‘You can get me on my mobile,’ she said quickly to Jansson on her way out. He waved in reply without looking up from the phone.
The temperature had been up and down all day, and now it was below freezing again and great flakes of snow were starting to fall. They were almost hanging in the air, swaying one way and then the other on their way to the ground. They muffled all sound in cottonwool – Annika didn’t hear the number 57 bus before it sailed past her.
She went down the steps to Rålambshov Park. The path over the grass was muddy and rutted from pushchairs and mountain bikes; she slid and almost fell, swearing out loud. A startled hare dashed away from her into the shadows. Once again, she wondered at the amount of wildlife in the city. Once, when Thomas was on his way home from the pub, he had been chased down Agnegatan by a badger. She laughed out loud in the darkness at the memory.
The wind was sharper here than up between the buildings, and she pulled her scarf tighter. The snowflakes were wilder, settling wetly on her hair. She hadn’t seen the children all day. She hadn’t phoned home since morning – that just made things messy.
Working on weekdays didn’t usually feel too bad, when every Swedish child was at nursery and her conscience was clear. But on a Saturday like this, the last before Christmas, you were supposed to be at home, preparing for the holiday and baking special treats.
Annika sighed so hard that the snowflakes swirled away from her. The problem was that things always went wrong whenever she tried to get the kids involved in Christmas baking or some other big joint activity. They always thought it was great to start with, arguing and fighting about who got to stand closest to her. By the time they had argued about the dough and made a mess of the whole kitchen, her patience started to wear thin. It only got worse if she had been under stress at work, and sometimes she couldn’t help exploding. In fact, that had happened more often than she cared to remember. The children would go and sulk in front of the television while she finished off in the kitchen as fast as she could. Then Thomas would have to put them to bed while she scrubbed the kitchen clean.
She sighed again. Maybe it would have been different this time. No one would have burned themselves on the cooker, and they would all have settled down in front of the fire to eat freshly baked saffron buns.
She speeded up as she emerged from the park onto the pavement of Norr Mälarstrand beside the water. The ache in her legs was easing already, and she forced them to keep up a steady, even pace. Her breathing quickened and her heart found a new, more intense rhythm.
Once, it had almost been more fun going to work than being at home. As a reporter she saw instant results, everyone appreciated what she did and she managed to get a picture byline several times a week. She was in charge of her own domain, she knew exactly what was required of her in different situations, and she could push her own agenda and make demands of the world around her. At home there were more demands on her, they were louder, more insistent. She never felt sufficiently happy, horny, calm, effective, authoritative or relaxed.
The apartment was always in a mess, the washing basket always seemed to be overflowing. Thomas was good at looking after the children, pretty much better than she was, but he never cleaned the cooker or the worktops, he hardly ever filled the dishwasher, he let clothes and unopened post gather in piles in the bedroom. It was as if he imagined that the dirty plates found their own way into the machine, that the money in their account paid the bills automatically.
These days it wasn’t as much fun going to work, not since her promotion eight weeks ago. She hadn’t realized that her promotion would arouse such strong reactions. The decision wasn’t even particularly controversial. In practice she had actually been running the crime desk alongside her work as a reporter for the past year. The only difference now, as far as she could see, was that she was finally getting paid for it.
But Nils Langeby had gone mad, of course. He believed that the post was his by right. After all, he was fifty-three, and Annika was only thirty-two.
She had also been surprised by the way people felt they had the right to discuss and criticize her, for what seemed the oddest reasons. Suddenly they had started commenting on her clothes in a way that had never happened before. And they had begun to say the most outrageous things about her personality and character. She hadn’t foreseen that she would become public property the moment she got the promotion. Now she was only too aware of that fact.
She speeded up her pace once more. She just wanted to get home now. She looked up at the buildings sliding past on the other side of the street, their windows radiating warmth towards the water. Practically every one of them had an Advent candle, giving a wonderful sense of security. She left the water and turned up John Ericssongatan, up towards Hantverkargatan.
14
The apartment was silent and dark. Carefully she pulled off her boots and outdoor clothing and crept into the children’s room. They were asleep in their little pyjamas, Ellen’s with Barbie on, Kalle’s with Batman. She breathed in their scent for a moment, and Ellen shuffled in her sleep.
Thomas had gone to bed, but he was still awake. A bedside lamp spread a gentle light over his side of the bed. He was reading The Economist.
‘Knackered?’ he asked as she pulled off her clothes and kissed his hair.
‘More or less,’ she said, walking into the dressing room and stuffing her clothes into the washing basket. ‘That bombing is a bloody complicated story.’
She came out into the bedroom naked and climbed in beside him.
‘God, you’re cold!’ he said.
Annika was suddenly aware of how frozen her legs were.
‘I walked home,’ she said.
‘Do you mean to say that the paper couldn’t afford a taxi on a night like this? When you’ve been at work for over twenty hours on a Saturday?’
A wave of irritation hit her.
‘Of course the paper would have paid for a taxi. I wanted to walk,’ she almost yelled. ‘Don’t be so bloody critical.’
He put the magazine on the floor and turned off the light, turning his back to her demonstratively.
Annika sighed. ‘Oh, come on, Thomas. Don’t sulk.’
‘You’re out all Saturday and then you come home and shout at me,’ he said tiredly. ‘Why do we have to take all the crap?’
She felt her eyes welling up with tears, tears of exhaustion and inadequacy.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to get cross. But they’re on my case the whole time at work; it’s really getting to me. And I feel bad about not being here with you and the kids. I’m worried you think I’m letting you down, but the paper won’t give me any slack, and I’m sort of stuck in between, in the crossfire—’
She started to cry properly. She heard him sigh from the other side of the bed. After a few moments he turned over and took her in his arms.
‘Come on, Anki, you can do this – you’re better than the whole lot of them … Bloody hell, you really are frozen! You’d better not be getting a cold this close to Christmas.’
She laughed through her tears and snuggled into his arms. Silence descended on them in warm, comforting companionship. She leaned her head back on the pillow and blinked. Somewhere up there in the gloom was the ceiling; and she suddenly remembered seeing the same thing that morning, and the dream she had been having when the phone woke her.
‘I was dreaming about you this morning,’ she whispered.
‘A rude dream, I hope,’ he muttered, half asleep.
She laughed quietly.
‘You bet! And in a spaceship, too. And the old sods from Studio Six were standing there watching.’
‘They’re just jealous,’ Thomas said, as he fell asleep.
Love
I was already grown up, and had reached a certain status in life the first time it hit me. For a few brief moments it shattered my universal isolation, our souls really did merge in a way I’d never known before. It’s an interesting thing to have exp
erienced, I can’t deny that, and since then the same thing has happened a few more times. Now, in retrospect, most of my reactions seem fairly ambivalent, nothing to cling on to. I say that without bitterness or disappointment, merely as a statement of fact. But now, over the past year, I’ve started to doubt what I think. Maybe the woman I’ve found and fallen in love with really could change things.
But deep down I know that isn’t the case. Love is so banal.
It fills you with the same chemical rush as a hard-won victory, or the experience of great speed. Your consciousness is blind to everything but your own pleasure; it warps reality and creates an irrational state of possibility and happiness. The object of love may change, but the magic never lasts. In the long run it only leads to weariness and distaste.
The most beautiful love is always the impossible kind. It has to die even as it lives: like a rose, it has to be cut off while at its finest. A dried flower can spread happiness for years. A love that is quickly crushed at the height of passion can continue to enchant people for centuries.
The myth of love is like a fairy tale, as unreal and unrealistic as an endless orgasm.
You mustn’t confuse love with genuine affection. That’s something entirely different. Love doesn’t ‘mature’, it just withers and is replaced, at best, by warmth and tolerance, but usually by unspoken demands and bitterness. This applies to all forms of love, between the sexes and generations, even at work. How many times have I met bitter wives, their fingers raw from housework, or sexually frustrated husbands? Emotionally inadequate parents and neglected children? Misunderstood bosses and employees who have long since stopped caring about their work and now merely make demands?
But it is possible to love your work. That sort of love has always seemed to me to be more genuine than love for other people. The honest pleasure of achieving a goal I have set myself is better than anything else I know. It seems obvious to me that devotion to a task can be just as strong as devotion to a person who doesn’t deserve it.
The idea that my beloved might actually deserve it fills me with horror and anxiety.
Sunday 19 December
15
Sunday has always been the biggest sales day for the evening papers. People have both the time and the inclination to read something straightforward, they’re relaxed enough to do the crossword and the quizzes together. For years, most of the papers that publish on Sundays have printed an extra supplement. The national sales statistics regard the supplements as a special case, and therefore count Sundays separately from the rest of the week.
But nothing sells as well as a really good news story. And if it happens on a Saturday there’s always the chance of reaching a record high. This Sunday had great potential in that respect. Anders Schyman understood this the moment the courier delivered the first editions of the evening papers direct to his home out in Saltsjöbaden. He took the papers to the breakfast room where his wife was pouring coffee.
‘How does it look?’ she asked, but the editor-in-chief merely grunted in reply. This moment was the most magical of the day. His nerves tensed and he focused intently on the papers, laying them both out in front of him on the table and comparing the front pages. Jansson had done it again, he concluded with a smile. Both papers were running with the terrorism angle, but the Evening Post was the only one with the story of the death threat against the Olympics boss, Christina Furhage. The Post’s front page was more striking; it had better celebrities above the title, and a more dramatic picture of the stadium. His smile grew even broader and he relaxed.
‘It’s good,’ he said to his wife, reaching for his mug. ‘In fact, it’s really good.’
The cartoon voices on morning television were the first thing Annika heard. The hyperactive chatter and sound effects slid under the bedroom door like a torrent of hysteria. She covered her head with the pillow to shut out the noise. That was one of the drawbacks of having children; she had real trouble dealing with the Z-list Swedish actors who did the voiceovers to foreign cartoons. As usual, Thomas was oblivious. He went on sleeping, the covers bundled round his knees.
She lay there for a moment, trying to work out how she felt. She was tired, and the ache in her legs hadn’t quite gone away. She immediately started thinking about the Bomber, and realized that she must have been dreaming about the attack. That always happened when there was a big story – she went into a long tunnel and didn’t emerge until the story was over. Sometimes she had to force herself to pause for breath, both for her own sake, and for the children’s. Thomas didn’t like it when she focused so intently on her work.
‘It’s only a job,’ he would say. ‘You always write as if it’s a matter of life and death.’
Well, most of the time it was, Annika thought, at least in her area of expertise.
She sighed, pushed the pillow and duvet aside and got out of bed. She stood there swaying for a moment, more tired than she had thought. The woman reflected in the hand-blown windowpanes looked a hundred years old. She sighed again and went out into the kitchen.
The children had already eaten. Their dishes were still on the table, swimming in little puddles of spilt milk and yogurt. Kalle could help himself to yogurt and cornflakes these days. He had given up serving Ellen her favourite, toast with peanut butter and jam, since he burned himself on the toaster.
She put water on to boil for coffee and went in to the children. Their cries reached her before she had even entered the room.
‘Mummy!’
Four arms and hungry eyes rushed towards her, wet lips kissing and bubbling and hugging and assuring her that Mummy, Mummy, we missed you, Mummy, where were you yesterday, were you at work all day, Mummy, you didn’t come home yesterday, Mummy, we went to bed …
She rocked them in her arms, crouching down in the doorway of the television room.
‘We got a new film yesterday, Mummy. You’re Out of Your Mind, Maggie, and it’s a bit horrid, the man hits Mia, do you want to see my picture, Mummy? It’s for you!’
They both struggled out of her arms at the same time, rushing off in different directions. Kalle came back first, with the cover of the film about Astrid Lindgren’s childhood friend.
‘The headmaster was really stupid, he hit Mia for taking his wallet,’ Kalle said seriously.
‘I know, that was wrong,’ Annika said, stroking the boy’s hair. ‘That’s what schools used to be like. Isn’t that horrid?’
‘Is school like that now?’ he asked anxiously.
‘No, not any more,’ Annika said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘No one’s ever going to hurt my little boy.’
There was a howl from the children’s room.
‘My picture’s gone! Kalle’s taken it!’
The boy stiffened.
‘No I haven’t!’ he shouted back. ‘You must have lost it yourself. You did it, you did it!’
The cry from the bedroom turned into sobbing.
‘Nasty Kalle! You took my picture!’
‘You’re a stupid idiot! I didn’t take it.’
Annika put the boy on the floor, stood up and took him by the hand.
‘Right, that’s enough,’ she said sternly. ‘Come on, we’re going to look for the picture. It’s probably on the table. And don’t call your sister an idiot, I don’t want to hear that again.’
‘Stupid idiot, stupid idiot!’ Kalle shouted.
The crying turned back into howling.
‘Mummy, he’s stupid! He’s calling me an idiot.’
‘Quiet, both of you!’ Annika said, raising her voice. ‘You’ll wake Daddy.’
As she walked into the room with Kalle, Ellen raised her fist to hit her brother. Annika caught it before she could strike, and felt her patience wearing thin.
‘That’s enough!’ she shouted. ‘Stop it, both of you, do you hear?’
‘What’s that bloody racket?’ she heard Thomas say from the bedroom door. ‘Can’t I have a lie-in just this once?’
‘There, now you’ve woken D
addy up,’ Annika shouted.
‘You’re making more noise than the two of them put together,’ Thomas said, and slammed the door shut.
Annika could feel tears welling up again. Damn it, why didn’t she ever learn? She slumped to the floor, her limbs suddenly heavy as lead.
‘Mummy, are you sad, Mummy?’
Soft hands stroked her cheeks and patted her head comfortingly.
‘No, I’m not sad; I’m just a bit tired. I did a lot of work yesterday.’
She forced herself to smile and opened her arms to them once more. Kalle looked at her with a serious expression on his face.
‘You shouldn’t work so much,’ he said. ‘It makes you too tired.’
She hugged him.
‘That’s very good advice,’ she said. ‘Shall we look for the picture now?’
It had slid down behind the radiator. Annika blew the dust off and said how beautiful it was. Ellen lit up like a sun with the praise.
‘I’m going to put it up on the wall in the bedroom. When Daddy’s got up.’
The water was boiling like mad in the kitchen, half of it had evaporated and the windows were steamed up. She filled the pan again and opened the window a crack to let out the steam.
‘Do you want some more breakfast?’
They did: toast this time. Their chatter rose and fell as Annika worked her way through the morning papers and listened to the news. The papers had nothing new, but the radio was quoting both evening papers: her own article about the death threat to Christina Furhage, and the other paper’s interview with the Chairman of the Olympic movement. Okay, she thought, they beat us to the Olympic headquarters. A shame, but that wasn’t her problem.
She took another piece of toast.
16
Helena Starke pushed the door open and switched off the alarm. Sometimes when she arrived at the office she discovered that the alarm hadn’t been set by the last person to leave the night before. This time she knew it had been, because she had been the last to leave last night. Or rather, early this morning.
The Bomber Page 7
