She realises this isn’t a particularly good description, and that there must be a better way to explain how the atmosphere at home could change in a matter of minutes. How you could feel the change in the air without anyone saying a word.
‘Or distraught, maybe,’ she says, but that isn’t quite right either.
‘That can’t have been easy for you.’
She doesn’t like Isak’s tone, it sounds like he’s judging Mum from the little she’s just said, which isn’t fair.
‘Mum liked children a lot,’ she says. ‘She used to run the Sunday school at church, every week after the service.’
Tell it like it was, the voice in her head whispers. Tell him Mum liked little children best. That she lost interest in her and Mattias when they got older. When there was someone else who was easier to love. Tell him that now. Tell the truth! Tell him that the only thing Mum cared for was . . .
She can feel his eyes on her, and realises that she’s going to have to look down into the icy black hole that’s suddenly gaping open inside her chest.
‘You asked what made Mum happy.’
‘Yes.’ He carries on looking at her.
A chill wells up from the hole, replacing her blood with brackish water.
‘Billy,’ she manages to say. She hears the tremble in her voice. ‘You made Mum happy.’
*
They stop at a petrol station in Jönköping, top up the radiator and change places. Veronica nods off in the passenger seat and doesn’t wake up again until the forest has thinned out and the landscape is flatter. She looks at Isak for a minute or so without letting on that she’s awake. Notices hints of tension in the set of his jaw.
She sees the sign for the turning off the motorway. Only fifty kilometres to go. Fifty kilometres until they’re home. Isak changes his grip on the steering wheel and puts one hand in his lap. He’s clenching and unclenching it repeatedly. She still hasn’t asked him about the break-in at her flat, the pebble on Mum’s grave or if he was the man she chased. He’s got a scratch on his neck that could easily have come from one of the brambles at the far end of the garden. She’s been putting those questions off, telling herself that she’s waiting for the right moment. But maybe it’s because she’d rather not know. Not right now, anyway.
She sits up, stretching her arms in a rather exaggerated manner. ‘Nearly there. Shall we swap over again?’ she says, a little too brightly. He mumbles something in response.
The atmosphere gets more strained the closer they get to the village. In the end it becomes so oppressive that she switches the radio on in an attempt to lighten the mood. She finds the channel rehashing golden oldies that she listened to last time. This time the music can’t drown out her thoughts. How has she actually imagined this playing out? Is she just going to ask Dad for the key to Billy’s room, and let Isak in there? Hope that the Lego and wooden rifle will help him start to remember? Fill the gaps, giving them firm proof that he really is her missing little brother. It’s odd – as recently as that morning she’d been certain. Maybe Isak’s nervousness is getting to her, but as they drive through the avenue of chestnut trees and into the yard, an entirely different feeling is gaining the upper hand. A feeling that this is all a huge mistake.
They hang around by the car for longer than necessary before walking over to the house, in a sort of tacit agreement that gives them a chance to compose themselves a little.
The front door is locked. She starts to look for the spare key in the window box, but changes her mind. She rings the doorbell instead. She has time to hope that Dad isn’t home, so she can have a chance to think everything through one more time. Then she hears his slow footsteps in the hall, followed by the rattle of the lock. Her dad’s wearing a cardigan in spite of the heat. His glasses are a little askew, making him look like he’s just woken up, an impression only made stronger by his dazed expression, which quickly fades when he sees it’s her.
‘Vera, what are you doing here?’
‘Hi, Dad.’
She remains standing on the step. All of a sudden she doesn’t know what to say or do.
‘Th-this is Isak.’ She gestures to him to step forward. ‘I talked about him last time I was home. I . . . well, we think he could be Billy.’ Her words sound tentative rather than loaded with any particular meaning or conviction. Not at all what she’d imagined.
Her dad stares at her, then at Isak. The surprised look on his face disappears, and is replaced by something she definitely wasn’t expecting.
‘Get out!’ he snarls. ‘Get out of here, right now!’
‘But Dad . . .’
He takes a step forward and stops right in front of her face. She steps back.
‘Billy’s dead! Can’t you understand that?’ He waves his finger at Isak but doesn’t seem to want even to look at him. ‘This man is a fraudster, Vera. A fraudster that you’ve brought here. A stranger trying to exploit our tragedy!’
Some of the saliva that follows these words lands on her shirt. He turns towards Isak.
‘You’re exploiting a dead little boy,’ he shouts, making Isak jerk back. ‘Sullying my son’s memory.’
‘Dad,’ she tries, but it’s hopeless. The look in his eyes is virtually black.
‘Get out of here, both of you. Or I’ll call the police.’ He slams the front door, the door of her childhood home, in her face.
*
They’re left standing on the step as she tries to understand what’s just happened.
‘We can go round the house,’ she says. ‘We can take a look at the garden, see if you recognise anything.’
But Isak shakes his head. ‘No, come on. Let’s go.’
‘But we’ve come all this way. We’ve got to . . .’
He grimaces. ‘Your dad will call the police if we don’t leave. And I really don’t feel like talking to the cops.’
He walks over to the car, opens the door and gets in the passenger seat. She follows him reluctantly, casting one last glance up at the house. One of the curtains upstairs flutters and she sees her dad’s face in the landing window. She looks away quickly.
‘Come on,’ Isak calls from the car.
She drives off so fast that the gravel clatters against the mudguards. There’s a green pick-up parked in one of the fields, but it’s too far away for her to see if there’s anyone in it.
She stares at the road, and Isak gazes out of the side window. Neither of them says anything until they’ve driven through the village and emerge onto the main road, heading back up north.
‘There’s a truck stop about ten kilometres away.’ He sounds subdued, almost desolate. ‘Can you stop there, please, Vera. There’s something I need to tell you.’
Chapter 56
T
he truck stop is a low-rent affair, by the side of the road roughly halfway between the village and the motorway. A petrol station, a restaurant and a motel, all in one. She’s been driving far too fast, the temperature of the engine is almost up in the red and the car lets out alarming hissing sounds when she parks.
Isak finds a corner table in the café. Stained, checked tablecloths. Laminated menus with fingerprints clearly visible on them. She realises she hasn’t eaten anything for hours, and that hunger is only adding to her sense of despair.
The food comes quickly, and tastes mostly of chip oil. As soon as they finish eating Isak leans back in his chair. He takes a deep breath, and for a few moments looks like he’s going to start crying. Then he pulls himself together.
‘There are things I haven’t told you . . .’ He gestures with his hand, as if to gain time. ‘My name is Isak Welin, and I did grow up outside Luleå. The bit about Dad leaving us and me recently finding out that I was adopted is also completely true.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘But your dad’s right. I’m not your little brother. I’m not Billy.’
She feels herself seize up inside, and can’t get a single sensible word out. He sighs and shuffles on his chair, as if he’s h
aving to force the words out.
‘OK . . . I’ve always been fascinated by Billy’s disappearance, ever since I was little. I read everything I could find. Probably because we were the same age, we have almost the same birthday. And we were fairly similar. People sometimes used to comment on it.’
Isak takes out his wallet and shows her a picture of a flaxen-haired little boy. She can see the similarity. But the photograph definitely isn’t Billy. She suddenly feels sick.
‘This is me when I was six years old. Just after the Welins adopted me, although I didn’t know that until I looked through Mum’s things after she died. She had a folder with all the paperwork in it. Birth certificate, adoption papers, the names of my biological parents, the whole lot. And my adoptive dad didn’t just vanish or go off to sea. He’s an accountant, he lives in Sundsvall with his new family.’
He looks away, and looks pained. Her nausea gets worse.
‘Those memories – the garden, the hollow elm . . . ?’ she finally manages to say.
‘I crept into the garden at Backagården last time I was down here. I found the remains of the treehouse and all the other stuff. I even took some pictures. I think your dad might have spotted me, because a light went on in the house and I had to rush away. But I saw enough to be able to make what I said in the therapy group stand out for you.’
She stifles a retch. ‘Why?’ is all she manages to get out.
He runs his fingers through his hair and stares down at the table.
‘When I went through Mum’s flat, I found my old box of cuttings about Billy. So I got it into my head to find out more. I don’t honestly know why.’
He goes on staring at the table. She’s finding it hard to take in his confession, and what it means.
‘Mum and I were close, or at least I thought we were until I found out I was adopted. Perhaps all this is a way for me to deal with finding out that she lied to me all my life. I had so many questions that I was never going to get answers to. So maybe I could find out what happened to Billy instead.’
He looks up and meets her gaze for a moment.
‘I inherited a bit of money from Mum, so I gave up my job and went down to Reftinge to see what I could find out. I booked into this motel for a week. Some sort of soul-searching trip, I suppose.’
He smiles wryly then goes on. She’s no longer listening, just feels empty. Dad was right. Isak is a fraudster. A stranger that she’s let into her life, told her secrets to. Their secrets.
‘I came close to calling the whole thing off several times today. I should have done, way before we were standing outside your dad’s door.’ Out of the blue, he takes hold of her hands. ‘I’m truly sorry, Veronica,’ he says, and his eyes are still so blue that his gaze cuts right through her.
*
They sit opposite each other for a while in silence, each nursing a cup of coffee. What she’d most like to do right now is jump in the car, drive back to Stockholm and leave all this behind her. Never see him, the village, Dad or anyone else down here again. But she can’t summon up the energy. All the strength has drained out of her, and she can’t even find it in her to be angry. This whole business has all been just as much her fault. She’s a trained therapist, used to listening to people’s stories and working out what’s true and what isn’t. Even so, she’s walked straight into the trap Mattias warned her about. She’s ignored all the warning signs, all the gaps in Isak’s story, anything that didn’t support what she wanted to hear.
Sometimes we want something to be true so badly that it makes us blind to the actual truth.
Quite. She’s been blind. And as a result she’s lost everything.
Isak gets up and is gone for a while. He comes back with a key that he puts down in front of her.
‘Room 201,’ he says. ‘I’m further along the same corridor if you want anything. But I’ll understand if you never want to see me again. I’ll make my own way out of here tomorrow.’
She stands up and walks to the room without so much as looking at him.
*
It’s dark when she wakes up. The little fridge is rumbling quietly. She sits up and fumbles for the light on the bedside table. Her mouth and throat are dry, but the minibar turns out to be surprisingly well-stocked. She starts with a can of mineral water, then quickly moves on to the shelf of miniature spirits.
The alcohol stings her throat, exacerbating the anger building up in her chest. Isak deceived her, exploited her for his own ends. Lied to her, asked questions, got her to talk about things she had never told anyone.
Were you and your mum close?
What made your mum happy?
There’s a telephone on the table next to the television. She dials her own number, taps in the code for the answerphone. Her fingers slip and she has to do it again. She’s hoping her dad has called. She’d like to hear his voice, hear that everything is OK, that he’s no longer angry with her. Instead her clumsy fingers manage to get the machine to play the saved message from Leon.
It’s over, Veronica. Can’t you understand that?
Oh yes, she understands now. Understands that Leon is yet another idiot. Someone who doesn’t deserve her love. After all she did to him, he didn’t even have the sense to be angry with her. Just disappointed, sympathetic, patronising, in much the same way as Ruud.
She slams the receiver down and downs yet another miniature. Then she gets to her feet. The room lurches, then settles down. She goes out into the corridor and finds her way to the right door, and knocks on it.
Isak opens within a matter of seconds. T-shirt and underpants. A surprised look on his face. She walks straight in, forcing him to retreat. She waits until the door has closed behind her.
She punches him as hard as she can in the stomach. The blow lands almost exactly where she intended. He groans, doubles over. She punches again, aiming at his face this time. Her knuckles hit his cheekbone, sending a jolt all the way to her head. He falls back onto the shabby red carpet and she throws herself on top of him, pulling and tearing at his T-shirt until it rips.
‘You bastard, you fucking bastard liar! You fucking shit . . .’
He flails his arms but she knocks them away and falls on top of him, pressing her lips against his. Biting him, kissing him. She’s in charge now. And no bastard is ever going to feel sorry for her again.
Chapter 57
A
fterwards they lie in his bed, close together. She hasn’t said anything, hasn’t explained why. He seems to understand anyway.
‘Are we quits now?’
Veronica doesn’t answer. His lies have torn her world apart. Her wonderful, perfect world consisting of banning orders, an impersonal flat and a low-paid job with unlimited opportunities to get high on other people’s grief.
‘Yes,’ she mutters. ‘We’re quits.’
He runs one finger down her arm and reaches the long white line. Ordinarily she would snatch her arm away, hide it under the sheets. Not this time.
‘A hazy reminder of an old mistake.’
‘What?’
‘The scar. You were going to ask about it, weren’t you?’ She holds her arm up in the air. ‘Last year I met a guy called Leon. He was one of my clients. Things . . . it all got a bit complicated,’ she adds after pausing to think. ‘At first it was all fine. We were so in love we were planning to move in together, talked about having kids.’
‘But?’
She takes a deep breath. ‘But then he got bored. Started seeing other people, and didn’t think he had to tell me about that little detail.’
‘How did you react?’
‘Not very well. Not at all well, in fact.’ She runs her own finger along the scar. ‘I became completely obsessed with him. Calling and texting, writing long letters, showing up at his work, I stopped looking after myself. I used to wait outside his door in the evening. In the end I broke in when he wasn’t there and smashed his flat up. Cut myself on a piece of glass and bled all over his white par
quet floor. I had a total fucking breakdown.’
Isak is looking at her as if he’s trying to figure out if she’s joking.
‘Then what happened?’
She takes another deep breath. ‘The police came and arrested me. I had to have a whole load of stitches. Then it went to court. I got a conditional sentence, and was banned from contacting him. I promised to have therapy to teach me to deal with my anger, and was reassigned. Now, in hindsight, it sounds crazy. And of course it was crazy. But I didn’t think so at the time.’
‘What were you thinking at the time?’ He seems genuinely interested.
‘That Leon had betrayed me. That he needed to be punished for what he had done, whatever it took.’
Isak seems to be about to say something, but a sudden noise interrupts him. A monotonous siren out in the corridor, so loud that it cuts through the walls. He jumps out of bed, pulls his trousers on and opens the door. A smell of smoke and the sound of agitated voices drift into the room.
‘Fire alarm,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘We need to get out. Right now, this seems real.’
They follow the other guests through reception and out into the car park.
‘Keep to the right,’ a man in a hi-vis vest calls out, waving a large torch.
In the distance they hear sirens coming closer. There are flames off to the left of the motel. A car burning. The heat has shattered the side windows and flames are leaping from inside the car, sending thick black smoke across the car park. It takes her a while to realise that it’s her car.
The fire brigade take ten minutes to put the fire out, then another twenty to go through the building and confirm that the danger is over. The motel staff have handed out blankets to the small number of guests who have gathered on the terrace at the end of the building. Even so, Veronica is freezing so badly that her teeth are chattering.
‘Your car,’ a police officer holding a notepad says.
‘Yes.’ She wonders if he works with Mattias, or if the motel is in a different district.
‘Was there anything wrong with it?’ he says.
‘It’s been overheating. I had to top the radiator up every so often.’
End of Summer Page 26
