Some Kind of Peace: A Novel

by Camilla Grebe

  “Acknowledge what? What in the hell do you mean? It was an accident. An accident.” Somehow my voice sounds both shrill and feeble. I continue.

  “A stupid, senseless accident. And you, more than anyone, ought to be able to respect that I don’t want to… talk about this… anymore.”

  My body is shaking with rage as I turn around and climb down from the rock. Aina does not follow me. I hate her for it. She stays up there because she knows she’s right.

  Just biding her time.

  Waiting for my confession.

  It’s eight o’clock on Sunday evening. I am standing alone in front of the French windows, looking out over the sea, which is still visible in the fading daylight. The temperature is in the upper forties and hard rain drums against the roof. I’ve taken my evening dip, been to the bathroom, and turned on all the lights in the house. Calm has settled over my little bay, but concern grows inside me. Is Sara’s murderer—who knows the way to my house, where I swim each evening—out there in the darkness? I sit on the couch and take out my laptop. Might as well get a little work done. As soon as I’ve settled in, my cell phone starts ringing. Had I turned it on? It’s my work cell, the number I give to my patients. Usually, I have it on only until 6:00 p.m. on weekdays, but for some reason it’s on. I go to the hallway and retrieve it from my bag. Should I answer? Curiosity gets the better of me and I press the little green button.

  “Yes, this is Siri Bergman.”

  “Siri?”

  “Yes, this is Siri.”

  “Hi, this is Charlotte Mimer. Excuse me for calling so late on a Sunday, but I was at a sales conference in Helsinki and only just got home.”

  Charlotte sounds out of breath, as if there isn’t enough air for all the words she wants to get out. But I hear something else in her voice, too. Something I don’t recognize. Is it anger, is it fear?

  “What happened, Charlotte?”

  “Siri, I’m really sorry, I don’t know how to say it, so I’ll just come out with it. When I got home awhile ago I found a letter. I mean, I read a letter that arrived while I was away,” she corrects herself, anxious as always to get the details exactly right.

  “And?” I ask.

  “It was about you. The letter was about you. It says that I should watch out for you, that your patients commit suicide and that you are… umm…”—Charlotte clears her throat—“unfit to be a therapist.”

  Her voice sounds distraught. She seems to be on the verge of tears.

  Her voice becomes shrill. “Is that true?”

  “Is what true, Charlotte?”

  “Is it true that one of your patients took her life in your backyard? It says that you forced her into it. Is that… true?”

  “Charlotte, can you get the letter and read it to me?”

  I hear her sniffling on the other end of the line and I summon all my authority as Charlotte’s therapist.

  “Read me the letter,” I say, more harshly than I intended.

  “I have it right here.”

  “Read it!”

  “Okay. Uh. ‘I am writing to you in light of the fact that you are a patient of Siri Bergman. You don’t know me, but nonetheless I feel that it is my duty to warn you about Siri. She is not only egocentric and incompetent, but she also constitutes a danger to her patients. Several of her patients have taken their lives per her direct orders. Sara Matteus was only twenty-five years old. Less than a month ago she drowned herself on Siri Bergman’s property. For your own sake I hope you can find a new therapist, one you can trust and who has empathy and interest in your problems. A friend.’”

  Silence.

  “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “That your patients kill themselves.”

  Her voice suddenly sounds thin and fragile.

  “Charlotte, listen very carefully now. First of all you must not throw that letter away, no matter what, okay?”

  “Okay,” she whispers.

  “There is a sick individual who is stalking me and trying to destroy both my life and my career.”

  “So it’s not true.” She sounds relieved.

  “Actually, one of my patients has died, yes.”

  “On your property?”

  I hesitate before I answer. How did I end up in this situation? Why must I sit here and defend myself against false accusations? I sigh.

  “She did die on my property, yes. But I had absolutely nothing to do with her death. She did not commit suicide, she was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Charlotte chokes, as if she has something stuck in her throat. Her voice is a mere hiss. “Murdered! On your property?”

  I can hear her now gasping for air.

  “Charlotte,” I begin, but I can only hear her gasping on the other end of the line.

  “The person who wrote that letter murdered her? Is that what you mean? On your property? Murdered one of your patients…”

  “It could be that way, yes.”

  “And now he has my address? A madman?”

  A madman, a word that seldom escapes my lips. In my world, there is no such thing. You can be psychotic or depressive or manic, but never mad.

  “Yes,” I reply quietly, “a madman. Charlotte, I want you to come to the office tomorrow so we can talk this through. You’re scheduled at your usual time on Monday, right?”

  “I don’t know,” she says hesitantly.

  “Promise me you’ll come?”

  “I can’t, I’m sorry. I don’t know if I dare. Maybe we should take a… break.” She suddenly sounds serious and has recovered her professional, steady voice.

  I don’t answer, but I understand. She is scared and I can’t blame her for that.

  • • •

  As soon as I hang up, I quickly reach up to the little shelf above the couch. I feel around among the dust bunnies and what I think are dead insects, and find what I’m looking for: a business card. My hands tremble as I wipe away the dust and walk over to the phone.

  You can call whenever you want.

  Markus arrives forty-five minutes later. He follows the same ritual as the first time we met: sits me down on the couch, puts pillows behind my back, and places the dirty old plaid blanket over me. I think this may be standard police procedure when someone is in shock.

  “Do you want anything?” he asks.

  “A glass of wine,” I answer. “If you’ll have one too,” I add.

  Markus disappears into the kitchen where I hear him open a bottle. He returns with the bottle and a glass.

  “I’m working tonight,” he says, gesturing toward the single glass.

  I nod tiredly and close my eyes.

  “Tell me,” he says, and I recount the whole conversation I just had with Charlotte. Of course Markus wants to speak with Charlotte and see the letter. I promise to put him in contact with her.

  Then I go on to tell him about the paralyzing sensation that overcomes me when I think about how many people around me seem to die. About my fear of what is out there in the dark. The words gush out of me, a story rushing like a stream of stale, foul-smelling water. As unpleasant as it is, it can’t be stopped. But Markus isn’t turned off by it. He just nods silently and stares out my black windows.

  “Are you single? Or are you seeing someone?”

  Maybe it’s the alcohol—the question comes out of me unexpectedly. I regret it immediately—I feel like I’m crossing an important boundary, busting through into his private sphere. True, he has also asked me personal questions, but I assume that’s just part of his job.

  “No, there’s no one special,” he mumbles curtly, still looking away.

  I can tell that I have made him self-conscious. He appears remarkably young and awkward tonight, sitting here on my ugly couch, dressed in a hoodie and jeans, and that’s when I feel it. There is tension in the room. I stare at him for a moment. He avoids my gaze and clears his throat.

  “Listen, Siri, is there really no one who would want to harm you?”

&nbs
p; “No, I really can’t think of a single person.”

  “And you haven’t witnessed anything strange recently, aside from what we’ve talked about.”

  I shake my head.

  “Who has access to your patient records?”

  “All of us who work at the clinic, Aina, Marianne, Sven, and me.”

  “And the videotapes?”

  “It’s the same. Only my colleagues can access them.”

  “Could any of your coworkers be behind this?”

  “Absolutely not,” I answer quickly, too quickly perhaps.

  Markus runs his hands over his damp jeans and looks searchingly at me.

  “I think it’s high time we set up some kind of protection for you. I will arrange for a patrol car to drive by a few times a day. I don’t like you to be out here alone in this house, after all that’s happened.”

  I don’t know why, but my stomach turns at the thought of having uniformed police officers lurking in the bushes outside.

  “Absolutely not. I don’t want the police here. All I want is peace and quiet.”

  “Sometimes you don’t have a choice, Siri. Sometimes you have to accept help. We can’t force you, of course, but…”

  I shake my head vehemently. “I don’t need any help. And last thing I need is a bunch of cops snooping around here—Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you…”

  We both stop talking and look at each other in silence. With curiosity this time. There are small raindrops trapped in his fair eyebrows, and the backs of his hands are covered with soft sun-bleached hair that glistens in the light from the table lamp next to the couch. Outside, the rain is falling with constant force.

  “I should probably go now.”

  “Can’t you stay until I fall asleep? You can close the door behind you when you leave.”

  He nods and looks at me, amused.

  I go quietly to my room and crawl into my big bed. When I wake up, it is morning and Markus is gone.

  “For starters, I’d like to welcome you back.”

  Sonja’s handshake is firm and her gaze direct. I am back in the tidy white office. Just like last time, the room is immaculate. I realize that I appreciate this. There are no teetering stacks of paper, no photographs, no paintings. Nothing that reveals anything about its occupants. The room is anonymous but somehow peaceful. I have always imagined interrogation rooms as shabby, cramped spaces with worn-out, rejected furniture cobbled together from all other departments in the public sector. Rooms with yellowing walls, locked windows, and a strong odor of stale cigarette smoke and sweat. A little like the smoking rooms at the psychiatric wards where I worked when I was a student. Maybe there are interrogation rooms that do look like that, how should I know?

  “Well, once again we meet under slightly different circumstances. I realize that perhaps our previous conversation was painful, but I hope you understand that we have to do our job.”

  Sonja looks sincerely apologetic. I was not expecting such sympathy. Today we are meeting alone, without Markus. I find myself distracted, wondering where he is and what he is up to. My thoughts surprise me a little. Why should I care?

  “There is further evidence that indicates that Sara’s death was in some way directed at you. For this reason, I’d like you to think whether there is anyone who might want to harm you in some way.”

  “No. I still can’t imagine who would be after me. Who would want to hurt me.”

  “In your work you must meet a lot of sick people. Isn’t that so?”

  “That depends on what you mean by ‘sick.’ I work in a private practice, most of the patients I see have a psychiatric problem, but at the same time are functional enough to work or support themselves in some way. They have actively sought private treatment for various reasons and usually pay for it themselves. But sure, if by sick you mean they’ve had a psychiatric diagnosis, then yes. But just because you have psychiatric problems doesn’t mean you’re crazy, not at all, in fact.”

  “So when is one crazy?”

  Sonja looks at me attentively, as if she really wants to hear my own definition of what crazy is.

  “Well, I guess that depends. According to the law, you are considered insane if you are a danger to yourself or others and if you cannot take responsibility for your actions. I don’t see that kind of patient. Not because I don’t want to, but because they require other forms of treatment. We simply don’t have the right resources for that type of patient.”

  “You have never had any patients who took a special interest in you? Who were more curious than is normal?”

  I let my thoughts wander to the various individuals I had treated throughout my career.

  “Once, a male patient asked me out, but that was five years ago, and it wasn’t so strange, really. The therapy was coming to an end and he asked me rather elegantly whether I wanted to go to an exhibition with him. I can’t recall which one.”

  “And how did you respond?”

  “I declined, of course. It’s not ethical to date patients, either current or past.”

  “And how did he react?”

  “If you’re wondering whether he was offended or if I felt threatened or anything like that, you can forget it. He simply laughed and asked whether it would be unprofessional for me to go out with him. I told him that was the case, and that was that.”

  “What did you treat him for?”

  “Dental phobia.”

  “Dental phobia?”

  “He was afraid to go to the dentist. Nothing unusual. He was very ordinary. The treatment went well. He was satisfied. Nothing special.”

  “Perhaps we should speak with him anyway.”

  “I would really appreciate it if you didn’t do that. I’m absolutely convinced he has nothing to do with this.”

  An almost imperceptible wrinkle appears on Sonja’s forehead. I provoked her with my unwillingness to drag my old patients into the investigation.

  “You don’t want to break therapist-client privilege, right?”

  “Exactly. My patients come to me to get treatment, and they know that our conversations are confidential. It’s an important part of my professional role. I have no desire to subject them to police interrogation.”

  Sonja nods and I know that she is not going to insist, even if she would rather I cooperate more fully. She changes the subject.

  “There are no individuals in your private life who could conceivably—how should I put this—be more interested in you than normal?”

  “No. Nobody. I have no enemies. That’s just absurd, do people really have enemies? I thought stuff like that only happened among criminals. And maybe among jealous exes.”

  “And you don’t have any? A jealous ex, that is.”

  “My most recent ex is now the father of three, lives in Västerås, and works as an engineer. He was the one who broke up with me. We were twenty-two at the time. I find it hard to imagine he would want to harm me now.”

  I think about Johan. The boyfriend I met in high school and dated until the first year of college. The one my parents adored, who practiced driving with my dad and flirted with my sisters. He broke things off because he thought our relationship had gotten too serious. It’s probably because it prevented him from taking on a bigger role in student activities. Or maybe he really thought that I was too serious. Too depressed. He could never understand why I chose to study psychology. He thought I should have gone to business school or become a doctor.

  “But you have nothing against us contacting him, I hope? You weren’t bound by any professional agreement there.”

  “Sure. I’ll get you his address.”

  Sonja gets up from her chair and reaches for the only sheets of paper on the desk nearby.

  “I’d also like you to look at this.”

  She holds out two pieces of paper. One is a handwritten letter and the other is a color copy of an envelope. The envelope has Charlotte Mimer’s name and address on it.

  “This is not the original; we se
nt it to the forensics lab. We would like you to take a look at the letter, to see if you recognize the handwriting, or the language, or anything at all.”

  I look at the brief note. The text agrees with what Charlotte read to me over the phone. The letter is printed in neat, clear letters. Without knowing why, I suddenly think of Charlotte’s food diary entries. Though there is no resemblance between this and Charlotte’s careful, beautiful personal handwriting, there is something that reminds me of her. Maybe it’s the restrained style, or the methodically executed letters? Maybe it’s the sense of control that permeates the text?

  “Do you see anything that looks familiar? Does it remind you of anyone? Even the smallest detail is important.”

  I simply shake my head. Hesitantly, Sonja pushes a strand of dark-brown hair behind one ear. I note that she has three earrings in her earlobe, two pearls and a gold dolphin.

  “You must understand that whoever wrote this letter, and whoever is… stalking you, has quite a bit of knowledge about you—your life, your habits, and your patients. What about your colleagues at the practice? How do you get along, really?”

  The question does not come as a surprise. Yet it bothers me more than I could have imagined. The practice, my colleagues: Sven, Aina. Nothing in my life is private any longer. And everyone who surrounds me is potentially a liar.

  I can’t answer Sonja. I sit quietly, my gaze fixed on the little gold dolphin in her earlobe. The light catches it, and for a moment, it actually seems to move.

  OCTOBER

  I am sitting with Aina at Jerusalem Kebab on Götgatan. It’s dark outside and Södermalm is swarmed with people on their way home from work. Young, trendy types are mixed with stressed-out parents pushing three-wheeled strollers and old folks leaning on dangerous-looking walkers. A group of young women in head scarves is laughing as they head toward Medborgarplatsen; perhaps they are on their way to the mosque.

  As always, Aina stuffs an entire falafel into her mouth and I don’t comment on her lousy table manners. Red sauce dribbles down her chin.

  She leans toward me and whispers, “I think Sven may be involved.”