Dark Angel

She takes up so much space. I can always feel her presence, whether I like it or not. She’s been transformed into a thick pulp that has forced its way up inside me to settle in my throat. The only thing I want is to spit out that crap once and for all. To vomit her up. Make her leave my body, which she has invaded from the day I was born. It’s sick. I know it is.

Now I’m back with the person I’m talking to.

The window is slightly open. The sun is shining, and it’s warm outside.

‘The last time we met, you left rather abruptly. What happened?’

‘Sometimes I feel so filled with my so-called mother that I end up overflowing. Then I either have to throw up or take a shit, almost as if I’m a rubbish bin and she’s the rubbish.’

‘Can you describe what it feels like when that’s about to happen?’

‘Sometimes I just can’t stand the thought of her, and then it feels like something takes me over.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘As if my body takes control. It reacts on its own, takes on its own life, and it’s impossible to control. It’s a form of protest. As if it’s rebelling against the fact that she’s eating me up from the inside, like a fucking parasite. Taking up residence and getting bigger and bigger until one day she’ll be the death of me. Against my will, she’s the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last thing on my mind when I fall asleep. There’s nothing I can do about it, no matter how hard I try. She is always there, like my guilty conscience.’

‘How does that affect you?’

‘Well, all my life I’ve always felt guilty if I did anything fun on my own, without her.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The minute I decide to take a skiing holiday or go to a concert or do anything else fun, I hear her complaints about how she’s longing to do exactly the same thing. If only I could… Even when I had a family, I would feel guilty when we sat at the table with the candles lit, having a pleasant dinner. And I’d think to myself that I should have invited my mother. Not that it was particularly nice having her visit. I remember when Daniel was a newborn and we had moved to the new flat. Mamma used to come over on Sundays. Even before she’d taken off her shoes in the front hall, she would ask: “Is the coffee ready?” in that shrill voice of hers. Then she’d sit down on the sofa and stay there, as if glued to the cushions, until it was time for her to leave again. The coffee would grow cold in her cup as she babbled about one thing or another. If I happened to mention that Daniel was having trouble sleeping or if Katrina said that he was suffering from colic, my mother would merely dismiss our concerns as unimportant. Then she would turn to Katrina and start telling her how wonderful her own children had been. They’d never had any stomach troubles or problems with eating or sleeping. And the implication was: You’re a failure as a mother. My children were always perfect, but that’s because I was their mother, of course. I mostly kept quiet or tried to smooth things over, but that just made matters worse. It gave Mamma even more fodder for her criticisms, and her barbs were vicious. Usually Katrina would end up leaving the room to potter about in the kitchen until Mamma left. I’m ashamed that I behaved so spinelessly.’

‘Why did you act that way?’

‘I don’t know. When I think back, I can’t for the life of me understand why I allowed Mamma to have so much power over me. Even as a grown man with my own family to take care of, I acted like a frightened little boy. It’s as if she always makes me feel guilty. As if I ought to be paying her back.’

‘It must be a way of maintaining control. And continuing to stand in the spotlight.’

‘And the gods only know that’s what she wants. Whenever she comes to visit, all other activity has to stop. Everyone is expected to immediately drop whatever they’re doing and devote all their attention to her. And after we’re done with coffee, she has to have help with everything. Do you have a phone book? A nail file? Can you help me book theatre tickets on the Internet? Do you have a sewing machine? I want to sew a pair of trousers. I need to dye my hair – can I do it in your bathroom? Can I borrow the phone? How does my mobile work? Can you read the instructions out loud so we can go over them, step by step?

‘And she’s completely oblivious to the fact that we might have other things to do. If I tell her I’ve had a tough day at work, she waves it aside. Be glad you have a job, she’ll say. Or if, in a weak moment, I ask for her support because Katrina and I have quarrelled, she’ll tell me: Be glad you have a wife – that there are two of you. Just think about me. I’ve always been a single mother. She forgets, of course, that she was always the one to dump every single boyfriend she ever had while we were growing up.’

The person I’m talking to is starting to look more and more puzzled. As if it’s hard to believe that what I’m saying is true. But it is. Every word of it. And now I’m really getting started. Even though it hurts, it’s great to say all this shit out loud. I’ve never done that before.

‘The worst thing is that no matter what I do for her, she’s never satisfied. If I help her with her shopping, then drive her home and unload all the groceries, she still asks me to stay and cook dinner. If I refuse, I know that she’ll be unhappy with me when I leave. If I go to visit her and bring along a bottle of wine as a surprise, she’ll curse me for not bringing a whole case. No matter what I do, it’s never enough. The strangest part is that the more I serve her, the more dissatisfied she is.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The more she gets, the more she wants. Her demands increase the more effort I make. She doesn’t think like a normal person would: OK, now I’ve received so much help that I can be content for a while. She just can’t do that. As soon as one task is finished, you have to start on the next one.’

‘Why do you keep on doing things for her? You’re just encouraging her behaviour. Why don’t you ever say no?’

‘I don’t know. That’s just the way it’s always been. And I’ve learned not to protest. The minute I disagree with her or offer any sort of objection, she gets furious. She can’t stand to be contradicted. Then she raises her voice and gets more and more worked up. She talks non-stop, her voice gets louder and louder and she repeats herself like a parrot. It’s so unpleasant and she’s so unreasonable that I’d rather not have that happen. I learned that early on.’

‘Can’t you explain to her how you feel?’

‘I’ve dreamed of doing that. Mamma’s inability to listen has sometimes made me fantasize about tying her to a chair, taping her mouth shut and forcing her to hear me. Then I would tell her everything. What my childhood was like and how I felt about her behaviour. I would give her concrete examples so she would understand. She would have to sit on that chair, her hands and feet bound and with thick duct tape over her mouth, and she’d be forced to take in every word.’

‘Why do you think you have this fantasy?’

‘Deep inside I may still have a naive hope that everything will be OK. That she will finally see me, understand me, and show me some respect. That we will connect somehow.’ I hear myself sigh heavily. ‘Soon I won’t be able to stand this any longer.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just what I said. I won’t be able to stand it.’

‘And what are you going to do about it?’

‘I have to do something. That much I know.’

‘What do you have to do?’

I see the nervous expression but choose not to answer.

THE FIRE OUT in Holmhallar confirmed Knutas’s suspicions. The perpetrator they were looking for was after Veronika Hammar and no one else.

The entire investigative team was present at the morning meeting, and there was a charged atmosphere in the room when Knutas began.

‘At two fifteen this morning, a call came in, reporting that a cabin was on fire out near Holmhallar. It was a neighbour named Olof Persson who made the call. He has a farm a couple of kilometres away. He saw the glow of the fire in the sky and drove over to find the cabin completely engulfed in flames. One person was injured in the fire, and it was none other than Veronika Hammar, the very person we’ve been looking for. She was suffering from smoke inhalation and was taken to hospital. The reason we didn’t track her down at the cabin is that she’s not the owner. She merely uses the place, although apparently she’s been going there for more than thirty years.’

‘Has anyone interviewed her yet?’ asked Smittenberg.

‘Yes, but only briefly. She says that she was woken by the fire. By then the whole cabin was in flames. She