“Do you feel it, too?”
His gaze traces the outlines of the trees.
“Yes. Someone’s here.”
My answer comes instantly, and now I am sure that I am right. I have no idea what makes me feel so certain, but nature no longer seems untouched out here. Maybe it is the blackbirds that suddenly fly up between the trees over by my house. Maybe it’s the silence that suddenly seems less compact. I feel ill at ease.
“Shall we head back?”
I squeeze Markus’s hand and feel pressure in response. It is almost a half-mile walk back to the house, and the trail is slippery with snow. It takes longer than usual. We walk as quickly as we can; without speaking we help each other over roots and patches of ice.
When we come to the clearing where my house is, we slow down. My eyes scan the house, which appears to have winter clothes on, a summer house with a warm white comforter on the roof. Thin, white smoke coils from the chimney and light is beaming from all the windows. Of course all the lights are on, even though it’s just a gray November day. The whole picture looks like an idyllic fairy tale.
As we stand there quietly observing the scene I suddenly see it: On the wooden steps in front of the French doors is a small, curled-up gray figure. It takes a few seconds before I realize what I am looking at.
“It’s Ziggy.”
I rush ahead to welcome my long-lost cat, but Markus grabs my arm and carefully pulls me back.
“Stay where you are. There are footprints around the house. We don’t want to disturb them. I have to call the technicians.”
He already has his cell phone in his hand.
“Who cares about footprints? My cat has come back.”
“Siri, don’t go—”
But it’s too late. I don’t listen to him. I run toward Ziggy, who seems to be peacefully looking out at the garden from his spot on the steps.
Only when I get really close do I sense something wrong. Ziggy sits unnaturally still, not reacting when I call to him. When I finally reach him and carefully extend my hand to stroke his back, I am surprised by how completely stiff he is. No, not just stiff, but hard. He falls over with a hollow thud, like a piece of wood falling to the ground, and remains in the same fixed position.
Then I understand.
He is stuffed.
Someone has stuffed my cat.
I can’t sleep at all that night, or the following nights either. The thought of Ziggy, of the fate he met, keeps me awake, and I ask myself again and again how anyone could do such a thing to a poor innocent animal.
I have finally given up the battle to stay in my house. Not even I can deny the simple truth any longer. It is dangerous for me to be here, someone is seriously after me. The whole thing is so incredibly obvious and I no longer understand why I tried to deny it.
Aina has arranged an apartment for me. A friend of hers was invited to be a guest researcher at an Italian university for six months, and his studio on Hantverkargatan is now vacant. Empty. At my disposal.
The apartment is small and spartan, but functional. Still, it is not my home. It is a place where I can stay until the police arrest the man they are hunting. If they catch him. I have secretly started to doubt they ever will. I am no longer certain about anything. I cannot remember my life as it was before. Before Sara died. Before my pet was transformed into a museum piece, before Marianne was in a coma and my lawn was covered with blood. It feels as if it’s always been this way, as if I have always been threatened. The sensation is so familiar that it has come to define me. I am Siri. I am hunted. Threatened.
Persecuted.
I still haven’t told my parents or sisters anything. There is no law that says adult children have to inform their parents of every single thing. Maybe I have a moral obligation to tell them what is happening, but I can’t cope with their suffocating concern right now.
Even more guilt to bear.
It’s my fault if they worry.
Instead, Markus comes to pick me up, with my bag and three boxes, and helps me settle in.
The apartment has a furnished hall, with a desk and a chair. The walls are covered with shelves filled with books on intellectual history and philosophy. There is a living room with a 1930s-style couch with slender wooden arms and a small round table. A tiny TV, a sleeping alcove with a bed so narrow I can’t see how anyone can sleep in it. And more books. In the kitchen there’s a table with two chairs. As a hint at the approaching holiday season, someone hung up a Christmas star in the living room window. Once again I think that this is not my home. It is a refuge. An extremely temporary refuge.
From the day we found Ziggy, Markus seems to be constantly by my side. I am unaccustomed to his nearness. But also grateful. Carefully and hesitantly, we are trying to find the balance between the circumstances that brought us together and what we feel for each other.
• • •
It is nighttime. A raw, cold, damp rainy night. But darkness never really manages to overwhelm the city, not the way it does in my cottage. It is never fully night here, just a different kind of daytime in which artificial light keeps the darkness at bay.
Markus has come to help me assemble a shelf. It’s not that I can’t assemble it myself, but there are no tools in the apartment. Even though Markus has been here for several hours, we haven’t started on the shelf yet. Instead, we ate the leftovers of yesterday’s take-out pizza, drank sour Italian wine, and made love in the narrow, uncomfortable sleeping alcove.
It bothers me that nothing in the apartment is mine, that everything is on loan. Even the sheets we are lying on—now damp and pushed together in a tangled pile at the foot of the bed—are on loan.
The window facing Hantverkargatan is open, and blasts of brisk air race around our naked legs like invisible hairy nocturnal animals. Markus’s hand is on my neck, slowly stroking my short hair as he looks out over the dingy little room with an empty gaze.
I have to bite my tongue not to ask the question that I imagine women always ask. But I decide that I really don’t care what he’s thinking. The moment is enough. I want to rest in this perfect moment and not tear apart the fragile silence to demand some kind of affirmation.
And why fish for proof of his affection? I myself don’t know what this is, the fragile but irresistibly enticing attraction that exists between us. Is it love, or are we only borrowing each other’s bodies to fill all those black holes we feel inside?
Somewhere in the distance I hear sirens. They seem to wake Markus from his reverie. He pulls himself up to rest on his elbow and looks at me as if he only just realized that I was lying beside him, kissing first one eyelid, then the other.
Tenderly.
“You know, you ought to let us protect you. Even if you’ve moved, you still need protection.”
I exhale a deep sigh of irritation and something else. It bothers me that he doesn’t respect my decision and that he still thinks he knows what I need better than I do. That he, so young and with such little experience of life, thinks I am in need.
“We’ve already had this conversation. I don’t want the police around here. One cop is enough.”
“Very funny.” Markus sounds offended and removes his hand from my neck. “Don’t you understand what kind of risk you’re exposing yourself to?”
Slowly I sit up, pull on my panties, and wrap the blanket tightly around my shoulders. I’m freezing.
“Listen to me. If I let him—or her—limit my life to that degree, then he has already won.”
“I’m sorry if I seem dense, I really don’t get how you can see this as a defeat. Managing risks… just shows how strong you really are.”
“Great, perfect. Then I guess we’ve proved that that’s just what I’m not—strong, that is. Because if I’m not up to having cops around… then I’m weak.”
“Forgive me, Siri, but now you’re really being difficult. All I want to do is help you.”
“And you think that this is the right thing to do?”
/> I hear my voice getting shrill.
“Yes, that’s why I’m saying this. Because I know it’s the right thing.”
“And since when are you so sure what the right thing is?”
Now I am being mean. I feel it permeating my whole body, this desire to put him in his place.
“What do you mean by that?” Markus asks, as he climbs out of bed and starts getting dressed.
“What I mean is, do you think, for example, that it’s right to sleep with me? What do you think Sonja would say if she saw you now?”
Markus grins stupidly, his mouth half open, which only fuels my anger.
“How ethical is it to sleep with a witness? During an ongoing investigation?”
“Cut it out. Since when was it punishable to screw?”
“Shall we call Sonja and ask? I can—”
“You are completely nuts,” Markus interrupts me, kicking a pillow that had fallen to the floor. The pillow hits my wineglass a few yards away and it breaks with a clatter, but Markus doesn’t seem to notice.
“I didn’t ask to take care of you, Siri!”
“Since when are you the one who’s taking care of me? I’m probably almost old enough to be your mother.”
“Which clearly doesn’t stop you from behaving like a little brat.”
Markus is yelling now, and it strikes me that I’ve never actually seen him angry before. In some sick way I am enjoying it. It’s so physical. There’s something attractive about his fury. Something almost sexual. I really must be nuts.
“You can put your stupid shelf together yourself.”
Markus storms out of the apartment and leaves me alone, still in the ridiculously small bed.
I lean back and look out through the window at the dirty gray nonday, the neon night. I decide that this is not love. This is therapy for my body. An urge that must be satisfied.
Nothing more.
I dream about Stefan again. He is tanned and strong and happy as only he could be. But something is wrong. He is lying very close beside me in bed, and I feel his breath against my cheek coming in cold, damp thrusts. I don’t meet his eyes because I realize I have betrayed him. Another man has been in my bed, another man’s hands have caressed my body. It is a betrayal worse than death, a treachery that cannot be forgiven, I realize that. But Stefan only laughs and pulls me closer and closer until my nose is buried in his armpit and I am filled with his scent; he smells of mud, seaweed, and grass. I run my hand over his back, which is strong and only slightly damp, which is strange since he was lying in the water for so long.
He lifts me up with his strong arms as he turns on his back so that he can lay me down on his belly. My head comes to rest against his cold, damp right shoulder. I run my hand through his wet hair and absentmindedly pluck remnants of seaweed and leaves from it. Stefan kisses me carefully on the cheek and declares that he is happier than he has been in a long time. “Much, much happier than I’ve been in a long time.” He says that things were so bad for him, but that everything is going to be fine now.
I wake up with a pain in my chest that is so strong I can hardly breathe. I know immediately what it is: guilt.
I am forced to sit up and concentrate on breathing so as not to lose control over my pain and sorrow. It’s so hard to lose him, so hard to let him go. I can’t have him, but I can’t be without him.
How long can I live like this?
It’s dark outside, even though it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. I am back in the offices of the police in Nacka. Sonja has called me in for further questioning. Instead of her office, we sit in a light room with pale green walls, furnished only with four chairs and a slightly higher table. A modern fluorescent light fixture hangs from the ceiling. In one corner there is a video camera on a tripod. I am alone, facing the camera. Sonja sits in the chair in front of me, and Markus is at an angle behind her. It is a strange situation. Markus and I have been so intimate, and now here we are trying to appear unperturbed by each other’s presence. Sonja is not aware of what has happened between us. Markus knows he ought to tell her, but he also knows that if he does, he is going to be removed from the case and he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to discuss this with me and asks only that I respect his decision. He also thinks that it won’t affect his work negatively. Quite the opposite.
I have decided not to get mixed up in this, although I sincerely doubt that it’s a good idea for him to still be on the case. He is no longer neutral; I assume the legal term is “exceptionable.” But I still don’t say anything. Perhaps I do want him to remain on my case; this makes my connection to everything that is happening tighter, I find out more from him than I would otherwise.
“Welcome again, Siri. My office is occupied today, so we’ll have to sit here, even though this is not an official interrogation.”
Sonja looks weary. A strand of dark hair streaked with gray hangs over her face. I wonder how many cases she is working on at the same time.
“I can imagine that you are shaken by what happened.”
Sonja is referring to Ziggy. I nod to confirm. I can’t bear to tell her exactly how upset I was after the macabre discovery. I am still surprised by the sadism behind such an act. Who wants to play me this way? And why?
“I want you to accept certain safety precautions, meaning a security alarm and a special cell phone linked directly to us. It’s simply unacceptable that you don’t already have some form of protection.”
“Markus and I have already talked about this.”
I notice Markus’s grimace too late. He doesn’t want me to talk about our having had more contact with each other on our own.
“Really?” Sonja looks surprised. She raises one heavily painted eyebrow and inspects me in silence.
“Yes, in connection with… the cat, I mean. Markus came out to the house then. I called…”
Sonja waves her hand impatiently, as if she thinks I’m drawing out the conversation in order to delay the issue.
“At any rate, we can’t let you stay in the house right now. I must ask you to move out for a while.”
“I’ve already moved.”
“That’s news to me, good news. Nevertheless, I think that you—given the circumstances—need additional protection.”
“I don’t want to be monitored by a police officer.”
“We don’t have the resources for that kind of protection.”
Suddenly Sonja smiles sarcastically. A crooked, tired smile.
“If you are going to be monitored by someone, then it would be a security guard. We don’t have enough police officers to keep an eye on all potential crime victims. Maybe we can have a patrol car drive past your house at a scheduled time each day, but if you’ve moved anyway that’s hardly necessary. I was thinking more about a phone that allows you to quickly make direct contact with the police. And a security alarm for your apartment.”
I think about the implications of her plan. Being able to reach the police quickly would be a relief, of course. Even though I don’t want surveillance day and night, I can no longer deny that I am afraid. Perhaps a direct phone would make me feel more at ease. I nod and mumble something to the effect that it would be okay.
“Good. A colleague is going to help you with this. Presumably Stenberg.”
Sonja nods at Markus, who also nods. He is going to see to it that I am protected from all danger. My gaze settles on his hands. Those hands. He looks at me and I suddenly realize that he knows what I’m thinking about: his hands, and what they know. What they have done with me. With my body.
My cheeks feel hot and I lower my gaze, incapable of looking at Markus anymore. I try to find a neutral subject of conversation.
“What’s going on with the investigation?”
“We are looking into a number of different leads, but we don’t want to get locked into anything, as you surely understand.”
Sonja again looks weary.
“And what does that mean? That you don’t know anythi
ng?”
My voice is getting thin and sharp. I feel strangely angry. It’s their job to capture the bad guys. The criminals. This is a fundamental fact that has been in my consciousness from an early age. The police capture villains and protect the weak. In the countless number of books, comics, and movies that accompanied me throughout my childhood, the pattern was always the same.
As it turns out, reality is very different. The police cannot capture the person stalking me. And the police cannot protect me either. Which is partly connected with the fact that I am not letting them protect me. But perhaps the real reason these interrogations and the surveillance seem so meaningless goes deeper than that. I feel resigned and hopeless in a way that is difficult to explain. I’ve never had so little control over my own life before. There is only one way forward, and someone else has staked it out in advance for me. I have a strange feeling that my fate is sealed, that like in a Greek tragedy I am heading toward my own downfall, and that nothing I can do will keep me from ending up that way. Rationally, it’s clear to me that this thinking is unrealistic and pessimistic, but I don’t have the strength to get these ominous thoughts out of my head.
“We’re doing everything we can, Siri.”
Sonja looks at me sympathetically and I am suddenly ashamed. Of course, I understand that the police are doing what they can. Sonja already told me about all the people they’ve interviewed, how they dug deep into Sara’s past, looking through all my videotapes in pursuit of leads, all the technical evidence. But if I myself can’t figure out who might feel such hatred toward me, how can the police have any idea?
“We questioned all your colleagues a number of times, as you are probably aware.”
I nod.
“We are investigating any other violent crime we can think of that might be connected to the threats made to you.”
Once again I nod.
“We have also contacted the national Perpetrator Profile unit. We told them that your case is a priority and that you are in danger. The individual we are seeking is already guilty of murder. We know he did not act on impulse. He is capable of executing his premeditated actions. This is no ordinary murder investigation.”
Some Kind of Peace: A Novel Page 22
