Birgitta tugged up the sleeve of her blouse and allowed her fingers to get to work on the eczema that had appeared on her elbow. Then she ran the palm of her hand over the tender rib on her left side. She had two years left until retirement. Her husband, Jacob, ought really to have retired already, but since he owned his own accountancy practice he wanted to carry on working. Sometimes Birgitta pretended that they were going to buy a house in Spain and live a peaceful, wonderful life of retirement together. That their twenty-year-old sons – twins Max and Jesper – would come down sometimes with their girlfriends to visit. She didn’t really need a house in Spain. All she wanted in this life was love from the people she loved most on earth. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she didn’t even notice that there was a nurse standing in front of her saying her name.
‘Birgitta Nilsson.’
‘Good grief, please excuse me. I was a million miles away.’
Birgitta got up and followed the nurse down a corridor. At the end there was a door ajar. The nurse indicated with her hand that Birgitta should go inside.
‘Thank you so much. And sorry, I’m getting old and confused,’ she said apologetically before stepping inside the room.
The doctor was a handsome man in his mid-thirties. Black, combed-back hair, chiselled jawline and sumptuous lips. Birgitta proffered her hand and the man asked her to sit down. He cleared his throat, but Birgitta wasn’t listening. She was looking at the framed photo on his desk. A beautiful, dark-haired wife, two small children with long thick eyelashes and mops of hair lying on a sandy beach and laughing into the camera lens.
‘What a beautiful family!’ she exclaimed in the middle of the doctor’s exposition.
He fell silent and switched his gaze to the photograph.
‘You must be so happy and proud. What angels – what an enchanting wife.’
‘Thank you. Yes, truly. But if we could …’
The doctor pointed at the paper in his hand. Only now did Birgitta notice that he seemed troubled.
‘Here I am, going on about trivialities. You’re probably short on time, more patients waiting. You’ll have to excuse me, I just babble on. Please, do go on.’
The doctor brushed back a dark lock of hair that had strayed onto his brow, and scratched his cheek. His kind eyes looked straight into hers.
‘I’m afraid it’s what we feared – you’ve got breast cancer.’
The doctor awaited her reaction, but it didn’t come.
‘Did you hear what I said, Birgitta?’
‘Yes, yes.’
He leaned forward and covered her hand with his, looking her in the eyes. ‘I can understand that you’re shocked, frightened and worried. But the survival chances are good. We’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve found a slot for the operation.’
Birgitta smiled at him.
‘It’ll be fine, my dear.’
She got up. Her chair scraped against the floor.
‘Do you want me to call someone to give you a lift home?’
Birgitta shook her head.
‘No, best not to bother them with this. I’ll manage.’
The doctor muttered something, and Birgitta proffered her hand by way of parting.
‘You had lots of letters telling you to come for a mammogram, but you didn’t come?’
He looked at her searchingly. Birgitta smiled. She couldn’t tell him the truth.
‘I’ve had so much on, you know.’
She let go of his hand and left the room.
6. Ingrid Steen
Tommy was snoring heavily. Ingrid put her bare feet on the wooden floor, straightened her nightie and stood up. Taking slow steps, she left the bedroom and went downstairs. She picked up Tommy’s coat, then the sewing kit, and headed for the bathroom, where she locked the door behind her. She quickly undid the stitching she had put in the evening before and put her hand inside. She removed the dictaphone. The light on it was still green; it was still recording. She stopped the recording and checked the light had gone off before emitting a sigh.
Ingrid stifled the impulse to play the content back right away. Instead, she sewed the fabric back together, unlocked the door and put the coat back in its place.
She put the dictaphone in the pocket of her own coat, headed into the kitchen and drank a glass of water. In a few hours’ time, Tommy would be appearing on the breakfast news, while Lovisa was due at a friend’s house for a playdate. She would have time to listen then. When she laid her head down on the pillow, she remembered how much she had hated listening to recordings as a journalist. Now she could hardly contain herself.
7. Victoria Brunberg
Malte was hung-over, his small eyes bloodshot and hostile. He was looking for faults, looking for something to correct or comment on. Victoria was making scrambled eggs. She set the frying pan down on the table beside the salt cellar and poured a glass of juice. He shook his head.
‘Beer. Need to get rid of this hangover.’
She didn’t reply, turning instead to the fridge where she retrieved one of the remaining beer cans from the day before.
‘Anything else?’
Malte grunted. Victoria left the kitchen, put on one of Malte’s jackets and a pair of wellies and opened the front door. The air was cold and sharp. She lit a cigarette. The field was grey, the sky was grey, everything was grey in this fucking country. There was a car driving along the road five hundred metres away.
She wished she had a driver’s licence – or at least that she could drive a car. Then she’d be able to steal Malte’s Saab and escape. Leave it all, go to Stockholm. That was where she had landed when she arrived from Moscow. She and Malte had stayed at a hotel, and he had taken her out for dinner in a fancy restaurant. Afterwards, at the hotel, she had realised that, as of then, she was his possession. She lived on his terms: she was a walk-on in his life. She was expected to manage the household and part her legs in return for him providing for her.
The day after, they had gone to Heby and then into the forest before ending up in Sillbo. She had met Malte’s parents. Over lunch at a pizzeria in Heby, they had stared at her as if she were an animal of some kind.
She had done her best to be polite; she’d asked questions in her broken English, but they had sat there in silence, staring. In the car on the way back, Malte had said that Swedes didn’t like talking much.
Even if she had been able to escape, Malte had ensured by other means that she obeyed him. Without Victoria’s knowledge, he had consistently filmed their sexual encounters over the first few months. He had said that if she disappeared, the films would be uploaded to porn sites. Including Russian porn sites. Victoria stubbed out the cigarette in a flowerpot and took off the jacket. The kitchen was deserted. Malte had gone down to the basement. She could hear the hum of the TV. Malte was shouting, unrestrainedly. Victoria cleaned up in the kitchen, washed up the frying pan, emptied the dregs of the beer down the sink and wondered what to do for the rest of the day. The fridge was almost empty. She would be forced to ask Malte to drive her to Heby to shop.
‘Come here,’ Malte yelled from downstairs.
Victoria closed her eyes. She knew what he wanted. She went downstairs.
‘Blow job,’ Malte said, his eyes glued to the TV as he pulled down his joggers and underpants. She knelt in front of the sofa and took his slack penis in her mouth.
He placed the beer can on her head and giggled.
‘Fuck, why didn’t I think of this before? Those feminist whores are right – women really can do two things at once,’ he said, leaning back on the sofa.
8. Ingrid Steen
After dropping off Lovisa at her classmate’s house and dutifully exchanging a few words over coffee with her parents, Ingrid piloted her silver Toyota Prius away from the suburbs and in towards Stockholm city centre.
She fast-forwarded through the recording until the point when Tommy had arrived at the newspaper offices. She drove aimlessly around the middle of the city, her white ear
buds inserted into her ears. She held the dictaphone in her left hand, letting her wrist rest on the wheel as she made her way slowly down Sveavägen.
The morning stand-up meeting in Svante’s office with the various bosses, a chat with a well-known, award-winning reporter about his latest series of reportage. A spell of silence. The sound of Tommy turning on his computer. Most of it was of no interest until what Ingrid calculated had to be lunchtime. His mobile phone rang – she heard him answering as he closed the door to the newsroom. His voice, initially formal, changed in character.
‘Soon, sweetheart,’ he said.
Silence. Ingrid held her breath.
‘Oh right, so you’re up for a long lunch then? Well, I’ve got a few things to do here, but see you at the usual place in thirty minutes.’
Ingrid came to a halt at a set of red lights close to the central station. A couple of pedestrians with wheelie bags crossed the street. A man in dirty clothing was digging through a dustbin looking for drink bottles with deposit returns. A woman was pushing a pram. Why was no one doing anything? Her world was falling apart and yet everything just carried on …
Behind her a car honked. The traffic lights had gone green. She pressed the accelerator, a little too hard. The car jerked and began to move. Her eyes on the road, she fast-forwarded exactly thirty minutes as she drove across the Centralbron bridge. The traffic was heavy – roadworks meant that only two lanes were open. Through her headphones, she heard Tommy walking through the newsroom, the dictaphone in his coat picking up the fawning remarks. Ingrid knew that he loved that. Tommy was a person who loved to feel important. Perhaps it was because he had grown up in a single-parent household, his father also a journalist. Ingrid had noticed early on in their relationship how sensitive Tommy was to flattery. Everyone was happy to be told they were clever and doing a good job, but for Tommy, that kind of external affirmation outshone everything else in life. That was how he had explained away the first infidelity. It had been a few months into her pregnancy with Lovisa. Ingrid had thrown him out, but after a couple of days she had forgiven him. He had promised it had been a one-time thing and she had believed him.
He got caught up in conversation with two sports hacks in the lift. Football. Ingrid could hear from the tone of his voice that he wanted to get out of there, that he was bored.
‘You not coming to lunch with us then, boss?’
‘Sorry, wish I could. But I’ve got a lunch meeting. Believe you me, I’d rather spend it discussing Serie A with you guys.’
Polite laughter. Apparently the idiots believed him. They didn’t get that their boss was on the way to a lunch-fuck with his lover.
Silence in the lift. The doors opened. Tommy’s echoing steps. Ingrid guessed he was in the underground car park. She tried to picture him in front of her, imagine what he was thinking. Did he have a guilty conscience? Was he thinking about her? About Lovisa? The car door opened. He got in behind the wheel. Ingrid jumped when another car door opened. Ingrid listened. Although nothing had been said, she was certain there was now another person in the car. For a second she thought she might be mistaken. Could it be a secret source that Tommy was meeting? She gazed out across the water at Söder Mälarstrand – across the boats moored there, looking sad and abandoned, awaiting the arrival of spring.
The next second she heard a zip being undone and Tommy groaning.
‘You’re quick off the mark today,’ he chuckled.
‘Since you force me to duck my head, I thought I’d make myself useful. How long have we got?’
‘All the time in the world.’
Ingrid could feel herself getting dizzy. She glanced quickly in the rear-view mirror, pulled off to the right, removed her headphones and leapt out of the car. She rushed over to the wall and vomited into the dark water.
9. Birgitta Nilsson
Birgitta Nilsson was convinced she was going to die. She looked at the three men she had lived with for the last twenty-two years – the ones around whom her entire life had revolved. The twins, Max and Jesper, they’d have each other. Despite the fact that they were turning twenty-one next year, they still lived together, did everything together. She hoped they would take care of Jacob. He idolised and spoiled them. Jacob was a harsh and cold man – he had never shown her the tenderness she had longed for – but his love for their sons was uncompromising. It compensated for the coolness he displayed towards her – loving something together was as good as loving each other, she used to think to herself.
‘How was work today, sweetheart?’ she asked her husband, while passing a plate of boiled potatoes to Max.
Jacob muttered. He was still annoyed at the food being later than usual. Birgitta had hurried home from the GP and prepared food for the boys – as she called the three of them – but it had only been ready just after seven.
No surprise that they were quiet; they were starving.
They began talking about boats, which besides ice hockey was one of their favourite topics. Birgitta followed the conversation without participating. Jacob had been thinking about buying a boat for a long time and it was agreed that he and the boys would go together to Västerås to take a look at one that was up for sale.
‘That will be fun for you,’ Birgitta said.
No one answered.
When they had finished eating, they left the plates on the table and went into the living room. Birgitta scraped the remnants of food off them, cleaned up in the kitchen and put the leftovers in Tupperware. A red one for Jacob, and two blue ones for the twins to take back home to their flat. Their voices pacified Birgitta. The soundscape of her husband and sons in front of the TV was the setting that she had lived her life to since she had miraculously become a mother at the age of forty. She had done her duty, fulfilled her mission. The twins were grown-up, they could look after themselves.
Most things she said were met with indifference and she had stopped pretending otherwise. Sometimes she would daydream about the time when they had been little. Dependent on her and defenceless without her. Back then, they would creep into her and Jacob’s bedroom at night. Sometimes the pain that those days were gone for good made her shudder. Afterwards she felt stupid. She couldn’t help but feel envious of the parents in her class. They were living the best days of their lives.
Two hours later, Birgitta and Jacob stood side by side at the front door as they said farewell to their sons. They watched them disappear through the garden and head towards the bus stop before Jacob shut the door and turned to her.
‘Why were you so late back?’ he asked. His jaws were at work – chewing, grinding.
‘Darling, there were parents’ meetings and—’
The first blow landed – a clenched fist in the same spot it had got her last week. Birgitta fell over. He stared at her lying there. Still. Unmoving.
‘If you weren’t so fucking ugly, I’d suspect you were having an affair. But who’d want to fuck you?’ he said.
Her gaze fixed on his right hand. The fingers were trembling. It was as if he hadn’t decided whether there was going to be more. But Birgitta knew – she knew him well enough to know that there would be more. She had known it that morning. He had been taciturn, dogged. It was when Jacob wasn’t shouting at her that she needed to look out.
Their sons’ visit had merely postponed the assault. Jacob bent down and grabbed hold of her blouse. Birgitta closed her eyes. The blow came. All the air was expelled from her. She rolled onto her side, her face towards the wall as she heard his footsteps disappear into the living room.
Birgitta lay there for another minute or so, gathering strength, before bracing herself against the wall and laboriously getting up.
10. Ingrid Steen
Ingrid told Lovisa to occupy herself and brushed her teeth in the bathroom. She avoided meeting her own gaze in the mirror. She closed the toilet seat and sat down on the lid. Took a few deep breaths. Part of her wanted to carry on and pretend that nothing had happened. Hundreds of thousands, if not
millions of women lived with unfaithful husbands. She knew Tommy had done it before, and she had forgiven him then. What would have happened if she hadn’t? Lovisa would have been forced to grow up with parents who didn’t live together. She would probably have gone back to journalism, rather than being at home all day, restless, feeling worthless.
She cleared her throat, got up and went into the kitchen.
Next to the huge stainless steel fridge there was an Apple computer showing her and Tommy’s schedule. The idea was that the couple would note their commitments and appointments during the week to ensure they synchronised their weekdays. Tommy’s colour was blue, hers was red. Nine out of the ten entries were Tommy’s. Meetings, meetings, meetings. Galas, exhibitions, association of journalists meetings. Apart from three workout sessions, Ingrid’s were all linked to Lovisa. Pick-up, drop-off, dance, football and homework. Next week, the only interruption to the pattern was a parents’ meeting – green since it was a shared activity. Tommy had stoically offered to attend.
She clicked the schedule off the screen in irritation and opened the browser. She googled: unfaithful husband what should I do?
11. Victoria Brunberg
They parked outside the sleepy ICA supermarket in Heby. The sky was grey, rain lingering in the air. People in tracksuits were dragging carrier bags towards their rusty cars. Victoria went inside and collected a trolley.
‘Hurry up. And no unnecessary crap – I’m not a millionaire,’ Malte muttered.
No, that you most definitely are not, Victoria thought to herself.
Malte walked in front of her. The T-shirt, too short, combined with his grey joggers, too low-slung, meant that his arse crack was staring her in the face. He didn’t care. He greeted acquaintances he encountered with a reserved ‘hello’ or a nod.
Women Without Mercy Page 2