by Hans Koppel
Mike wondered whether he should drive into town and ask his mother to look after Sanna for a couple of hours. That would leave him free to make phone calls and do some ferreting, and it would spare Sanna having to witness the scene when Ylva finally decided to pitch up. The problem would obviously be his mother’s questions and accusations. She and Ylva rubbed along well enough, but their friendliness was strained, and he didn’t want to upset the balance.
Mike should probably contact the police. Not because he thought it was necessary, but because Ylva deserved it. It made it seem more serious and reinforced the idea that he’d been taken in. The alternative, that he suspected her of being unfaithful without doing anything about it, was worse.
He decided to go home. It was more than likely that Ylva would be waiting for them there.
Mike managed to convince himself and took the northbound exit at Berga.
*
The front door was still locked and there were no new shoes in the hall. But Mike called anyway.
‘Hello?’
Sanna looked up at him.
‘Is Mummy still not home?’
Mike shook his head.
‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know.’
Mike didn’t reply.
‘Has she vanished?’
Sanna said it as a joke.
‘No, no, not vanished,’ Mike said, and forced a smile. ‘She’s somewhere. Obviously.’
‘But where is she then?’
‘Probably with a friend.’
He looked at his watch. Quarter to two.
‘I have to make some phone calls,’ he said.
‘You keep making phone calls all the time.’
‘I have to. You don’t want to go and play with a friend?’
‘Who?’
‘Klara, maybe?’
‘She’s not at home.’
‘What about Ivan?’
‘I want to wait for Mummy.’
‘Go and watch a film then, please. I’ll come through as soon as I’ve made my phone calls.’
Sanna sighed and disappeared.
Mike waited until he heard the sound of a film, then phoned Nour.
‘Who have you spoken to?’ he asked, when she explained that no one knew anything.
‘Pia and Helena,’ Nour said. ‘I don’t know who else to contact.’
Mike mustered his courage.
‘Could she be with that restaurant muppet?’
He forced a laugh when he said it, as if he wanted to joke away his only real question as something unthinkable.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I phoned him too, just to make sure. They haven’t met.’
Mike felt relieved even though he knew that that meant his wife was possibly being unfaithful with someone else.
‘What time did she leave you yesterday?’ Mike asked.
Nour took a deep breath and released it in a sigh.
‘I think it was quarter past six or thereabouts.’
‘So she would have been back by seven, if she’d come straight home,’ Mike calculated.
‘Yes, I guess.’
‘And she went down the hill?’
‘She said she was going home.’
‘I think I’d better call the police,’ Mike said.
Nour thought he sounded a bit embarrassed, almost as if he was asking her permission. She didn’t know what to say. Mike filled the silence himself.
‘I had a mate in Stockholm who pissed on the palace once. He’d been to Café Opera and was shambling along Skeppsbron when he had to take a leak. Which he did, not very carefully, by the fountain. The police kept him in overnight, he wasn’t even allowed to phone home. His girlfriend was waiting for him with the rolling pin, thought he’d been sleeping around.’
The story was irrelevant and his voice was forced, as if he was trying to convince himself. Mike was about to crack.
‘I mean, it might be something like that.’
Yes, Nour thought to herself, if Ylva was a man and there was a palace to piss on, it might.
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘Of course it might. I think it’s best that you call the police.’
‘Just to be on the safe side,’ Mike said.
19
Ylva stared at the screen. Mike and Sanna were back, and the car was parked in front of the garage. Her beloved, patient and stubborn husband was sitting only a hundred metres away, wondering what had become of her. Ylva felt a physical longing to be there.
She pulled all the paper from the kitchen roll, let it fall in a pile on the floor. Then she took the empty roll and positioned herself on the bed. By directing the sound and shouting through the cardboard tube she hoped she could attract the attention of anyone passing. She waited in suspense, eyes on the TV screen.
When the first couple walked past, she shouted as loud as she could. Unfortunately a car drove past at the same time and drowned out what little noise she was able to make. The next person to pass was a jogger, with music in his ears, not worth the effort. Then an elderly couple who looked like they might stop, which made Ylva shout even more so that they’d realise that something was wrong. They actually stopped and looked at the house. Ylva was sure that they could hear her, without knowing where the sound was coming from, but they didn’t look particularly concerned and after a while they carried on walking, despite her loud cries for help.
Of course they couldn’t imagine that the couple who had recently moved in had locked someone up in the cellar.
Ylva tried to listen instead. She sat with the cardboard roll to her ear and pressed it up to the vent. She heard an electric fan, but nothing from outside. A couple of cars passed without the sound of the engine penetrating down into the cellar.
When finally Lennart, Virginia’s pathetic husband, glided silently past on his Harley Davidson, which didn’t have a silencer, she realised that the cellar room was cut off from the rest of the world, at least in terms of sound.
It was almost impossible to comprehend. That it was actually possible to build a cube under a house with air ventilation both in and out, and water, and yet not a sound could escape.
Ylva reminded herself to think constructively. So, she couldn’t attract attention using her voice. Instead of wasting energy thinking about that, she had to come up with another solution.
If she’d had a lighter or matches, she could set fire to the kitchen roll and let the smoke seep out through the vent and attract someone’s attention that way. The disadvantage of that would be that she risked burning to death or inhaling smoke, and if the vent opened into the chimney pipe, the smoke wouldn’t make anyone react, not even now, when it was warm outside. People would assume that the new couple were burning rubbish in the fireplace and not think any more of it.
And it was perfectly feasible that the vent was connected to the chimney. That would explain why her cries couldn’t be heard.
What else then? Fire, air … water.
There was water in the bathroom. It came in via the pipes and disappeared down the drain. Could she flush down some kind of waterproof message in the hope that someone at the sewage works would notice it? She pictured the tampons, condoms and rubbish in a revolting sludge of shit and toilet paper. No one would be exactly tempted to look any closer.
Paper. What about if she blocked the toilet so it overflowed? They’d be forced to open the door then.
She heard a sound outside. A key being inserted in the lock of the metal door that separated her from the outside world.
She looked around, grabbed the broken chair leg and held it in front of her.
She was prepared.
The policeman who filed Mike’s report over the phone was calm and understanding. He asked, without causing embarrassment, whether Ylva had a history of being down or depressed, if she had disappeared before without getting in touch, whether Mike and Ylva had perhaps quarrelled or disagreed recently.
‘So when she left her colleagues
just after six, she said she was going home?’ he asked, when Mike had finished.
‘Yes.’
‘And she said to you that she was going out?’
‘She said that she might, but that nothing had been decided.’
‘And when was the last time you spoke?’
‘Yesterday morning, before she went to work.’
‘And her mobile has been switched off?’ the policeman probed.
Mike knew how it sounded. She’d spent the night with her lover. It had been wonderful and she didn’t want to break the spell, only to replace it with broken crockery and feelings of guilt.
‘Let me be frank,’ the policeman said. ‘We get calls like this more or less every day. And nearly always, the person reappears within twenty-four hours. Your wife has been missing for twenty hours now, so I suggest that if she hasn’t been in touch by the evening, you call me again. I’m here until nine.’
The policeman gave him a direct number.
‘One more thing,’ he added. ‘When she comes home, take it easy. Don’t do anything stupid.’
‘I won’t,’ Mike said, like an obedient schoolboy.
‘Remember that tomorrow is another day.’
‘Yes.’
Mike even nodded, standing there alone in the kitchen.
‘Good,’ the policeman said. ‘Then I hope that I won’t be hearing from you later. Take care. Goodbye.’
Mike put the receiver down and felt that he’d done the right thing. He’d phoned Nour, who had then phoned their friends and that slimeball of a restaurant owner. He’d contacted the hospital and now the police. There wasn’t anything else he could do.
Mike went out to his daughter in the sitting room. She looked at him.
‘When’s Mummy coming home?’
‘She’ll be here soon. Any minute, I reckon.’
‘Do you think she’s bought anything?’
‘What? No, I don’t think so.’
Mike turned to look at the TV and hoped that Sanna would do the same. He didn’t like her looking at him when he was weak.
The feeling that overwhelmed him now was guilt. His efficiency was swept to one side by a blast of regret. He’d run to the teacher and told tales. He could see Ylva’s accusing eyes.
One bloody night. Couldn’t she have one bloody night off and let her hair down? Without him getting hysterical and behaving like an idiot.
‘Do you want to build a tower?’
‘Lego,’ Sanna countered.
‘Okay, Lego.’
20
Violence / threat of violence
Violence and the threat of violence are constantly present in the victim’s life. A woman who continues to resist is subjected to violence. In those cases where the woman refuses to give in, the abuse can become so violent that it can lead to death.
The man smiled when he opened the door and saw Ylva holding the jagged chair leg up like a weapon in front of her. It wasn’t the reaction that Ylva had hoped for.
‘Let me go,’ she said.
She wished that her voice was stronger. The man closed the door.
‘I said LET ME GO!’
She sounded desperate now. The man didn’t answer. The door clicked shut behind him. Ylva thrust the chair leg around in front of her, threatening.
‘The key, give me the key!’
The man held the key ring out in front of him. He was finding it difficult to hide his amusement.
‘Drop it on the floor.’
The man did what Ylva told him.
‘Move away.’
She waved the chair leg at him.
‘The kitchen?’ he asked, and pointed towards the kitchenette.
Ylva realised that that wasn’t a good idea. There wasn’t enough distance to the door.
‘The bathroom,’ Ylva ordered, and backed away to give him room to pass.
He nodded and went in.
‘Close the door behind you.’
He obeyed.
‘And lock it,’ Ylva shouted.
He locked it. Ylva looked around for something to jam the door, but there wasn’t anything except the broken chair.
She bent down and picked up the key ring, without letting go of the chair leg. With shaking hands, she fumbled for the right key. There were two to choose from. Finally she managed to get the first one in, but couldn’t turn it. She pulled out the key, dropped the key ring, bent down and picked it up again.
The second key didn’t fit in the lock at all. She tried the first one again. Had just pushed it back into the lock when the bathroom door opened.
‘Do you need some help?’
Ylva spun round, holding the chair leg in front of her with outstretched arms.
The man came out of the bathroom, put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a single key.
‘Guess you’ve got the wrong ones,’ he said.
‘Give it to me!’
The man stepped back, smiled.
‘You’ll have to get it from me.’
Ylva went for him. She lifted her arms above her head and stormed towards him. He jumped nimbly up on to the bed.
‘This is fun,’ he said. ‘Just like when we were children.’
‘Let me out, you bastard.’
‘Of course. But first you have to get the key.’
He held it out, teasing her. Ylva got up on to the bed, the man stayed where he was.
‘Give it to me.’
‘Here, take it.’
‘Put it down,’ Ylva ordered. ‘Put the key down now.’
‘Take it.’
‘I’ll hit you.’
‘Come on then, take the key.’
Ylva swung the chair leg and hit him and gashed open his hand. He looked at the thin line that was now filling with blood.
‘That hurt,’ he said, and put the wound to his mouth and sucked.
‘I’ll hit you again,’ Ylva screamed. ‘I will. Give me the key. Now!’
The man stopped sucking. The amused look on his face had been replaced by anger.
‘Okay, that’s enough.’
He reached out to try to get the chair leg from Ylva. She hit him again, he grabbed her arm and blocked the movement. With his other hand, he wrestled the chair leg out of Ylva’s grasp and threw it to one side, then forced her face down on to the bed.
‘I’m going to have to teach you some fucking manners.’
He straddled her thighs and pulled down her jeans without undoing the buttons and started to spank her on the bottom. He hit her until she was red before pulling down her trousers completely and thrusting his hand into her vagina.
She heard him unbutton his own jeans.
Mike built up the Lego pieces along the edges of the base plate. Sanna was critical of his work.
‘Aren’t you going to have windows?’
‘I can’t find any.’
‘You could just leave an opening. You can’t get bored if there’s a window.’
Mike looked at his little grown-up daughter. She noticed it.
‘That’s what the teacher says,’ she explained. ‘It’s a saying or something.’
How like that hideous old witch, Mike thought to himself. She’s not ashamed to ask the children what their parents do or what kind of car they’ve got. Mike had his own cynical version of the saying his daughter had just shared with him: An ugly view is always ugly, a beautiful one only interesting for ten minutes.
It was not an attitude to life that he wanted to hand down to Sanna.
‘You’re right,’ he said, and removed some bricks. ‘If you’ve got a window, you won’t ever be bored.’
‘And doors,’ Sanna said. ‘Otherwise you can’t get in.’
‘Or out,’ Mike said.
‘But you have to go in first.’
‘Right again.’
Mike looked at the clock. Quarter to six.
‘Is Mummy not coming home soon? I’m hungry.’
‘She’ll be here anytime now.’
Sanna
gave a long sigh.
‘We can get a pizza,’ Mike suggested, and immediately felt a pang of remorse.
A burger and pizza on the same day, both as good as cake in terms of nourishment. Mike didn’t care, things being what they were. It wasn’t a day like any other.
He got up. His body was stiff. He didn’t know if it was because he was tense or because he’d spent an hour and a half on the floor playing with Lego.
He went out into the kitchen. The pizza menu was stuck to the fridge with a magnet, a last resort on bad days when imagination and motivation were lacking.
‘Cheese and ham?’
‘The usual.’
Mike phoned and ordered.
‘If we go straight away, we can buy some Saturday treats.’
Sanna scrambled to her feet.
‘Can we get a film as well?’
‘If we’re quick. It would be a shame if the pizza got cold.’
Mike said that to be on the safe side. Sanna chose her films as if world peace depended on it. Even then, nine times out of ten, it was one she’d already seen. The comfort of familiarity.
21
Deprecation
Victims are constantly given negative feedback and brainwashed into believing that they lack human worth. The woman is scorned and denigrated, told that she is disgusting, a dirty whore, and that her body is only good for one thing. By means of verbal and physical abuse, the victim is robbed of the right to her own thoughts and body.
‘Twice in less than twenty-four hours. We’re practically a couple.’
Ylva wept silently, lying on her side, cheek to the covers, staring at the wall.
‘And you were wet.’
He stood and buttoned up his trousers.
‘I haven’t even seen your breasts yet.’
He slapped her lightly on the calf.
‘Turn over, I want to see your breasts.’
Ylva just lay there and didn’t move. The man knelt one leg back down on the bed, grabbed her hip and turned her over.
‘Your breasts. Don’t make this any harder on yourself. You think I haven’t seen breasts before?’
Ylva lifted up her top, turned her face away.
