by Ian Giles
Then she collapsed on the sofa in front of the TV—she was too tired even to make tea. She channel hopped to a program about people with a limited survival instinct—they had gambled everything away or bought fizzy drinks and fags with all their savings and then some—until the ad break began. She zapped around other channels where there were ad breaks too and eventually ended up on a fairly decent documentary about Japanese fetishes on one of the channels. She fired off a few text messages to a couple of friends, but both seemed to be otherwise occupied, so she didn’t get any replies. Whenever this happened, it always made her think that they probably spent time with her sporadically out of decency, and that none of them took any pleasure from spending time with her.
At work, she had the respect of colleagues and a responsible role for which she had qualified through expertise and hard work. Despite her shy image, there was no one there who questioned her. But as soon as she was no longer hiding behind her professional role, her self-confidence came tumbling down. Socially, she was a total zero. These kinds of thoughts pull me down, she thought to herself. Don’t send messages if you’re afraid of not hearing back. Dump the bedroom mirror if it makes you unhappy. Wear clothes you can breathe and move in. Go out on the town and get hammered. Get a hobby and meet new people. Build ships in bottles or paint watercolours, take tennis lessons, learn to tango or speak German. Don’t just sit here being depressed—do something useful with your spare time.
Her mobile rang, and she was reminded that she was in any case doing something useful, even if it was beginning to dawn on her that she mostly did it for her own sake so that she had someone to talk to in the evenings.
It was Kerstin, and Sandra felt herself getting psyched up, as was so often the case—but unfortunately only then—when something in her life required an extraordinary input from her.
“Are you well?” she asked, an uncontroversial opening to their conversation.
“Hmm, well, things are the same as usual.”
“Has the sore throat sorted itself out?”
“More or less. Do you have children?”
It might not have been such an unusual question, but the way it was asked—completely out of context—was surprising.
“Why do you ask?” Sandra asked.
“It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot over the last few days. I think children redefine you as a person. You become someone else. Someone’s mother, instead of being just any old woman.”
“Of course, you’re special to the child, otherwise there’s not really anyone who cares whether you have children or not,” Sandra expounded. “Are you thinking about yourself, or your mother?”
Kerstin was silent for a few seconds and then replied with another question.
“Are you a good mother?”
It went against Sandra’s principles to talk about her own private life, but to get closer to Kerstin, to give something back, she decided to make an exception on this occasion.
“I’m not exactly someone who fights wars on behalf of my child,” she admitted with shame. “I’m probably a pretty weak parent, but I’m loving and have good intentions. So in that regard I think I’m a pretty good mother, actually. Otherwise I’m not especially good at anything much.”
The last remark snuck out of her. Was that how she saw herself? Bad at everything? She couldn’t go around thinking like that about herself without doing something about it. She ought to take her least worst part and do something with it. Even if she wasn’t good, she had to be able to train and improve, get into shape and develop.
“Son or daughter?” Kerstin asked.
“A three-year-old son,” Sandra heard herself say.
But that was enough. No more disclosures about her own private life; the conversation was meant to be about Kerstin. Sandra was curious whether she had children, but the question might be sensitive so she left it open to interpretation.
“Do you have any causes for joy in your life?” she asked.
“No, not any longer. Not since my husband was taken from me.”
Sandra heard the crisp sound of a lighter, followed by a deep breath. She took the opportunity to lead the conversation where she wanted it.
“You say he was taken from you. Your way of expressing it sounds . . . Are you saying that death took him? That God took him?”
“No,” Kerstin replied harshly. “I’m not.”
They were there again, nudging against it. So near, and yet so far. Sandra was convinced that it was the death of the husband and the circumstances around it that was affecting Kerstin more than anything else, yet she never quite got there.
“Our last conversation ended very abruptly,” Sandra said. “Did we get cut off, or did you feel unable to keep talking?”
“I don’t remember,” said Kerstin expressionlessly.
Sandra had a feeling that she probably did, and that the same thing might happen now. Smoke was drawn in and exhaled, and Sandra thought the conversation might end at any moment. But it didn’t. Instead something very unexpected happened. After another drag on the cigarette, Kerstin spoke again with what Sandra could have sworn was suppressed rage in her voice.
“It was an absolute ice rink out on the road,” she said. “It had just frozen and wasn’t gritted. He encountered a car that forced him off the road. Do you understand? He was forced off the road. The barrier that used to be at the edge of the road above the old limestone quarry wasn’t there anymore for some reason, and the other driver did nothing to avoid the accident. He cut the corner and didn’t even brake or swerve, just drove straight towards the car. Left it all up to my husband. Who slid off the road and crashed into the ravine.”
“And he was there until they found him four days later,” Sandra added in a low voice.
“Four days. After suffering horribly for the final hours of his life. Stuck with a cracked skull and difficulty breathing, smashed to pieces and frozen. I wish that it had at least been quick.”
Kerstin’s voice failed, and Sandra heard her crying. She thought it was good for her and badly needed, and hoped that her own presence on the line was of some comfort. But there was something strange about this story, it occurred to her—she was just unable to form the thought clearly.
“I’m sorry,” said Kerstin, swallowing. “I don’t want to saddle someone else with this. You.”
“But that’s why I’m here,” said Sandra softly. “You can cry. I’m here holding your hand, if you see what I mean.”
“Thank you,” said Kerstin. “And sorry.”
“Don’t apologise,” Sandra insisted. “I understand how you feel and I’m suffering with you, if that’s of any comfort.”
“Thank you,” said Kerstin again, and Sandra heard her putting her hand over the phone to blow her nose in the background.
“Did they catch him?” Sandra asked. “The hit-and-run driver?”
“The police wrote it off as an accident only involving one car. And after such a long time, there was nothing to suggest otherwise.”
“But . . . Where have you . . .? How do you know that it’s a hit-and-run? That he was forced off the road by someone who didn’t swerve, who saw him fly into the abyss and left him to die?”
After a few seconds’ contemplation, Kerstin replied in a low, heavy-hearted voice, “There’s photographic evidence.”
She spoke doubtfully, with a brief pause after each word, as if she might at any moment change her mind and take the words back. But she didn’t. Instead, she repeated them, more clearly and with greater emphasis this time.
“There was photographic evidence, you see, Sandra. That I’ve seen with my own eyes.”
“But then there must have been every opportunity for the police to catch the other driver,” Sandra replied.
She was becoming more and more concerned by this story.
“You make it sound so uncomplicated,” said Kerstin. “But things rarely are. I have to go.”
And then the receiver went silent, and Ke
rstin was gone.
Sandra stayed on the sofa with her gaze fixed on something in a dimension far beyond the black TV screen. Why didn’t you share any evidence with the police, was what she wanted to ask. And where did the photos come from?
There were so many things about this accident that were unclear, and she really wanted to help somehow. Help Kerstin to set her feelings straight about all of this, encourage her to share what she knew so that she received legal redress and could finally have peace of mind.
She handled the subsequent calls that evening feeling preoccupied, but she did what she could to ensure it didn’t show.
14
Jeanette
“NOT BLOODY LIKELY,” said Jeanette, rejecting Lubbi’s offer to sit down with her on the bench.
“Are you in a bit of a mood today, Jen?”
“You stink,” she hissed. “I can’t bear the stench.”
“Why thank you,” said Lubbi staring further into the vodka bottle.
“Got out of bed on the wrong side?” asked Micki.
“Stop asking fucking questions and you’ll live longer.”
“You should sit down and rest a while dear,” Nanna said cautiously. “You aren’t well.”
“You’re not my mother.”
Her friends’ care was missing the mark; just as pain causes more pain so anger causes more anger. But it was only when Kat opened her mouth that it truly backfired.
“Delirium tremens,” she said, attempting to make eye contact with the other woman.
Kat said it quietly, in a way that meant everyone could hear her, but not as loudly as if she had been directing it at anyone in particular. She wasn’t speaking to Jeanette but about her, and it sparked Jeanette into firing on all cylinders. She spat out insolent invectives that belonged to a vocabulary she didn’t normally use. Puffed out her chest and made a brutal gesture towards Kat, who involuntarily pulled herself back.
Jeanette then moved around the benches in agitation, muttering long tirades to herself. It was as if the thoughts bubbling up in her head weren’t fully thought through until they were spoken out loud. Not because they were especially meaningful—even she realised that—but she had to get rid of them somehow, they had to get out. That was why she was babbling away, stalking from bench to bin to planter. Occasionally, she would bump into someone, and shout and harry them even though they backed away without protest. This aggression was foreign to her—but right now she was in no position to stem the stream of emotions that she barely recognised as her own.
They were all on to her: Micki, Lubbi, Nanna, a young, shy lad called Jimmy, some older worn-out blokes, and even Kat. Everyone was trying to get her to sit down, to cool off, but she waved them away, whirling her arms and answering with abuse. Something got in the way—someone, because she felt the back of her hand touch a face, and she heard the shout. But she rushed on, trying to run away from the ten thousand thoughts that were tearing her head apart and gushing out of her mouth in a long and garbled flood.
Suddenly she was surrounded. They were coming at her from every direction. They looked threatening as they towered above her, and this made her even more angry. She prattled on, swearing, gesticulating, and dashing about in smaller and smaller circles. Then they got hold of her, capturing her, bending her arms against her back so that she couldn’t move and get free.
They must have planned her capture without her noticing, because right beside her was a taxi with its back doors open. She screamed and raged, tried to resist but didn’t succeed. They pushed her into the back seat—a burly bloke on either side—and slammed the doors before the car pulled away.
She couldn’t remember what happened next, but when she came to her senses she was lying on her own bed wearing her shoes and all her clothes. Jimmy was sitting at the foot of the bed and Lubbi adjacent to her head. He carefully brushed the hair from her forehead and held out a glass of water. She took it, and realised at the same moment to her despair that all the evil thoughts that had been chasing her were still there. She lifted her head and tried to drink the water, but her hand shook so much that most of it ended up on her.
Lubbi took the glass and put it down, put his arm around her neck and lay down next to her, holding her hand and trying to calm her down. But it was no good. Her breathing was shallow and very fast, and all the while words were once again tumbling from her mouth. But these were not hurtful words any longer, just a long torrent of emotions—emotions that were actually her own.
It was about the joy of having a child, the spiritual torment as you cared for it, the pain of losing the most important thing in life, the eternal grief afterwards, the betrayal of the person you had promised to love, the shame of letting oneself go and leaving, the feelings of guilt, the rash and fateful decisions, the suffering of living on after everything that had happened and everything she had done, the tragedy that she was still alive even though she didn’t want or deserve to be.
It was incohesive and probably incomprehensible, but they listened without interrupting. Jeanette knew there were things she shouldn’t talk about, shouldn’t even touch on, and she tried to stop herself on several occasions, but she couldn’t. Throughout the monologue she lay there coiled like a spring, but Lubbi never relaxed his grip on her. It warmed her and stopped her from shaking, and after a long time—hours perhaps—the words ran out and Jeanette’s body relaxed. Only then did Lubbi change position, but still with his arms around her.
“You smell good, Lubbi,” she said, her nose in his hair. “Sorry.”
“So you remember?” said Lubbi, and she could feel him laughing.
“I’m so sorry,” said Jeanette.
“Don’t be. We’ve all been in that state of panic and despair.”
“I don’t know what happened.”
“Delirium tremens, as Kat quite rightly said.”
“I was awful. I didn’t mean any of what I said.”
“No one believes you did.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely sure. But the most recent stuff was perhaps more relevant? Since we got back?”
“Yes,” Jeanette admitted. “But you’ve heard it before.”
“Not all of it. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” said Jeanette without feeling convinced she was ready for it.
“I get the feeling that there’s something that you’re especially ashamed of, something that you regret enormously. Shame and guilt are the worst emotions to carry around—worse than grief and longing, hate and anger and unhappy love. Do you agree?”
Jeanette nodded hesitantly, sensing that something unwelcome was about to follow.
“Based on what you’ve said,” Lubbi continued, “there’s nothing in your life that is in proportion to your self-contempt.”
Jeanette didn’t say anything, holding her breath and waiting for him to continue.
“You can’t just carry around those feelings of guilt. It destroys you. You say you don’t deserve to be alive, and that you don’t want to be. You can’t feel like that. It makes your friends sad and worried.”
It was nicely put, and perhaps he would stop there. But Lubbi wasn’t done.
“You had an affair, betrayed your husband. That’s okay—you know that? You’re allowed to be unfaithful without going to jail. Or being pilloried. You might not feel great about it, but it’s hardly a reason to commit suicide.”
Jeanette exhaled. But then the clincher came, the thing she had been worried the conversation would lead to.
“It makes me think,” said Lubbi seriously, “that there’s something worse. Something you really don’t want to come out. And I dare say that’s why you’re in the position you are now. That it’s the reason why you can’t bear to go on, that you have panic attacks like the one today. Am I on the right track here?”
Jeanette nodded. Reluctantly, but she had to give him his due.
“In that case I suggest you say what it is. No matter what it is, you’ll feel better i
f you tell us. And it goes without saying that we won’t tell anyone else.”
Jeanette lifted her head and glanced at Jimmy, who was still sitting on the foot of the bed. He shook his head intensely. Jeanette lay down again and sighed.
“Okay,” she said. “You’re probably right. It might be a relief to be rid of this burden. But you’ll hate me.”
“I doubt that,” said Lubbi pacifyingly. “We’ve all done things we regret, things we’re ashamed of and would prefer not to talk about. Things we should be inside for.”
“I hate myself,” Jeanette said with a sigh. “What I’ve done is so awful, so selfish and cynical and totally fucking dumb. Unforgivable.”
Then she took a deep breath and began to tell them.
“It was four years ago, in winter. During the brief period that I was seeing that man I told you about. The one who went missing.”
She didn’t get further before the doorbell rang. A long, peremptory sound—she couldn’t guess who it might be. She closed her eyes and breathed out, grateful to have been saved by the bell.
She heard steps going along the hall, the front door opening, and a voice asking for her. Robust shoes approaching and entering the bedroom. She opened her eyes and saw two uniforms.
“Jeanette Wretberg? You’re under arrest in relation to a fight at the East Gate earlier today.”
15
Sandra
IT HAD BEEN a long time since it had rained, so Sandra did a lap with the watering can outside her small house. Everything around her was in bloom, and the beauty of nature in the soft light was overwhelming. The tender greenery in its many nuances had a calming effect on the senses, and it was a strong reason why she preferred to live in solitude out here rather than in Visby or another town.
Self-determined solitude had its downsides, but Friends-on-call offset them, even if it didn’t fulfil all her social needs. She glanced at the time and noted that it was time to head inside and prepare for the evening’s calls. She was hoping to hear from Kerstin, but it had been almost a week since they had spoken, and Sandra had more or less given up hope that she would call again.
