Above the vast lake the sky still retains a faint glow, while the forest is completely black. He drives slowly along the narrow road into the small community that has gradually grown up around the water. The headlights pick out spanking new homes, small summer cottages, and comfortable houses from the turn of the century. Rounding a curve, they sweep across a tricycle left behind in a driveway. He slows down and sees the silhouette of the haunted house behind a tall hedge. He drives past a few more houses and then parks on the side of the road. Getting out of the car, he sets off back down the road on foot; as quietly as possible he opens the garden gate of a house made of dark brick, padding across the lawn and around the back. A cable is whipping against a flagpole. Erik climbs over the fence into the next garden and walks past a swimming pool with a creaking plastic cover. The big windows of the low villa facing the lake are in darkness, and the stone terrace is covered with sodden leaves. Erik speeds up; he senses the haunted house on the other side of the fir hedge and pushes his way through.
This garden is better protected from prying eyes, he thinks.
A car passes by along the road, the headlights picking out a few trees, and Erik thinks about Aida’s strange photograph. The yellow grass and the bushes. He moves closer to the big wooden building and notices that it looks as if a blue fire is burning in one of the rooms.
Chapter 65
The building has tall, heavily barred windows and a projecting roof that looks like crocheted lace. The view over the lake must be magnificent. A taller hexagonal tower at one end and two bay windows with pointed gables make the house look like a miniature wooden castle. The walls are mainly made up of horizontal planks, but the line is broken by a false panel, creating a multidimensional impression. The door is surrounded by ornate carvings: wooden columns and a beautiful pointed roof.
When Erik reaches the window he sees that the blue light is coming from a television. Someone is watching figure skating. The cameras track sweeping leaps across the ice, and the blue light flickers across the walls of the room. A fat man in grey tracksuit bottoms sits on the sofa. He seems to be alone in the room. Only one cup sits on the table. Erik moves to the next window and peers into the adjacent room. Something is rattling faintly inside the glass. He sees into a bedroom with an un-made bed and a closed door. Crumpled tissues lie next to a glass of water on the bedside table. A map of Australia hangs on the wall. Water is dripping onto the window ledge. Erik moves along to the next window. The curtains are drawn. It is impossible to see between them, but he hears the strange rattling again, along with a kind of clicking noise.
He continues around the corner of the hexagonal tower and finds himself looking into a dining room. A table and chairs made of dark wood stand in the middle of the polished wooden floor. Something tells Erik it is very rarely used. A black object is lying on the floor in front of a display cupboard- a guitar case, he thinks. The rattling noise comes again. Erik leans into the glass and sees a huge dog racing towards him across the floor. It thuds against the window and rears up, barking and pawing at the glass. Erik jumps back, stumbles over a pot, and quickly moves to the back of the house, where he waits with a pounding heart.
The dog stops barking after a while; the outside light is switched on, then off again.
This was a bad idea, Erik thinks. He has no idea what he’s doing here, peeping into strangers’ windows. He realizes it’s best if he returns to his office at Karolinska Hospital, so he sets off toward the front of the haunted house and the drive down which he parked.
As he turns the corner he sees someone standing in the light from the doorway. It’s the fat man, wearing a padded jacket. He looks frightened when he catches sight of Erik. Perhaps he had been expecting a deer or some children messing about.
“Good evening,” says Erik.
“This is private property,” the man shouts in a shrill voice.
The dog begins to bark behind the closed front door. Erik keeps walking. A yellow sports car is parked in the drive. It has only two seats, and the boot is obviously too small to accommodate Benjamin.
“Is that your Porsche?”
“Yes.”
“Is it your only car?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“My son has disappeared,” Erik says.
“It’s my only car,” the man says. “All right?”
Erik writes down the number. “I’d like you to leave now.”
“Sure,” says Erik, heading for the gate.
He stands out in the road in the darkness for a while, looking at the haunted house, before returning to his car. He takes out the little wooden box with the parrot and the native, shakes a number of small tablets into the palm of his hand, counts them with his thumb, round and smooth, and then tips them into his mouth.
After a brief hesitation, he dials Simone’s number. It rings and rings, each purring tone a serrated gash in the silence between them. She’s probably at Kennet’s, eating salami sandwiches with pickled gherkins. Erik pictures their apartment in the darkness, the hallway with their coats and winter gear, the candle sconces on the wall, the kitchen with its oak table and chairs. The mail is lying on the doormat, a pile of newspapers, bills, and advertising circulars encased in plastic. When the tone sounds, he does not leave a message but simply ends the call and begins driving toward Stockholm.
He has no one to turn to, he thinks, and at the same time he sees the irony. After spending so many years researching group dynamics and collective psychotherapy, he suddenly finds himself isolated and alone, without one single person he can rely on, no one he wants to talk to. And yet it was the power of groups that drove him on in his profession. He had tried to understand why people who had survived war together found it much easier to deal with their trauma than those who had faced the same kind of outrage alone. He wanted to discover why individuals in a group who had been tortured or raped or had seen their families killed were able to heal their wounds more easily than those who had suffered alone. What is it about community that heals us? Is it reflection, channelling, the very normalization of trauma? Or is it in fact solidarity?
Under the yellow lights of the motorway he calls Joona’s cell phone.
“Joona here,” a distracted voice responds.
“Hi, it’s Erik. You haven’t found Josef Ek?”
“No.” Joona sighs.
“He seems to be following a pattern all his own.”
“I’ve said it before and I intend to keep on saying it, Erik. You ought to accept protection.”
“I have other priorities.”
“I know.” Silence. “Benjamin hasn’t been in touch again?” Joona asks.
“No.” Erik can hear a voice in the background, possibly from a television. “Kennet was going to try and trace the call.”
“Yes, I heard about that. But it can take time,” says Joona. “I don’t know if he made you any promises.”
“Not me,” says Erik.
“Simone.”
“More than likely.”
“In any case, you have to send a technician out to those particular exchanges, that particular base station.”
“But then at least they know which station it is.”
“I think they can find that out straight away,” Joona replies.
“Can you get that information for me? The base station?”
There is a brief silence. Then he hears Joona’s neutral voice.
“Why don’t you talk to Kennet?”
“I can’t get hold of him.”
Joona sighs faintly. “I’ll check it out, but don’t get your hopes up.”
