The Bomber

by Liza Marklund

  His thoughts started to wander, but soon enough they settled on the subject that occupied most of his time these days: the sort of work he would be doing in future. Earlier that day he had attempted to sort out some form of structure for his work, prioritizing the most urgent tasks. At some level he was actually relieved that Christina was gone. Whoever blew her up might well have done the world a big favour.

  When the aria was finished he changed the disc and put on a CD of Satie’s piano music. The mournful tones filled the hall as he grabbed hold of the hose again and started to rinse the car. All that mess with water wasn’t much fun – the bit he looked forward to was the final stage, waxing and polishing the car until it positively shone. He stroked the roof of the car with his hand. He had a feeling that everything was going to be all right.

  Thomas put the children to bed just after half past seven. Annika had read them a bedtime story, about a little girl and her mother going to nursery. In the story the mother tells the staff at the nursery how no one ever wants to do what their boss tells them, and all the grown-ups laugh.

  ‘Great, so now it’s okay to take the piss out of bosses even in kids’ books,’ Annika said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Thomas said, opening the business section of Svenska Dagbladet.

  ‘Look at this questionnaire,’ Annika said, holding out a glossy women’s magazine. ‘It’s supposed to tell you how well you’re doing at work. Look at question fourteen. “What’s your boss like?” The options are “feeble and incompetent”, “pretentious and useless” or “arrogant”. What’s that all about? What sort of message does that send? And here, on the next page, it tells you what to do if you want to become a boss. The underlying message is that all bosses are idiots, and that everyone wants to become one. That’s just plain wrong!’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Thomas said, turning a page of the paper.

  ‘But our whole society is based on myths like this!’

  ‘Well, you were pretty critical of your own bosses at the paper once upon a time, or have you forgotten that?’

  Annika put the magazine down on her lap and looked at Thomas reproachfully.

  ‘Yes, but, bloody hell, they were in the wrong jobs!’

  ‘There you are, then,’ Thomas said, and carried on reading.

  Annika sat quietly, thinking, as John Pohlman read out the weather forecast for Christmas: a white Christmas all over the country, at least until Christmas Day, anyway. Then wet weather coming in from the west, bringing showers to the west coast late on Christmas Eve.

  ‘You found things at the Association difficult until you settled in, didn’t you?’ Annika said.

  Thomas put the newspaper down, switched off the television with the remote, and held out his arms to Annika.

  ‘Come over here,’ he said.

  The silence after the television was deafening. Annika got up from her armchair and crept up onto the sofa and into Thomas’s arms, nestling against his chest with her legs on the coffee table.

  Thomas wrapped his arms around her and stroked her shoulders, blowing on her neck and kissing her collarbone. She felt a quivering in her groin, and wondered if they would have the energy to make love tonight.

  At that moment Annika’s mobile rang, the shrill tones finding their way out of her bag and into the television room.

  ‘Don’t answer,’ Thomas whispered, nibbling at Annika’s earlobe, but it was too late. The spell was already broken and Annika was now sitting stiff and tense.

  ‘I’ll just see who it is,’ she muttered, scrambling to her feet.

  ‘You really must change that ringtone,’ Thomas called after her. ‘What on earth is that tune supposed to be?’

  Annika didn’t recognize the number flashing on the display, and decided to answer.

  ‘Annika Bengtzon? Hello, this is Beata Ekesjö. We met in Sätra Hall this morning. You told me to call if there was anything I wanted to say …’

  Annika groaned silently to herself. Bloody business card.

  ‘Of course,’ she said curtly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, I was just wondering, is there going to be anything about me in the paper tomorrow?’

  The woman’s voice sounded light and happy.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Annika asked, sitting down on the bench in the hall.

  ‘Well, I just wondered; it feels important to get it right, that’s all.’

  Annika sighed.

  ‘Can you be a bit more precise?’ she said, looking at her watch.

  ‘I could tell you a bit more about myself, about my work and so on. I’ve got a very nice house, you’re welcome to come and take a look.’

  Annika heard Thomas turn the television back on.

  ‘That probably isn’t necessary,’ Annika said. ‘We have very little space in the paper, as I’m sure you understand. In fact, we won’t be quoting you at all.’

  There was silence on the line for a few seconds.

  ‘What do you mean?’ the woman said finally. ‘Aren’t you going to write about me?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘But … You talked to me! The photographer took pictures!’

  ‘We talk to an awful lot of people that we never write about,’ Annika said, making an effort to sound normal. ‘Thanks again for letting us take up your time this morning, but we won’t be publishing any of our conversation.’

  The silence on the line grew.

  ‘I want you to write about what I said this morning,’ the woman said in a low voice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Annika said.

  Beata Ekesjö sighed.

  ‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Thank you, and goodbye,’ Annika said, and hung up. She hurried back to Thomas on the sofa, took the remote out of his hand and turned off the television.

  ‘Where were we?’ she said.

  ‘Who was that?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘A woman I met this morning, she seemed a bit crazy. Construction manager out at Sätra Hall.’

  ‘She must have a pretty awful time of it, statistically, at any rate,’ Thomas said. ‘Young women in male-dominated workplaces have it worse than anyone.’

  ‘Do you mean that? Is there any real proof?’ Annika said, surprised.

  ‘Yep. A big report has just come out. Numerous investigations show that women who take on male professions have the hardest task in the whole workforce. They get bullied, threatened and sexually harassed more often than any other group, male or female. Research from the nautical department of Chalmers University of Technology in Gothenburg showed that four out of five female sailors are bullied because of their gender,’ Thomas said.

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  Thomas smiled.

  ‘It’s like you remembering the details of Berit Hamrin’s articles. There are other examples, not least from the military. A lot of women leave early, even though they were volunteers. One of the main reasons is problems with their male colleagues. Female bosses suffer serious health risks, especially if they’re under a lot of pressure from their colleagues.’

  ‘But that’s something we ought to write about,’ Annika said, trying to get up.

  ‘Yes, you should. But not right now, because I’m about to massage your shoulders. If we just take off your top, like that. And if we take this off too …’

  Annika protested feebly as her bra came off.

  ‘But the neighbours can see …’

  Thomas got up and turned off the light. The only light in the room came from the street lamps swaying outside, far below. The snow was still falling, in huge, heavy flakes. Annika held out her arms to her husband and pulled him down to her. They took it slowly to start with, lying on the sofa and stroking each other and gently pulling off their clothes.

  ‘You drive me crazy, you know that?’ Thomas mumbled.

  They moved onto the floor and started to make love, very slowly to start with, then hard and noisily. Annika cried out as she came. Thomas was slightly more
restrained. Afterwards Thomas fetched a duvet and they stretched out together on the sofa again. Exhausted and relaxed, they lay there listening to the sounds of the big city outside in the evening darkness. Down below the number 48 bus pulled up, brakes shrieking; they could hear a neighbour’s television, and someone was yelling out in the street.

  ‘God, it’ll be great to get some time off,’ Annika said.

  Thomas kissed her.

  ‘You’re the best in the whole world,’ he said.

  Lies

  I was absolutely certain right from the start. The world was a stage set up to fool me, and the people around me were all actors in the play. The intention was to get me to believe that everything was real: the ground, the forest, the fields, Nyman’s tractor, the village, the shop and the postman. The world beyond the blue slopes of Furuberget was just a vague backdrop. I listened intently for wrong notes, waited patiently for someone to give the game away. Whenever I left a room I would spin round in the doorway to get a glimpse of the people inside as they really were. It never worked. In winter I would clamber up on top of the snowdrifts outside the sitting-room window and look in. When I wasn’t there people took off their masks, leaning their weary heads in their hands and relaxing. They chatted quietly among themselves, probably genuinely, naturally, confidentially, and truthfully. But when I went in again they were forced to adopt their uncomfortable disguises again, living lives that didn’t suit them, with embittered faces and mendacious tongues.

  I was convinced that this would all be revealed to me on the day of my tenth birthday. Everyone would come and see me that morning in their true, real bodies, and dress me all in white. Their faces would be relaxed and genuine. I would be carried in a procession off to the barn on the edge of the forest on the other side of the road. There the director of the play would be waiting at the door, and he would take my hand in his and lead me to the Kingdom of Enlightenment.

  He would explain the way things really were to me.

  Sometimes I would make my own way to the old barn. I can’t say how old I was, but my legs were short, my woollen trousers were itchy, my boots made walking difficult. One time, I got stuck in the snow, right up to my waist.

  The barn was tucked away on the edge of the forest, on what was left of an overgrown meadow. The roof had fallen in; the grey timber walls shone silver through the thickets. Part of one gable stuck up like a beacon against the sky.

  The rectangular opening was in the far gable-end, and I would feel my way along the roughness of the walls as I went round towards it. The entrance was a little way up in the wall, and I had trouble clambering up to it.

  Time stood still inside, dust hung in the air, and the light slanted in. The simultaneous sense of solid walls and open sky was intoxicating. The light filtered down through the branches of the surrounding thickets and the remnants of the roof. The floor had also started to give way, and I had to take care as I walked around.

  Down there, beneath the floor, was the entrance to the stage. I knew that. Somewhere under those rotting boards the Truth lay in wait. Once I plucked up my courage and crept beneath the floorboards, exploring the ground to find the way to the Light. But all I found was hay and dead rats.

  Wednesday 22 December

  45

  It was Annika’s turn to take the kids to nursery, so she had time to lie and think for a bit after Thomas left for work. There were only two days left until Christmas Eve, so she was well and truly into the final straight. It was funny how little it took to get her back on her feet again. After an hour’s shopping in town, a bit of baking and a decent shag, she was ready to face the vultures again. For once she had spent the night without either of the children in their bed, but now they were awake they came rushing into the bedroom. She gave them a hug and mucked about with them in bed until they were on the verge of being late. Ellen had invented something called the Meatball Game, which involved tickling each other’s toes and shouting ‘meatballs, meatballs’ over and over again. And Kalle liked the flying game, which involved Annika lying on her back and balancing him on her feet up in the air. Every so often the plane would crash, much to everyone’s delight. And finally they built a den with all the pillows and the duvet and Thomas’s pyjamas. They ate a quick breakfast of strawberry yogurt and Sugar Puffs, while Annika made sandwiches. They almost made it in time for the register. Annika didn’t stop today, but set off for work as soon as she had parked the children on the laps of two members of staff.

  It was still snowing, and the filthy sludge lay in drifts along the pavements. Since the City Council introduced local management committees, you hardly ever saw a snowplough in the streets. She wished she had the energy to get involved in politics.

  She got lucky with the number 56 bus, picked up a copy of the paper in reception, caught the lift, and said hello to the caretakers in their office just along from the door to the newsroom. She sent a silent prayer of thanks to Anders Schyman when she saw one of the caretakers dragging in the second post of the day. Life would be much easier now that Eva-Britt Qvist had started doing her job properly again.

  She picked up a copy of the other evening paper and the morning papers at the news desk, and grabbed a cup of coffee from the machine on the way to her room. Eva-Britt was in her usual place, and said a grumpy hello. In other words, everything was the same as usual.

  Berit had done a brilliant job with the wife of the murdered Stefan Bjurling. The article filled the centrefold, with a big picture of the woman and her three children, sitting in their brown leather sofa at home in Farsta. LIFE GOES ON was the headline. The woman, who was thirty-seven years old and called Eva, looked focused and serious. The children, eleven, eight and six years old, stared into the camera, wide-eyed.

  ‘Evil appears in so many different ways in this world,’ Eva said in the article. ‘It’s stupid to think that we’re protected from it here in Sweden, just because we haven’t had a war since 1809. You find violence and cruelty where you least expect it.’

  Eva had been making pancakes when the police arrived to tell her that her husband was dead.

  ‘You can’t just fall apart when you’ve got three children,’ she went on. ‘We have to make the best of things and carry on with our lives.’

  Annika stared at the picture for a long while. She had a vague sense that something wasn’t right. Surely the woman was a bit too together? Why didn’t she say anything about grief and despair in the article? Well, the text was good, the picture worked, and it was a successful spread. She pushed it away with a feeling of distaste.

  As usual, Patrik had done a decent job with the technical analysis and the police hunt for the Bomber. The theory that the same man was responsible for the two explosions was still current, although they had said the substances used weren’t identical.

  ‘The explosive charge was much smaller this time,’ the police spokesman said. ‘Preliminary analysis indicates either that it was a different substance or that a much smaller quantity was used.’

  During the next managerial meeting she would recommend that Patrik be given a permanent contract.

  Her own piece with Johan Henriksson’s picture of the construction workers had a page to itself. It had turned out pretty well.

  She leafed through the rest of the paper, moving on from the Bomber and arriving at the ‘Women and Knowledge’ section. Predictably, these pages were only ever referred to as the Wank section in the office. Today the Wank team had gone for the age-old trick of writing about an American pop-psychology book for women, spiced up with a couple of famous Swedes. The book was The Ideal Woman, written by a woman with a double-barrelled surname and a very thin nose, the sort you only get if half of it has been removed. Apart from the little portrait of the author, the article was illustrated by a huge publicity shot of Christina Furhage. The text about the book explained that now, finally, all women could have the chance to be the ideal woman. A small box gave some basic facts about Christina Furhage, and Annika realized that
the myth of the dead Olympic boss was already starting to develop. Christina Furhage was, the article claimed, a woman who had succeeded in everything. She had a fantastic career, a beautiful home, a happy marriage and a well-adjusted daughter. And she took care of her appearance, she was slim, in good shape, and she looked fifteen years younger than she really was. Annika got a bad taste in her mouth, not only from the cold coffee. None of this was exactly true. Christina’s first marriage had collapsed, her first child had died or somehow disappeared, her second child was a pyromaniac, and she had ended up being blown to pieces in a deserted stadium by someone who hated her. Annika was convinced of that. And this person had evidently hated Stefan Bjurling as well; she was willing to bet on it.

  She was about to go and get a fresh cup of coffee when the phone rang.

  ‘Can you come over?’ a man sobbed down the line. ‘I want to tell you everything.’

  It was Evert Danielsson.

  Annika stuffed her notepad and pen in her bag and rang for a taxi.

  Helena Starke woke up on the kitchen floor. At first she wasn’t quite sure where she was. Her mouth was dry as sandpaper, she was freezing, and one of her hips ached. The skin on her face was taut from crying.

  She struggled to get up, and ended up sitting with her back to the sink, looking out of the dirty window at the falling snow. She breathed slowly and deeply, forcing air into her lungs. Her throat felt raw, she wasn’t used to smoking. It’s odd, she thought. This feels like a completely new life. My brain is empty, the sky is white, my heart is calm. I’ve reached the bottom.

  A sense of peace spread through her. She sat on the kitchen floor for a long time, watching the damp snow hitting the window. Memories of the past few days sailed through the back of her consciousness like grey ghosts. She wondered if she was hungry. As far as she could remember, she hadn’t eaten anything for days, just drunk a bit of water and some low-strength beer.