If only he knew how to fight it. Whenever it happened he felt his lack of will paralyse his body, and he had to let himself float along.
Sebastian wrapped his arms around his knees as he sat at the top of Veddeberget. From this high up he could look out over the bay. It was cold and windy, but somehow beautiful. For once it felt the same outside as in. Although some rain would have made things even better. Because that was precisely the way he felt inside. As if it was raining. Pouring down and flushing away all that was good and whole. As if it were running down a gigantic drain.
And Rune had chewed him out, on top of everything else. Yelled and screamed and said he damn well didn't see that Sebastian was making enough of an effort. That he had to do better. That he wasn't going to have any future if he didn't work harder, because he certainly didn't seem to have a good head for studying. But he had tried. As much as he could under the circumstances. It wasn't his fault that everything turned to shit.
His eyes were stinging. Angrily he wiped them with the sleeve of his jumper. The last thing he wanted was to sit here blubbering like some cry-baby. Especially when it was all his own fault. If he'd only been a little stronger, then it wouldn't have had to happen. Not the first time. Not the second time either. Not over and over and over again.
Now the tears were running down his cheeks, and he rubbed them so hard with the rough sleeve of his jumper that red streaks appeared on his face.
For a moment he had an impulse to put an end to it all. It would be so easy: a few steps to the edge, then he could jump. In a couple of seconds it would all be over, and no one would really care. Rune would surely be relieved. Then he wouldn't have to take care of somebody's else's kid. Maybe he could even meet someone else and have the son he really wanted.
Sebastian stood up. The thought was still tempting. He walked slowly over to the cliff and looked down. It was a steep drop. He tried to imagine how it would feel. To fly through the air, utterly Weightless for a few moments, and then the thud when his body hit the ground. Would he feel anything at all in that instant? Testing, he stuck one foot over the edge of the cliff and let it hang free in the air. Then the thought struck him that he might not die from the fall. What if he survived, but as a cripple or something like that? A drooling vegetable for the rest of his life. Then Rune really would have something to grumble about. Although he would no doubt bundle him off to some nursing home as quickly as possible.
With his foot hanging over the edge Sebastian hesitated. Then he sat down again and slowly scooted back. With his arms hugging his chest he gazed out towards the horizon. Far, far away.
As soon as Niclas walked in the door she threw herself over him.
'What happened? Aina rang and said that the police came and got you at work, is that true?' Lilian's voice was anxious, bordering on panic-stricken. 'I haven't said anything to Charlotte,' she added.
Niclas waved her off, but Lilian wasn't that easy to dismiss. She followed close on his heels as he walked to the kitchen, bombarding him with questions. He ignored her and went straight to the coffee- maker and poured himself a big cup of coffee. The machine was shut off and the coffee was hardly more than lukewarm, but it didn't matter. He needed coffee, or a big glass of whisky, but it was probably best if he stuck to the non-alcoholic alternative.
He sat down at the table, and Lilian followed his example as she scrutinized him. What sort of idiotic ideas had the police come up with now? Didn't they know that Niclas was someone to be respected, a doctor, a successful man? Once again she was amazed that her daughter had had such luck, that she had made such a catch. Of course, they were only teenagers when they started going out together, but Lilian had seen immediately that Niclas was a man with a future, and so she had encouraged the relationship. She ascribed it to luck that Niclas chose Charlotte above all the other girls who were running after him. She was pretty cute, of course, when she made an effort, but even as a teenager she had put on a few too many kilos, and worst of all she had no ambitions. And yet Charlotte had won what her mother had wished for most of all. Lilian had worn her son-in-law's success like a star on her chest, but now everything was at risk. She was terrified of the gossip-mongers in town, who would instantly start spreading rumours if it came out that the police had taken Niclas in for questioning. His eyes were completely red from crying too, so they must have given him a hard time.
'Well, what did they want?'
'They just had a few questions,' Niclas said dismissively, drinking the now lukewarm coffee in big gulps.
'What sort of questions?' Lilian refused to give up. If she was going to have to run the gauntlet whenever she ventured into town, she at least wanted to know what it was all about.
But Niclas ignored her. He got up and put the empty coffee cup in the dishwasher.
'Is Charlotte downstairs?'
'She's resting,' said Lilian, not bothering to conceal her anger at not getting an answer.
'I'm going down to talk to her.'
'What do you want to talk to her about?' Lilian still wouldn't let up. But by now Niclas had had enough.
'That's between me and Charlotte. I already told you it was nothing special. I assume I'm allowed to speak with my own wife without informing you, aren't I? Erica is right, it's time for Charlotte and me to get a place of our own.'
Lilian shrank back with every syllable. Niclas had always treated her with respect, so his words now felt like slaps in the face. Especially after all she had done for him. For him and Charlotte.
The injustice of it all made her blood boil, and she searched for something caustic to say, but found nothing until he was already halfway down the stairs. She sat down at the kitchen table again. Her thoughts were tumbling about in her head. How could he speak to her that way? She had never had anything but their best interests in mind. She had constantly made sacrifices and put her own interests last. They were like leeches, sucking all the energy out of her. Lilian could see it so clearly now. Stig, Charlotte, and now Niclas as well. They were all exploiting her. They took and took from her outstretched hand, without ever giving anything in return.
Charlotte sat thinking about her father. It was strange, but during the eight years that had passed since his death, she had thought about him less and less. The memories had turned into vague, out-of-focus images of a few specific moments. But since Sara died, she remembered him as clearly as if he'd passed away yesterday.
They had been very close, she and Lennart. Much closer than she and her mother had ever been. Sometimes it had almost felt as if they shared the same soul. He had always been able to make her laugh. Her mother seldom laughed, and Charlotte couldn't remember a single instance when they had laughed together. Her father had been the diplomat of the family, always mediating and trying to explain things. For instance, why Lilian kept badgering her daughter, why nothing Charlotte did was ever good enough. Why she could never live up to her mother's expectations. On the other hand, she had never disappointed her father. In his eyes she had been perfect; she knew that.
It came as a shock when he fell ill. The disease progressed so slowly, so gradually, that it took a long time before they even noticed it was happening. Sometimes Charlotte wondered if she could have forestalled his death if she'd been more observant. Seen the signs earlier. But at the time she and Niclas were living in Uddevalla, and she was expecting Sara. She'd been so wrapped up in her own life. When she eventually noticed that he wasn't feeling well, she had for once joined forces with Lilian and wrangled with him until he went in for a medical exam. But by then it was too late. After that, everything happened so fast.
Only a month later he was dead. The doctors said that he'd contracted a rare disease that attacked the nervous system and gradually broke down his body. They also said that it wouldn't have helped if he had come in earlier. But Charlotte still felt guilty.
She wondered whether she could have kept his memory more alive if she'd had more room in which to grieve for him. But Lilian had taken up all the
space there was. She'd laid claim to all mourning rights and demanded that her grief take precedence over everyone else's. A torrent of people had passed through their home in the weeks after Lennart had died, and for them Charlotte could just as well have been part of the furniture. All condolences, all expressions of regret were directed towards Lilian, who held audience like a queen. At those moments Charlotte had hated her mother. The ironic thing was that just before they got the news of Lennart's diagnosis, she thought that her father was about to leave Lilian. The quarrels and bickering had escalated, and a separation seemed inevitable. But then Lennart fell ill, and Charlotte realized that her mother had cast all the old grudges aside and devoted herself wholeheartedly to her husband. It was only afterwards that Charlotte had got a bitter taste in her mouth from her mother's seemingly boundless need to be the centre of attention.
But the years passed and she put bitterness aside. Life held too much else for her to keep focusing on bad feelings towards her mother. Nor had she had the time to think about or mourn her father. This was no longer the case. Life had caught up with her, run her down, and left her aching all over by the side of the road. Now she had all the time in the world to think about the man who should have been here right now. Who would have known what to say, who would have stroked her hair and said that everything was going to be all right. Lilian, as usual, was worrying too much about herself to take the time to listen, and Niclas, well, he was just Niclas. Any hope she had harboured that might bring them closer to each other had been extinguished. It was as though he'd sealed himself up inside his own little cocoon. Of course he had never let her get very close, but now he was like a shadow figure slinking in and out of her life. He laid his head on the pillow next to hers every night, but then they lay there side by side, careful not to touch each other. Afraid that a sudden and unexpected contact of skin against skin might open wounds that would be better left alone. They had been through so much together. Against all odds they had maintained an illusion of unity, at least, but now she wondered whether they might have come to the end of the road.
Footsteps on the stairs roused her from these weighty thoughts. She looked up and saw Niclas. A glance at the clock showed that there were still a couple of hours left until he ought to be coming home from work.
'Hi, are you home already?' she said in surprise, starting to get up.
'Don't get up, we need to talk.' Her heart sank. Whatever it was he had to say, it wasn't going to be good.
* * *
FJÅLLBACKA 1928
Life in the house wasn't the big improvement she had hoped for. Who she was now still took precedence over the person she had once been. With each passing year her bitterness grew, and the life she had lived before she married seemed more like a distant dream. Had she really worn fine dresses, played the piano at elegant parties, had suitors compete to dance with her? Above all, was there actually a time when she could eat as much food and sweets as she liked?
She had inquired about her father and, to her satisfaction, heard that he was a broken man. He now lived alone in the big house and went out only to go to work. That pleased Agnes; at the same time she harboured a faint hope that he might take her back in his good graces if his life had turned sufficiently miserable. But the years passed and nothing happened, and that hope faded more and more.
The boys were now four years old and completely incorrigible. They ran wild around the neighbourhood, as small as they were, and Agnes had neither the desire nor the energy to discipline them properly. And Anders had even longer workdays now that he had to travel from town out to the quarry. He left before the boys woke up and came home after they had gone to bed. Only on Sundays could he spend a little time with them, and then they were so happy to have him home that they behaved like little angels.
They hadn't had any more children, Agnes made sure of that.
Anders had made some awkward attempts to bring up the subject, and his desire to be allowed into her bed, but she'd had no difficulty in saying no. The desire she once felt for him was utterly gone. Now she was merely disgusted, and she shuddered at the thought of feeling his dirty, lacerated fingers anywhere near her skin. The fact that he didn't protest against the enforced celibacy also increased her contempt for him. What some people would call consideration, she called spinelessness, and the fact that he still did most of the housework only reinforced that image. No real man would wash his children's clothes or make his own packed lunch. Yet she closed her eyes to the fact that the reason he did so was because she refused to do these tasks herself.
'Mamma, Johan hit me!' Karl came running over to where she sat on the front steps smoking a cigarette, a bad habit she had acquired in recent years. She defiantly asked Anders for money to buy cigarettes, always hoping that he would object.
Now she cast a cool glance the crying boy before her and then slowly blew a cloud of smoke in his face. He started to cough and rubbed his eyes. He pressed up against her in an attempt to find some solace, but like so many times before she refused to respond with affection. It was up to Anders to dole out endearments. He spoiled the boys so much that she didn't need to make them mamma's boys too. Brusquely she pushed Karl away and gave him a swat on the bottom.
'Don't blubber - just hit him back,' she said calmly, blowing another puff of smoke up into the clear spring air.
Karl gave her a look that contained all the sorrow he felt at being rejected once again. Then he lowered his head and slunk over towards his brother.
Not long ago the woman next door had actually had the nerve to come over and tell Agnes that she ought to keep a better eye on her kids. She'd seen them playing alone out on the wharf by the freight dock. Agnes had merely given the old crone a dirty look and then calmly told her to mind her own business. Considering that her oldest daughter had gone to the city and, according to rumour, made her living by showing herself off as God made her, she was hardly the one to tell Agnes how to take care of her children. The woman had put on a wounded expression and then walked off muttering something about 'poor boys', but she hadn't dared to come and knock on the door again, which was exactly as Agnes had intended.
She leaned back in the spring sunshine, reminding herself not to enjoy for too long the rays that felt so good on her face. She wanted to retain the white complexion that was the mark of a woman of the upper class. The only thing she had left from her former life was her looks, and that was something she exploited to the utmost, trying to put a little silver lining on her otherwise dreary existence. It was astonishing how much she could glean from the shopkeeper in exchange for acquiescing to an embrace or maybe more, provided there was enough to gain. In that way she'd been able to bring home sweets and extra food, though she shared none of it with her family. She'd even acquired a bit of fabric that she carefully hid from Anders. For the time being she had to be content with touching it occasionally, rubbing it against her cheek to feel its silky smoothness. The butcher had also dropped a few hints, but there were limits to what she would do just to get some extra fine cuts of meat. The shopkeeper was a relatively young man and good-looking, and not half bad when it came to exchanging kisses in the back room, but the butcher was a fat, greasy lout in his sixties. Agnes would need to get considerably more than a piece of rump steak for allowing those sausage fingers with dried blood under the nails to slip underneath her dress.
She knew that people were talking behind her back. But once she realized that she would never regain her former social status, she no longer cared. Let them talk. If she could find ways to indulge in some of the good things in life, she had no intention of letting the views of a bunch of narrow-minded workers prevent her from doing so. And if it also bothered Anders occasionally to hear what people were saying about his wife, then all the better. In Agnes's eyes it was his fault that she had ended up where she was, and it made her happy if she could cause him pain.
But the past few weeks something had been bothering her. She felt as though something was going on, but sh
e wasn't part of it. Several times she had come upon Anders lost in thought, staring into space as if he were contemplating something important. On one occasion she had even asked him if he was thinking about anything in particular, but he had denied it, though not very convincingly. He was involved in something, she was sure of it. Something that would affect her, but for some reason she was not allowed to know what it was. The whole thing was driving her crazy, but in this situation she knew her husband well enough to realize that it would do no good to push him to reveal anything before he was ready. He could be stubborn as a mule if he set his mind to it.
Pensively, she picked up the packet of cigarettes and got up to go inside. She wondered briefly where the boys could have run off to, but then shrugged her shoulders, leaving them to take care of themselves. For her part she intended to take a little midday nap.
* * *
The afternoon passed slowly. Patrik had spent far too much time poring over Albin's medical records. He wondered whether he'd made the right choice when he decided to wait to bring in the social welfare authorities. But something told him that he had to know more before he did that. Once the bureaucratic wheels began to turn, it would be hard to stop the process, and he knew that both the police and the doctors were reluctant to report suspected child abuse. There was always a risk that there was a natural explanation, but no one would be willing to consider that possibility after social welfare stepped in. Besides, there hadn't been any incidents since the Klinga family had moved to Fjällbacka. Apparently the situation had stabilized. But he couldn't be entirely sure, and if Albin was hurt again the responsibility would be on his shoulders.
The telephone rang and interrupted his gloomy thoughts.
'Patrik Hedström.'
The Stone Cutter Page 25
