‘Anyone sitting here?’
Grateful for the illusion of company, she moved over and indicated that the man was welcome to sit down. He spread Göteborgsposten over his half of the table. Rebecca dared to lean her head back at an angle and glance across at Axel Donner’s apartment, its two dark windows reflecting the light.
After she had handed an application for sick leave to her boss, she had felt drawn to Mariaplan. She knew perfectly well that she couldn’t change anything by sitting where she now sat, or even by standing in the stairwell outside the door that still bore the name A. Donner. Or if she reached out and touched the door. She wouldn’t lose her feeling of terror. And Axel wouldn’t be there. She would have liked to talk to him, but he had no doubt been charged with murder by now.
Rebecca had phoned the police switchboard and been informed that the inspector was unavailable and his colleague was off sick. She tried again, her mobile pressed to her ear: Christian Tell was still unavailable.
Her tea was cooling fast and she lost interest in it. She fiddled with her phone, wanting to talk to anyone who could throw some light on what had happened between her and Axel on the bridge.
She closed her eyes and went over it again: his agonised expression. It had been like staring straight into her own deepest pain. Her envy. And their exchange had been over so quickly that afterwards she wasn’t even sure it had happened. They had shared an involuntary, incomprehensible moment of intimacy. It is often said that when a person is drowning, his life flashes before his eyes; she remembered the very first time she had seen Axel and Henrik together, joined in their own secret little club and, as usual, she had felt like a piece of ice. The feeling reminded her of when she was upset as a little girl. But then she had swallowed hard and decided to become untouchable. She had become conscientious and so strong that she never needed anyone, and this had worked terrifyingly well.
She had intended to confront Axel with the accusation that he had known about Henrik’s infidelity all along, with his fucking lack of honour and basic human courage. She had wanted to take her anger out on him. But instead, standing there on the bridge, he looked so small, and she just wanted to give him a hug. She had no experience of that emotion; afterwards she had linked it to other situations where she had been exposed, thinking of sex or clichéd notions of kindred spirits, but what she had actually looked directly in the eye was her own smallness. Her old jealousy, reflected in Axel Donner’s jealousy.
It was strange. The hatred she felt for him was so strong. And yet: the sight of him before her, slowly turning to face her. The glimpse of the abyss. The extent to which his love for Henrik had been sexually charged or unrequited was irrelevant; it had been real to him. Just as hers was real, regardless of her inadequacies. Regardless of her inability to trust, her deep-seated suspicion of unconditional love; regardless of her constant, corrosive self-esteem problems.
The man on the other side of the table apologised for taking up so much space.
‘No problem,’ she mumbled.
The difference was that Axel Donner was mad, and she wasn’t.
She wasn’t mad.
Rebecca stood up and went out onto Mariagatan, where a packed number 11 tram was rumbling its way up Sannabacken en route to Saltholmen. She cut across the noisy area around the paddling pool – they’d filled it up so early this year! – got generously splashed with water and continued along the King’s Walls with her skirt sticking to her legs.
When she turned into Kungsladugårdsgatan, there was very little traffic; summer was ready and waiting to begin.
She could see the red door in the distance.
67
Stenared
Seja couldn’t hear what they were talking about, just that the conversation concerned the dung heap and the wheelbarrow.
The man in the leather trousers was being prevented from helping with the unwieldy barrow as the boy, who looked as if he knew what he was doing even if it was hard work, pushed it towards its destination next to the garden shed. The boy showed him the back of the house, the shower hose over the wooden plinths and the rusty iron shelf housing soap and shampoo. Then the front, with its outdoor kitchen under a projecting fibreglass roof, varnished yellow shelves above the sink, lined with glass jars and dried herbs from the garden; he pointed to the sheep, Nebuchadnezzar and Ishtar – even if he had been extremely doubtful about the names.
They headed into the stable. Earlier on, Markus had helped Seja to grease the harness, and the delicious smell of warm saddle grease was still in the air. The men’s voices died away as the stable door closed; all she could hear now were wasps buzzing.
Hanna strolled across the grass and flopped down next to Seja under the sour cherry tree – it was too warm to sit in the sun. The early summer heat was infused with the smell of the conifers, but the lawn had regained its fresh green colour after days of torrential rain. It was alive with activity: ants on their daily procession towards the kitchen to build nests in the sugar and hot chocolate powder, bees – Seja had already trodden on one of them with her bare foot – and shiny beetles scuttling over the soil. The fruit bushes would soon be weighed down with bunches of black, red and white currants.
The sight of it all brought a lump to Seja’s throat. She was proud of herself and of the choices she had made; proud that she had found a place of her own in the world. She had been feeling sad, upset about Christian’s passivity and the uncertainty surrounding their relationship, but a recent telephone call had given her fresh hope.
She felt alive. And she was writing; several articles on grave-robbing and the smuggling of cultural artefacts, but on other topics too.
Hanna pointed to the stable door. ‘He’s happy.’
‘Markus or Peter?’
‘Markus, of course.’
Seja nodded. ‘And what about you?’
Hanna gave a wry smile. ‘I feel good. For the moment.’
They fell silent. Hanna folded the hem of her dress back over her thigh and absent-mindedly rubbed the angry red mark above her knee which was slowly turning blue. She had fallen off her horse in the summer pasture that morning. The first and only time in her life she had tried riding bareback, and she had sworn never to do that again. Regardless of how much her son might nag her.
Markus was becoming quite a good rider, even though he was only small; he loved looking after Lukas.
Seja enjoyed having visitors in the house, preferably the kind who looked after themselves and made their own entertainment. She had nothing against coexisting with another person for a couple of days, as long as the silences were easy.
Today they had Markus’ father Peter with them. While she was showering that morning, Seja had been dragged back into the house by the urgent ringing of the phone: ‘We’re coming over, and Peter’s coming with us!’ Hanna babbled. ‘We’ve just picked him up from the station, Markus is spending the day with him and I don’t want to leave them on their own, but I don’t want to hang out with Peter all day either!’
Seja had no choice but to agree.
Peter was sticking close to Markus; he didn’t seem particularly interested in making friends with Seja, or reviving the flame that had gone out between him and Hanna some years ago. Perhaps that had surprised Hanna at first; if so, she was hardly likely to admit it.
But Markus had certainly been glowing all day. Down at the summer grazing he had had the opportunity to show off his skills when he caught Lukas, tacked him up, mounted, then trotted back and forth in front of his shyly applauding daddy, who was dressed from head to foot in leather, complete with boots, in honour of the hot weather.
Hanna snorted loudly at something in the magazine she had open on her lap. On an impulse, Seja leant forward and squeezed Hanna’s tanned knee.
‘I’m so proud of you, Hanna. I really am.’
It was true. Seja knew how difficult it was for her to put aside her anger at Peter’s betrayal.
The aroma drifting out from the kitchen sugge
sted that the food would be ready soon. Seja got up and went inside to fetch plates. When Åke rang to say that he and Kristina had put their plans to move on ice, she clamped the phone between her shoulder and her ear and said she was very pleased they would still be living nearby. She also said she hoped the offer to sell her their house would still stand in the future, and would they like to come over for something to eat? Right now, because it was almost ready.
She was just spreading a white cloth over the table when an unmistakable clinking sound coming down the slope made her turn around.
‘Christian!’
He was carrying a sports bag over his shoulder and four bags from the off-licence in his hand.
‘Do you need help carrying all that?’
‘No, but I might need some help drinking it!’
He put everything down before kissing her for longer than he ever had before, his eyes firmly locked on hers.
‘Are you thinking of moving in?’ she joked, pointing to his bulging bag.
‘If that’s OK with you.’
‘I thought the forest gave you panic attacks.’ With a smile she took a carrier bag in each hand.
‘It does, but you don’t. I suppose I can cope with a few pine needles in the bed.’
‘Thanks for ringing earlier. It made me very happy.’
‘I’m the one who should be thanking you.’
Christian held her gaze until he was sure she had understood. He could hear voices coming from the stable. They would talk later, when there was time and they were alone. About what had been, and about what was to come. And, no doubt, she would be the one who did most of the talking, after he had explained why he was standing in her garden with the bag.
‘If I’ve made it hard for you to adapt . . .’
He couldn’t find the words to tell Seja how wrong she was. He asked nothing of her, not in terms of who she was. But they had just got past all that it’s-not-you-it’s-me stuff.
‘I’m just so bloody glad you want to be with me,’ he said. ‘Nothing else matters. I need you too. I thought you understood that.’
They were a ‘we’ now.
‘In any case, I’m sick and tired of both the city and my job; I can just imagine spending the whole weekend lying in a hammock with a couple of beers.’
‘Hammock? I thought you were building me a sauna?’
‘Don’t tease me. Don’t tease me just because you’re cleverer than me.’
‘You’re not wrong there.’
‘And more beautiful.’
He uncorked a bottle of red wine just as Hanna came round the corner of the house.
‘Hi.’
Christian handed her a glass of wine before turning to Markus and Peter, who were just emerging from the stable with dusty grey hands and faces.
The two men shook hands.
Seja couldn’t help laughing at what they must have looked like; Detective Inspector Christian Tell, who had come straight from work and hadn’t had time to change out of his smart trousers and tie, but had just shoved some things into a sports bag and headed out into the back of beyond to hang out with a former punk turned counter-urbanisation freak.
And he fitted right in. When Åke Melkersson appeared through the trees with Kristina following behind, it was Christian who served the drinks.
They ate as the evening drew in. Christian, Peter and Hanna shared a cigar, Kristina looked as if she was falling asleep on her husband’s shoulder, and Åke was soon immersed in the tangled thicket of his childhood memories. There was a girlfriend who ran amok – Hanna thought that was hysterically funny – a mad mother-in-law and a part-time job selling ice creams door to door. During the lulls in conversation they could hear deer moving quietly through the edge of the forest.
Seja tipped her head back and gazed at the tops of the fir trees, outlined against the sky.
Later she would light citronella candles to keep away the mosquitoes in the deepening darkness.
Afterword
While working on Babylon, I have encountered a number of people who have been a great help to me in different ways. I would like to take this opportunity to thank just some of these: Staffan Lundén, who is an archaeologist at Museion, the University of Gothenburg and Gotland University. Gerd Brantlid, head of the investigation unit with the Gothenburg police. Beata Kjellberg, psychotherapist and tutor at the Institute of Psychotherapy in Gothenburg, and Per Dahlström, curator at the Röhsska Museum.
I would also like to thank Carin, Rolf, Irene and, of course, Åsa and Katarina at Wahlström & Widstrand. Last, but not least, I want to sing the praises of my family for all their stalwart support and involvement in the sometimes difficult and disorganised creative process which culminated in Babylon.
In this book I have chosen to write about archaeological finds and cultural treasures, among other things. I have learned more about the subject through reading, visits to museums and conversations with experts. However, as always, the basis of my writing remains my imagination – happily an author’s principal task. Any ‘errors’ which may have crept into the narrative are therefore my own, and any resemblance to actual persons is entirely coincidental.
Camilla Ceder
About the Author
Camilla Ceder was born in 1976. She studied social science and psychotherapy, and besides being an author she also works in counselling and social work. Frozen Moment, her debut novel, went straight into the Top 10 in Sweden, and earned comparisons with Henning Mankell and Stieg Larsson. She lives in Gothenburg, Sweden.
Also by Camilla Ceder
Frozen Moment
Copyright
A Weidenfeld & Nicolson ebook
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Weidenfeld & Nicolson
This ebook first published in 2012 by Weidenfeld & Nicolson
© Camilla Ceder 2012
The right of Camilla Ceder to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 0 297 86671 8
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