots.

  Rebecka looked gratefully at him. The route march from the nursery to the car and from the car to Sivving had made her hot and sweaty. She could feel her blouse sticking to her body, but there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that she would have time to shower and change her clothes. She had half an hour.

  “Now, you’re going to stay here with Sivving, and I’ll be back soon to pick you up, okay?” she said to Lova.

  Lova nodded and turned her face up toward Sivving so that she was looking at the underside of his chin.

  “Why are you called Sivving?” she asked. “It’s a funny name.”

  “Yes, it is,” laughed Sivving. “My real name is Erik.”

  Rebecka looked at him in surprise, and forgot that she was in a hurry.

  “What?” she said. “Isn’t your name Sivving? Why are you called that, then?”

  “Don’t you know?” Sivving smiled. “It was my mother. I was at college in Stockholm, studying to be a mining engineer. Then I moved back home, and was due to start work with LKAB, the mining company. And my mother got a bit above herself. She was proud of me, of course. And she’d had to put up with a lot of nonsense from other people in the village when she sent me away to study. It was really only posh people who sent their children away to study, and they thought there was no call for her to start getting big ideas about herself.”

  The memory brought a wry smile to his lips, and he went on:

  “Anyway, I rented a room on Arent Grapegatan and my mother sorted out a telephone subscription. And she wrote down my title, and it ended up in the phone book. Civ.eng, civil engineer. Well, you can imagine what they all said to start with: ‘Oh look, it’s civ.eng himself calling to see us.’ But after a while people forgot where the name came from, and I just ended up being called Sivving. And I got used to it. Even Maj-Lis called me Sivving.”

  Rebecka looked at him, smiling in amazement.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” she said.

  “Weren’t you in a hurry?” asked Sivving.

  She gave a start and shot out through the door.

  “Don’t you go killing yourself in that car, you hear?” he called after her through the gale.

  “Don’t go putting ideas in my head,” she yelled back, and jumped into the car.

  What do I look like, she thought as the car slithered up the tortuous road into town. If only I’d had another half hour to have a shower and put something different on.

  She was beginning to know her way into town now. Didn’t need to concentrate a hundred percent, could let her thoughts drift away instead.

  Rebecka is lying on her bed with her hands pressed against her stomach.

  It wasn’t too bad, she says to herself. And now it’s over.

  Strangers dressed in white with soft, impersonal hands. (“Hi, Rebecka, I’m just going to put a cannula in your arm for the drip,” a wad of cold cotton wool against her skin, the nurse’s fingers are cold too, maybe she’s taken a minute to have a quick cigarette out on the balcony in the spring sunshine, “just a sharp prick, that’s it, all done.”)

  She had been lying there looking out at the sun as it poured down onto the snow and made the world outside almost unbearably bright. Happiness came floating along down a plastic tube, straight into her arm. All her worries and difficulties drained away, and after a little while two of the people dressed in white came and wheeled her away for the operation.

  That was yesterday morning. Now she is lying here with a searing pain in her stomach. She has taken several painkillers, but it doesn’t help. She can’t stop shivering. If she has a shower she’ll get warm. Perhaps it will ease the cramps in her stomach.

  In the shower, gouts of blood spurt out of her. She watches them run down her leg, horrified.

  She has to go back to the hospital. Another drip in her arm, and she has to stay overnight.

  “You’re not in any danger,” says one of the sisters when she notices the thin line of Rebecka’s lips. “An abortion can sometimes lead to an infection afterward. It’s nothing to do with poor hygiene, or anything you’ve done. The antibiotics will sort it out.”

  Rebecka tries to smile back at her, but all she can manage is a peculiar grimace.

  It isn’t a punishment, she thinks. He isn’t like that. It isn’t a punishment.

  Sanna Strandgård was arrested on Friday, February 21, at 10:25, on the basis that there was sufficient reason to suspect her of the murder of Viktor Strandgård. The press and television gobbled up the decision like a pack of hungry foxes. The corridor outside the courtroom was illuminated by camera flashes and film lights as Assistant Chief Prosecutor Carl von Post addressed the media.

  Rebecka Martinsson stood with Sanna in the arrest room just inside the court. Two guards were waiting to escort Sanna to the car and back to the station.

  “We’ll appeal, of course,” said Rebecka.

  Sanna twirled a lock of her hair absentmindedly between her thumb and forefinger.

  “That young lad who was taking the minutes was really staring at me. Did you notice?”

  “You do want me to lodge an appeal, don’t you?”

  “He was looking at me as if we knew each other, but I didn’t know him.”

  Rebecka slammed her briefcase shut.

  “Sanna, you’re a murder suspect. Every single person in the courtroom was looking at you. Shall I file an appeal on your behalf, or not?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Sanna, and looked at the guards. “Shall we go?”

  When they had gone Rebecka stood there staring at the door leading out to the car park. The door of the courtroom behind her opened. When she turned round she met Anna-Maria Mella’s inquiring gaze.

  “How are things?”

  “So-so,” said Rebecka with a grimace. “What about you?”

  “Oh, you know… so-so.”

  Anna-Maria flopped down on a chair. She unzipped her thick padded jacket and let her stomach out. Then she pulled off her grayish white woolly hat without bothering to tidy her hair afterward.

  “I can honestly say that I’m dying to be a real person again.”

  “ ‘To be a real person,’ what does that mean?” asked Rebecka with a little smile.

  “To be able to sneeze and drink coffee like ordinary people,” laughed Anna-Maria.

  A young lad in h
is twenties appeared in the doorway with a notebook in his hand.

  “Rebecka Martinsson?” he asked. “Have you got a minute?”

  “In a while,” said Anna-Maria pleasantly.

  She got up and closed the door.

  “We’re going to interview Sanna’s girls,” said Anna-Maria without preamble when she had sat down again.

  “No, you… you’re joking,” groaned Rebecka. “They don’t know anything. They were asleep in bed when he was murdered. Is that… Is von Post going to practice his macho interrogation technique on two little girls of eleven and four? Who’s going to take care of them afterward? You?”

  Anna-Maria leaned back in her chair and pressed her right hand just below her ribs.

  “I can understand your reaction to the way he spoke to Sanna…”

  “Well, be fair, didn’t you feel the same?”

  “… but I’ll make sure the interview with the girls goes as smoothly as possible. A doctor from the Child Psych team will be there.”

  “Why?” asked Rebecka. “Why are they being interviewed?”

  “You have to understand that we don’t have a choice. One murder weapon has been found in Sanna’s apartment, but technically it can’t be linked directly to her. We haven’t found the other one. So we have only circumstantial evidence. Sanna has told us that Sara was with her when she found Viktor, and that Lova was asleep in her sledge. The girls might have seen something important.”

  “Seen their mother murder Viktor, you mean?”

  “At the very least we have to be able to rule them out of our inquiries,” said Anna-Maria dryly.

  “I want to be there,” said Rebecka.

  “Of course,” said Anna-Maria courteously. “I’ll tell Sanna, I’m going to the station now anyway. She looked very calm, I thought.”

  “She wasn’t even here,” said Rebecka with a heavy heart.

  “It’s difficult to imagine what she’s going through. To be facing jail.”

  “Yes,” said Rebecka.

  They have gathered at Gunnar Isaksson’s house. The pastors, the church elders and Rebecka. Rebecka is the last to arrive, although she is ten minutes early. She hears how the conversation in the living room comes to an abrupt stop when Gunnar opens the door.

  Neither Gunnar’s wife, Karin, nor the children are at home, but in the kitchen there are two large thermos flasks on the round table. One of coffee, one of hot water for tea. On a round silver-colored dish there are cakes and buns covered with a small white-and-yellow-checked cloth. Karin has left out cups, saucers and spoons. There is even milk in a little jug. But they will eat and drink later. First they are going to talk.

  “You’ll be wondering why we’ve asked you to come here, of course.”

  Frans Zachrisson starts the discussion. He is one of the elders. In normal circumstances he hardly looks at her. He doesn’t like Sanna or Rebecka. But now his gaze is troubled and gentle. His voice is full of warmth and consideration. It terrifies Rebecka. She doesn’t answer, just sits down when he asks her to.

  Some of the other elders are looking at her seriously. They are all middle-aged or older. Vesa Larsson and Thomas Söderberg are the youngest, barely thirty.

  Vesa Larsson is looking down at the table. Thomas Söderberg is leaning forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. His forehead is resting on his clasped hands and his eyes are closed.

  “Thomas has handed in his resignation,” says Frans Zachrisson. “After what’s happened he doesn’t feel that he can continue as pastor in the same church as you, Rebecka.”

  The elders nod supportively, and Frans Zachrisson continues:

  “I regard what’s happened with the utmost seriousness. But I also believe in forgiveness. Forgiveness from both God and man. I know that God has forgiven Thomas, and I myself have forgiven him. We all have.”

  He falls silent. Wonders for a moment whether he ought to speak of forgiveness in connection with her, Rebecka, perhaps. But it’s a tricky business. She went through with the abortion despite Thomas Söderberg’s unselfish appeal. And she shows no sign of repentance. Can there be forgiveness without repentance?

  Rebecka tries to force herself to look up and meet Frans Zachrisson’s eyes. But she can’t. There are too many of them. They overpower her.

  “We have tried to persuade Thomas to withdraw his resignation, but he has not done so. It is difficult for him to move on here, because he would always be reminded of his mistake….”

  He stops speaking again and Pastor Gunnar Isaksson takes the opportunity to say a few words. Rebecka sneaks a glance in his direction. Gunnar is leaning back on the leather sofa. His expression is, well, almost greedy. He looks as if he might stretch out his fat little hand at any second, grab hold of her and eat her all up. She realizes that he’s glad Thomas Söderberg is in trouble. Thomas is far too intellectual for his taste. Speaks Greek, and is always pointing out what the original text says. Read theology at university. Gunnar only went to high school. He must have been like the cat that’s got the cream recently, being able to discuss Thomas Söderberg’s “weakness” with his brothers.

  Gunnar Isaksson points out that he too has been tempted, but it is in these circumstances that one’s relationship with God is tested. He says that when he was asked by the elders whether he still had faith in Thomas Söderberg, he asked for a day to think about it before he said yes. He wanted his decision to be firmly anchored in God. He hoped Rebecka understood that it was.

  “We believe God has great plans for Kiruna,” Alf Hedman, another of the elders, interrupts, “and we believe Thomas has a key role to play in those plans.”

  Rebecka understands exactly why they have asked her to come. Thomas cannot remain in the church if she is a member of the congregation, for then he will be constantly reminded of his sin. And everybody wants Thomas to stay. She immediately does what they want.

  “He doesn’t need to move,” she says. “I’m going to ask to be released from the church, in any case, because I’m moving to Uppsala to study.”

  They congratulate her on her decision. And besides, there is a very good church in Uppsala that she will be able to join.

  Now they want to pray for her. Rebecka and Thomas have to sit on two chairs beside each other and the rest stand in a circle around them and place their hands upon them in prayer. Soon the sound of speaking in tongues is pouring out through the windows and up to heaven.

  Their hands are like insects crawling all over her body. Everywhere. No, they’re like red-hot stones burning holes right through her clothes and her skin. Her soul pours out through the holes. She feels ill. She wants to be sick. But she can’t. She’s trapped beneath all these men who have laid their hands upon her body. One thing she does do. She refuses to close her eyes. You’re supposed to close your eyes when receiving intercession. Open yourself. Inward and upward. But she keeps her eyes open. Clings to reality by staring at her knees. At an almost invisible mark on her skirt.

  “You’ll stay for coffee,” says Gunnar Isaksson when they’ve finished.

  And she stays, obediently. The pastors and the elders munch on Karin’s homemade cakes with sensual enjoyment. Except for Thomas, who disappears immediately after the intercession. The others talk about the weather and about the services to come during the Easter season.

  No one speaks to Rebecka. It’s as if she isn’t there. She chews on a chocolate marshmallow. It’s dry and turns to dust in her mouth, and she takes great gulps of coffee to try and sluice it down. When she has eaten the cake she puts down her cup, mumbles a good-bye and sneaks out through the front door. Like a thief.

  Anna-Maria Mella plodded up to her house. A snowdrift had covered the drive, and the car had got stuck just inside the gate.

  She kicked away the snow that had collected in front of the door and yanked it open. Yelled into the house.

  “Robert!”

  No answer. From Marcus’s room upstairs she could hear music. No point in asking him to go out and clear
the snow. That would just mean half an hour’s discussion, in which case she might as well do it herself. But she couldn’t manage it. The snow had wedged itself in the door frame and she had to slam the door to shut it. Robert had probably gone off somewhere with Jenny and Petter. To his mother’s, perhaps.

  Marcus had friends round. Presumably some of the hockey team. His sports bag was lying on the hall floor swimming in melted snow from his outdoor shoes, along with two bags she didn’t recognize. She climbed over their indoor hockey sticks and carried the wet sports bags into the bathroom. Took Marcus’s sports gear out of his bag. Dried the hall floor and placed the shoes and sticks in a neat row by the door.

  On the way to the laundry room with her arms full of wet sports kit she passed the kitchen. On the table stood a carton of milk and a tin of O’boy chocolate. From this morning? Or Marcus and his mates? She shook the milk carton carefully and sniffed at it. It was okay. She put it in the fridge. Just looking at the overloaded draining board made her feel tired, and she went down to the cellar. Two banana boxes full of Christmas decorations were just inside the door to the cellar stairs. Robert was supposed to be carrying them downstairs to put away.

  She went down to the cellar. Kicked dirty clothes chucked down the stairs by the family in front of her as she went, carried them into the laundry room and sighed. It felt like a lifetime since she’d had the strength to stand there ironing and folding everything. The mountain of clean laundry as high as Tolpagorni in front of the workbench. Dirty laundry in stale heaps on the floor in front of the washing machine. Fluff in every corner. Well established, perfectly happy there. Wet, black, grubby suds around the drain.

  When I’m on maternity leave, she thought. Then I’ll have time.

  She stuffed a load of white kneesocks, underclothes, some sheets and hand towels into the machine. Turned it to sixty degrees, program B. The washing machine began to hum with exertion, and Anna-Maria waited for the usual click, like a short burst of Morse code, as the program started up, followed by the sound of the water gushing into the drum, but nothing happened. The machine kept up its monotonous hum.