by Hans Koppel
Nour came over to the car and Mike opened the window on the passenger side. She bent down.
‘Hi, how’s things?’
He understood what she meant. They hadn’t been in touch since all the drama in connection with Ylva’s disappearance. Mike smiled at her.
‘Good, thanks, everything’s okay. Things feel much better, they really do.’
‘I’ve thought about calling you a thousand times, but just never done it,’ Nour said.
The car behind started to hoot. Mike glanced quickly in the rear-view mirror.
‘I’m obviously in the way.’
‘Where are you heading?’ Nour asked.
‘Work. And you?’
‘Same direction. Can I get in?’
‘Of course.’
Mike moved Sanna’s booster. Nour opened the door and jumped in. Mike slipped into gear, but the car behind had already changed lanes and overtaken him, lights flashing furiously. Mike lifted a hand in apology, but the driver just shook his head.
‘Urgent things,’ Nour said, ironically. ‘Really important things.’
38
The neon light on the ceiling flickered on and Ylva was woken by the sudden light. Her eyes were gungy and she felt feverish.
She didn’t know how long the electricity had been off, but possibly a couple of days. The milk in the fridge had turned sour and the only thing she had to eat was dry, sliced rye bread and a cheap tin of tuna.
She didn’t know why she was being punished. She had in fact anticipated some reward for her sexual services. She had done more than was expected of her and had really got into it. Gösta hadn’t complained about anything.
Ylva looked at the screen. It was light outside and Mike’s car wasn’t in the driveway. She guessed it was a weekday.
Two hard knocks on the door. Ylva stood up on shaky legs and put her hands on her head. She was dizzy and felt her body swaying. To pass the time on the dark days, she had lain under the covers and hummed children’s songs, over and over again up to ten thousand times, back and forth, and only stopped singing to go to the toilet.
Floor, walls, ceiling.
Now that the electricity was back on and she could follow the world outside via the TV screen, she was prepared to do almost anything to make sure it didn’t go dark again.
She heard the key turning. The door opened and Marianne came in. She had a length of wound-up rope in her hand and Ylva automatically started to back away.
Marianne came towards her and Ylva sank down on to the bed, bowed her head and hunched her shoulders.
‘Do you think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?’
Ylva looked up timidly without answering. The only words she was allowed to say without being told she could speak were thank you and sorry. And she had to say them wholeheartedly. If Marianne thought there was so much as the tiniest lack of sincerity, she would be punished.
‘It’s laughable,’ Marianne said. ‘You’re a worthless whore and you think you can come between me and my husband. Do you have no grip on reality? Do you really think that he wants you?’
She paused, looked at Ylva with the same exasperation a teacher might show when dealing with a particularly stupid child.
‘Do you honestly believe that anyone would want you? If we opened the door and let you go, what do you think would happen? Do you suppose Mike would take you back? When he finds out how shameless you’ve been in giving your body?’
Marianne sounded vaguely amused. Her derision was absolute because she knew she had total control. It was impossible for Ylva to contradict her. To even try answering back would be futile.
Marianne raised a hand. Ylva cowered instinctively.
‘Why would I hit you?’ she asked. ‘It’s not worth the effort.’
She threw the length of rope down on the bed and went back to the door. When she’d put the key in the lock, she turned round.
‘Did I say that your daughter was here? I bought a May Day flower from her. Gave her a bit extra. You might say that we’re friends now.’
She opened the door and went out.
‘South of Trädgårdsgatan,’ Mike exclaimed, and turned, his eyes wide open.
‘Scary?’ Nour said, and tasted the coffee.
‘Just a bit.’
‘You better believe it. I grew up round here.’
‘Impossible,’ Mike said. ‘One simply doesn’t live south of Trädgårdsgatan, it’s just not done.’
‘Where did you grow up then?’ Nour asked. ‘Tågaborg?’
‘Hittarp.’
‘Really?’
Mike nodded and smiled.
‘Back to the scene of the crime then, eh?’ Nour said, and immediately regretted her choice of words.
‘Suppose so,’ Mike answered, without taking offence.
‘Same house as well?’
‘Not quite that bad.’
‘Parallel street?’
Mike couldn’t help laughing. It burst out through his nose.
‘Almost,’ he said.
Nour nodded silently to herself.
‘I have a friend,’ she said, ‘who claims there are two ways of measuring a person’s success. I can’t remember what the first one is, but the second is the geographical distance between the place where you grew up and the place where you live now. The further the distance, the greater the success.’
‘Then I’m a total failure,’ Mike said. ‘Though, having said that, I did actually live in Stockholm for a few years and I was born in the States.’
‘A round of applause for you,’ Nour said. ‘And as soon as you had Sanna, it was home again?’
‘Not for Ylva. She was from Stockholm.’
Was …
The unconscious choice of tense hung in the air.
Nour studied Mike, who swallowed nervously. Eventually she gave him a friendly smile.
‘Do you think about her a lot?’
Mike pushed his cup into the middle of the table.
‘I don’t know what I think,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if my thoughts have words. How do you think? In pictures or words?’
Nour didn’t answer.
‘She flickers by,’ Mike said. ‘Sometimes she has opinions. Stands beside me and says that I should turn down the heat so as not to burn the food, urges me to put my hands on my hips and roll my eyes when Sanna chooses the wrong clothes. What do you call that?’
‘That she’s watching over you?’
Mike took a deep breath and released it with a sigh.
‘Whatever. Whatever the hell it is. Would you like to come for dinner?’
‘Dinner?’
Nour jumped. The question was so sudden.
‘If you’ve got a boyfriend, bring him with you,’ Mike said.
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Great. Friday?’
‘I mean, I’d love to come. But on my own. I don’t have a boyfriend …’
‘Or should we say Saturday instead? If the weather holds, we could have a barbecue.’
Nour laughed. Mike had no idea why.
‘What?’
‘Barbecues.’
‘Don’t you eat meat?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. It’s just the whole idea. It’s kind of, well, sweet.’
‘Meat?’
‘No, sweet. As in cute.’
‘What’s cute about a barbecue?’ Mike wondered.
‘Sweet, because it’s touching,’ Nour explained. ‘Men who think they can do things. Like omnipotent children. All by themselves.’
39
Denial of the self
In order to cope with the humiliation and constant assaults, the victim learns to distance herself from her own body. It is not her who is being exploited, it is someone else. The body becomes a shell that has nothing to do with her. This extreme form of self-loathing can in time become so intense that the woman never finds her way back to her true self.
There was a knock at the door and Ylva positioned herself where she wa
s visible and put her hands on her head.
The door opened and Gösta Lundin came in. He had a bag in his hand. Ylva tried to smile at him, but he glowered back at her.
‘You’re not wearing any make-up,’ he said, and closed the door behind him.
‘I’m sorry.’
Gösta pointed towards the bathroom and Ylva scurried in.
When she came out again, her lips were bright red and her eyes were smouldering. Gösta was standing beside the bed unbuttoning his shirt. He had already taken off his trousers and folded them on the edge of the bed.
‘Down on your knees.’
Ylva kneeled in front of him and took hold of his underpants with both hands and teased them down as she beamed up at him. He tired of her play-acting, lifted his cock and thrust it into her mouth.
‘Hands behind your back. Only your mouth. All the way in.’
Ylva clasped her hands behind her back and did as she was told. His cock swelled in her mouth and she wanted to pull back so she didn’t choke, but Gösta grabbed hold of her head and pulled her towards him.
Ylva coughed, nearly threw up and instinctively turned her head away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
Gösta pulled her up by the hair.
‘Hands behind your back,’ he reminded her when Ylva held on to the bed so it would be easier to get to her feet. ‘Kneel on the bed.’
Ylva turned round and did as he said. Gösta pushed her forward so she fell with her face down on the mattress, this time without moving her hands.
‘Keep your hands behind your back. All the time.’
When he was done, he shoved her to one side.
Ylva sat on the bed while he got dressed. The lipstick was gone, her eye shadow was smudged. It had been a long while since he’d been violent.
‘My wife says you’re getting sloppy.’
Ylva didn’t understand.
‘With the laundry,’ Gösta continued. ‘You only iron one side. That’s not good enough, you have to iron the inside too.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t know what you do all day. And there’s no feeling. I don’t want to use violence, but won’t hesitate to do it, if that’s what’s needed to get through to you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re starting to get ideas above your station. To think that you’re important. Well, you mean absolutely nothing.’
He looked at her.
‘Next time I expect you to take a bit of initiative.’
Gösta sighed and shook his head.
‘And to think that Marianne and I had actually been discussing whether we should let you come up to clean the house.’
Nour handed over the present. Sanna took it with both hands and great delight.
‘Can I open it?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ Nour said.
‘But it’s not my birthday.’
‘It doesn’t have to be your birthday.’
Sanna hurried out to the kitchen. Mike watched her go and then smiled at his guest. He gave her a cautious hug.
‘Welcome.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, and produced a bottle of wine from her bag.
Mike took it and looked at the label.
‘Not that expensive,’ Nour said, ‘but very good.’
‘I’m sure it’s good. Thank you. Can I take your coat?’
He hung up her coat and said she could keep her shoes on.
‘But they’re wet,’ Nour said.
‘No worries,’ Mike insisted.
‘Have you got a cleaner?’
‘You make it sound like a bad thing.’
Mike put his hand to his heart and pretended to be upset. Nour stared at him. He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.
‘What?’ Mike said, unnerved.
Nour shook her head.
‘That was the last thing I heard Ylva say,’ she said. ‘We were going on about her coming out for one drink, and she said she wanted to go home. Someone shouted, “Say hi to the family,” and she put her hand on her heart just like you did and said, “You make it sound like something bad.”’
They stood in silence for a while, both surprised by how potent the memory was. Mike swallowed nervously.
‘It’s my mum,’ he said, uncertain. ‘Who cleans, I mean. I like to think she does it out of love.’
‘She likes nothing more than to clean your house?’ Nour teased.
‘Who am I to deny her that pleasure?’ Mike returned.
They went into the kitchen. Nour took a piece of kitchen roll and quickly wiped her shoes.
‘I take it you’re not intending to barbecue.’
‘No, the weather certainly did change. So it’s lasagne. Vegetarian. Hope that’s okay?’
‘Sounds good to me. Did your mum make it?’
‘No, it was actually me …’
‘Daddy! It’s pens. And a drawing pad.’
Sanna held up her present.
‘Yes. I seem to remember that you’re very good at drawing,’ Nour said. ‘In fact, I still have your hippopotamus at work. Do you remember it?’
‘It wasn’t that good,’ Sanna said.
‘It’s super good,’ Nour told her. ‘I look at it every day.’
Mike poured some wine and passed her a glass.
‘Sanna, Coke?’
‘Not just now.’
She wanted to try her new pens first.
‘Well, cheers and welcome to our humble abode,’ Mike said, and raised his glass.
They tasted the wine.
‘Mm, lovely,’ Nour said.
Mike looked at his daughter and mouthed Thank you to Nour. She shook her head. It was nothing.
‘And thank you for coming,’ Mike said. ‘Sounds a bit silly, but that coffee with you the other day made my week. What does that actually mean – “made my week”?’
‘Enhanced?’ Nour suggested.
‘Yes. The coffee enhanced my week, it really did.’
Nour noticed that Mike’s eyelashes were wet. He turned round and looked in the oven. Nour pulled out a chair and sat down beside Sanna.
‘A cat?’
‘Horse,’ Sanna said.
‘Yes, right, now I see it.’
Nour looked up. Mike had turned towards the work top and was blowing his nose.
‘Hmm,’ he said, and threw the tissue in the bin. ‘I’m pretty pathetic really.’
He gave an embarrassed laugh.
‘And you have every right to be,’ Nour said.
40
‘Three of the four are dead,’ Jörgen Petersson said. ‘That can’t be a coincidence.’
Calle Collin didn’t manage to hold back a sceptical laugh.
‘You think there’s a connection?’ he chuckled. ‘Morgan died of cancer, Anders was found murdered up by Fjällgatan, and Johan died in a motorbike accident in Africa. Now please explain the connection to me.’
‘There’s connection and there’s connection,’ Jörgen said. ‘I see it more as proof that God exists.’
Calle held up his hand.
‘You shouldn’t say things like that, not even as a joke,’ he said.
‘But I mean it,’ Jörgen told him in all seriousness. ‘The world might not be better without them, but it certainly won’t be as bad.’
Calle looked at him sternly.
‘What did they do to you? How did they manage to leave such a mark that you can’t even sympathise that they’ve lost maybe forty years of their lives?’
‘Me?’ Jörgen said. ‘I kept out of the way as much as possible. But I still managed to get beaten up a couple of times. You could hardly say that they did any good. They terrorised everyone. The whole school bowed to their tyranny. I was terrified every time I had to go past them.’
‘I don’t remember it being like that.’
‘How do you remember it, then?’
Calle shrugged.
‘Last week I interviewed this guy who was paralysed from the wai
st down. He’d dived into shallow water and broken his neck. Eighteen years old. He was one of the most positive people I’ve ever met. I asked him whether he felt bitter about the fact that the accident happened to him. And do you know what he said? He said that there was no one else to blame, accidents like that usually happened to people who take risks, who expose themselves to unnecessary risks. He had only himself to blame, it wasn’t even extreme bad luck. You should meet him. He might teach you a thing or two.’
‘I’m sure,’ Jörgen said.
Calle snorted in contempt.
‘A wife and healthy children and pots of money. And you sit here whingeing about some idiotic losers who had their heyday in secondary school. And who are no longer with us. How many successful people do you know who were actually happy at school?’
‘You’re right,’ Jörgen said. ‘You’re so right.’
‘Of course I’m right.’
‘But Ylva’s still alive?’
‘I don’t know,’ Calle said. ‘Can’t say that we’re in daily contact. Haven’t seen her since we were at school. I think she married someone from Skåne, or something like that.’
‘Someone from Skåne?’ Jörgen repeated.
‘There you go,’ Calle said. ‘A fate worse than death.’
Jörgen stared blankly into space.
‘Stop it,’ Calle snapped. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
Jörgen didn’t understand.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Sitting there ruminating.’
‘I was just thinking—’
‘Well, don’t,’ Calle interrupted. ‘It won’t do you or anyone else any good.’
Jörgen waved his hand around and crossed his legs.
‘What you were saying,’ Jörgen continued, ‘about the boy who was paralysed, that it was self-inflicted …’
Calle wondered where he was going with this.
‘Maybe it was the same with the guys in the Gang of Four,’ Jörgen said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Morgan got cancer, probably due to an unhealthy lifestyle. Anders was murdered in central Stockholm, and we can only guess the reason for that. And Johan was killed in a motorbike accident in Zimbabwe, and probably wasn’t entirely sober at the time.’
