Cinderella Girl

by Carin Gerhardsen

  Carin Gerhardsen

  CINDERELLA GIRL

  Contents

  1964

  A Friday Evening in September, 2007

  Friday Night

  Saturday Morning

  Saturday Afternoon

  Saturday Evening

  Early Sunday Morning

  Sunday Morning

  Sunday Mid-morning

  Sunday Afternoon

  Sunday Evening

  Monday Morning

  Monday Afternoon

  Monday Evening

  Tuesday Morning

  Tuesday Mid-morning

  Tuesday Midday

  Tuesday Afternoon

  Tuesday Evening

  Follow Penguin

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CINDERELLA GIRL

  Carin Gerhardsen was born in 1962 in Katrineholm, Sweden. Originally a mathematician, she enjoyed a successful career as an IT consultant before turning her hand to writing crime fiction. Cinderella Girl is the second title in the Hammarby series, novels following Detective Inspector Conny Sjöberg and his murder investigation team. Carin now lives in Stockholm with her husband and their two children. She is currently working on the seventh title in the series.

  1964

  Sleep now, go to sleep now; make it quick. Shut your eyes and leave your mouth half open so it looks convincing. Breathe slowly, evenly, even though your heart is pounding like a fist in your chest. But where there’s a will, there’s a way.

  Now he hears the steps on the stairs, gentle steps, not hard, angry steps like before; now they are soothing and forgiving. He hears the door open and close again – oh no, it’s one of those nights. But his breathing is even, sighing, perfect. His head is angled slightly on the pillow, a trickle of saliva works its way out of his mouth and down his cheek. The impression has to be of complete relaxation, even though every muscle in his body is so tense it hurts, but that’s not noticeable; it cannot be seen.

  ‘Are you sleeping, little man?’ the hated voice whispers in a smooth, sugary-sweet tone. ‘I was thinking we’d go to sleep as friends. That’s always nice, isn’t it?’

  His eyelids always betray him.

  ‘I can see you’re awake. Your eyelids are twitching. Don’t be silly; you’re not going to hold a grudge, are you? We only want what’s best for you; you know that, don’t you? Now let’s make up, pretty please?’

  Then it’s impossible to keep his eyes shut and he has to wipe away the spit that’s trickling into his ear. And then the skinny, cold hand with the long, dirty nails slips inside the pyjama top. His whole body freezes and he stares at the man with a look full of loathing and fear, but the monster doesn’t notice it. He notices a little twitching of the eyelids, but can’t see a whole body in revolt.

  Now clatter starts up in the kitchen and the whole house resounds with rattling china being put away in cupboards and clinking silverware placed in drawers. He winces when a patch of sensitive skin in his belly button gets caught for a moment by a long fingernail. The finger twirls around for a while in his belly button – which seems to have direct contact with his belly in an unpleasant, almost painful way – before making its way further down into the pyjama bottoms.

  At that point he usually disappears from the room and out on to the football field or down to the shore to catch tadpoles, but this time he is standing by the railway tracks, looking through the windows at people in a passing train, and for some reason that image becomes engraved in his memory. It is neither pleasant nor disagreeable, but it’s as though there’s no way to get rid of it. From then on he always finds himself beside that train as he disappears into himself, away from himself. But he doesn’t know that yet. The rails are screeching as they meet the onrushing train.

  A Friday Evening in September, 2007

  She sets him down on the rug by the bed while she removes the sheets. His screaming is almost unrecognizable now, the round face red from exertion. It’s half past ten, and for four hours she has been trying to get him to sleep. But with his sore throat he can’t keep the dummy in his mouth, and without a dummy it’s hopeless. The Calpol no longer helps; it hurts to swallow so he’s eaten almost nothing, and he can’t keep the penicillin down on an empty stomach. She is so tired after three days that exhaustion has become the norm. But not once has she raised her voice; she has not blurted out a single harsh word. That feels like a victory.

  All this time a countdown is going on inside her. She is counting the days, hours and minutes until Mats comes home again. As of now four days, ten hours and thirty minutes remain. He is in Japan at a technical seminar, but his mobile phone doesn’t work there, so she can’t even call him for a few encouraging words. It’s just as well; it would only upset him to know how they are doing, and she would probably start crying and let her resolve turn into self-pity.

  She rushes into the bathroom with her arms full of vomit-soiled linens and crumples the bundle into the washing machine. Out of habit she picks up a few pieces of clothing in similar colours from the laundry basket and stuffs those into the washer too, before she adds detergent and sets the over-filled machine at 60 degrees.

  The child’s screams suddenly stop and in the silence she hears her own stomach growling. She doesn’t feel the hunger, but takes a detour through the kitchen to pick up the last brown-speckled banana from the bowl on the counter. Just then the howling from the bedroom resumes. She hurries back and picks up the boy, sits down at the foot of the unmade bed, lays the child on his stomach across her knees and strokes his back. On the TV in front of her she is trying to watch an American movie with the sound off, while the banana fills her mouth and her left hand monotonously caresses the inconsolable infant.

  After only a few more minutes the movie is over and the credits quickly scroll past. She turns off the TV, gets up laboriously with the little one sobbing in her arms and goes over to the window. Two middle-aged men pass on the pavement across the street and a young couple is visible a little further away. No one carries an umbrella – evidence that the weather is clearing up. The driving rain that came down for most of the day has finally subsided.

  She tries to set the boy on the windowsill, holding him by the hands, but he isn’t interested and instead kicks his legs furiously without putting his feet down. She lifts him up, lays his head against her shoulder and sniffs his hair. It is damp with sweat and the child’s screaming cuts like knives into her ears. Her eyes ache from lack of sleep and she has a hard time keeping them open. For a moment she unwillingly admits that she is feeling sorrier for herself than for the deeply loved but tormented little person in her arms. She is struck by a tangible desire for revenge, against some nameless, elusive, abstract being that cannot be conquered. With a sigh she gets up and goes out into the hall, carrying the boy. Before she puts the key in the lock she hesitates for a moment, thinking that at this time on a Friday evening the risk of burglars is probably greater than the risk of fire. Then she carefully locks the door from the outside.

  * * *

  The apartment was bubbling with laughter and happy voices. It was one of those evenings when everyone seemed to be in a good mood, no one was sulking or causing trouble. Most of them were sitting in the kitchen because Solan was in the living room with some new guy. It was clear the couple didn’t want company because they had shut the doors to the hall and kitchen. No fewer than nine people were crowded around the kitchen table. On the floor, leaning against the refrigerator, Elise was sitting with a drink beside her. Across from her sat Jennifer, and she too was sipping a blend of moonshine and Coke.

  Their apartment was almost always full of people. Even before noon folk started stumbling in for coffee and sandwiches, if anyone had gone shopping. Their mother kept her home open to all h
er buddies, but they had to supply their own food and drink. It had been hard for her to say no before, but finally she steeled herself and had put a stop to the guests’ raids on the refrigerator and cupboards. And they had respected that. She made sure there was always food for the girls’ breakfast and that they got going in the morning. She would send one of them down to the supermarket at Ringen, not because she was lazy – Elise knew she really would have preferred to do the shopping herself – but because she was ashamed to be seen outside. But Elise and her sister seldom ate at home; usually they ate out when they got hungry and sometimes with friends. They got money for clothes, toiletries and dinner. So they managed okay. Their mother was able to hold things together, even though their lives looked a bit different from most others.

  By early afternoon the first bottles would be opened at the coffee table in the two-bedroom apartment in the Ringen complex. After that people came and went all afternoon and into the evening. Things did not settle down until close to midnight. It was not unusual for some of their mother’s drinking companions to pass out and spend the night there.

  The girls went to school during the day and then mostly roamed around town or went to friends’ houses. They had a separate room that they shared, but for the most part they avoided being at home as long as the partying was going on. Instead they tried to stay away. Their mum’s parties didn’t usually lead to fights, but the conversations were often loud and you had to be careful not to rile someone who wasn’t in a particularly good mood. Elise and Jennifer usually tried to make themselves invisible as they slipped into bed in the early hours.

  But now it was Friday night, the weekend beckoning without school or other obligations, and their mother had recently acquired some money. Everyone was in high spirits around the kitchen table, where bottles crowded against glasses and full ashtrays. Elise and Jennifer were not unaffected by the elated atmosphere. Normally they would have sneaked past without anyone paying attention to them, but tonight they’d been called into the kitchen and offered drinks and cigarettes by the noisy group around the table.

  Elise started to feel pleasantly relaxed even after the first gulp. She took a deep drag on the cigarette and closed her eyes. She intended to keep this one for herself, and besides, she knew tonight it would be easy to get her hands on more. Her allowance was usually not enough for cigarettes, and if you begged from friends you had to be content with butts. She took a substantial gulp from the glass and looked at her big sister. Everyone said they were alike, but she did not see many similarities. Jennifer was two years older, cool and self-confident, and always had an answer for everything. Elise was a pale copy, with low self-esteem, bad posture and ridiculous, small breasts that could not compare with Jennifer’s. Even these characters in the kitchen made a distinction between them. Jennifer was the grand prize to pull down on your lap on a night like tonight, but she almost always refused them in her confident way. Then they might start pretend-sobbing, and beg and plead to change her mind, but she would just shake her head and roll her eyes. Only then did they ask Elise the same thing, but she usually refused because Jennifer had. Sometimes she sat on Dagge’s or Gordon’s or Peo’s lap, simply because she couldn’t bear to say no – or because she wanted to feel appreciated for a while.

  ‘What are you going to do tonight?’ Elise yelled over the din to her big sister.

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe see Joakim, maybe not, whatever,’ Jennifer called back.

  Jennifer had a boyfriend. Well, Elise had boyfriends too, off and on, but Jennifer had a real boyfriend. A man. Joakim was twenty-four years old and had a beard. The boys Elise went out with had voices that had just started to change. They had peach fuzz and they were childish and silly. But Jennifer had a real man and now she wasn’t sure if she wanted to see him! He was also sweet and considerate. Elise could not recall even meeting that kind of guy. She had seen them at a distance once, and Joakim was holding on to Jennifer almost like he owned her. Like, ‘This is my girl and I’m proud of it.’ And then he had looked deep into her eyes and caressed her cheek so tenderly and carefully, as if she might fall apart at the slightest touch. Elise wanted that kind of man herself. She wanted him.

  ‘What do you mean “whatever”?’

  Jennifer emptied her glass with one gulp and Elise did the same.

  ‘Uh, I don’t know.’

  ‘Aren’t you still together, or what?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Yeah, but he’s so … It doesn’t matter. You want another?’

  ‘Sure. Get me a smoke too.’

  Jennifer got up and ploughed her way between chairs and legs and swaying bodies over to the kitchen table. Dagge threw out two big hands, took firm hold of Jennifer’s hips and pulled her teasingly down on his lap, but she bounced up again, grabbed a bottle and a pack of cigarettes, and quickly wriggled back to her spot by the kitchen cupboard.

  ‘Hey, listen up, kiddo. What kind of attitude is that?’ Dagge blurted out in a loud, hoarse voice. ‘You take my wine and I don’t even get a little hug!’

  Dagge was a blond, red-faced character with small bloodshot eyes and big hairy ears. Strangely enough he had a fairly fashionable shirt on, but his jeans were spotted with paint and had a reek of old grime that wafted all the way over to where Elise was sitting.

  ‘Maybe you’ll get one if you’re nice,’ Jennifer replied coolly while she filled her glass and her sister’s with lukewarm white wine.

  Elise shuddered at the thought of even grazing against those jeans.

  ‘I’m the one who should get a hug, damn it; it’s my wine,’ her mother yelled.

  Embarrassing as always. She was more tolerable when she was in one of her silent, semi-depressed moods. Tonight, however, she was up and talkative. Wanted to be seen and heard. Elise didn’t want to see or hear her; she tried not to think about her.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but you owe me one,’ Dagge went on, and the conversation shifted to debts and injustices and suddenly everyone around the table had something to say.

  Jennifer offered Elise a cigarette, took one herself and then stuffed the pack, not missed by anyone, into the front of her blouse. Elise lit her own cigarette and handed the lighter over to Jennifer.

  ‘Are you going out, or what?’ asked Jennifer.

  Elise knocked back half of the contents of the glass with a disgusted grimace.

  ‘Yeah, I guess so,’ she answered. ‘I’m seeing Nina. You don’t have any money I can borrow, do you?’

  ‘Right, like I have any cash. Just ask one of them. They seem to have money today.’

  She made a gesture towards the table, knocked back the rest of the sour wine and got up to leave. Elise felt her cheeks burning; the drink put her in a good mood. Made her feel courageous.

  ‘Jennifer, wait!’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Listen, can I borrow your jacket?’

  ‘What fucking jacket?’

  ‘The leather jacket. From Gina Tricot.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to wear?’ Jennifer asked crossly.

  ‘Can’t you wear a different one? Please, just tonight?’

  Maybe Jennifer felt a little tipsy too, because suddenly she gave in.

  ‘Okay, but I’ve got to have it tomorrow.’

  ‘I promise. God, that’s awesome.’

  ‘It’s in the hall. I’m out of here,’ said Jennifer.

  Elise remained seated on the floor, smoking until the ember burned the tips of her fingers. Then she emptied the glass, dropped the butt in and listened to the hissing sound it made. She went over to the table, noticing that she staggered a little.

  ‘Can anybody loan me a couple of hundred?’ she asked, but no one volunteered.

  ‘What do you mean loan? You’ll never see that money again,’ her mother complained.

  ‘Like I can afford that,’ Gordon muttered.

  ‘And if I could, I wouldn’t give it to you!’ Peo howled.

  Monkan just shook her head and the others didn’t seem to even notic
e Elise; they kept on talking about other things. She went out to the hall and felt in the pockets of the jackets hanging there, without finding anything. She took Jennifer’s leather jacket down from a hook and pulled it on. After a quick look at herself in the mirror she went out to the stairwell, slamming the door behind her. The time was half past ten.

  * * *

  ‘What kind of damn girl?’

  ‘Just a regular girl.’

  ‘ “A regular girl.” She has a name, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Her name’s Jennifer. I’ve told you that before.’

  ‘That sounds like a good name for a slut.’

  ‘She’s not a slut, she’s nice.’

  ‘Nice! You ugly piece of shit, how the hell could you get a “nice” girlfriend? She’s messing with you; don’t you get that?’

  Maybe his dad was right. Joakim wasn’t much to look at and Jennifer was cute as a doll. He had never had a girlfriend before. Jennifer was his first. True, she was eight years younger, but she was his. Wasn’t she? She must be; they’d slept with each other and she had asked him to go along on the Finland cruise tomorrow. And now she’d called and asked if they could go out together.

  ‘Maybe she is. But I’m glad I have someone. I’m leaving now.’

  ‘Oh no, mister, oh no, you’re not. You’re staying here and taking care of your mother.’

  A malicious smile split his father’s face into two grotesque halves and Joakim started to feel sick.

  ‘But she’ll be fine; she’s going to sleep soon.’

  ‘You’re staying home,’ his father said dryly without looking at him, taking a deep drag on his cigarette.

  He didn’t bother blowing out the smoke; it stayed inside him. Joakim felt the tears forming a lump in his throat. He wanted to see Jennifer so much; he needed to see her. What if she could see how pitiful he was, always doing what his dad told him to do. To her he acted tough and worldly wise, so far as he could, and he was tall and had a beard and smoked and used snuff. True, he wasn’t supposed to, but his father didn’t notice because he was a smoker himself. Deep down Joakim had a feeling that he was deceiving her. He was twenty-four years old and she was sixteen. He hid behind a beard and sunglasses, and she thought he was a big, strong man, even though any man at all could see he was a wuss.