by Ian Giles
Outside it was already dark. The snow was whirling down in huge flakes, and the thermometer in the window was showing several degrees below zero. Her gaze moved to the kitchen counter and lingered on the whisky bottle.
She eventually mastered her listlessness and got up. Then she stumbled to the kitchen counter, grabbed hold of the bottle and raised it to her mouth. She tipped back a considerable amount of what was left in the bottle and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before putting the bottle in the larder. Then she went to the bathroom and got into the shower.
6
Jeanette
SHE REPEATED the same thing in her head over and over again: “it wouldn’t have made any difference, because he was already dead.” Occasionally with the addition of “or as good as.” Because she couldn’t be one hundred percent certain what condition he had been in when she had made her decision. Her selfish decision. When she had decided to leave him down there in the ravine to meet her new—and hopefully lighter—fate.
When she got home, she had pretended nothing had happened, which was easier said than done with a torn coat and muddy shoes. But her husband accepted her vague references to changeable weather and slippery pavements, and she babbled about the bathroom renovation, largely because the last normal, everyday conversation she had had before the accident had been about those bloody tiles.
He might have perceived her as unusually emotional, with an unexpectedly positive attitude towards the refurbishment in which she had previously been barely interested. But he didn’t ask any questions, talking on and seeming more content than he had for a long time.
His enthusiasm made her feel calmer for the moment but did nothing to alter her thoughts once silence fell. She went over what had happened from all angles, clumsily trying to shake the feeling of guilt. In her head was a constant dialogue between herself and some kind of superior moral entity:
Why should a dead man be allowed to drag me through the mud?
Because he might not have been dead.
After that crash and with those injuries, he must have been dead—he wouldn’t have survived until the paramedics arrived.
How do you know? Do you have any medical training?
Anyone could see that he was dead or almost dead. His life would have been intolerable had he been saved.
Who are you to decide what constitutes tolerable?
True.
If he had been saved, you said? So there was a tiny chance he could have been saved?
No. No, there wasn’t. Not even one in a million.
But still. Just leaving him there? Bleeding to death. Not able to breathe. Is that humane?
There was nothing to be done.
I’m not the first person to have a little something on the side.
Nor the last person to be seen as a whore on those grounds either. I have my life ahead of me—he was dead or dying. What does it matter?
It matters to someone. Wife, children, siblings, and parents who will miss him. Who have a right to know.
I acted in a way that benefitted me. Most of what I do is for others’ benefit, but I helped myself and my future. I did what was reasonable in the situation.
Jeanette fought with her internal demons, struggling to convince herself that her actions had been rational. To persuade herself of the long-term positive effects. But her conscience gnawed at her, eating into every single one of her thoughts and dreams.
She had to do something to avoid succumbing to the burden of guilt.
7
Sandra
“YOU’RE WASTING AWAY, sweetheart,” said Dad, placing a hand on her shoulder.
Sandra jumped hard, which is what she did in response to any unpredicted touch nowadays. It wasn’t the first time that her parents—whom she often ate with but was not currently confiding in—had remarked that she had lost weight. The fact that her appetite had been blown away was a welcome side effect of that awful thing that she would have preferred to forget but couldn’t.
“Gosh, you frightened me,” said Sandra with a small laugh that was intended to trivialise her reaction.
Her father didn’t look especially convinced.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said with a concerned frown between his eyes. “Sorry.”
Both he and her mother had almost certainly noticed that something was off, but they maintained discretion and gave her the room she needed without expressing excessive curiosity. She was particularly unappreciative of unexpected sounds. She would glance constantly over her shoulder, semi-neurotically ensuring that no one was watching her from a distance. She struggled to fall asleep at night and found it hard to focus on work during the day. Of course, it wasn’t all that intellectually demanding, but she had to pay attention to customers’ expectations, perceive their needs as they wandered around the shop, and accompany them to the shelf they were looking for. And her distance learning course on which she normally spent her evenings was on hold for the time being. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
Her car had been fixed, but it was Sandra herself who felt like she wasn’t roadworthy. She was afraid of the cold, potential slipperiness, unpredictable manoeuvres by fellow motorists, and driving in the dark. She was highly strung and low spirited—far from her usual easygoing, good-natured self.
The thought of contacting the police was gnawing away at the back of her mind. Sandra wondered whether doing it would make her feel better or have the opposite effect. Of course, she ought to do her duty as a responsible member of society. Ensure that that man was stopped and punished, and that no one else was affected. At the same time, if the police managed—against all probability—to find him based on her vague description, then she would have to come face-to-face with him. That was something that horrified her rather than tempted her, even though it ought to be the other way around. She would have to testify against him in court, unless the case was dropped—which in all truth was the likely outcome. Because she had no idea what his name was, what car he drove, where he worked, or where he lived. And it was doubtful whether she would even be able to pick him out in a lineup with any certainty.
And what would the point be of using up police resources and taxpayers’ money, if any investigation would eventually be discontinued?
This was why Sandra came to leave such thoughts where they were. She pushed herself onwards in order to return, as far as possible, to an ordinary life. And the days passed.
8
Jeanette
IT WAS MORE than two weeks later when the missing man’s photo was published and he was named in the local press. At first, Jeanette couldn’t believe her eyes, rereading the article several times before putting the newspaper down and putting her hands to her head.
Missing? What did that mean?
Investigations had met a dead end, according to the journalist—there was apparently nothing to go on.
In one way this was a good thing, but it was a bad thing in many other ways.
“Headache?” her husband asked from across the breakfast table.
She was so dazed by the traumatic news that she wasn’t aware of his presence, so lonely in this that she had forgotten she wasn’t alone in the room.
She said yes, excused herself, and went to the bathroom where the medicine cabinet was. She quickly gulped down a couple of painkillers, double the dose set out in the printed instructions on the box. Then she sat on the toilet seat lid with her head in her hands and tried to structure her thoughts.
In one stroke her entire already turbulent existence had been turned upside down. The police were asking for help; family and friends knew nothing. No one knew anything.
Except her. Jeanette had the answer to everyone’s questions; she was sitting on the opportunity to untangle all the knots and give the chief mourners some peace of mind.
But at what price?
Far too great a price, without doubt. She knew that she had committed a criminal act, even if she had no idea what classification it had. Jeanette was not wi
lling to give up her own well-being for the sake of a group of strangers. She didn’t owe them anything, she really didn’t. And even if her well-being wasn’t great at the moment, she had made her choice down there in the ravine, and she couldn’t change that. It was too late to fix this. She didn’t want to spend years in prison for it—she wouldn’t survive that.
No one would feel better for knowing that she’d had a relationship with the missing man. It would merely add salt to the wound.
JEANETTE BARELY SLEPT at night. Despite her entire being downright screaming for rest, her brain refused to relax. Instead, it would paint ghastly pictures on the inside of her eyelids that made her heart pound and her skin sweat so much her sheets darkened with perspiration.
In a feverish half-torpor, she saw the man in the metal wreckage deep within the inaccessible ravine. The face damaged beyond recognition, covered in wounds and bruises. The shard of glass like a spike in his throat, and eyes that would open without warning and plead for help that never came. The rib cage that rose to permit a solitary, rasping breath, blood pulsing through the open wound on the forehead.
Fantasy and reality merged into one, and she lay there tossing and turning through the nights, unable to reason her way to relief in her conscience-stricken state.
It was only during the day that some sense took hold, when her rational inner voice had a little room to manoeuvre. But the restless nights took their toll and the lack of sleep led to something that began to seem like depression.
And the days passed.
Our beloved
Charlotte
Wretberg
Born 3 July 2003
Loved and missed
16 September 2009
MUM and DAD
Granny
Grandma and Grandpa
Friends and family
———
No longer can I caress
your cheek
No longer can I squeeze
your hand
You have reached
another land
Where nothing can hurt you
———
Funeral service
at Västerhejde Church
Friday, 2 October
11:00
The ceremony ends
after saying farewell
at the church.
Please remember
Charlotte
by donating to
the Childhood Cancer Foundation.
MAY
2018
9
Sandra
IT WAS A slightly chilly but beautiful spring evening, and the blackbirds and willow wrens were competing in the auditorium that was her parents’ garden. It hadn’t rained for some time, so Erik and his grandfather were keeping busy by watering the shrubs. Sandra could hear her father explaining in full detail to his grandchild how important it was to water in the evening. Erik listened to everything his grandfather said with great interest. He adored his grandparents and the love was undeniably mutual. Erik was at least as spoilt as she had been during her own childhood. But you could hardly be loved too much, she told herself.
The meal was finished and Sandra helped her mother to clear the table. She probably didn’t want help, but Sandra felt she exploited her parents enough as it was, and at least tried to do her share. Coming here and eating so many nights a week seemed immature, but that was how all the other involved parties wanted it. She didn’t want to take that joy away from them, even if it didn’t exactly score her any adult brownie points.
“Volunteer work again this evening?” her mother asked.
“Of course. If I’ve got nothing better on, then I give my time to Friends-on-call.”
“Isn’t it hard work? Doesn’t it clash with your actual job? Surely you need to rest just like everyone else.”
“It’s not all that onerous,” Sandra reassured her. “I feel like I’m making a difference and that’s important to me. Almost therapeutic.”
“If you need therapy you can always come to me, dear.”
“I know that, Mum, and I have all the support I need from you two. But it feels good to help others. To comfort and care.”
“Isn’t it just a load of mucky old so-and-sos who call?”
“Mucky old so-and-sos?” Sandra laughed, putting the frying pan down in the sink. “No, definitely not. It’s mostly sad people who call. Lonely, perhaps frightened people who don’t feel they have anyone else to turn to with their thoughts and worries.”
“Isn’t it a great drain acting as a sponge for other people’s misery?”
“No, Mum. Quite the opposite. Your own troubles often seem trivial when you hear other people’s stories.”
“Troubles?” said her mother, frowning. “Aren’t things going your way?”
“Less and less,” said Sandra truthfully. “Almost never. But I have you and I have Erik. I have a varied job and colleagues I like. What more can I expect?”
“Well, if you say so,” her mother sighed, without sounding altogether convinced.
It wouldn’t be long before the question of whether Erik could stay the night with his grandparents came up. Sandra put the final bits and pieces in the dishwasher and wiped the kitchen counter.
“You know that we’re more than happy for Erik to spend the night here? To give you a little alone time.”
Sandra vaguely grasped that “alone time” had something to do with blokes and, by extension, wedding bells. That kind of pressure got a little tiring in the long run, but it was nothing she couldn’t put up with.
“I know, Mum,” she replied. “But I also love having Erik around me. Bathing him, brushing his teeth, and reading him a bedtime story. I like to know he is sleeping in his room as I do grown-up stuff. Thanks all the same—but not tonight.”
AN ELDERLY MAN whose dog had been run over was the evening’s first caller to Friends-on-call. He talked freely, not afraid to lay bare his feelings. He just needed someone to listen, and Sandra did. Occasionally, she would insert the odd encouraging rejoinder, and after around twenty minutes the man had talked it out.
He was followed by a young woman named Ellen who would call almost every evening when Sandra was on duty. She had learning difficulties and seemed rather happy-go-lucky—she just wanted someone to share her day with. Sandra asked questions with interest and listened to the amusing replies. It was an honour being someone’s confidant like this, sharing the daily life of someone whom she would otherwise never have met.
She then quickly dealt with a call from an unhappy mother who was having difficulties with her child who had ended up in a bad crowd.
Then the phone fell silent. That was to be expected. Three calls per shift was usually more than enough to cover the needs of fifty-seven thousand Gotlanders for an evening. Sandra went to get ready for bed. But just as she was about to set the phone to airplane mode it rang, even though it was almost midnight and her shift was due to end.
The conversation fumbled into life.
“Kerstin,” the woman replied with some hesitation. “My name’s Kerstin.”
Her voice was a little raspy; perhaps she’d had a tough life. But it might just be that she smoked a little more than her voice could cope with, or that she was suffering the aftereffects of a cold.
“I’m glad you’ve turned to Friends-on-call, Kerstin. Before we get started, I just have to inform you that if anything you say makes me suspect that you or someone else has committed or is planning to commit a serious crime, I will contact the police. Are you okay with that?”
“Of course.”
“Beyond that, you can be sure that what you say will stay between you and me. Does that sound okay?”
“That sounds good.”
“Great. Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?”
“Anything in particular? No, I’m not sure . . .”
“We can talk about anything. I’m here to listen, but the conversation is entirely on your own terms.”
>
“I’m also a listener,” said Kerstin. “Normally.”
Then she went quiet, and Sandra had to make an effort to keep the conversation going. It was unusual for callers not to have something specific they wanted to discuss.
“You step back and watch? Or do you mean that people come to you with their problems?”
“A bit of both,” Kerstin replied, without developing her answer further.
“Do you find it too much?” Sandra attempted.
“It’s okay.”
“Because it can be all too easy to become the shoulder that everyone wants to cry on.”
“Not for you, apparently.”
“You and I are anonymous to each other,” said Sandra. “That’s the difference. I can’t help you in any way except by listening and trying to cheer you up. If you’re there with a living, breathing person, then there are greater demands on what you do and how you follow up. It can be a tough job to be the one who has to put the pieces back together when someone around you doesn’t feel good.”
“It’s okay,” Kerstin repeated.
Sandra struggled to find a way to keep the conversation going.
“So you’re a listener. Does that mean you don’t talk much yourself?”
“Exactly.”
“Why is that? Perhaps you’re shy?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. Just don’t have anything to say.”
The conversation continued hesitantly without anything really being said. The receiver was silent for long stretches. But there was something about this woman that awoke Sandra’s interest more than usual. The sad, restrained tone in her voice. Her unwillingness to talk at all and the courage it must have taken for her to do so anyway.
“I notice that you find it difficult to talk about yourself,” said Sandra. “So I have to say it’s great that you are doing it anyway.”
