He couldn't quite work Kvällspressen out. He'd been reading it closely for four months now, ever since he was asked to step into the driver's seat. Certain things were a given. The paper was always teetering on the brink of what was morally and ethically defensible, for example. Any self-respecting tabloid should be like that. Sure, there were occasional transgressions, but they were surprisingly few. He had analyzed complaints to the press ombudsman and the Press Council, and obviously the tabloids had far more complaints against them than all the other papers, which was as it should be. It was their job to provoke a reaction in the reader. And still, only a few complaints per year were upheld. He had been surprised to learn that the articles singled out for censure often came from small-town papers around the country that hadn't been able to judge where to draw the line.
He concluded that Kvällspressen was an extremely smart publication with well-balanced articles, front pages, and headlines. It was committed to openness and a dialogue with its readers.
So it was in theory at least. The reality was distant from that.
The people at Kvällspressen often didn't have a damn clue what they were doing. For instance, they'd sent that country girl out among the dead bodies and lynch mobs, expecting her to make clear and rational assessments of the situation. He'd spoken to the news and night editors the night before, and none of them had really discussed the coverage of the murder of Josefin Liljeberg with her. In his eyes, that was both irresponsible and incompetent.
And then there was the peculiar affair with the female terrorist group. None of the editors seemed to know how the story had got into the paper. A summer freelancer waltzed into the newsroom with the sensational pictures in his hand, and everybody just cheered and published them without a moment's thought.
It couldn't go on like that. To be able to sail that close to the wind, you had to know exactly which way it was blowing. A disaster was just waiting to happen; he could smell it. The radio program the day before was a first sign that Kvällspressen was becoming fair game. If the newsroom started bleeding, the vultures would soon be circling. The competition would line up to tear the paper apart. It wouldn't matter what they wrote or how they wrote it, it would all be wrong. Unless the general level of awareness of all the staff was raised, and quickly and thoroughly, they were ruined, in terms of the circulation, journalism, and finances.
He sighed. The cars were beginning to move in the lane next to his. He started the engine and let it run, but he left the parking brake on.
There was a lot of professionalism in the newsroom, there was no doubt about it. But there was a lack of leadership and overall responsibility. All the journalists at the paper had to be made aware of their specific job and what they were expected to do. The overall direction of the paper had to be clearer.
This had made him realize yet another function he was expected to fill: he would be the searchlight sweeping over the barbed wire, looking for intruders. Part of that would take the form of discussions, seminars, focus meetings, and new practices.
The cars to his left swished by faster and faster while he wasn't moving forward an inch. He swore and tried to look behind him but couldn't see a thing. In the end, he indicated and turned left without looking. The driver he'd cut off leaned on his horn.
He muttered something in the direction of the rearview mirror.
At that very moment the traffic came to a halt again. The cars to his right, in the lane he'd just left, started moving and soon picked up speed.
He put his forehead on the steering wheel and groaned out loud.
***
Annika cautiously put her head around the door of Patricia's room. She was asleep. Annika closed the door and quietly set about making coffee. She tiptoed out into the hall and picked up the morning paper, which she threw on the kitchen table. It fell open on a page with the column header "Yesterday on the Radio." Annika's eyes were drawn to the headline, and she read the radio columnist's words with a mounting feeling of sickness.
"The most lively and informative newsmagazine program on the air at the moment is undoubtedly Studio 69 on P3. Yesterday they focused on the continual dumbing down of the tabloids and the ruthless exploitation of bereaved individuals. Sadly, this is a debate that never ceases to be topical and…"
Annika crumpled up the paper into a ball and pushed it into the trash can. Then she went to the phone in the living room, called the newspaper, and canceled her subscription.
She tried to eat half an avocado, but she gagged on the rich green flesh. She tried a few strawberries but with the same result. She could manage some coffee and orange juice but threw away the avocado and a few strawberries so that Patricia would think she'd eaten them. Then she wrote a note telling her that she was going to Hälleforsnäs for the weekend. She wondered to herself whether she'd ever return. If not, then Patricia could have the apartment. She needed it.
***
The rain formed a wall outside the door when she went to leave. She just stood staring toward the house opposite, which was barely visible behind the curtain of rain.
Perfect, she thought. No one will be out and about. No one will see me. Mum won't have to feel ashamed.
She stepped out into the heavy rain and was soaked to the skin before she'd even reached the communal refuse room. She threw the half-full trash bag away with the paper, strawberries, and bits of avocado and slowly walked toward the subway station.
She'd heard in a movie that you reach a point when you can't get any wetter.
When she got to the railway station, she found out she'd have to wait nearly two hours for a train that went past Flen. She sat down on a bench in the roomy, brightly lit hall. The noises from the travelers, the trains, and the station loudspeakers all fused into a cacophony of city chaos.
Annika closed her eyes and let the sounds bombard her brain. After a while she felt cold, so she went to the ladies' room and stood with her hands under a hand dryer until people got pissed off with her taking too long over it.
At least they don't know who I am, she thought. They don't know that I'm the big loser. Thank God, I never got a picture byline.
She took a small regional train that quickly got packed with people. Opposite her was a fat man wet with perspiration and rain. Breathing hard, he unfolded a copy of Kvällspressen that Annika tried to avoid looking at.
She couldn't help noticing that Berit had got the Speaker to admit his involvement in the IB affair.
"I was posted with Elmér during the war," said the front-page story.
Oh, well, she thought. That's none of my business anymore.
At Flen she had another hour's wait for the bus to Hälleforsnäs. The rain was still pouring down, and a small lake had formed in the street behind the bus stop. She sat facing the waiting room wall in the railway station, not wanting any contact with anyone.
It was afternoon when the bus pulled up at the foot of Tattarbacken. The water-filled parking lot next to the co-op lay deserted, so no one saw her step off the bus. Tired and shaky, she made her way up to her house on legs that ached after the previous day's run.
Her apartment was dark and smelled of dust. Without lighting any lamps, she pulled off her wet clothes and crept into bed. Three minutes later she was asleep.
***
"It's only a matter of time," said the prime minister.
The chief press secretary protested, "We can't know that for sure. Nobody knows where the media pack chooses to stop."
The chief press secretary knew what he was talking about. He had been one of the toughest and most experienced political reporters in the country. Nowadays his job was to spin the media coverage in a favorable direction for the Social Democrats. He was, together with the election strategists from the United States, the most influential person outlining the election campaign for the governing party. The prime minister knew he voted Liberal.
"I have to admit I'm worried," the prime minister said. "I don't want to leave this to chance."
&n
bsp; The big man got to his feet and walked restlessly over to the window. The rain was like a gray screen outside, hiding the view over the water.
The press secretary stopped him. "You shouldn't be standing there brooding in full view of everyone in the street. Pictures like that make a brilliant illustration of a government in crisis."
Vexed, the prime minister stopped himself. His bad temper grew even worse, and he abruptly turned to his foreign trade minister and barked, "How the hell could you be so damned stupid?"
Christer Lundgren didn't respond, just went on staring at the lead-gray sky from his place in the corner.
The prime minister moved closer to him. "Goddammit, you know we can't go interfering in the work of a government authority!"
The minister looked up at his superior. "Exactly. Neither the police or anybody else's."
The prime minister's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "Don't you realize the predicament you've put us in? Do you recognize what the consequences of your actions will be?"
Christer Lundgren jumped to his feet and rushed up face-to-face with the prime minister and yelled, "I know exactly what I've done! I've fucking saved this goddamn party, that's what I've done!"
The press secretary stepped in. "We can't undo what's already been done," he said in a conciliatory tone. "We have to make the best of the situation. Going in and altering documents after the fact could end in disaster. We simply can't do that. I really don't think the journalists are capable of locating those receipts of yours." He circled the two ministers. "The most important thing is to cooperate with the police without giving them too much information."
In a gesture of conciliation, he put a hand on the shoulder of the minister for foreign trade. "Christer, it all depends on you now."
The minister shrugged off the hand. "I'm a murder suspect," he said in a strained voice.
"Yes, it's ironic," the press secretary said. "The death business is your responsibility in the cabinet. As far as arms sales are concerned. I suppose it wasn't meant literally."
***
It was evening by the time she woke up. Sven was sitting next to her on the bed, watching her.
"Welcome home," he said, and smiled.
She returned the smile. She was thirsty and had a headache.
"You sound as if I've been gone for ages."
"It feels like it," he said.
She pushed away the bedcover and got out of bed, feeling dizzy and queasy. "I don't feel well," she mumbled.
She staggered out to the bathroom and took a Tylenol. She opened the bathroom window to get some air. The rain had eased off but not stopped completely.
Sven came and stood in the doorway. "Shall we go and get a pizza?"
She swallowed. "I'm not really hungry."
"You've got to eat something. Look at you, you've gotten so thin."
"I've been busy." She walked past him and into the hallway.
He followed her out to the kitchen. "I heard they gave you a hard time on the radio."
She poured herself a glass of water. "Have you started listening to the current affairs program with debate and analysis?" she said tartly.
"No. Ingela told me."
She paused with the glass next to her mouth. "The sperm bucket?" she said with surprise. "Are you seeing her?"
He got angry. "That's such a mean old nickname. She hates it."
Annika smiled. "It was you who came up with it."
He grinned. "Yeah, right." He chuckled.
Annika drank the water in big gulps, and he came up to her and hugged her from behind.
"I'm cold. I've got to put some clothes on." She wriggled free.
Sven kissed her. "Sure. I'll call Maestro in the meantime."
Annika went into the bedroom and opened her closet. The clothes she'd left here were creased and smelled musty. She heard Sven call the local pizzeria and order two quattro stagioni. He knew she didn't eat mussels.
"You'll stay here now, won't you?" he called out to her after hanging up.
She searched through her clothes. "Why do you think that? My contract lasts until the fourteenth of August. I've got a week and a half left."
He leaned against the doorpost. "Do they still want you, though, the way you were disgraced like that?"
Her cheeks were burning. She rummaged deeper inside the closet. "The paper doesn't give a damn about what they say in a ridiculous radio program like that."
He came up to her and hugged her again. "I don't care what they say about you," he whispered. "To me you'll always be the best, even though all the others say you're worthless."
She pulled on a pair of old jeans that were too big for her now and an old sweater.
Sven shook his head disapprovingly. "Do you have to look like that? Haven't you got a dress?"
She closed the door of the closet. "How long will the pizzas be?"
"I mean it. Put something else on."
Annika stopped, breathed. "Come on," she begged him. "I'm hungry. The pizzas will get cold."
Eighteen Years, Ten Months, and Six Days
I long to return to the light and bright times. When days floated into shadowy nights like a spirit: clean, clear, fragrant, and soft. Time was a hole, weightless. The elation, the first touch, the wind, the light, and the feeling of absolute perfection. More than anything else in the world I want that moment to return.
His darkness blocks out the horizon. It isn't easy to navigate in the dark. The circle is round and evil. I bring out in him the darkness that cloaks our love in a fog. My steps grow unsteady and I stumble on our path. His patience gives out. I pay the price.
But we are the most important thing
there is
to each other.
Monday 6 August
The water boiled over and then, pouring it into the filter, she spilled some and scalded herself.
"Shit!" she cried out, jamming her burned finger into her mouth.
"Did you hurt yourself?"
A drowsy Patricia was standing in the doorway to the maid's room, dressed in T-shirt and panties, her hair tousled.
Annika was immediately gripped by a pang of guilt. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to wake you up. I'm really sorry."
"What's the matter? Did something happen?"
Annika turned around and poured the rest of the water on the coffee. "My job's hanging by a thread. Do you want some coffee, or are you going back to bed?"
Patricia rubbed her eyes. "I'm off tonight. I'd love a cup."
She put on a pair of shorts and disappeared into the stairwell to go to the bathroom. Annika quickly blew her nose and wiped her eyes. She took out a couple of slices of bread from the freezer, put them in the toaster, and put cheese and marmalade and margarine on the table. She heard Patricia come back in and close the front door.
"What happened?"
Patricia was staring at Annika's legs, and Annika herself looked down at them.
"I was chased by a lynch mob last Thursday. They almost set fire to the car as we were driving away."
Patricia gaped. "Jesus, sounds like a James Bond movie!"
Annika laughed. The toaster clicked and threw the slices up in an arc, and as they caught one each, Patricia laughed too.
They sat down at the kitchen table and made breakfast. Annika missed the morning paper. She looked out the window; the rain was pattering on the windowsill.
"So how was the countryside?"
Annika let out a sigh. "Just what you'd expect in this weather. I spent Friday night with Sven, my boyfriend, and then I went to my grandmother's. She's got a cottage that's part of Harpsund. She can rent it for as long as she likes, as she was the housekeeper there for thirty-seven years."
"What's Harpsund?"
Annika poured the coffee. "It's an estate between Flen and Hälleforsnäs. A man called Hjalmar Wicander donated it to the government when he died in 1952. The condition was that the prime minister could use it as a recreational residence."
"What's a r
ecrea… residence?"
"It's a summerhouse but it has reception rooms." Annika smiled. "Harpsund has been a big hit among prime ministers, especially the present one. He's from Sörmland and most of his family still lives there. I met him there on Midsummer Eve a couple of years ago."
Patricia was impressed. "You've been there?"
"I often went with Grandma when I was a kid."
They ate in silence.
"Are you working today?" Patricia asked.
Annika nodded.
"You've got a really hard job, don't you?" Patricia said. "And dangerous- if there are people trying to set fire to you."
Annika gave a lopsided smile. "Someone set fire to your workplace too."
"That wasn't personal."
Annika sighed. "Still, I wish I could stay."
"Why do you have to go in?"
"My contract ends next week. Only one or two of the summer freelancers will get to go on working at the paper."
"Couldn't you be one of them? You've written a lot."
Annika shook her head. "They've got a recruitment meeting with the union tomorrow, and after that we'll find out who gets to stay. What are you doing today?"
Patricia's gaze turned inward and disappeared out in the rain. "I'm going to think about Josefin. I'm going to speak to the spirits and look for her on the other side. When I make contact with her, I'm going to ask her who did it."
***
Anne Snapphane was at her desk when Annika walked into the newsroom.
"So you're alive," Annika established.
"Barely. It's been a goddamn awful weekend. The bosses have been completely nuts. Any assignments the news editor has handed out during the day, the night editor has trashed at night. I've had five stories spiked."
Annika dropped down at her desk. The dragon had left behind a battlefield of empty coffee mugs, wire copy, and used Kleenex tissues.
"I did think twice before I came in," Annika said. "Now I know why."
Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed Page 21
