The Swedish Girl

by Alex Gray

  What Henrik Magnusson did not see, would never see, was the girl’s fingers clasped tightly together, the nails of one hand pressed hard into the palm of the other as though to stop her from screaming.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘

  Y

  ou’d have to see it to believe it,’ Rodge insisted. ‘The place is stuffed full of paintings, and there are these wee spindly chairs, their seat covers all embroidered. You know the kind I mean, dead fragile, not really for sitting on.’

  ‘In a student flat?’ one of the boys around the table asked, putting down his beer mug and wiping the froth from his lips.

  ‘Won’t suit you then, Rodge!’ another exclaimed, heralding a peal of laughter from around the table.

  ‘Aye, not what you’d expect, eh?’ Rodge beamed as though he had won the lottery instead of simply being given the keys to a duplex flat in Anniesland.

  ‘So no parties at yours this year then?’ the first boy grunted.

  Rodge’s grin faded as he took in the blunt statement. Last year had seen loads of the lads from the rugby club descend on one another’s places for nights of steady drinking and revelry that were always followed up by days of clearing rubbish and trying to mend whatever had been broken in the weekend jollities; or explaining things to the landlord.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ he murmured, the shine of the moment suddenly taken from him. ‘You should see it though,’ he continued, remembering the upstairs room at the end of the corridor with its skylight window and the view over the rooftops. But the conversation had turned to new signings in the Scottish Premier League and Roger Dunbar sat back, wondering for a moment if the flat at Merryfield Avenue had been such a good idea after all.

  He shifted in his chair, feeling his knees pressing against the pub table, a spasm of annoyance creasing his usually good-humoured face. The boys were right, of course. A big lad like him had no place in a flat that contained so many antiques and delicate valuables. He’d probably knock into them just going down that spiral staircase; accident prone his stepmother always said with that wee laugh that made Roger wonder if she was getting at him or not. Why had that Swedish man been so keen to have him as a tenant, then? He was a big lad an’ all, easily Roger’s own height of six five. But there the resemblance ended. Mr Magnusson had the sort of aura that only very wealthy folk had; his suede jacket looked as if it was old but it oozed class, and the plain white cuffs of his shirt had been fastened with what looked like solid gold cufflinks, some fancy monogram engraved on them. Roger’s jeans and rugby shirt were clean enough, but the older man had made him feel a bit scruffy. Still, he had been interesting to talk to and the engineering student had listened as well as given answers to the list of queries the man had ready for him, questions that he guessed were tailored to finding the right folk for the flat.

  Roger might look like a great big teddy bear with his shock of red hair and friendly countenance but he wasn’t stupid and could usually see past appearances to the person within. Magnusson had struck him as a bit of a loner. It was obvious that he was dead wealthy, and had he said something to suggest he was a successful businessman? His new tenant thought so but there was something else about him that Roger Dunbar had noticed. How could he describe it? The aloofness that bordered on downright rudeness – all these bloody questions! – had slipped the moment he had mentioned his daughter. The man had simply glowed as if someone had lit a candle inside him. Roger had nodded, a bit embarrassed, but he had stored away the memory, seeing the man’s vulnerable spot and realising he had been chosen not for his academic record or his sporting prowess but for something to do with the Swedish girl whose flat he would be sharing. Had the father seen a big lad who might be handy around the house? Or was it something else?

  Roger supped his pint, nodding as the lads roared back and forth in protest at the shenanigans of certain football managers. He had the sense that he was moving on. Yes, there would still be the nights with the lads, yes he’d still be keen to keep his place in the first fifteen but the session ahead seemed to beckon with the promise of a different sort, a time that involved the finer things of life, perhaps.

  Had he known it then, sitting on that sunlit evening in a pub in Byres Road, known that his life was soon to change for ever, Roger Dunbar might have taken the signed lease of 24 Merryfield Avenue from his back pocket and torn it into tiny little pieces.

  CHAPTER 5

  September

  T

  he hills swept before him, swathes of green on either side of the road, a distant line of conifers marching across the skyline. He was only an hour away from the city but this landscape, devoid of any habitation, could have been hundreds of miles from anywhere. The journey had taken Gary more than five hours and, although he had stopped only once to refill the petrol tank and gobble down a quick hamburger, it felt as though he had been travelling all day. Already, home seemed not just far away but far behind him in the choices he had made. He was on his own now, independent at last; he could go anywhere and do anything he wanted. The thought gave him a sudden giddy feeling, as though he were standing on the edge of a precipice, waiting to fly off into the unknown.

  Gary grinned, taking the bend through the hills a little more carefully. Daft notion! He was simply transferring from one university to another, taking the chance to be away from home for the next few years. Or for good? a little voice asked him, making Gary Calderwood’s grin fade a little. He was the cherished only son of a mother who was on her own now, and in spite of the way she kept telling everyone that Gary must make his way in the world he knew she would miss him badly. Dad’s death last year had given them all a jolt. Gary’s smile faded as he remembered. He had dropped out of university for a year, staying at home to help Moira over the worst of the shock, doing all the things that needed to be done.

  His glance fell on the dashboard of the new Mini Cooper and his face lit up once more. It had been a welcome surprise to find in his father’s paperwork that he and his mother had been left very comfortably off. Dad had never thrown his money about and he’d had this terrific work ethic, encouraging his son to earn money, never giving him handouts, so that Gary had not realised quite the extent of the family’s wealth. Ah well, he thought, swinging the car around a bend that curved into a long stretch between bracken-clad hills, everything seemed to be working out now. When the chance to transfer from Birmingham to Glasgow University had arrived, Gary had grabbed it at once. He didn’t know much about Scotland but it was an opportunity to begin afresh, away from the memories that still haunted him. Yes, Mum would miss him, but the description of the flat in Merryfield Avenue had cheered her up enough to tell all her friends and neighbours about it. And, although Gary hadn’t actually made any promises, he thought that Moira might come up and visit once he was settled in.

  The sun came out from behind a cloud as the car emerged from the shadow of the hills and Gary reached for his sunglasses. He had given a nod to the Scottish Saltire as the Mini Cooper had crossed the border from England into Scotland: it was the first time he had ever driven up as far north as this, his previous trips to Glasgow having been made by plane. Mr Magnusson had been really helpful on the last visit when he had confirmed his tenancy of the flat. It had been almost too simple, really; Gary’s late father had known the Swede through business, and a mutual acquaintance had mentioned that the young man was looking for a place to rent in Glasgow. He’d been asked all sorts of questions, of course – and had lied about his smoking habit – but the Swede seemed to have taken a shine to Brian Calderwood’s son. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought, glancing at the road signs; the city would soon be in sight and before the sun set over the horizon he would be meeting his flatmates, including the Swedish girl who was to be his landlady.

  Eva closed the door behind her and dropped the carrier bags onto the floor. She had thought it might be fun to rummage around in the second-hand shops, purchasing stuff that made her look like every other Glasgow student, but her w
anderings had taken her further than she had planned after one shop assistant had given her the addresses of several boutiques specialising in designer clothes. The excitement she had anticipated about merging into the Glasgow scene had all but evaporated once she had taken the time and trouble to select garments that she knew would look good on her. It was just like being back in Stockholm, being waited upon by the staff at Nitty Gritty, choosing clothes to wear that would meet with her father’s approval. Henrik always liked his girl to give him a fashion parade, twirling in front of him to show off any new outfits.

  Eva had thought… well, what had she thought? That an old mended cardigan would give her the freedom to be herself for a change? Sighing, she picked up the bags again and turned into the room at the back of the flat that she had chosen for her own. It was cooler in here after the sultry heat of the city streets and she took several deep breaths, smelling the woody scent from last night’s candle. The window was open wide and the cream-coloured muslin curtains moved sideways as a draught of fresh air entered the room. Outside, a pigeon cooed its velvety note, a sound that was at once calming to the girl. She stood motionless by the window, looking out at the trees and the sky, wondering what she would do once this place was full of the noise of other people coming and going.

  A quick glance at the antique porcelain clock on the mantelpiece told her that she had barely three more hours of solitude. Tonight, 24 Merryfield Avenue would be occupied by young men and women intent on discovering each other’s personalities, trying out conversational gambits on one another, jockeying for position with the one person who would rather they were not there at all.

  Eva Magnusson sighed. Perhaps they would be nice. Perhaps she might even find friendship with the girl, Kirsty, though she doubted that they would have much in common. Her lips moved in a practised curve: she would be gracious and friendly towards them all, never allowing any one of them to see past the smile that she had learned to put on for every single person in her young life.

  CHAPTER 6

  T

  he old man stood behind the door, watching through the crack as the last of them pulled his baggage over the top step and stood on the threshold of the house next door. This one was a tall lad with a shock of red hair, broad shouldered, too. Derek McCubbin couldn’t see his face but he had glimpsed a rugged-looking countenance as the young man turned into the doorway. His eyes flicked across the boy’s bare arms but there were no disfiguring tattoos there to make him snort with disapproval. In his day a single anchor had been enough. Nowadays their entire arms were a mess of ink, like the scribbles on a teenager’s school jotter.

  At the sound of the bell the Swedish girl opened the door and Derek stood still, hardly daring to breathe. His new neighbour smiled up at the red-haired lad and in moments the door was closed to his prying eyes, but not before he’d had yet another peek into that familiar hallway with its high, proud ceilings. Oh Grace, why did you have to leave me?

  Then he shut his own door, hearing the soft click, and sank into the ancient chair that was placed next to the hallstand. Derek’s heart raced suddenly, making him experience that choking sensation again, and he clasped his arms across his chest, feeling his whole body shake with emotion. It was necessary to sit quietly until it passed, he told himself, taking deep breaths in and out like that slip of a nurse had told him. It would pass, he told himself, then he would be strong again.

  He could hear the rattle of a train on the track slowing down as it reached the station. Then a car passed by on the street below. The clock in the hall ticked on, beat after beat. Derek listened, realising that with each second that passed he was nearer to an eternity that gaped like a dark maw ready to swallow him up. He fiddled with the hearing aid in his right ear, the one closest to the door, but there was no sound at all, no voices from the flat across the landing, no laughter or merriment to make him scowl from under his bushy grey eyebrows.

  ‘Well, let’s have a toast,’ Gary said, raising the flute of sparkling wine that Eva had insisted on pouring out for them. ‘To Eva, for sharing her fabulous flat with us all!’

  The blonde girl blushed and tilted her head but her smile seemed to reassure the four people who raised their glasses and then clinked them one after the other.

  Kirsty Wilson took a step backwards until she felt the base of her spine rest against the Belfast sink. As she sipped the bubbly stuff (was it real champagne?), Kirsty had a moment to suss out her new flatmates. She had been first to arrive and had spent a quiet half hour chatting to Eva Magnusson, during which time she had decided that the girl was probably a little shy. She had shown Kirsty around the flat after she had dumped her luggage in her spacious new bedroom. This used to be the dining room, I believe, Eva had said as the girls had stood there looking out to the tenement flats across the street. She had a lovely voice, Kirsty thought, soft and melodious with the sort of accent that folk described as Transatlantic. Her English was, of course, perfect and Kirsty had found herself warming to the Swedish girl’s hesitant but well-mannered attempts at making her new flatmate feel at ease.

  She’s never done this before, Kirsty told herself, watching as Eva smiled and listened to the three boys discussing their university courses. It was, Eva had admitted earlier, the first time she had been away from Sweden to study and now Kirsty found herself wondering if it was the girl or her father who had decided that buying this flat in Glasgow was a good idea.

  ‘How about you, Kirsty? What are you studying?’ One of the lads, Colin, had detached himself from the group and wandered over to her side. He was a nice-looking chap, pale faced with a slick of mousey brown hair that he kept flicking back from his forehead.

  ‘Oh, I’m doing a course in hospitality management at Caledonian,’ Kirsty replied. ‘So you’ll be all right for Sunday roasts,’ she laughed.

  ‘With Yorkshire puddings?’ he asked hopefully, smiling back.

  Kirsty grinned and nodded, liking the lad immediately and seeing something reassuring in his honest, open countenance. She felt herself relaxing for the first time since coming here. Colin would be okay, she thought to herself. He was… how would she describe her first impressions of this lad? Safe. Yes, that kind of summed him up and Kirsty was glad that one of the boys at least made her feel comfortable.

  ‘How about yourself?’ she asked, taking another sip of the bubbly stuff. (Flippin’ Nora! It was champagne!)

  Colin made a face. ‘Och, I’m doing the bog-standard Arts degree course. Managed to get into Junior Honours to do English Lit.’ He shrugged.

  Kirsty heard the self-deprecating tone and nodded again. It was typical of the Scots to make light of something big and this nice young man seemed no exception.

  ‘What d’you want to do after?’

  ‘Write,’ Colin replied immediately. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I’ve had a few things published, poetry and stuff…’ He tailed off, glancing round as though he hoped the other boys weren’t listening.

  ‘Great,’ Kirsty enthused. ‘Maybe you can show me them sometime?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Colin’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘If you like,’ he said. ‘But you know what I really want? To write a novel. I fancy travelling a bit. Australia, maybe. Pick up some work here and there.’

  Kirsty noticed the dreaminess in his eyes as he looked away from her. Yet it was a good dream, after all: jobs here were hard to come by and these days an Arts degree wasn’t a passport to a definite career.

  As the girl stood in a corner of the kitchen she had the advantage of watching the small group drinking their champagne by the big black kitchen table. Roger had already finished his drink and had put down the glass flute; now he was standing over the other pair, hands stuffed in his pockets, listening as Gary explained the connection between his late father and Henrik Magnusson. He’d be happier with a pint in his great fist, Kirsty thought as she observed the big red-haired lad, then wondered if Roger Dunbar would really fit in with the rest of them in this flat with its p
retty furnishings. She caught him glancing over at her and for some reason this made Kirsty look down and blush as though he had guessed what she’d been thinking.

  Rodge folded the last of his clothes and tucked them into the bottom drawer. The room wasn’t at all bad, he mused, looking around. No dreadfully steep coombed ceilings to contend with, so there must still be a fair old bit of attic space somewhere up there. The bed was a decent size, too; that wee bed in his previous digs was something he had found hard to bear, his feet perpetually cold on winter mornings, thrust out of a duvet that never properly covered him up. He wandered over to the skylight window and opened it, gulping in the chill evening air. Someone down in the street was singing, a maudlin sort of sound that made Rodge grin. The pub was just around the corner and it was probably closing time. He’d noticed the assortment of tables and chairs on the wide pavement as he’d arrived earlier this evening: that would be a good howff for them if he could coax the Swedish bird away from her posh drinks. The other girl looked as if she enjoyed a few beers; Rodge hadn’t missed those swelling breasts under that baggy tunic top. Looked a nice enough lass and he’d laughed at her stories of college when they’d eventually moved into the lounge.

  They’d sat there for ages, Eva topping up their drinks. Thank God she’d produced bottles of Staropramen from one of the fridges! Then she’d lit these big square candles on the hearth and their faces had gleamed in the flickering light, especially Eva’s. Rodge thought about that face now as he looked out at the darkened street. How could he describe her to his mates without sounding like a total prat? How did you talk about a girl who was so bloody perfect? He remembered how her flawless skin seemed to glow in the candlelight, her eyes grave as she listened to them talking, and her hair… Rodge sighed. He’d give anything to run his big hands through that stream of pale golden hair. Ach, who was he kidding? A girl like Eva was way out of his league and he’d do well to remember that and not moon after her. Besides, he told himself, as he closed the window and flopped down on the bed, it didn’t do to have these sorts of relationships with your flatmates if you were to get along happily all year.