by Hans Koppel
Ylva went back out to the kitchen, looked in the fridge. She had to eat something and rest.
No matter what happened, this would be her last day in captivity.
Mike leaned towards Nour and kissed her on the mouth.
‘See you this evening.’
‘Yes. Bye.’
Nour jumped out, closed the car door and waved again from the pavement. Mike slipped into gear and drove off, watching in the rear-view mirror as Nour disappeared into the office.
He felt warm and happy inside.
The euphoria stayed with him until lunch. And was then replaced by melancholy.
Nothing in particular had drowned out the rush. No bad news, unfavourable forecasts or complaining employees to dampen his joy. His mood hadn’t been caused by a sudden drop in his blood sugar levels, troublesome flashbacks or a difficult task. It was just a normal mood swing and Mike welcomed the change. If he went around in the euphoric state he’d been in all morning, he’d soon make himself unpopular. Either that or he’d be forced to move to Norway, where that kind of hearty behaviour was not seen as suspect.
He opened a new report and started to read. Three-quarters of an hour later he put down the tome, rubbed the base of his nose under his glasses and realised that he was none the wiser. It was just another of those long-winded volumes that managed to say nothing while costing the company a small fortune, their only merit being that they provided cowardly middle managers with something to blame when things went wrong.
Mike looked at the clock and saw that he could go home with a clear conscience. He called Nour from the car, but she still had some unfinished business at work, so she’d get the bus.
‘See you later then,’ he said. ‘I’ll make supper.’
Mike went to the supermarket and wandered aimlessly around looking for inspiration. Meat, hmm. Fish, nah. Chicken, not again. Vegetarian, was there anything other than broccoli quiche?
Gösta was also in the supermarket and they exchanged a few words about how difficult it was to get variety.
It was going to have to be spaghetti with blue cheese sauce and fried bacon. And a salad. Mike picked out what he needed and added a few things for breakfast.
He drove over to the school and went into the after-school club. He couldn’t see Sanna and the staff looked at him in surprise. His heart started to pound and for a fraction of a second Mike was launched into an abyss, until he remembered that Sanna had started music lessons. He smiled and walked towards a door, through which out-of-tune music could be heard.
He knocked gently on the door and went in.
Three … blind … mice. La-la-la. See … how …
Mike didn’t need to book Berwaldhallen concert hall quite yet.
‘Bravo.’ He applauded. ‘Sounds good.’
‘I can do it better,’ Sanna told him.
‘I thought it sounded great. Are you done?’
He looked at the music teacher, who nodded gallantly.
‘Well, then we’ll say thank you and goodbye.’
‘Thank you,’ Sanna said.
‘You’re welcome,’ the teacher replied. ‘See you next week.’
Sanna bounded out of the room and ran towards the car.
‘Can I sit in the front?’
‘Sweetie, it’s only a couple of hundred metres. It’s not worth moving the booster.’
‘Okay.’
What? Mike thought. No protest? Sanna got into the back without any grumbles and carried on playing her recorder. He wanted to say something encouraging. He just didn’t know what.
‘Is it fun, playing the recorder?’
‘Yes,’ she said breathlessly and carried on blowing.
Three … blind … mice.
Ylva was made up, dressed and ready. Hair in a ponytail. Gösta liked to pull it when he came. A kind of show of animal ecstasy.
She looked the way he wanted her to look. But this time she hadn’t used any lubricant. He wasn’t going to penetrate her, not today, not ever again.
Hearing his knock, she took a deep breath and checked that everything was in place. The glass of water next to the wall.
She stood in her designated spot, put her hands on her head, pulled back her elbows to push out her chest, and pouted.
He opened the door. He was holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
He looked automatically to the right, to check that the knife, scissors, kettle and iron were visible on the worktop, that she had no weapons and wouldn’t try anything stupid.
‘Thought we could celebrate,’ he said, and held up the bottle.
Ylva went down on her knees, hands behind her back.
She had planned it all, practised it again and again. She daren’t risk deviating from the plan.
He put the bottle down by the sink, locked the door and looked at her.
‘Can’t you wait?’
Ylva shook her head slowly, still with her eyes lowered and mouth open.
‘Well, you’ll have to restrain yourself,’ he said, and pulled the golden foil from the top of the bottle and started to unwind the metal thread.
Ylva stayed on her knees, watched him pull out the cork with a bang and fill the glasses.
He came over to her, looked down.
‘You’re a horny little bitch, aren’t you? Here.’
He held out a glass.
‘You’ve earned it,’ he said.
Ylva took the glass and filled her mouth, without swallowing. She put the glass down beside her on the floor and started to unbutton his trousers. She put his cock in her mouth, let the bubbles tickle his glans and the champagne spill slowly down his balls.
She filled her mouth with what was left in the glass and pulled his chinos down. He let her because he didn’t want to get them wet. He stepped out of his trousers and underpants and even let her take off his socks.
She put the clothes in a pile on the bed and took him in her mouth again. The bubbles ran out of her mouth and down the inside of his thigh as she eagerly held up her glass for more, without taking him out of her mouth. He filled the glass, and then continued to pour directly from the bottle, over her face and the base of his cock.
The floor was starting to get wet and Gösta was standing in a puddle. Ylva’s plan was working. Champagne was as good as water. The important thing was that it was wet.
Ylva looked up at him and saw that he was looking at her as if she was a whore he had paid for and could do what he liked with. It was an expression she knew only too well and it was always a precursor to sexual violence.
Ylva filled her mouth again. She put down the glass and clasped her hands behind her back. He grabbed hold of her ponytail and pushed himself in even further. Ylva felt a gagging reflex but pretended to be loving it.
She had the flex in her hands behind her back. As soon as he let go of the ponytail, as soon as he let go …
56
The ringing of the phone was a welcome distraction. The off-key notes of the recorder were playing on a loop in the sitting room and Mike didn’t have the heart to tell his daughter to stop.
The display read unknown number. Mike assumed it was Nour, ringing from work. He closed the door to the sitting room and picked it up.
‘Hi,’ he said in a soft voice.
‘Er, hello,’ said the surprised voice on the other end. ‘My name is Jörgen Petersson. I’d like to speak to Michael Zetterberg.’
‘Speaking,’ said Mike, with more authority.
‘Am I calling at a bad time?’
‘No, no, not at all, but I don’t buy things over the phone.’
‘That’s not why I’m calling,’ Jörgen said.
Mike felt his stomach knot in an instant.
‘I want you to listen,’ Jörgen told him, ‘and please don’t hang up until you’ve heard what I have to say.’
Mike sank down on a chair.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘I went to Brevik School with your wife,’ Jörgen explained
.
‘My wife is missing,’ Mike said in a sharp voice. ‘Why won’t you leave me alone?’
‘Just one question,’ Jörgen continued. ‘What has Ylva said about Gösta and Marianne Lundin?’
Mike didn’t understand.
‘Gösta and Marianne Lundin had a daughter, who also went to school with us,’ Petersson continued. ‘She committed suicide. The guys that Ylva went around with at school are all dead. I think there’s a connection. I think your wife, in some way, had something to do with Annika’s suicide – that is, I think Gösta and Marianne Lundin hold her responsible for Annika’s death. Michael, are you there? Michael …?’
Gösta let go of her ponytail. Ylva pulled back her head and slipped the flex from behind. She put the stripped wires on his shiny cock and flicked the switch.
A flame flared, there was a muffled pop and everything went dark.
Ylva didn’t know what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t that the fuse would blow.
‘Jesus fucking damn bugger shit!’
His voice was fraught with pain and Ylva heard him sink to the floor with his back against the wall. He was breathing in great gasps and she could smell burned flesh.
‘I’m going to fucking kill you, you fucking whore.’
She fumbled under the mattress for the fork, grabbed it and started to stab at his face. The first time he managed to stop her, the second time the fork sunk into the cartilage of his cheek.
Ylva leapt up on to the bed, pulled his trousers over and dug into the pockets for the keys.
‘I’m not a whore,’ she screamed, kicking her leg into the black air where she guessed he was slumped. ‘I’m the mother who jumps into the water. Do you hear me, you perverted bastard? I’m the mother who jumps into the water.’
She found the keys and ran to the door. Her hands were shaking and she couldn’t get the key in the lock. She heard him heave himself to his feet with great effort. She wasn’t going to manage in time.
‘I’m going to wring your neck, d’you hear?’
He struggled slowly towards her. The knife and scissors were on the worktop. She hesitated. Door or knife?
She took two steps over to the kitchenette, grabbed the knife and held it out in front of her in the dark. The keys in her right hand, the knife in the left. It felt wrong. The knife should be in the right hand. She had no strength or coordination in her left hand.
She could hear his breathing, his rattling laugh. There was no chance she’d make it to the door. He was on his feet and he was stronger.
‘Getting closer,’ he said. ‘This will end how it always ends. You can’t hide.’
She stood by the worktop, trying to breathe silently. He was only a couple of metres away. He was standing still, now, listening, just like her.
‘Are you hiding in the kitchen? That’s not a good place to hide. The kitchen’s narrow and pokey, there’s barely any room there at all.’
He took two steps towards her.
‘Have I fucked you in the kitchen? I think I’ll do that – fuck you in the kitchen. I’m going to fuck you in the kitchen with a broken bottle, d’you hear?’
A couple of metres separated them. She waited, held her breath. She had to change hands, get the knife in her right hand. But it was impossible to do it without making a noise and giving away where she was. She’d only have one chance, and it was important that the knife went in deep so he couldn’t come after her.
She crouched down. Her joints creaked faintly.
‘Well, well, well. Old creaky knees, eh? So you’re in the kitchen, just as I thought. Waiting for me to come and get you. To fuck you just the way you like it.’
He shuffled nearer. She felt his presence up close. Something swept over her head and the champagne bottle smashed against the wall behind her.
She threw the keys over towards the door to make a distracting noise, switched the knife to her right hand and propelled herself up. The knife sunk into his torso. She pulled it out and stabbed again.
‘All the way in,’ she screamed. ‘How does that feel? All the way in.’
She pushed the knife in a third time and left it there. He collapsed on the floor.
Ylva was on her feet, staggering to the door, feeling around on the floor, finding the keys. Her hands were steady. She put the key in the lock and turned it.
57
Mike felt feverish and sick. Too many thoughts that refused to stay still. Too fast for him to grasp, not waiting to be understood – taunting him like a circle of school children. No matter how Mike twisted and turned, the theories and questions were there, ready to push him back into the ring.
Another nutter, had to be. In cahoots with that reporter from the weeklies who had accosted him in his own home the week before. Some sicko who got pleasure from spreading shit, just to be in the momentous presence of death for a short while. Death was attractive, no doubt about it. It drew nutters like honey. Like the ones who phoned people who’d lost someone in the tsunami and claimed that their loved one was alive and would be home soon.
And yet … Gösta had had a daughter. She had died young. He didn’t want to talk about it. Which was perfectly understandable. Especially given Gösta and Mike’s respective roles.
What has Ylva said about Gösta and Marianne Lundin?
What did he mean? Why link Ylva with Gösta and Marianne? They weren’t even living here when she disappeared, they moved in just afterwards. Or about the same time. At the same time.
But whenever it was, Ylva had never mentioned meeting the new neighbours who’d just moved in.
And why would the crackpot want to drag Gösta and Marianne Lundin into this? How did he even know who they were?
Mike didn’t get it. Then it hit him.
A patient.
Naturally. The guy who’d called him was one of Gösta’s patients. Who’d somehow heard Mike and Gösta talking and in his sick mind had created a parallel world.
That had to be it. There was no other explanation.
Mike let out a deep sigh. He was still upset, almost shaking. He blinked his hot eyes furiously. But the relief spread through his body like a Friday drink.
Slowly he started to register the world around him, let himself be filled with visual impressions and sounds. Which were coming from a recorder in the sitting room.
Three blind mice, three blind mice … la-la-la … see how they run.
The recorder’s equivalent to ‘Für Elise’ on the piano.
The recorder’s equivalent to ‘Smoke on the Water’ on …
Mike remembered the first time he’d met Gösta, when they realised that they were neighbours. Gösta had moved into the house in Sundsliden, where they had done out the cellar and spent a lot of money on a music studio. Gösta had played on an air guitar while he hummed a riff from Deep Purple’s ‘Smoke on the Water’.
He was obviously being ironic, but that ironic?
Thoughts started to chafe again. Mike found it hard to swallow.
He had told Gösta about the idiot from the magazine who had gone on about the three dead guys. Gösta had said that he didn’t quite follow. Three dead, he’d said. That’s not much to talk about. Three people who’d gone to the same school together who’d died young.
Three …
But there weren’t three: with Ylva there were four. Mike and Gösta always talked about Ylva as if she was dead. Neither of them thought she would come back. But Gösta didn’t say four, he said three.
Probably just a mistake, but still.
Mike shook off the uncomfortable thought, turned on the water, let it run cold, then drank straight from the tap.
Anyway, it would be easy enough to check.
He opened the door to the sitting room.
‘Hey, sweetie, you’re playing really well. Do you know what I think?’
She shook her head.
‘I think we should go over to Gösta and Marianne, you know, the ones who live in the white house on Sundsliden. He
’s got a music studio there. Maybe we could record you playing. Then you can listen to it later and see how much you’ve learned. Would you like that?’
Ylva turned the key and opened the first door. It was so easy, she couldn’t understand why she hadn’t done it before. She picked out the next key and felt something cold against her back. She felt it again.
Ylva gasped for breath, but her lungs were only half full. She breathed out and there was blood in her mouth. One of her lungs had been punctured. To her surprise, she thought of it as a burst balloon. She hadn’t thought about her lungs as balloons. Lungs were pieces of meat, squishy and revolting, like most things inside the body, not balloons.
She turned the key and pushed open door number two. A faint light slipped down the stairs and into the cellar. Gösta was lying on the floor behind her, unable to get up again. The fork was still in his cheek, just below the eye. The kitchen knife was in his hand.
Ylva was surprised that his hate was so intense that he had managed to pull the knife out of his own body, stand up and stab her in the back twice. It didn’t worry her, she was neither frightened nor angry, but it did fill her with surprise.
‘We were children,’ she said, her mouth full of blood. ‘Children.’
She staggered towards the stairs. The blood ran from her mouth, down her chin, past the black bra, down her stomach, knickers and thighs. She grabbed hold of the banister, used all her strength to haul herself up the stairs, step by step.
She heard voices, felt the cool air full of fantastic smells. She wanted to fill her lungs, both lungs, but immediately started to cough. The light got brighter. Real daylight, blinding light from the sun.
Only a few steps more.
58
Mike held his daughter’s hand.
‘Are we in a hurry?’ Sanna asked.
‘No, no. We’re not in a hurry. Just thought we’d do it before we eat. Nour will be back soon. Would be a nice surprise for her, wouldn’t it? Her own disc.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A sound recording. And you can play it again and again. Whenever you want.’