Prime Time

by Liza Marklund

  Anne Snapphane was leaning back against the headrest and her eyes were closed.

  ‘I’ll go wherever you’re going.’

  They left the church and made a left turn on the road that wound its way past the log cabins, sweeping past doorways and barns, glassed-in porches and tractors.

  Once they had left the village, the country road smoothly accommodated the undulating landscape with its ancient property borders. Red cottages with white trimming nestled on the fringes of the woods, the sun shimmering in handmade glass panes. Thousands of purplish lupins abounded. As they reached the drive leading to the summer residence of the Prime Minister, damp, dark woods enveloped them. Then the surroundings opened up on Lake Harpsund with its famed rowboat, the one that heads of state had gone rowing in. The manor house, done in the style inspired by Sweden’s King Karl XII, was located by the road. The cars with tinted-glass windows and the guards posted by the walls gave away the fact that the Prime Minister was on the premises. Annika slowed down, delighting in the view of the grounds.

  ‘Gran was the matron here.’

  Anne Snapphane nodded silently.

  Slowly, they made their way along the sharply winding road through Granhed and the dark woods by Lake Hosjön.

  ‘And Lyckebo is over there,’ Annika said, pointing at a spot higher up on the shore. The farmer had thinned out the trees and the lake was visible from the road. ‘Gran’s cottage. Well, actually it belonged to the Harpsund estate. She only leased it. And now the place is a hunting lodge.’

  They approached Hälleforsnäs. Annika slowed the car down and felt her pulse rev up.

  ‘This is where you grew up,’ Anne Snapphane observed, sitting up straight.

  Annika nodded. Her throat had constricted. A left turn brought them to the old ironworks, rusting and covered with soot. The plaster was falling away and the gaping windows were boarded up. She stopped by the gate and the barbed-wire fence and stared at the piles of junk and the crumbling exterior of the buildings.

  ‘The blastfurnace?’ Anne asked.

  Annika nodded again and averted her gaze, not wanting to see the chimney that had channelled smoke and fire from the depths of the furnace. The asphalt at her feet was scarred and patched, the potholes in the road still filled with water.

  There was no conscious plan in her mind as she left the car, its engine idling, and took a few steps uphill. A breeze swept past smelling of exhaust fumes and long-forgotten industrial waste. The wind turned sharp and oppressive, stinging her eyes.

  Anne came up behind her. Annika pointed.

  ‘They call that development “Gypsy Hill”. That’s where my mother lives. And my sister.’

  The anonymous narrow buildings dotted the hillside above them, red-painted houses built in the 1940s, surrounded by weeds and plastic outdoor furniture, all sharing a view of the ironworks. The wind continued to spiral upward, caressing the empty exteriors and peeling paint. Back in the 1960s the place had been crawling with children but now many of the homes had been abandoned and there was no one in sight. They listened to the emptiness. Somewhere a fan was running, and music could be heard in the distance.

  ‘Where did you used to live?’

  Annika looked up at the sun-drenched houses, so cold in winter and unbearably hot in summer, and took a deep breath, making a decision to let her pain surface.

  Only it didn’t.

  There was nothing but the cracked sidewalk to her right and the advancing dandelions to the left of the asphalt.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said, abruptly turning and heading back to the car.

  As soon as Anne Snapphane was seated Annika put the car in first gear and drove up the hill, remembering the time she had been here, back when she had first met Thomas, and realized that someone had moved into her old apartment. She recalled the mixed feelings of sadness and relief. A chapter was over, someone else was taking care of what had once been hers.

  ‘My apartment was over there. The window with the crocheted lampshades.’

  Annika pointed it out and was filled with a sense of unreality. Had she really ever lived here? The windows were sparkling clean and displayed potted plants. That reality belonged to someone else now, it was a part of someone else’s life.

  ‘I’ve seen more cheerful places,’ Anne Snapphane commented.

  They went right, passed the church and reached the Co-op supermarket, where bicycles were parked out front. Pansies and marigolds were crowded together in large planters by the entrance; they fluttered in the breeze, their gaudy colours crying out for attention before it was too late.

  ‘Isn’t this where your mother works?’

  ‘At least she did the last time she called me,’ Annika said, tearing her gaze away from the flowers.

  They drove through the community, passing Folkets Hus, the community centre, the miniature golf course, the rest home, the lamp store and the railroad station. Annika looked around and remembered. The sleeping houses and the swaying trees, the heat of the asphalt and the paving stones. And the huge street that split the whole town in two, it had frightened her so. Now it struck her as narrow and short. The big road, always watch out when you cross the main road – she had been afraid to cross the street on her own until she was in fourth grade.

  By now, Anne had lost interest and was resting her head against the window, her eyes closed.

  They passed the railroad crossing right by the Hållsta intersection and passed the Erlandsson place. Annika shifted into fourth gear.

  As soon as the town disappeared from view, it ceased to exist. The brittle feeling of being locked in the past burst like a bubble; it vanished and was forgotten. Something else began to prey on Annika’s mind.

  Thomas hadn’t called all day. Back at his childhood stomping grounds he wasn’t thinking about her at all. The children were creating their own points of reference without her. She wasn’t a part of the foundation.

  ‘Don’t you want to marry Mehmed?’ Annika asked.

  Anne Snapphane looked up, dazed and a bit surprised.

  ‘Get married? Are you out of your mind? Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘The two of you have a child together.’

  ‘Come on, we don’t even live together. Does this have anything to do with your grandmother?’

  Annika rolled up her side window, closing it entirely.

  ‘I want Thomas and me to get married,’ she said. ‘I really do.’

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged and braked when she caught sight of a deer at the edge of the forest. Then she accelerated once more.

  ‘To show the world that we belong together.’

  ‘You still do, even if you don’t get married. Has that gossip got you down?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  They sat in silence as the fan stirred up a new-car smell. The surrounding woods were reduced to a green blur as they sped along.

  ‘What was it like?’ Annika asked in a low voice.

  Anne Snapphane looked out of the window on her side for a few seconds.

  ‘Awful,’ she finally said. ‘Pretty shitty, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘What was the worst part?’

  Anne stared out the window again.

  ‘The guilt,’ she said. ‘The feeling that it was all my fault. The suspicion.’

  Then she turned her head and studied Annika’s face in profile.

  ‘For a while there, I thought they were going to arrest me. That they thought I had done it.’

  Annika glanced over at Anne.

  ‘Why would you think such a thing?’

  Anne Snapphane took a deep breath, filling her lungs with resolve.

  ‘My prints were on the murder weapon.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Annika exclaimed. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I held the damn thing. Only so did practically everyone else.’

  Anne Snapphane looked at Annika.

  ‘In case you were wondering, I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Of course I d
on’t think you did it.’

  They reached Bäckåsen and turned right, in the direction of Malmköping.

  ‘From what I hear, the whole session was pretty rough going,’ Annika said.

  Anne Snapphane swallowed.

  ‘A hostess and a researcher,’ she said. ‘It was humiliating. I deserved a promotion, but right before we got started on the series, I was demoted instead.’

  ‘But you know the reason for that,’ Annika countered. ‘It wasn’t personal. It was because of the cutbacks.’

  ‘I’ve been a member of the editorial staff for years. The next step should be producer, not hostess, damn it! I should have quit last spring. Guess what I’m supposed to do all week? Label the tapes, take note of the time codes, name cards and junk like that. It’s totally insane. Thank God they impounded the damn stuff.’

  ‘I’ve just got to have some sweets,’ Annika said. ‘Want some?’

  They went into the service station in Malmköping and bought some papers, some cola and a half-kilo of sweets.

  ‘Do you think they’ll air the shows?’ Annika asked as they pulled out on the road to Strängnäs.

  ‘I should think so,’ Anne Snapphane said as she chomped away at a salty licorice treat called häxvrål, ‘howling witches’. ‘I can’t imagine that TV Plus would can this golden egg. What did Highlander say?’

  ‘That he would have to confer with the head office in London and delineate the policy regarding the commemoration of Michelle’s memory, and a lot of junk like that.’

  Anne Snapphane groaned and smoothed her hair.

  ‘He really knows how to spout bullshit. Did he say confer? He’s just a mouthpiece, he can’t do a damn thing without a go-ahead from London. Did you know that he fired her on the night that she died?’

  Annika was amazed and stared at Anne.

  ‘He fired her?’

  The wheels of the car’s right slipped off the road and she had to turn hard on the steering wheel to get back on track.

  ‘Take it easy. She was too old – she turned thirty-four last Monday.’

  Annika eased up on the accelerator, rattled by the close proximity of the ditch.

  ‘What a hypocrite! “Our most esteemed associate” – like hell she was. All right if I use that?’

  ‘Not if you quote me. You see, I only heard it secondhand. Check and see if someone else can confirm it.’

  They sat next to each other in silence, Annika gripping the steering wheel firmly with both hands, the bottle of cola like an icy erect penis between her thighs. Oblique rays of sunshine filtered down through the treetops, at times blinding her left eye. She pulled the visor over to the side window and glanced over at her friend. Anne Snapphane had her eyes trained on the landscape, but her gaze was focused inwards. Annika could sense what her friend was seeing in her mind’s eye.

  ‘Mariana mentioned a documentary,’ she said quietly. ‘Michelle was supposedly making a film about her own life, produced by her own company. Do you know anything about it?’

  Anne Snapphane blinked a few times.

  ‘It’s been a major bone of contention all week. Most people felt that she had exceeded the final limits of conceit. It was all right if anyone else made a documentary about Michelle Carlsson, but she shouldn’t do it herself. Some people disagreed, but not many. There was Sebastian Follin, of course, and Bambi. Why shouldn’t a public figure be able to profit from their own celebrity? Why did it just have to be everyone else?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Annika asked, the dancing sunbeams making her squint.

  Anne Snapphane fished around in the bag of candy, making a choice between salty licorice gummy fish and cola-flavoured gummy rings.

  ‘Making a tribute to yourself is kind of silly,’ she said. ‘From a journalistic standpoint it has no credibility whatsoever. I mean, who would dare criticize her?’

  ‘Was she really going to make the film herself?’ Annika asked. ‘Or would it be made by an independent producer and Michelle’s production company would just release it?’

  Anne popped a sweet in her mouth and chewed for a while.

  ‘Would it make a difference?’ she said eventually, picking her teeth to remove the lingering licorice and preservatives. ‘She would still be making and marketing a movie about herself, making money from the fact that she was famous. Now, isn’t that kind of lame?’

  Annika slowed down as they passed Björndammen, looking at the log cabin that housed a café, at the people who had stopped there for a cup of coffee and some home-made baked goods down by the lake.

  ‘What’s so lame about it?’ she asked. ‘If she used an independent producer who didn’t kowtow to her, then it wouldn’t really be a problem that the film was produced by her own production company. If the same reasoning applied to everyone else in the media world, it would be impossible for insiders to write about the business.’

  ‘That isn’t the same thing at all,’ Anne said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Annika countered. ‘Just take the family that owns Kvällspressen. They own the largest trade paper too, and the biggest TV network, along with radio stations and Internet companies. Let’s say the paper was going to fold – shouldn’t their network or their trade paper be able to cover the story?’

  ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ Anne Snapphane said.

  They dropped the subject and the ensuing silence was stiffer. Annika fiddled with the car radio, but only managed to get static.

  ‘This Sebastian Follin person,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘What’s the deal with him?’

  Anne Snapphane laughed wearily and put the bag of sweets on the floor of the car.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘Of all the useless people on earth …’

  Annika shot Anne a quizzical look.

  ‘I thought he booked Michelle.’

  ‘Sebastian Follin was on the payroll as Michelle Carlsson’s most avid supporter. His job was to always be there, waving a little flag that said “Michelle is the greatest”.’

  Anne waved an imaginary flag.

  ‘Why?’

  Anne Snapphane shook her head.

  ‘I guess Michelle needed it. She could never get enough applause. Sebastian Follin’s job was to give her an overdose.’

  They both laughed, briefly and wistfully.

  ‘What other clients has he represented?’

  Anne sighed and leaned back against the headrest.

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve never heard him mention anyone else.’

  After they passed the works at Länna, Annika made a right turn, taking a short cut through Åkers Styckebruk, the ancient gun factory, along a narrow and winding road.

  ‘Did you ever meet Michelle?’ Anne Snapphane asked.

  Annika shook her head.

  ‘I don’t think so. But somehow it feels like I know her anyway. You’ve told me so much about her over the years. And then there’s all those articles too …’

  ‘You have met Karin, though. Karin Bellhorn. At the Christmas party. What did she say?’

  Annika mulled it over for a few seconds.

  ‘She seemed pretty exhausted and sad. Talked about how fame does strange things to people, how it’s as addictive as a drug. And that once you’ve had a taste of fame, you would do anything to have more.’

  Anne Snapphane nodded.

  ‘Karin would know. She hosted shows back in the 1970s.’

  ‘She did?’ Annika said. ‘Like she was the hippie equivalent of Michelle Carlsson?’

  Anne smiled a little.

  ‘Not exactly, but she had to deal with critics and gossip too. Back in those days her name was Andersson. That was before she married that English rocker, Steven Bellhorn, and left the country.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Annika said. ‘Didn’t they get divorced a few years later?’

  ‘Yeah, he ran off with a twenty-three-year-old blonde. Some people say she hasn’t got over him yet. What else did she say?’

  ‘That fame was like having
a wounded soul. The wounds can heal, but they leave scars. And anyone who’s been there will pick at the scabs, they won’t be able to leave them alone. She claimed that Michelle was like a bleeding wound. Was she?’

  Anne Snapphane didn’t answer. She sat quietly while Annika drove out on the highway.

  ‘Did you meet them all?’ she asked interested. ‘The neo-Nazi girl? Mariana? Wennergren? Stefan?’

  Annika swallowed.

  Anne shot her a puzzled look.

  ‘That little Nazi girl,’ Annika said. ‘What an airhead. She knew who I was, which was pretty damn unpleasant.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Annika’s breath was coming out in puffs. She pictured the transfigured features of the girl.

  A predator showing its teeth. What’s it like to kill someone? Tell me. I’ve always wondered what it’s like. Was it hard? How did it feel afterwards?

  ‘She told me she’d heard that Thomas had left me. Mariana and Wennergren drove off without talking to me. So did Axelsson. Bambi Rosenberg did a little scene, but she seemed genuinely devastated.’

  ‘Michelle was her ticket to all the opening-night specials,’ Anne Snapphane commented. ‘Of course she’s upset.’

  ‘Well, these days she gets her own invitations, doesn’t she?’ Annika protested.

  Anne looked out the window and didn’t reply. The highway traffic was slow and moved in surges. They were stuck next to a family in a minivan for kilometres on end. A girl who looked like she was around two waved at them the whole time.

  ‘Gunnar Antonsson,’ Annika said when they had left the family behind them, ‘he didn’t really count, did he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Karin said he was easy to forget, and he didn’t seem to include himself in the group of journalists.’

  ‘Of course he wouldn’t, he’s a driver and an engineer. But I like the guy. He really knows his stuff. Did you talk to Stefan Axelsson?’

  ‘I tried,’ Annika said. ‘He definitely didn’t want to talk. How did he feel about Michelle?’

  ‘They had an affair,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘A short one, a couple of years back. After it was over he was really hard on her. Did you meet everyone?’

  ‘Apart from John Essex.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’