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‘But you’ll do it, won’t you?’ Erica persisted.
Patrik nodded as he started cutting up vegetables for dinner.
‘Sure, of course I will. But it would be easier if Christian were cooperating. Then I could have a look at the other letters too.’
‘So talk to him about it. Maybe you can persuade him.’
‘Then he’ll realize that you’re the one who told me about it.’
‘And I’ve hung him out to dry in one of Sweden’s biggest newspapers, so you’d better watch out, because he’s probably still wishing that I’d go to hell.’
‘It won’t be that bad.’
‘If I were in his shoes, I’d never speak to me again.’
‘Stop being so dramatic and pessimistic,’ said Patrik, lifting Maja on to the counter so she could sit there and see what he was doing. She loved to watch him cook and always wanted to ‘help out’. ‘Go over to see him tomorrow and explain what happened. Tell him it was never your intention for things to get out like this. Then I’ll have a talk with him and try to get him to cooperate with us.’ He handed Maja a slice of cucumber, which she instantly started gnawing on, using the few but very sharp teeth she had.
‘Tomorrow? Okay,’ sighed Erica.
‘Yes, tomorrow,’ said Patrik, bending down to give his wife a kiss on the lips.
Ludvig found himself constantly casting glances at the side of the football pitch. It just wasn’t the same without his father.
He had been to every practice session, no matter what the weather. Football was their thing. It was the reason their friendship had lasted, in spite of Ludvig’s determination to break free of his parents. Because they had actually been friends, he and his father. Of course they’d quarrelled now and then, just like all fathers and sons. But in spite of it, they had still remained friends.
Ludvig closed his eyes, picturing his father in his mind. Wearing jeans and a woollen sweater with ‘Fjällbacka’ across the chest. It was the sweater he’d worn so often, to his wife’s regret. His hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the ball. And on Ludvig. But he never yelled at his son – not like the other fathers who turned up at practice and football matches, spending their time screaming from the sidelines. ‘You better bloody well pull yourself together, Oscar!’ or ‘Damn it, get moving, Danne!’ Nothing like that. Not from his father. All he ever said was: ‘Good, Ludvig!’ ‘Great pass!’ ‘You show them, Ludde!’
Out of the corner of his eye Ludvig saw that the ball was about to be passed to him, and he automatically kicked it onward. He no longer took any joy in playing football. But he still did his best, running hard and fighting to win in spite of the winter chill. He could have easily thrown in the towel and given up. Stayed away from practice, saying to hell with it and the whole team. No one would have blamed him; everyone would have understood. Except his father. Giving up had never been an option for him.
So here Ludvig was. One of the team. But all his joy was missing, and the sideline was empty. His father was gone. He knew that now. Father was gone.
6
He wasn’t allowed to ride in the caravan. And that was only the first of many disappointments during the so-called holiday. Nothing turned out the way he had hoped. The silence, broken only by harsh words, seemed even more oppressive when it didn’t have a whole house to move around in. Being on holiday felt like having more time for quarrels, more time for Mother’s outbursts. And Father seemed even smaller and greyer.
This was the first time he went along, but as he understood it, every year Mother and Father would take the caravan to the place with the peculiar name. Fjällbacka. The name meant ‘Mountain Hill’ in Swedish, but he saw no mountains and only a few hills. The ground was completely flat in the camping area where they parked the caravan, squeezed in among scores of other campers. He wasn’t sure that he liked it. But Father had explained that Mother’s family was from the area, and that was why she wanted to go there.
But that was strange too, because he didn’t meet any relatives. During one of the arguments inside the cramped space of the caravan, he finally understood that someone called the Old Bitch lived here, and that she was what his mother meant by ‘family’. What a funny name that was. The Old Bitch. But it didn’t sound as if his mother cared much for her, because her voice got even harsher when she talked about the woman, and they never did see her. So why did they have to come to this place at all?
Yet what he hated most about Fjällbacka and being on holiday was having to go swimming. He’d never swum in the sea before. At first he wasn’t sure what to think. But his mother admonished him. Said she refused to have a wimp for a son, and she told him to stop whining. So he took a deep breath and timidly waded into the frigid water, even though the feeling of cold and salt on his legs made him gasp for air. When the water reached up to his waist, he stopped. It was too cold, he couldn’t breathe. And he could feel something moving around his feet, touching the calves of his legs, something creeping and crawling over him. Mother waded out to him from shore, laughing, and then took his hand to lead him further out. All of a sudden he felt happy. She was holding his hand, and her laughter bounced off the surface of the water and off of him too. His feet now seemed to move of their own accord, as if they left the sandy bottom and were floating. At last he couldn’t feel anything solid under his feet, but that didn’t matter, because Mother had hold of him, she was carrying him, she loved him.
Then she let go. He felt the palm of her hand slide over his, then her fingers slipped past his fingertips until not only his feet but his hands were fumbling with nothingness. Again he felt the cold pressing against his chest, and the water seemed to rise up. It reached his shoulders, his neck, and he raised his chin to prevent the water from reaching his mouth, but it rose too fast, and he couldn’t stop it. His mouth filled with salt and cold, which raced down his throat, and the water kept rising – over his cheeks, his eyes, and he felt the water close like a lid over his head, until all sound vanished and the only thing he heard was the roar of what was crawling and creeping.
He flailed his arms, lashing out at whatever it was that wanted to pull him downward. But he was no match for the massive wave of water, and when he finally felt someone’s skin against his own, a hand on his arm, his first instinct was to defend himself. Then he was yanked upward, and the top of his head surfaced. The first breath was brutal and painful, then he greedily gasped for air. Mother had a tight grip on his arm, but that didn’t matter. Because the water was no longer trying to get him.
He looked up at her, grateful that she had rescued him, that she hadn’t let him disappear. But what he saw in her eyes was contempt. Somehow he’d done something wrong, he had disappointed her again. If only he knew why.
He had black and blue marks on his arm for days afterward.
‘Did you really have to drag me over here today?’ It was rare for Kenneth to let his annoyance show. He believed in staying calm and focused in every situation. But Lisbet had looked so sad when he told her that Erik had phoned and he’d have to go over to the office for a couple of hours even though it was Sunday. She hadn’t complained, and in a sense, that just made it worse. She knew how few hours they had left together. How important they were, how precious. And yet she offered no objections. Instead, he saw how she summoned the strength to be able to smile and say: ‘Of course you have to go. I’ll be fine.’
He almost wished that she had got angry and screamed at him. Told him that it was about time for him to get his priorities straight. But she didn’t have it in her to do anything like that. He couldn’t recall a single occasion in their twenty-year marriage when she had raised her voice to him. Or to anyone else, for that matter. She had accepted all setbacks and sorrows with equanimity, and she’d even comforted him when he was the one to break down. Whenever he lacked the energy to carry on, she had mustered enough strength for both of them.
Now he’d left her at home because he needed to go to work. He was going to waste a few precious hours they could have spent together, and he hated himself because he always came running whenever Erik snapped his fingers. He couldn’t understand why. It was a pattern that had been established so early on that by now it was practically part of his personality. And Lisbet was always the one who had to suffer for it.
Erik didn’t even bother to answer his question. He just kept staring at the computer screen, as if he were in another world.
‘Was it really necessary for me to come in today?’ Kenneth repeated. ‘On a Sunday? Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?’
Erik slowly turned to face Kenneth.
‘I have the utmost respect for your personal situation,’ he said at last. ‘But if we don’t take care of all the arrangements before the bidding this week, we might as well pack up the whole company. We all have to make sacrifices.’
Kenneth silently wondered what sort of sacrifices Erik ever made. And nothing was as dire as Erik was predicting. He could have easily put together the documents on Monday. His claim that the company was on the verge of ruin was pure exaggeration. Most likely Erik merely needed a pretext to get out of the house. But why had he felt compelled to drag Kenneth over here too? The answer was obvious: because he could.
Then they each returned to their respective tasks and worked in silence for a while. The office consisted of one large room, so there was no possibility of closing a door for some privacy. Kenneth cast a surreptitious glance at Erik. There was something different about him. It was hard to pinpoint, but Erik looked somehow less distinct, more worn out. His hair was not as perfectly combed as usual, and his shirt was slightly wrinkled. No, he was not himself today. Kenneth considered asking him if everything was okay at home, but he restrained himself. Instead he said as calmly as he could:
‘Did you see the news about Christian yesterday?’
Erik gave a start. ‘Yes.’
‘How terrible. To be threatened like that by some nutcase,’ said Kenneth, his tone of voice casual, almost easygoing. But his heart was pounding hard.
‘Hmm …’ Erik kept his eyes on the computer screen. But he didn’t touch the keyboard or the mouse.
‘Did Christian mention anything about that to you?’ It was like trying to make himself stop picking at a scab. He didn’t want to talk about this topic, and Erik clearly didn’t want to discuss it either. Yet Kenneth couldn’t stop himself. ‘Did he?’
‘No, he never told me about any sort of threats,’ said Erik, beginning to sort through the documents on his desk. ‘But he’s been really preoccupied with his book, so we haven’t seen much of each other lately. And I suppose most people would prefer to keep something like that to themselves.’
‘Shouldn’t he talk to the police about it?’
‘How do you know that Christian hasn’t already done that?’ Erik continued aimlessly riffling through the piles of documents.
‘True. That’s very true …’ Kenneth subsided into silence for a moment. ‘But what could the police do if the letters were anonymous? I mean, they could have come from any lunatic.’
‘How would I know?’ said Erik, swearing as he got a paper cut. ‘Shit!’ He sucked on the injured finger.
‘Do you think the threats are serious?’
Erik sighed. ‘Why do we have to speculate about all this? I told you, I have no idea.’ His voice rose slightly, quavering on the last words. Kenneth looked at him in surprise. Erik really was not himself. Did it have something to do with the company?
Kenneth had never trusted Erik. Had he done something stupid? He instantly dismissed the idea. He was much too familiar with the firm’s accounts; he would have noticed if Erik had decided to make any crazy moves financially. It was probably something to do with Louise. It was a mystery how those two had managed to stay together for so long. Everyone except Erik and Louise could see that the couple would do themselves a big favour if they said goodbye and went their separate ways. But it wasn’t Kenneth’s place to point this out. He had enough worries of his own.
‘I was just wondering,’ said Kenneth.
He clicked open the Excel file with the latest monthly statements. But his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
The dress still smelled of her. Christian pressed it to his nose, inhaling the microscopic traces of her perfume that were embedded in the fabric. Whenever he fell asleep with the scent in his nostrils, he could picture her quite clearly in his mind. The dark hair that reached to her waist and which she usually wore in a plait or gathered in a bun at the back of her neck. It could have looked old-fashioned or even spinsterish, but not on her.
She had moved like a dancer, although she had abandoned her career as a dancer long ago. She claimed that she hadn’t been ambitious enough. Not because of lack of talent, but she hadn’t had the determination required always to put dance first, to sacrifice love and time and laughter and friends. She had loved life too much.
So she’d stopped dancing. But when they met, and right up until the end, she’d still had the lithe rhythm of a dancer in her body. He could sit and stare at her for hours. Watch her walking around the house, cleaning up and humming while her feet moved so gracefully that she looked like she was floating.
Again he pressed the dress to his face. How refreshing and cool the fabric felt against his feverishly hot skin, catching on the unshaven stubble of his cheek. The last time she had worn the dress was on Midsummer Eve. The blue of the dress had mirrored the colour of her eyes, and the dark plait hanging down her back had gleamed as brightly as the lustrous fabric.
It was a fabulous evening. One of the few Midsummers that had offered glorious sunshine, and they’d sat outside in the yard, eating herring and boiled new potatoes. They had cooked the meal together. The baby was lying in the pram, with the mosquito netting firmly in place so that no insects could get in. The child was well protected.
The baby’s name fluttered past, and he gave a start, as if he’d jabbed his hand on something sharp. He forced himself to think about the frosty beer glasses and the friends who had raised those glasses in a toast, in honour of summer and love and the two of them. He thought about the strawberries that she brought out in a big bowl. Remembered how she had sat at the kitchen table, cleaning them, and how he had teased her because of the mess she’d made and the fact that every third or fourth strawberry had ended up in her mouth instead of in the bowl. The serving bowl that would later be presented to their guests, along with whipped cream topped with a sprinkling of sugar, just the way she’d been taught by her grandmother. She’d responded to his teasing with a laugh, then pulled him close and kissed him with lips that tasted of ripe berries.
He began to sob as he sat there holding the dress in his hands. He couldn’t help it. Little dark spots appeared on the material from his tears, which he quickly wiped away on the sleeve of his shirt, not wanting to soil the dress, refusing to ruin what little he had left.
Christian carefully put the dress back in the suitcase. It was all that remained of them. The only thing he could bear to keep. He closed up the suitcase and pushed it back in the corner. He didn’t want Sanna to find it. His stomach turned over at the mere thought of her opening it, looking inside, and touching the dress. He knew it was wrong, but he had chosen Sanna for only one reason: the fact that she was completely different in appearance. She didn’t have lips that tasted of strawberries, and she didn’t move like a dancer.
But it turned out not to be enough. The past had still caught up with him. Just as malevolently as it had caught up with her, wearing that blue dress. And now he could see no way out.
‘Could you watch Leo for a while?’ Paula was looking at her mother, Rita, but then she cast an even more hopeful glance at Mellberg. Soon after their son’s birth, both she and Johanna had realized that Rita’s new boyfriend was the perfect babysitter. Mellberg was totally incapable of saying no.
‘Well, we were actually about to …’ Rita began, but Mellberg jumped in and said eagerly:
‘No problem. We’ll be happy to take care of the little fellow. The two of you should just go off and do whatever you were planning to do.’
Rita sighed in resignation, but she couldn’t resist casting a look of appreciation at this man – a diamond in the rough, and that was putting it mildly – whom she’d chosen to live with. She knew that many people regarded him as a boor, an unkempt and brash sort of man. But from the very beginning she’d seen other qualities in him, qualities that she as a woman should be able to encourage.
And she was right. Bertil Mellberg treated her like a queen. It was enough for Rita to see him looking at her grandson to know what hidden resources he possessed. His love for the infant was beyond comprehension. The only problem was that she had swiftly been demoted to second place, but she could live with that. Besides, she’d begun making progress with Bertil on the dance floor. He’d never be a salsa king, but she no longer had to make sure to wear shoes with steel toes.
‘If you wouldn’t mind taking care of him on your own for a while, maybe Mamma could come with us. We were thinking of driving out to Torp to buy a few things for Leo’s room.’
‘Hand him over,’ said Bertil enthusiastically, motioning at the baby lying in Paula’s arms. ‘We can manage for a couple of hours. A bottle or two when he gets hungry, and then a little quality time spent with Grandpa Bertil. What more could the boy ask for?’
Paula put her son in Mellberg’s arms. Good lord, what an odd couple those two made. But she couldn’t deny that there was a special connection between them. Even though, in her eyes, Bertil Mellberg was the worst boss she could imagine, he’d shown himself to be the world’s best grandfather.
‘So you’re sure you’ll be all right?’ asked Rita, a bit uneasy. Even though Bertil often helped out with Leo, his experience of caring for babies was limited, to say the least. His own son, Simon, was already a teenager by the time he made an appearance in Mellberg’s life.
‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Bertil, sounding offended. ‘Eat, shit, sleep. How hard could it be? I’ve been doing exactly the same things for almost sixty years.’ He more or less shoved the women out of the flat and then closed the door behind them. Now they’d have some peace and quiet, he and Leo.
Two hours later he was completely soaked with sweat. Leo was crying at the top of his lungs, and the smell of dirty nappies had settled over the living room like a fog. Grandpa Bertil was desperately trying to lull the baby to sleep, but Leo just cried louder and louder. Mellberg’s hair, which was usually combed over into a neat nest on top of his head, had tumbled down over his right ear, and he could feel the sweat spreading under his arms in patches as big as platters.
He was close to panicking, and he cast a sidelong glance at his mobile phone lying on the coffee table. Should he ring the girls? They were probably still in Torp, and it would take them a good forty-five minutes to drive home, even if they started out at once. And if he phoned for help, they might not dare leave him alone with their son again. No, he was going to have to find a way to cope on his own. He’d wrestled with quite a few ugly customers in his day. He’d also had to fire his weapon in the line of duty, and deal with demented junkies wielding knives. So he should be able to handle this situation. After all, Leo wasn’t any bigger than a loaf of bread, even though he had a voice loud enough for a grown man.
‘Okay, now, my boy, first we need to analyse the situation,’ said Mellberg, putting down the furious baby. ‘Let’s see. Looks like you’ve made a mess in your nappy. And you’re probably hungry. In other words, we’ve got a crisis at both ends. It’s just a matter of which one to prioritize.’ Mellberg was talking loudly, in order to drown out the screaming. ‘Okay, eating always comes first – at least, for me it does. So let’s find you a big bottle of formula.’
Bertil lifted Leo up and carried him into the kitchen. He’d been given detailed instructions on how to make the formula and, using the microwave, it took no time at all. He carefully tested the temperature by sucking a little from the bottle himself.
‘Hmmm, doesn’t really taste of much, my boy. But you’ll just have to wait for the good stuff until you’re a bit older.’
Leo screamed even louder at the sight of the bottle, so Bertil sat down at the kitchen table and nestled the infant in his left arm. When the nipple touched Leo’s lips, he began greedily sucking the formula into his stomach. He finished off the whole bottle in a flash, and Mellberg could feel the tiny body relaxing. But soon the boy began squirming again, and the odour was now so strong that Mellberg couldn’t stand it any longer. The only problem was that changing nappies wasn’t a task that he’d managed very successfully so far.
‘All right, now we’ve satisfied one end. Let’s go take care of the other,’ he said in a sprightly tone of voice that didn’t correspond in the slightest to his true feelings about the job.
Mellberg carried the whimpering Leo into the bathroom. He’d helped the girls fasten a changing table to the wall, and there he found everything he needed for Operation Dirty Nappy.
He placed the infant on the table and pulled off his pants, trying to breathe through his mouth, but it didn’t help much because the smell was so overwhelming. Mellberg loosened the tape on the nappy and just about fainted when the whole mess in all its stinky glory appeared before his eyes.
‘Dear Jesus,’ he muttered. He glanced around in desperation and caught sight of a package of wet wipes. When he reached for them, letting go of the baby’s legs, Leo took the opportunity to bury his feet in the dirty nappy.
‘No, no, don’t do that,’ said Mellberg, grabbing a whole fistful of wipes to dry off the baby’s bottom and feet. But all he managed to do was smear the shit around until he realized that he needed to remove the cause of the problem. He lifted Leo by his legs and coaxed out the nappy, which he then dropped into the rubbish bin standing on the floor, unable to stop the grimace that appeared on his face.
Having used up half the package of wipes, he finally saw a light at the end of the tunnel. The worst of the mess had been cleaned up, and Leo had calmed down. Mellberg carefully wiped away the last of it and took a new nappy from the shelf above the changing table.
‘All right then. We’re just about done here,’ he said with satisfaction as Leo kicked his legs, seeming pleased with the chance to air out his bare bottom. ‘I wonder which way this goes on.’ Mellberg twisted and turned the nappy, deciding at last that the little animal pictures must go in the back, like the label on a piece of clothing. It didn’t seem to fit very well, and the tape didn’t close properly. How could it be so hard to make a proper nappy? It was lucky that he was such an efficient person who regarded a problem as a challenge.
Mellberg lifted Leo up, carried him back to the kitchen, and held him against his shoulder as he rummaged in the bottom drawer under the counter. There he found what he was looking for. A roll of tape. He went into the living room, placed Leo on the sofa, and wrapped tape several times around the nappy. Then he sat back to admire his handiwork.
‘Okay now. The girls were worried that I wouldn’t be able to take care of you. What do you say, Leo? Don’t you think we’ve earned the right to take a little snooze?’
Bertil picked up the now well-taped baby and held him in his arms as he settled himself in a comfortable position on the sofa. Leo rooted around a bit before burrowing his face in the hollow of the police chief’s neck.
When the women in their lives came home half an hour later, they were both sound asleep.
‘Is Christian at home? Erica would have liked nothing better than to turn and run when Sanna opened the door. But Patrik was right. She had no choice.
‘Yes, but he’s up in the attic. I’ll call him.’ Sanna turned towards the stairs. ‘Christian! You have a visitor!’ she shouted and then looked again at Erica. ‘Come on in. He’ll be down in a minute.’
‘Thanks.’ Erica felt awkward standing there in the front hall next to Sanna, but soon they heard footsteps on the stairs. When Christian came into view, she noticed how worn out he looked, and the guilt she was feeling grew even worse.
‘Hi,’ he said, looking a bit puzzled to see her so soon, but he came to give her a hug.
‘There’s something I need to talk to you about,’ said Erica, feeling again an urge to turn on her heel and dash out the door.
‘Really? Well, come on in,’ said Christian, motioning towards the living room. She took off her coat and shoes and followed after him.
‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘No, thanks.’ She shook her head. All she wanted was to get this whole thing over with.
‘How did the book-signings go?’ she asked, sitting down at one end of the living-room sofa. She sank deep into the cushions.
‘Fine,’ said Christian in a tone of voice that did not invite further questions. ‘Did you see the newspaper yesterday?’ he asked instead. His face was a pallid grey in the winter light filtering through the window.
‘Yes, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ Erica paused to muster her courage to go on. One of the twins gave her a hard kick in the ribs, and she gasped.
‘Are the babies kicking?’
‘You can say that again.’ She took a deep breath and went on. ‘It’s my fault that the story got leaked to the press.’
‘What do you mean?’ Christian sat up straighter.
‘I wasn’t the one who tipped them off,’ she hurried to explain. ‘But I was stupid enough to mention it to the wrong person.’ She didn’t dare meet Christian’s eyes. Instead, she looked down at her hands.
