I nod, looking out the little unwashed window that hardly lets in any of the gloomy autumn light.
Power.
Is it that simple?
I wonder if the man who once pursued me, the man who wanted me dead, was also driven by that—the power to control existence, to pass judgment, the power to decide over my life, my death.
“Her daughter saw everything,” Aina says quietly.
“How old?” Vijay immediately asks.
“Five.”
“Then they’ll never get anything helpful out of her. Do you know how hard it is to question a five-year-old? Not to mention getting anything out of her that will actually stand up in court.”
He shakes his head and looks out the window, at the rain and the muddy fields. A dog is barking somewhere. Black birds fly past the window in formation, maybe on their way to some warmer place.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
Vijay sighs and gives me an exhausted look. “Of course. They’ll enlist the help of a social worker or a child interview specialist. They will question her, but they won’t get anything useful from her. Studies show that it is extremely hard to get reliable witness testimony from children under five. They don’t have the same sense of chronology as adults; they mix up imagination and reality. They remember details but not the overall picture. Besides, she’s probably traumatized, which can make it even harder to access the memories. She probably won’t remember what happened. Was she physically hurt herself?”
“No, she didn’t seem to have any physical injuries. The police found her under the kitchen table, in the middle of a pool of blood. She was drawing.”
“Was the kitchen the scene of the crime?”
“I think so,” I say.
“Well, then it’s not definite that she even saw anything, is it? I mean, she could have been in a different room and come in looking for her mother, found her, gotten scared, and hid under the table. Right?” Vijay asks.
“Yeah, I suppose,” I concede.
Aina suddenly looks pale, rubbing her thighs with both hands as if trying to brush something away. Her nails are chewed down and I can see the remnants of dark-red polish. “How can you be so fucking disturbed that you would kill someone you love, or at least claim you love?”
But Vijay ignores the question, unaffected, continuing his line of thought. This is his MO, analyzing the more pathological aspects of the male psyche, the motives of criminals and violent men, the origins of evil.
“It’s very unusual for these men to actually kill anyone. Last year in Sweden there were about twenty-seven hundred reported cases of domestic violence, and that is most definitely a gigantic underestimate. But on average in Sweden only seventeen women a year are killed by a man they are in a close relationship with. In other words, it’s extremely uncommon for it to end this way. And if you look at the perpetrators in those cases, eighty percent are mentally ill, sixty percent have done time, and fifty percent are alcoholics. I mean, I don’t know anything about this specific guy, but chances are that he meets at least one of these criteria.”
I avoid saying that I’ve actually met Henrik myself, that he came to see me. The last thing I want is for Vijay and Aina to start worrying about me again.
Aina shrugs and says, “I don’t think he’s an alcoholic or that he’s been in the slammer, but what do I know? According to Kattis, he is violent. He also seems to have been incredibly in love with her, had a hard time letting go of her, couldn’t move on, stuff like that. And she doesn’t seem to be able to let go of him either.”
Vijay laughs and leans toward Aina, gently brushes away a strand of her long blond hair that has fallen out of her messy bun, tucking it behind her ear, a gesture that is both intimate and tender.
“Not love. It’s never about love, my friend. It’s about power. Don’t forget that.”
Excerpt from the Student Health Records, Älvängen Elementary and Middle School
The mother called during phone consultation hours today and is very worried about her son, who’s in third grade. She says the boy is complaining more and more of tummy aches and headaches and saying that he’s sick. The mother has to nag him to get him to go to school. She says the other kids tease the boy at school because he’s so slow and a little overweight. On one occasion some of the older boys tricked him into eating rabbit poop, which they said was candy. She’s also afraid that some of the other kids might be manipulating her son because he’s gullible and a little naïve. She thinks other kids got her son to shoplift from the corner store by promising him candy and magazines.
The mother is very upset and cries during much of the call. Says she doesn’t know what to do and that all she wants to do is help her boy but that she isn’t getting through to him. She also says that the situation is increasingly causing conflict at home and that her husband thinks she’s too lenient and indulgent.
We decide that the boy and the mother should come in and meet with me. I also recommend that she take him to the health care center for tests to rule out the possibility of anemia, etc.
Sara Solberg, school nurse
Aina and I squeeze under a little red umbrella on Götgatan. Heavy sweaters, scarves, and shoes can’t keep the raw cold out.
“Brr, it’s cold out here,” she says, pulling her thin leather jacket across her chest so the two edges overlap.
“Maybe you should think about buying some slightly warmer clothes,” I suggest.
Her smile is wide and maybe a little amused when she looks at me. “What, it’s not like I can start wearing snow pants and a balaclava, can I? Besides”—she gets serious again, lowering her face as if to inspect the damp sidewalk below us—“I’m so short on money this month.”
“You need a little loan?”
She shakes her head and brushes the damp blond strands of hair out of her face.
“Nah, that’s what credit’s for, right?” she jokes.
Aina almost never has any money left at the end of the month. We don’t earn that much, but I think her rent is low, really low. And she really doesn’t have any other expenses, so she shouldn’t have any money problems. Sometimes I loan her money and I always get it back at the start of the next month. I should discuss this with her, tell her what I think about how she handles her money, but I don’t really see the point. Aina is my friend. She’s an adult and certainly qualified to make her own decisions.
A car zips past through a puddle, splashing brownish-gray water on Aina’s shins.
“Dumbass!” Aina yells, giving the driver the finger.
“Hey, hey, please . . .” I take her arm and carefully guide it back down. “Are you trying to start a fight or something?”
“Didn’t you see that? He splashed water all over me.”
“Sure, but we don’t have time for that now. You’re going to have to work through your aggression on the yoga mat or something. We should have been there twenty minutes ago.”
Aina sighs and shrugs, pulls her leather jacket even more tightly around her body. “Is everyone coming?” she asks.
“Hillevi couldn’t. She’s working.”
We’re going to meet at the Pelican for a meal and a chance to talk about what happened: about Kattis’s ex-boyfriend killing his girlfriend. He kicked her to death in cold blood in the kitchen. And we’re going to talk about it like civilized people, in a restaurant. As if we’re going out to have a nice time.
We could have talked about this at our next session, but when Malin suggested getting together at the restaurant, and Sofie and Sirkka urged us to join them even though we’re the group leaders, we decided to respect their decision. After all, it is a support group, not formal therapy. Plus, in a way it feels nice to go somewhere else, kick back a little.
The scent of fried food and damp wool permeates the dimly lit restaurant. There are a lot of people out this evening and I’m glad I made a reservation. I spot a redhead in one of the alcoves by the wall and see someone waving. It’s Sirkka.
&nbs
p; “Over there,” I say. “They’re already here, all of them.”
We push our way through the beer-drinking Södermalm residents, who are all dressed in black, and wait a few seconds to let a waitress by, her hands full of plates of meatballs and mashed potatoes.
Around us, all these voices, the murmur of strangers sharing this dark fall evening with us. Candles on all the tables, flames flickering with the gust of wind from the door, which is constantly being flung open.
“Hi, girls,” Sirkka says, revealing all her yellow teeth in a big smile.
Aina hugs her and mumbles a greeting. I say hello to Malin, who’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt that says Team Bosön Sports 2009. She smells freshly showered as she laughs and ruffles my short hair. There’s something intimate about the gesture that suddenly makes me shy. As I turn away from her, Sofie comes over with her arms out. She gives me an awkward hug without saying anything, but I can tell she’s glad to see us. When I emerge from that embrace, Kattis is standing in front of me, and the sight is almost shocking. Her hair is unwashed and hangs down over her shoulders in clumps. Her eyes are swollen and her mouth is a thin line. I can just make out two red splotches on her cheeks. Has she been crying?
“Kattis,” is all I can say.
“I know.” She shakes her head. “I look like hell.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I . . . ,” I stammer.
She laughs and looks away, glancing over toward the bar and the groups of people laughing, chatting loudly, gesticulating. Her pale, stoic profile stands out among all the lively beer-drinking bar patrons, and the contrast is stark. She would fit in better at a funeral than in a crowded pub in Södermalm.
I touch her shoulder and she trembles, as if from an electric shock. She looks at me again, gives me a tired, brief nod, as if in mutual understanding, and then sinks down onto her chair.
I sit down next to her and glance at everyone else—Sofie, Sirkka, and Malin—but no one seems to have noticed our exchange. Except Aina. She is studying me from across the wood table with furrowed brows. I’m guessing she’s worried about Kattis, maybe also about me.
Then Sirkka breaks the ice.
“Well, gals, can you believe this happened?”
Kattis doesn’t respond, just sits stiffly in the chair, her back rigid, hands quietly clasped on the table, her eyes fixed on the candle in the middle.
“I read about it in the paper,” Sofie begins. “It feels superweird to read about something happening in Gustavsberg. I mean, you would think that nothing like that would ever happen here. It’s totally sick, right?”
“Yeah, imagine if it was your ex-boyfriend who did it,” Kattis whispers without looking up.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Kattis mumbles, and looks at us, seated around the table. There’s something dull and resigned in her eyes. Swollen and bloodshot, they convey an ambivalence that scares me way more than her crying did that night in the office. “There’s just no way to understand something like that, right? Even I can’t understand it, and I already knew what he was capable of, don’t you see?” Kattis says.
“You have to be strong now,” Sirkka says, looking at Kattis.
“What good will that do?” Kattis protests.
“It will make all the difference in the world. To you,” Sirkka says.
“But what about her? Susanne, she’s dead, and nothing I do can ever . . . ,” Kattis replies.
“You can’t help her. You can only help yourself,” says Sirkka confidently. “You have to begin there, because you can’t help anyone else until you’ve helped yourself.”
“And just how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?” Kattis’s voice is just a faint whisper; still I hear each word as if she has whispered it right into my ear, her lips against my earlobe.
“My dear child”—Sirkka squeezes Kattis’s pale hand—“you have to forget this guy and move on.”
“Yeah, well, that’s easy to say,” Kattis says.
“You know it’s true,” Sirkka says, her voice sounding almost plaintive. “You won’t be free until you let him go.”
Kattis snatches back her hand, gets up, and stands next to the table, hesitating, collecting herself for a few seconds as if she were about to make a speech.
“I’m just going to . . . Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” Kattis says. Then she heads toward the restroom. We look at each other in silence.
“Was I too hard on her?” Sirkka asks.
“No,” Aina says. “I don’t think so. She probably just needs a few minutes. How are the rest of you doing with this? Have you been thinking about it very much?”
“Yes,” Sirkka begins. “Gustavsberg isn’t that big. A lot of people know each other, or are at least aware of each other. People talk, you know.”
“The woman who was killed, Susanne, her son went to the same high school as some friends of mine.” Sofie sighs.
“I thought she had a little girl?” Malin says.
“Yeah, but she has an older boy too. He was a real handful, apparently, at least when he was in school. He’s in some kind of home now, I think.”
“A home?” Aina asks.
“Yeah,” Malin says, “one of those halfway houses for drug addicts or criminals or something. I’m not really sure.”
“Drug addicts or criminals,” Aina mumbles, looking around the pub as if she were wondering something.
“Yeah, there’s a lot of talk about the woman too,” Sirkka says. “I’m not one to gossip, but still. She was obviously . . .”
Sirkka pauses, glancing around the room absentmindedly.
“What?” Malin asks. “She was obviously what?”
“Well, these aren’t my words,” Sirkka says firmly, rubbing her hands together as if she were cold, “but they say she was a real . . . tramp. One guy hardly out the door before the next one arrived. She obviously had a revolving door over there on Blåsippevägen. Not so strange that her son turned out the way he did, huh? Children do need a certain amount of stability.”
Malin squirms. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Sirkka, but I have a little trouble with people calling women tramps just because they’ve been with a lot of guys. Men can have sex with however many people they want without getting a bad reputation. Why is that? I think women should stick together and not call each other tramps. There’s nothing worse than women sabotaging each other. There’s nothing more . . . disloyal. That kind of thing should merit the death penalty. I totally mean that.”
“I actually agree with you,” Sirkka says calmly. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. I think guys can be real tramps too. Just so you know.”
Then the beer arrives. The foamy, frosty glasses are placed on the table before us.
“The soda’s for me,” Malin says. “I don’t drink . . . anymore.”
No one says anything. Aina slurps her beer and I am once again amazed that she can’t drink quietly, that she actually has to make little, slurping toddler noises when she drinks, even though she’s a grown woman. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and looks around the crowded pub.
“Should I go check on Kattis?” Sofie asks.
“Nah,” Aina says, “I’m sure she’s fine. How are you feeling, Sofie, are you okay?”
“What do you mean?” Sofie asks, blushing behind her beer glass.
“I mean, do you feel okay about continuing on in our conversation group now that . . . in spite of what happened?”
“Absolutely,” Sofie responds immediately, without consideration. “Of course I do. I think it’s great meeting with you guys. And besides”—she tugs a little at her leather cord bracelet with blue beads—“I think Kattis kind of needs us now.”
Sofie makes that last part sound like a question and I am amazed yet again at how thoughtful she is, always listening to the rest of us and seeing herself as part of the group.
“I feel the same way,” Malin says. “We have to help Kattis now
. Personally I’m superpissed. I want to kill that guy. I mean it. Literally.”
“So you’re feeling very . . . angry?” I ask.
Malin smiles broadly and says, “Oh, knock it off. You know what you sound like?”
“What? A psychologist? Your psychologist?” I ask.
Malin laughs again, but it’s a flat, joyless, mechanical laugh. “Exactly, and since you are, maybe you can understand why I’m mad?”
“I certainly can. Although I don’t know—” I say.
“What?” Malin throws up her hands, exasperated.
“I just don’t know how constructive it is to be mad,” I say calmly.
“It’s better to be mad than scared,” Malin says. “It’s better to be strong than weak. I’m sure you must agree with that, right?”
“I wish I were as strong as you,” Kattis says. Suddenly she is just standing there by the table again. I didn’t notice her come back and I wonder how long she’s been listening to our conversation.
“You’re strong,” Malin says, taking a swig of her soda. “Everyone is strong inside. It’s just a matter of tapping into your inner strength. It’s a matter of training yourself.”
Kattis smiles hesitantly and sinks down into her chair. She raises her beer glass to the light and studies the candle flame through it, turns her head a little so her hair falls onto her shoulder. Then she carefully sips her beer, as if she were afraid it would burn her tongue.
“A matter of training? What do you mean, like at the gym?” Kattis asks.
There’s a collective giggle.
Malin looks irritated but then explains, “Well, yeah. There’s actually no difference between mental and physical strength. You can build up your mental strength. Your brain is just like a muscle. And once you’ve done it, no asshole will be able to demean you again.”
“So you can teach me?” Kattis asks, smiling.
“Of course,” Malin says. “Once I’m done with you, sister, no one will mess with you. Although you’re going to have to work hard, understand? Everything has a price. If you want to transform your body or your mind, you have to make big sacrifices. You have to dedicate yourself to the task.”
More Bitter Than Death Page 10
