by Karen Swan
‘Ah yeah,’ Christer grinned, batting away her concern with a bear paw. ‘Don’t worry about that. Looks worse than it is. He often does that – works himself to his absolute limits.’
‘To the point of collapse?’
‘Yep. He just won’t stop.’
‘But surely you can make him?’
‘I can tell you’re new here,’ Christer laughed. ‘Listen, if there’s one thing you’ll find, it’s that no one can make Emil Von Greyers do anything he doesn’t want to do. He’s a stubborn bastard when he wants to be; but people need to understand that what might make him difficult to be around at times is also what helped him recover to this point. You can’t have one without the other.’ He shrugged.
‘He’s difficult – how?’
‘Well, not sleeping doesn’t help his general mood, for starters,’ he commented, rolling elastic bands around the mats to hold them in place as tubes.
‘He doesn’t sleep?’
‘Barely. Well, would you want to, after what he’s been through?’
She pulled a face. Maybe not.
‘And it would sure help if he could just eat something he can taste. He keeps losing weight because he doesn’t want to eat.’
‘He’s lost his sense of taste?’
‘And smell.’
‘Oh.’
He glanced across at her as he replaced the dumbbells onto the racks in weight order. ‘You didn’t know all this?’
She shook her head. ‘Not much beyond he was hit by a car and in a coma for seven years, to be honest.’
‘Pfft.’ Christer frowned. ‘Well, the poor guy’s had a lot more to deal with than just learning to get strong again, I can tell you that.’
‘Like what else?’ she prodded, and then, seeing his expression, added, ‘This isn’t nosiness. I’m Linus’s chaperone. I need to know what to expect so I can prepare Linus for it. The hospital visit immediately after Emil woke up went really badly. It did a lot of damage.’
‘Oh yeah, I heard about that incident from the nursing team.’
‘It was awful. He was shouting obscenities and thrashing and screaming.’
Christer watched her, hearing the judgement in her voice. ‘You know that’s an actual condition, right? Like, a medical thing, for people recovering from traumatic brain injuries?’
‘. . . No.’
‘Sure. Post-traumatic amnesia, it’s called. It’s common in post-coma patients waking up. They get very agitated, violent even, although they’re mainly a danger to themselves, of course. They don’t remember anything about it.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Usually the last couple of weeks before the injury, and the first few days of coming to, are completely wiped. Gone. No memory.’
‘And is that the case for Emil? He doesn’t remember any of it?’
‘’Fraid so. It’s a protective thing, I think. The brain protecting the body from the horror of those moments.’
She didn’t know what to say.
‘So what else can I tell you?’ he asked himself rhetorically. ‘Well, the headaches are pretty consistent, so that can make him grouchy. Bright light can be a problem sometimes, although hopefully that’ll improve.’
She nodded, remembering his cap, the sunglasses . . .
‘He’s pretty strong on balance now; we’ve been working on that a lot. Oh, but forgetfulness – remembering dates and things, but also struggling to find the right words sometimes, particularly if he’s stressed. On the other hand, he can also have no filter and be very direct. He’ll say things he probably shouldn’t, so warn his boy not to take offence.’
She nodded. Opportunity? Lust? Relief? . . . Both lonely and drunk on Midsommar’s night . . . That was it. Did they count?
‘I know he’s pretty normal to look at, and that’s what confuses people. They think because he’s walking and talking, it’s all done, that’s he’s better. But it’s a long road ahead for him still. He’s had to fight so hard just to get here.’ He threw a smile her way. ‘Which is why it’s so great his boy’s come to stay. He was motivated before, but I reckon he’ll be bionic now, if tonight was anything to go by.’
‘Great,’ she said, chewing on her cheek, realizing now why it had taken Hanna so long to work up the courage to tell him about Max, taking his dream – and motivation – away. How hard it must have been for him to hear it. ‘Well, thanks. I’ll . . . bear all of that in mind.’
‘No problem,’ he shrugged. ‘And good luck with your side of things. I hope the next few days go well. This place needs some life to it. A kid running about is exactly what’s been missing from here.’
Grand Hotel, Stockholm, May 2010
‘You’re hiding from me.’
He looked back from his position on the balcony, hands clasped as he stared out over the city. Her hair was swept up, pearls at her throat. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re far too beautiful to look at today. It’s like staring at the sun.’
She laughed, swishing her dress, oblivious to the cool night air. ‘So you really like it? You’re not just saying that?’
‘You look sensational.’
She stared at him and he felt his heart click into the gallop that came with meeting those eyes – but a shadow flashed behind them, almost immediately. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘You do think we’ve done the right thing, don’t you?’
He swallowed. ‘. . . Of course. There’s not a doubt in my mind. Why would you even ask it?’
She stared at him, swollen silences pushing her words apart. ‘You . . . you don’t think we’ve rushed into it? I mean, people don’t have to marry now, just because they’re having a baby. It’s not the Dark Ages.’
He smiled, sliding his hands into his pockets so that she couldn’t see them tremble. ‘This is only the beginning, Hanna. Just you wait and see.’
She smiled, her body relaxing at his words. Soothed. Comforted. Reassured.
Behind them, the band struck up the first notes of ‘You’re Beautiful’, prompting cheers from the dance floor.
‘Dance with me,’ she said, stepping forward, her hands reaching out. He straightened and put his hands on her waist, feeling her still-slender narrowness. She laced her arms round his neck as they moved softly to the music, the city lights winking beneath them, the sea dark and sleek beneath the night sky.
They moved away from the doors, away from the lights, the music diffusing through the thick walls as the guests caroused without them. They wouldn’t be missed for a while yet; there were so many people here, far more than he cared to count.
He closed his eyes, feeling the gentle sway of her body against his, the strictures of her corset beneath his fingers. Her skin smelled of gardenia and orange blossom. ‘Are you having fun?’ she murmured, her voice low and sweet against his ear.
‘Best day of my life.’
She pulled back to look at him, knowing it was a lie. He looked down into those eyes again. Smiling and questioning all at once; always.
‘Too many people,’ he conceded, giving a conciliatory shrug.
‘I know. I wish it could always be like this,’ she murmured, sliding in closer to him again, her breath warm against his neck. ‘This moment.’
He closed his eyes, wishing the same, as they danced in the moonlight, cheek to cheek.
Chapter Sixteen
Her eyes opened but did not see, a vestige of her troubled dreams hovering, then landing on her again. He had been lying on his back, on a bed, and she had been staring down at him, as if she were a spider on the ceiling. His arms had been folded behind his head, and he was stretched out in just his favourite jeans, tanned, relaxed, a soft smile on his lips as though listening to music, light brown hair splayed on the pillow. She watched his foot tap, his eyes closing for long moments but then opening again and fastening directly upon her, as though watching her back, knowing she was there. He looked so quiet, so happy. It had been . . . soothing, seeing him like that, how he had really been before the c
ancer achieved critical mass, a new image to overlay her last memories of him and the usual dreams, where he was whittled back to sinew and bone, green-tinged, hairless . . .
She had allowed herself to believe, in the dream, that there was a happy ending, but no matter how much she tried to keep her gaze on his face – the curve of his lips, the first bloom of stubble – she saw the water seeping across the floor, making it shine. Slippery. She refused to look, to acknowledge it, but then it began inching up the walls, getting deeper and deeper, and soon it was trickling over the mattress where he lay. She tried to speak, to tell him he was getting wet, but she couldn’t speak, couldn’t get him to hear her, and he made no sign of having noticed the creeping danger as the water gradually traced around his shape, then over it, closing over his legs, his chest, his arms, his face . . . submerging him.
It was the sight of him, underwater, staring back at her, refusing to move or do anything to save himself, that had made her wake up, she realized now, and she pressed a hand to her throat; it was still tingling from her shout. Too late to help.
Heart pounding, she curled back under the sheets, the unfamiliar sounds of the melancholic house coming to her ear – footsteps on the terrace outside her window, the swoosh of a window opening, a whistle in the pipes . . . From the blade of light escaping past the solid shutters and drawing a line across the floor, she could tell it was another beautiful day. But her spirits still sank at the prospect of spending it here.
Dreams about Jack always tokened a bad day, she knew that. Experience was a hard master, and she breathed deeply for a few moments, trying to articulate her affirmations for why she should get out of bed: it was it was a beautiful day. A beautiful summer’s day on a stunning private island in the Swedish archipelago. She was in one of the most beautiful places on earth. She was alive. She had so much to be thankful for –
A sudden sound, something smashing, made her gasp and look at the far wall.
And Linus. She had Linus to look after.
She threw the sheets back and leapt out of bed, darting out of her door and peering in through his. ‘Okay, buddy?’ she asked, trying not to look wild-eyed, but the sight that greeted her was alarming – he was sitting fully dressed on the bed, the bed so expertly made with hospital corners that either Måns had already been in and made it, or Linus hadn’t slept in it. But she had tucked him in herself last night.
Linus was staring at the floor. She cast an apprehensive gaze around the room and, in the pristine simplicity, easily caught sight of the remains of the Lego truck he had been working on after arriving here yesterday, now smashed into hundreds of pieces against their dividing wall.
She stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. She ruffled his hair as she sat on the bed beside him. ‘What’s up, dude? Bad night?’
He shook his head. His eyes weren’t puffy, and he didn’t look pale.
‘How come you’re dressed already? I was just about to come and wake you. Are you that hungry for breakfast already?’
‘I’ve already had breakfast.’
‘Oh.’ Bell was taken aback. ‘Oh. Well, you should have woken me, then. We could have gone down toge—’
‘He told me not to tell you.’
She frowned, puzzled. ‘Who did?’
‘Emil. He woke me up early and said it was our secret.’
‘. . . What?’
‘We went out on his boat for breakfast and—’
‘You went on a boat with him? Just him? My God, are you okay?’ Now she was on her knees, kneeling in front of him and looking him over as though scanning for signs of injury.
He nodded, but he was visibly upset.
‘What did he do? What did he say?’ Her voice was frantic, heart clattering and making the blood roar through her ears so that she could barely hear his responses anyway. ‘Linus, tell me. What happened?’
‘He said . . .’ A sob escaped him, one bitter tear squeezing itself out and wending a defiant trail down his cheek. ‘He said Pappa and Elise and Tilde aren’t my real family.’
Bell rocked back on her heels, scarcely able to believe this was happening. She’d been awake all of five minutes, emerging from one nightmare straight into another. ‘He said that to you?’ she whispered, feeling the adrenaline pump.
Linus nodded.
She was up again. ‘Wait here,’ she said grimly.
‘Where are you going?’ he cried as she ran to the door.
‘Stay right here, Linus, and don’t leave this room. I’ll come straight back.’
‘But –’
She tore down the hall, past the closed bedroom doors and watchful eyes of dark portraits, her bare feet almost silent on the worn boards as her hair streamed behind her. The polished, ebonized banister glided seamlessly beneath her hand as she took the stairs two at a time, and began charging from one room to the next.
Where was he? Where the hell was he?
She ran to the snug first, but he wasn’t there. She looked into the kitchen too, startling the cook, who nearly dropped a dish at the sight of her. She darted out again, lightning fast, cheeks flushed.
‘Miss Bell?’
She whipped round to see Måns walking towards her, coming from the direction of the drawing room and looking alarmed by her fluster.
‘Where is he?’ she demanded, her head still flashing left and right as she passed by open doorways. One to her right led onto the terrace, the round table and chairs at the top of the steps conspicuously empty.
‘Where is who?’
She had no time for mannered games and procrastination right now. ‘You know who.’
‘The boy is in his room, Miss Bell.’
‘Not –’ She ran straight past him, towards the drawing room. The double doors were open and it was like running into a daydream: the hemp and silk cushions on the settle plumped, fresh white ranunculus roses arranged in a heaped dome on the low coffee table; sunlight pouring through the tall windows like it was painting the room a fresh new colour, and everything smelling of cut grass.
The doors leading off to the left, to the dining room as she recalled, were closed and she was about to turn away – why would he be in there, alone in a room to seat thirty? – when the low timbre of a male voice made her stop in her tracks.
‘Miss Bell –’ Måns said, reaching the threshold of the drawing room.
But she wouldn’t be stopped. She flew across the space like she was on strings and flung the door open with a burst of indignation and rage, so hard it banged against the walls. ‘How dare you!’
Emil stared back at her with a look of utter astonishment. ‘Bell—’
‘You woke a sleeping child and made him get up in the dark and go out on a boat with you? With you?’
He put down the sheet of paper in his hand and placed it very carefully on the table. ‘Not just any child,’ he said slowly. Carefully. ‘My child. My son.’
‘You’re a stranger to him! He doesn’t know you!’ She felt herself quiver with fury and realized her hands were bunched into tight fists, her head pushed forwards like an aggressive gander.
Emil stared at her for another moment, then looked to the men sitting at the table with him. Bell felt her anger dissipate as she noticed them suddenly too, remembering she was dressed in just an AC/DC t-shirt and knickers. Her fingers found the hem and pulled it downwards as Emil cleared his throat. ‘I think we had better pick this up another day, gentlemen.’
Bell watched in horror as the one-two-three-oh-God-four men in suits shuffled and put away the paperwork on the oval table before them. An awkward silence settled over the group as they scraped their chairs back and murmured their farewells to him, looking at her critically as they passed by.
Bell had never felt more humiliated and she bit her lip hard, staring at the floor as the last one left, the leather on his shoes so highly polished that she could almost see up her own t-shirt in their surface. She waited for the sound of his footsteps to fade before she looked up again.
Emil was leaning against the vast oval table, watching her, his arms folded across his chest. Unlike his lackeys, he wasn’t suited, but was wearing a pair of faded grey cargo shorts, a raspberry t-shirt and those boat shoes that were on the point of collapse. His seemingly beloved baseball cap sat on the table beside a water glass.
They stared at one another in silence for a moment and she felt her heat was matched by his freeze. He was angry too. She’d embarrassed him in front of his . . . team, or whoever they were.
‘He doesn’t know you,’ she said again, quietly, through clenched teeth, trying to retain some dignity.
His eyebrow arched fractionally, barely perceptible across the room. ‘That was the point of the exercise. I’m trying to get to know him. How else can I do that, if not by spending time with him?’
‘You can do it by showing a little patience,’ she said. ‘He’s a ten-year-old boy who had never heard of you before breakfast yesterday morning.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Yes. It is.’
He shook his head. ‘Actually, he’s known about me for months. He came to see me in the hospital after I woke up. His mother brought him.’
‘I know,’ she scoffed. ‘I was there, and I saw the look on his face as you screamed obscenities after him. He was terrified of you.’
Emil’s expression changed at her words, his froideur faltering, and he looked away quickly, a ripple of pain passing over his features. ‘That’s not fair. I wasn’t myself back then.’
‘I know. But it doesn’t change the fact that you frightened him. And he didn’t know who you were – Hanna had told him you were just an old friend. His godfather.’ She shook her head bitterly. ‘You should have seen his face when she told him the truth yesterday morning, and said you were making him come here to spend the summer with you. All the way over here, I expected him to just leap from the boat.’
Emil paled visibly and turned away, raking his hands through his hair. She could see the muscles in his back beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt, but also the bones too. Despite herself, she felt another pang of guilt as she remembered Christer’s words. ‘Look, I appreciate you’ve been through a lot –’
