The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  With the odds he had started with, it had been by no means certain that he would grow up into a happy adult. He was the only child of a single, semi-alcoholic woman who supported herself by hairdressing – when she did work – and whose only interest seemed to be men of all types. They moved a lot and never really settled down anywhere. Various stepfathers came and went over the years, some more serious than others. When he was little, he was considered noisy and unruly, and his childhood was marked by countless fights and detentions. He must have been a real handful. Of course, it affected his schoolwork; but in high school he began taking his studies seriously.

  There everything changed. His mother moved again soon after he started high school but he decided not to go with her. He lived alone in a studio apartment and had to take care of himself. On weekends he worked at a petrol station and the evenings he devoted to studying, football and household chores. He really matured during this time and graduated from high school with excellent results. In fact, he did well enough to be able to study economics at the university.

  And here he was now. En route from his well-paid job at the firm he and his partner had built up themselves, en route to his dear wife and beloved children at home in a cosy townhouse. He indulged himself with this thought, and his contentment was reinforced when he looked at his drab and dreary fellow passengers, noses deep in some vapid free newspaper or vacantly staring out of the snow-blurred window. In the window he saw the reflection of one poor soul who was actually staring at him. Was his happiness that obvious? Was that a problem? Whatever. He could live with that.

  * * *

  Thomas sat down a little in front of the man – none other than ‘King Hans’ – in the carriage, with his back to the direction of travel so that he could watch him. Not directly – he sat strategically placed at an angle, with people between him and the object of his interest – but he could see the man’s reflection very well in the window.

  Hans looked relaxed and self-confident. Submerged in his own thoughts, with the newspaper folded on his lap, he looked distractedly out of the window. It almost appeared as if a little smile crossed his face from time to time. Thomas stared in fascination and wondered what it was that made him so happy. Was there someone waiting for him? Someone who was pleased to see him when he came home? Maybe he had curtains in the window and cushions on the couch?

  The man’s gaze swept across the people in the carriage and for a moment their eyes met in the window reflection. Was that contempt he saw in Hans’s blue eyes? If so, it was not surprising, considering Thomas’s hunched posture, unkempt hair and frightened eyes. He was a wretch, who glanced furtively at the people he met, if he dared to look at them at all.

  The light in the carriage suddenly blinked and it was completely dark for a few seconds. When the light came on again the man had gone back to investigating the water drops flowing together on the window. Thomas could continue studying the ghost from his childhood undisturbed.

  He thought about all the caps that had disappeared on the way home from preschool, tossed on to roofs and passing truck beds. He thought about the drawings he would take home to show his father at the end of term, but which, to the amusement of all the children, disappeared one by one down a drain. He thought about torn trousers, muddy jackets and scraped knees, and he thought about Carina Ahonen, who always got to sit on the teacher’s lap and lead the singing in assembly. She was the one who decided that they would draw horses and then all the children drew horses, horses, horses – it was the only thing you were allowed to draw. His were so bad they just had to be displayed, for everyone’s entertainment.

  He thought about the big green car out on the playground, which held at least six children. Two had to push, and he and Katarina pushed, every single day, in the pious hope that they too would get to sit in that car eventually. The teacher was very particular that everyone should get a turn, but for some reason she always forgot Thomas and Katarina. A few times Thomas managed to be first in the car, but then they threw him out and he had to push again, and this was clearly the way it should be, for the teacher only smiled her usual, sweet preschool teacher’s smile.

  One time, he remembered, Hans and Ann-Kristin took his cap and threw it to each other, back and forth over his head. Thomas could not get hold of it, but a momentary impulse suddenly gave him the courage to grab Hans’s cap and run away with it. Of course, they caught up with him, beat him black and blue, and tore the cap out of his hands. When he got home later, without his cap (as usual), Hans’s mother had already phoned Thomas’s father to vent her feelings about Thomas tearing her little Hans’s cap, whereupon Thomas was sent off to Hans and his mother with ten kronor to beg for forgiveness. For some reason his own missing cap never came up during the conversation.

  He was jolted out of his musings when the train stopped and the man he was watching stood up to get off. Thomas, too, got up and followed this shadow from the past.

  * * *

  The townhouse was only a few minutes’ walk from the Enskede Gård metro station. Hans jogged across the street, turned left at the school and turned in among the houses in Trädskolan. Soon he reached a park with unusual bushes and trees, the only memory of the old garden centre that was replaced by new homes in the late 1980s. He turned on to a footpath leading past some shrubbery and up to the play area that was part of the townhouse complex. In the sandpit sat two muddy children in waterproofs; a third child – a one-and-a-half-year-old – stood perched on the top step of a slide.

  ‘Please, Moa, hold on so you don’t fall down and hurt yourself,’ he called as he dashed over to the slide.

  The little girl’s face cracked a big smile and she immediately started to climb down. The two bigger children rushed over to their father and he tried as best he could to hug them and keep them at a distance at the same time.

  ‘Hi there!’ he said. ‘Be careful, I have my work clothes on. Just hug with your face. Come on, let’s go find Mum!’

  Just then Moa threw herself headlong towards him from the ladder and he was forced to sacrifice his clean jacket, but in return got a big, wet kiss on the chin. In a desperate attempt to spare the jacket further damage, he carried her with his arms outstretched in front of him and, with the two bigger children at his heels, walked up to their front door, where he set her down.

  ‘Hello!’ he called as he opened the door. ‘Here I come with three dirty pigs; you have to help me! Take off your boots before you go in,’ he said to the bigger children as he squatted down and started to undress the smallest.

  Pia appeared smiling in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a white blouse tied in the middle, and with her thick, dark hair pulled into a ponytail.

  ‘Hi, honey,’ she said, bending down and kissing him on the neck. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Good, but I have to take off in a little while and look at a house. It’s here in the neighbourhood, so I’ll only be gone an hour or so. Should we feed the kids now, so we can eat when they’ve gone to bed?’

  ‘Sure. What time are you leaving?’

  ‘In about half an hour. I’ll help you with the kids first.’

  He finally managed to wriggle the waterproofs off the girl and she rushed in through the door making happy sounds. The other children had taken off their own outdoor clothes and, leaving them scattered all over the hallway, they ran off into the house. He got up and made a resigned attempt to brush the dirt off his jacket, producing no visible improvement. Pia gathered up the boots and outdoor clothes and went in. Hans pulled the door shut after him with a bang that caused the doorknocker to strike.

  None of them noticed the man intently observing them through the branches of the bare lilac trees on the other side of the play area.

  * * *

  Thomas did not know how long he stood there in the darkness, spying, but in his imagination he was inside, in the warm, cosy kitchen that smelled of browned butter and frying meat. At first they all ran back and forth busily between various rooms, but af
ter a while things calmed down, and one by one they sat down at the dinner table.

  Thomas could not remember when he had last had a meal with other people. At work he ate in the big cafeteria, with other people around, but always alone. He had no living parents, no siblings, no other relatives that he ever saw, and no friends. It must be nice to have someone to come home to! How marvellous it would be simply to have a friend, just one person to talk to about things, great or small, someone to eat with occasionally. And think how much more fun it would be to cook if you were doing it for someone other than yourself.

  Dinner was finished and the kitchen was suddenly just as empty as it had been full of life and motion. The outside door opened and an appreciated and beloved father stepped out of his house and closed the door behind him for the very last time.

  * * *

  With his hands shoved into his jacket pockets and his collar turned up as protection against the autumn winds, he walked quickly through the neighbourhood. Withered leaves whirled in the light under the streetlamps, and every step made a squishing sound as his shoe lost contact with the pavement. One shoe had a hole in it and his sock was already damp. He should have changed into winter shoes, but he didn’t have time to turn back now. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to get to the house he was to look over, and perhaps he would treat himself to a taxi home, given the weather.

  He angled across a bigger road and turned on to the street where the property should be. The single-family houses in this neighbourhood were older – most were built in the 1920s and ’30s and had mature gardens with fruit trees and arbours. This must be it: an old, pink, wooden house with beautiful bay windows. The garden, much larger than others in the area, sloped from the house down towards the street and was surrounded by a well-tended but overly tall hedge, which did not suit the small house and the garden in general. In the hedge there was an even more out-of-place black iron gate, beyond which a gravel path led up to the house itself. He glanced at the mailbox and confirmed that this was the correct address, Åkerbärsvägen 31, and then pushed open the stubborn gate wide enough to slip through. It closed heavily behind him with a metallic clang.

  He hurried up the path without noticing the heavy aroma of soft windfall fruit. Nor did he notice the shadow that, without making a sound, climbed lithely over the large gate behind him and jumped down on to the wet lawn at the side of the gravel path. He stepped up on to the porch and rang the doorbell. An echoing ding-dong sounded from inside the house, but that was all he heard. He waited for a minute or two before he rang again. After a glance at his watch, which confirmed that he was only a few minutes late, he went around the back. The outside lights were on, but only one room of the old house was lit. It was the kitchen; the windows looked out on to the back garden. He couldn’t reach all the way to the kitchen window, but he bent over and picked up a small stick, which he threw at the windowpane, still without any reaction from anyone inside. He decided to return to the front and check whether the door was unlocked. To his surprise, he found that it was. Perhaps the person who lived here was old and hard of hearing?

  ‘Hello, anybody home?’ he called in a loud voice, but got no answer. ‘Hello!’ he tried again, this time even louder.

  Then he made his decision: he went into the house, carefully drying his shoes on the doormat in the hall and closing the door behind him.

  Tuesday Evening

  After several weeks in the hospital she could finally go home again. Finally, because she longed to sleep in her own bed, to sit alone in front of her own TV and decide for herself what programme to watch, with her own home-brewed coffee steaming in a cup on the side table. She missed the smell of home, the aroma of her own soap and her own detergent, and the pleasant odour of old preserves that permeated the walls.

  On the other hand, it was actually not so wonderful at all. She had difficulty walking after breaking her hip and it would be hard to manage properly by herself. Her interest in food had subsided over the years; it had almost no taste any more. But she did have to eat something and there were practical benefits to being in the hospital, where everything was served to you and you didn’t have to worry about shopping, cooking or doing dishes.

  The man from the transport service set down her small suitcase outside the door and waited patiently until she got her key ring out of her handbag. She carefully put the key into the lock, which yielded with a click, and the door opened by itself.

  ‘Should I help you in?’ he asked kindly.

  ‘No, that’s not necessary. I’ll be all right now. Thanks very much,’ she said, raising her hand in farewell.

  ‘Be careful now and get well soon!’ the driver waved, walking backwards down the steps to see that she really did manage to get into the house by herself.

  After turning on the ceiling light, Ingrid wiped her shoes on the doormat, set her crutch in the corner inside the door, and took a step over to the coat rack where she wriggled out of her coat while she balanced on her good leg. She reached for a hanger, covered in red velvet with a gold-coloured fringe, and hung up her coat. Then she took a few more steps to a small stool and sank down on it. She pulled off her leather boots and set them symmetrically under the coat rack, reached for her small suitcase and pulled up the zip that ran around the edge. She took a pair of comfortable indoor shoes from the suitcase and let her feet glide into them. She managed to get up again by pushing against the wall.

  Supported by the crutch, she limped through the hall, took a quick, displeased glance at herself in the hallway mirror, and continued towards the kitchen. She stopped on the threshold and leaned in to get at the light switch on the wall just inside the door.

  As she did so it suddenly struck her that something smelled strange. The usual smells were there, but something unknown was forcing its way into her nostrils through all that was familiar. It smelled of leather. Leather and … excrement? Then she turned on the light.

  First she stopped breathing and stood as if petrified, unable to understand what she was seeing. After a few seconds her brain managed to take in the image of the dead man on the floor and she started to hyperventilate instead. She staggered over to one of the chairs at the dinner table, pulled it out and sat down abruptly. She could not tear her gaze from the bloody mass that had been a face, and she sat there for a long while without thinking anything other than: breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out … It took several minutes for her to calm down. When she finally did, she noticed that everything else was in order, nothing had been touched on the kitchen counter and the kitchen chairs were symmetrically placed around the circular table. Not a trace of any scuffle or drama, only a battered person on the floor. A dead man. Good Lord, who could it be? And why in the world was he there, on her kitchen floor?

  With great effort, she got up again and made her way out to the wall-mounted telephone in the hallway. She picked up the receiver and pondered for a moment before she dialled the number for the taxi firm. After ordering a taxi, which according to the dispatcher would arrive in ten to twelve minutes, she undid everything she had done since arriving: off with her shoes, which went back into the suitcase, back with the zip, on with the boots, up and on with her coat, lights off and out, and lock the door. Then she made her way down the path, with her handbag over her shoulder, suitcase in one hand and crutch in the other, and waited on the pavement until the taxi arrived.

  ‘Ingrid!’ exclaimed Nurse Margit in surprise. ‘I thought you were looking forward to going home!’

  Margit Olofsson was a middle-aged woman, tall with ample curves and thick dark-red hair. She was the type of person who radiated motherliness and human concern.

  ‘Nurse Margit, there’s something terrible …’

  ‘But Ingrid, dear, sit down; you look completely worn out! Has something happened? Are you feeling unwell?’

  Margit Olofsson took the older woman under the arm and led her to one of the armchairs in the hospital reception area. Under her white coat a pair o
f washed-out blue jeans could be seen.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ said Ingrid imploringly. ‘I guess I’m confused, but I couldn’t think of anyone other than you … It … Don’t laugh at me now, but … there’s a dead man lying in my kitchen.’

  ‘Good God! Who is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. It’s not burglars or anything; nothing was touched or taken. He’s just lying there. And he’s dead.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense. Are you sure he’s dead?’

  ‘Absolutely. You can tell. It’s … completely still.’

  ‘You must have been very frightened.’

  ‘That’s true, that’s why I came back here.’

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ Nurse Margit consoled her, placing her arm around her shoulders. ‘You did call the police, didn’t you?’

  ‘I … No,’ admitted Ingrid. ‘It seemed so unreal. I couldn’t …’

  Nurse Margit’s initial thought was to call the police and social services, but she was suddenly struck by the suspicion that Ingrid Olsson might possibly be not completely lucid. She studied her thoughtfully for a few moments and then took a look at her watch.

  ‘Let’s do it this way. I get off in two and a half hours. Then we’ll go to your house together and decide what to do. Okay?’

  ‘That will be fine.’

  ‘Do you mind waiting so long?’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s not a problem.’

  ‘I’ll arrange something for you to eat in the meantime. And a magazine.’

  Then she hurried off, her clogs clip-clopping against the stone floor. She was back again just as quickly, with coffee, a Danish pastry, some biscuits and a stack of Woman’s Weekly.