High Risk

by Simona Ahrnstedt

  Tom sipped his coffee.

  Yes, he could definitely feel a real sense of satisfaction at the thought of throwing Mattias Ceder out into the woods if he said anything too annoying. He placed his hand on the table and gave Ceder a cold look. He would call it Plan B.

  Chapter 12

  Ambra screwed up her eyes, didn’t want to open them. If she lay perfectly still, maybe she could go back to sleep.

  She shouldn’t feel sorry for herself, she thought. Making a fool of herself really wasn’t the end of the world. Far worse things happened. Think of all the people with cancer. Or people fleeing war. Those who can’t escape the bombs or famine.

  She started to sweat. Swallowed and swallowed until she couldn’t hold back any longer, rushed into the bathroom, and just managed to fling open the lid before she threw up, hunched over the toilet.

  Afterward she sank to the cold stone floor.

  Even if there really, really were much worse things to care about, anxiety washed over her. Ugh, she didn’t want to be herself right now.

  She rubbed her forehead, sniffed, and slowly got up. Everything went dark, and she had to grab the sink to stay upright. She waited it out and then drank water straight from the faucet. She avoided looking at her reflection as she hurried back to the bed.

  She would visit Elsa again that afternoon. She hoped she would feel better by then. Jesus, she couldn’t remember when she was last so hungover she couldn’t work. Never, in all likelihood.

  Ambra pulled the covers over her head and tried to think of more things that were worse than being turned down by a man outside your hotel room at Christmas, but she couldn’t. The kiss. Oh, God, that kiss. Tom knew how to kiss, which just made everything worse. She groaned beneath the covers. In a few days’ time, she would probably have forgotten the whole thing, but right now she wished—intensely, in fact—that she could turn back the clock and start over. She would spend Christmas Eve alone, in her room, and never start up a conversation with Tom Lexington at the bar. Never feel attraction or desire, never imagine she could see the same thing in his eyes.

  She threw back the covers. She needed fresh air. And some painkillers. She knew, deep down, that what had happened wouldn’t make the slightest difference in the long run. She would probably never see Tom again. He wasn’t important. And, at some point in the future, she would probably meet a man who didn’t find her so repulsive that he said no when she came on to him, pressed herself against him. Intellectually, she knew all this, but sadly her intellect wasn’t exactly in control right now; regret and shame had free reign. She rubbed her eyes. Yesterday’s mascara crumbled beneath her fingers, and she had slept in the same clothes she had been wearing all day. So, the plan was to take a shower, find some painkillers, drink a gallon of coffee, and then prepare for her interview. And, very important: forget everything to do with Tom Lexington.

  Her cell phone was almost dead, so she staggered to her feet again; found the charging cable; checked Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and her e-mail; concluded that World War III hadn’t broken out while she slept; and lay down on the bed as another wave of nausea washed over her. She would go straight from the interview to the airport and head home. God, she couldn’t wait to leave Kiruna and get back to Stockholm. She had managed to find a seat on one of the overbooked planes, and she made a promise to herself, there and then, that she would never come back here. They would have to fire her. Her job meant everything to her, and she was willing to step up and do most of what they asked, but there was a limit to how low she could sink, and as far as she was concerned, she had reached that level yesterday.

  She feebly waited for the next wave of nausea. The minute it passed, she dragged herself into the shower, rinsed off the makeup and dirt, and washed her hair. She felt slightly better after she found some clean clothes, and when she made it down to breakfast without bumping into Tom (the horror!), she decided she might survive the day after all. She would do the interview with Elsa and then leave this godforsaken town.

  With a mug of steaming coffee beside her, she opened her laptop. It took a while to get started, but she managed to come up with a few more interview questions and skim through her notes. After a second cup of coffee and a sandwich, she felt marginally recovered. As the breakfast buffet was cleared away, her anxiety abated, and she started feeling like a person again.

  Yes, her job was her very best friend.

  * * *

  At ten-thirty Ambra took two more painkillers, hoped her stomach and liver would cope, packed her toiletries and the last of her clothes, checked that she hadn’t forgotten anything, then zipped up her bag. She was meeting Elsa at three, and her flight home was at eight. Since she had a little time to kill, she decided to take a walk to help with her hangover. The last thing she did was to pull on her hat, scarf, and gloves; zip up her coat; check out; and leave the hotel through the revolving doors.

  It was Christmas Day, and the snow-covered streets were completely deserted. Every store she passed was closed; not even the hot dog kiosk down by the bus station was open. She slipped on the snow. A lone kicksled sped past, and she saw someone walking a dog, but otherwise the town was empty. Christmas Day in Sweden was the dullest day of the year. Yet her headache started to disappear, and the cold air felt invigorating. She struggled up a hill, looked in through a store window, shivered a little. It would be good to get home this evening.

  But she needed to see Elsa before that. She hoped the old lady would be in a talkative mood and that it would lead to a great article. She promised herself to make the story about the sex camps as dignified as she could.

  She turned onto yet another deserted street and passed Elsa’s pink building, but it was far too early to knock, and so she continued her walk.

  With its eighteen thousand inhabitants, Kiruna was a small town, and she had already been up and down most of its streets. She cut across a parking lot, making her way away from the town center. She was starting to feel warmer now.

  Suddenly, she caught sight of the big, red church up on the hill. It was one of the town’s main landmarks, but she had been avoiding it. Did she dare go up there? The outside of the church was illuminated, and there were lots of people heading up the slope. Ambra hesitated, but then she slowly followed the stream of people. She stopped at a notice board for upcoming events. A Finnish preacher would be appearing, a midnight mass would take place, a . . . Suddenly, a movement, a feeling, or maybe it was a sound, caught her attention. She slowly turned her head. The hair on her arms stood on end, and her mouth went dry. She barely dared look, afraid to be recognized. Was she mistaken?

  But no, she wasn’t, not this time. There he was. In the flesh. It wasn’t a figment of her imagination, it was the real Esaias Sventin. She felt dizzy, as though she’d stood up too quickly. He passed so close to her that she could almost make out his nauseating scent, but he didn’t notice her. It was him, though. And close behind him was Rakel Sventin, his wife, with her plait and headscarf and everything.

  Her skin prickled. It was them. So, the church still made its premises available to them. The Laestadian sect. The madmen. It was a scandal. They shouldn’t be allowed to set foot within the Swedish church, much less to preach there.

  Ambra was about to turn around, wanting nothing more to do with them, wanting only to run, when she noticed something she hadn’t seen at first, due to the number of people. Esaias and Rakel weren’t alone. There were two children between them. She watched them go. Who were they? Grandchildren? They couldn’t be foster children, could they? Somehow she’d always assumed that they’d never taken in any more foster children after her. It was always so obvious that they hated her. And they were too old now, weren’t they? Hesitantly, she followed them. She still had almost an hour before her meeting with Elsa.

  There was no music coming from the church, but that didn’t surprise her. Music was a sin. She stood there. Watched the Sventins enter the church, the two children between them. They seemed to be girls. May
be around ten years old.

  * * *

  Ambra herself was ten when Esaias and Rakel took her to church for the first time. It was her first real church service. At most, she had been to a handful of school events in modern churches, full of pale wood, vases of summer flowers, and songs by Astrid Lindgren on the piano. Always alone, of course. At all the end-of-school events, Lucia processions, and parents’ meetings. This church was red on the outside but dark and black on the inside. Low, mumbling voices rose toward the ceiling. Old people sitting on the pews, black Bibles in their hands. Only the men spoke in Laestadian churches, only the men preached. And once the preacher had been talking for what felt like an eternity, Ambra squirmed on the hard bench. Her feet didn’t reach the ground, and the backs of her thighs hurt.

  “Sit still,” Esaias whispered threateningly.

  She sat as still as she could. But she had pins and needles in her legs. And the people were so strange. When she glanced to one side, the woman next to her was crying silently.

  The preacher’s words were strange too. Strumpets. Temptations. Demons. Sinners. A man in the front row suddenly got to his feet, and words that sounded like they belonged to another planet began pouring from his mouth. Ambra stared. More people started crying. They hadn’t eaten before they came, and she was so hungry. She squirmed.

  “Sit still!”

  She really did try. But one leg had gone to sleep, and it hurt. She tried to raise her leg.

  Esaias grabbed her arm so hard that she gasped. He placed one of his big hands over her mouth to silence her. It stank.

  “It’s the devil in you. Sit still, I said,” and he grabbed her cheek instead, pinched so hard that her eyes grew dark. The tears started to flow, but Ambra didn’t dare move an inch. She endured the pain, sat completely still until Esaias let go of her.

  When the service finally ended and they went home, the others sat down at the table.

  “You can watch. You’ll get your punishment after dinner.”

  She stood there and watched them eat, waiting for her punishment. Foster parents had hit her before. One foster mom pulled her hair, another pinched her. She was often pushed around by older children, relatives, or others who simply allowed themselves to take their anger out on someone who couldn’t defend herself. But Esaias hit her. Beat her with a cane on her back and behind.

  He would breathe heavily afterward, as though it was hard work hitting a child only a fifth of his size. “Go to bed,” he commanded. But her bed was wet. Someone had poured water into it. She didn’t dare say anything, just climbed in. She had been hit before, heard evil things, but she had never been punished in this calculating, systematic way. And that evening was only the beginning.

  * * *

  Ambra watched the church doors close behind the couple and the girls, and she stopped below the steps, uncertain what she should do, overwhelmed by the sight of them, almost panic-stricken. What was awaiting those two children inside?

  “Is everything okay?” she heard a kind voice ask. She turned and saw a woman around her age, with long blond hair under a hat with light fur covering her ears. White overalls, white fur boots. She looked like a winter angel.

  “Yes, thanks,” Ambra replied hesitantly.

  The woman smiled. “You groaned,” she said as an explanation, and a white ball of a dog suddenly appeared next to them. The woman was holding the leash in her hand, Ambra saw now. And she seemed completely normal. Not like one of the Laestadian madmen but like a normal Kiruna resident with a soft, Norrland dialect and the healthy appearance of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors and knows how to dress for the weather.

  Ambra nodded firmly. “I’m fine. Just a little hungover,” she added, pulling a face.

  The woman laughed. “You’re not from around here, are you? Can hear it when you talk.”

  “I’m a journalist. I’m here on a job.”

  “Are you the one talking with Elsa? My mom heard it from one of her friends. Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m actually going to see her now.”

  “Let me know if you need help with anything up here,” the woman said cheerily. She took off one glove and held out her hand. “My name’s Ellinor Bergman.”

  * * *

  “Come in, dear,” Elsa said when Ambra knocked on her door at three on the dot. They went into the living room again. Ambra sat down in the same chair and breathed out, still jumpy at having seen the Sventins.

  “How are you?” Elsa asked with a concerned look.

  Ambra shrugged noncommittally. “Did you think about what we discussed?”

  “There’s a lot to consider,” Elsa said. “I’ve lived here my entire life, I was twenty-one when the second world war ended. I’d long been thinking about creating a retreat up here, long before anyone even knew what a retreat was. It was a huge success even during its first year. The prime minister came to the very first one, in 1958.”

  “Did you fall in love?” Ambra asked. This really was an entire lifetime ago.

  Elsa shook her head. “Not in love, exactly. At least I didn’t. But he was charming, and one thing led to another, as they say. I got pregnant. I wasn’t very young, particularly not by those days’ standards, and I so dearly wanted to keep the child. By then, Ingrid was already in my life. We were terribly in love. All that love when I was approaching forty.”

  “Were you ever interested in women before?”

  “No. I knew that lesbians existed, of course, but I never thought along those lines. Meeting Ingrid was like a miracle. And in many ways, Olof became our child, mine and Ingrid’s. He grew up without a father, but he was surrounded by warmth and love all the same. Times were so different then, it’s almost impossible to imagine today. More judgmental, but also simpler, freer.”

  “Sounds almost idyllic.”

  “It was a blessing to be able to experience it. I’m so grateful. Ingrid always dreamed of being an artist, and with me she was able to do that. We could afford to live how we wanted to. For a while, everyone came here. Not just film stars and celebrities, but many others seeking sanctuary. Rumor spread that this was somewhere they could be in peace, be themselves. Homosexuals. People with questions about their gender identity, their sexuality. Gradually, we moved over to mindfulness and art courses, less sex.” Elsa clutched the cross she wore around her neck before she continued. “Ingrid’s family were Laestadians, just like the family you lived with. It was difficult for her, because when she chose me she was completely driven out, as though she had stopped existing. If we were out walking and saw her family, they pretended not to see her. It was terrible. We had to fight for our love on all fronts.”

  “But Elsa, that’s why you should talk,” said Ambra. She was moved by the story and knew that both Grace and their readers would love it. “Your story is so much about our equal worth as humans, about love, and tolerance.”

  “And celebrities.” Elsa smiled.

  “That too. And I’m not going to lie, celebrities sell papers, and I definitely want to write about your camp, your retreats, and what you did there, but I want to write about the rest of it too. It’s a beautiful story. Unique and universal at the same time. We need this.”

  Elsa seemed hesitant. “I don’t know . . .”

  “What do you think Ingrid would have wanted?” Ambra asked.

  “She was very private, but she was also brave in many ways. You remind me of her, actually.” Elsa smiled, and Ambra knew she had managed to convince Elsa. A surge of triumph rushed through her.

  The doorbell rang. “That’s probably Tareq,” Ambra said. “I’ll get it.”

  “My mind is made up,” Elsa called after her. “You’re right. I’ll do it. For Ingrid’s sake.”

  * * *

  “The thing about tantric sex, it’s hugely overrated, if you ask me,” Elsa said as she slurped her coffee through a sugar lump. “It was really just something fun we tried one year. But most people found it boring, so we moved on.”

  Am
bra smiled. Elsa was fantastic. Once she’d made up her mind, she really was telling them everything.

  “What did you do instead?” she asked.

  “Some of the women who came here had never had an orgasm, so we ran an orgasm school. This was before YouTube—there are videos online now, of course.”

  “Of course,” Ambra mumbled. She glanced at Tareq, who was filming behind her. He nodded calmly; he was catching it all. To be on the safe side, Ambra was also recording Elsa on her phone. She already had several great quotes.

  “Just between us, there was quite a lot of smoking, too, but only marijuana. A little grass, that was all, never hurt anyone.”

  Ambra said nothing, just glanced at Tareq from one side again. They would probably have to cut out some of the weed-smoking parts, but otherwise it was perfect.

  “Elsa, this is going to be great,” Tareq eventually said. “Ambra, you happy?”

  Ambra nodded, and Tareq started to pack up his equipment while Elsa went out into the kitchen. Tareq was sweet, Ambra absentmindedly thought as she watched his long, deft fingers on the equipment. Handsome and young, wiry and strong, like many of the best photographers were. They were strong from hauling their equipment around all the time. And he was kind. She should have flirted with him instead.

  He looked up and smiled. “Hey, a few of us are going out tonight. Come along if you want,” he said, getting up and swinging his bag onto his shoulder.

  “That would have been great,” she said honestly. “But I’m flying back tonight.”

  “Okay. I’ll be in touch once I check the film. But this is going to be great. Good work.”

  * * *

  “Nice boy,” Elsa said once Tareq left.

  Ambra closed her notepad. She had enough now. Grace would be happy. “How does it feel?”

  “It was good to have you here. Partly because of the interview, but also to meet you. Are you sure you’re all right? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  So, Elsa had noticed she wasn’t herself. Ambra smiled reassuringly. “Yeah. I’ll send your quotations so you can check them over,” was all she said.