metro.
Jorgen’s life was a bit like a successful game of Monopoly. Suddenly there he was with all the hotels and property and the money kept pouring in without any effort. His coffers were overflowing.
He’d made his first million with an Internet company, which, behind all the big words about the future and opportunities, in fact provided run-of-the-mill web design. But that was back in the day when only the initiated understood the concept of IT and the company still had to send its employees on courses to learn how to use the most basic word-processing programmes.
Jorgen had avoided the limelight for the simple reason that his two colleagues, whom he’d founded the company with, were lens-loving boys.
The company had never run at a profit, but the stock market value nevertheless climbed to over two billion following its flotation. Jorgen had shaken his head at this madness, which annoyed his two ambitious colleagues who let the success go to their heads. They were frequently quoted on the business pages and obviously believed wholeheartedly in their visions of the future. They eventually offered to buy Jorgen out for half the value of his shares and had a good laugh when he accepted their offer, one hundred million kronor in his pocket, thank you very much.
The headline in the paper had read:
One year later, Jorgen’s former colleagues were in debt, the company had been restructured and was practically worthless.
Then suddenly Jorgen was the one all the papers wanted to talk to. He’d given a firm but friendly no to all requests and sent a silent thanks to his closest friend, Calle Collin, a freelance journalist for the weeklies, who repeated his words of wisdom about living in the public eye whenever he got drunk.
‘There’s nothing positive about being visible, absolutely nothing. No matter what you do, never show your face. If you’re not Simon Spies, keep out the way.’
Calle Collin was one of the few who hadn’t been erased from Jorgen’s imagined class photo. Who else could he remember? A couple of the pretty girls who had been out of his league. Jorgen wondered where they were today. Wrong, he didn’t wonder where they were at all, he wondered what they looked like. He had googled them but hadn’t found any pictures, not even on Face book. Which couldn’t just be a coincidence.
He imagined their faces ravaged by cheap wine, consoled himself with the thought that their bodies were in decline. Their tits that had once defied gravity and been the stuff of his wanking fantasies now sagged and spilled out of heavily padded, wired bras.
Ouch, he was sounding bitter. Jorgen was a better person than that.
Or was he?
4
Removal, social isolation
The woman is removed from her familiar surroundings and placed in a new and unknown environment for several reasons. The woman then loses contact with her family and friends, becomes disoriented, geographically confused and dependent on the only person she knows, the perpetrator. This confusion of time and place is amplified by locking the woman up for sustained periods. If her isolation is sufficiently prolonged, the victim is eventually grateful for any form of human contact, even if it is invasive.
‘Are you sure? Just one. You’ll still be home in time to watch some rubbish on TV.’
‘Yes, go on, you don’t need to stay long.’
Ylva laughed, grateful for their nagging.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be good.’
‘You?’ Nour scoffed. ‘Why start now?’
‘Why not? Variety is the spice of life, isn’t it?’
‘One glass?’
‘No.’
‘You sure?’
Ylva nodded.
‘I’m sure,’ she said.
‘Okay, okay, it’s not like you, but okay.’
‘See you Monday.’
‘Yep. Say hi to the family.’
Ylva stopped and turned round.
‘You make it sound like something bad,’ she said, and put her hand on her heart with mock innocence.
Nour shook her head.
‘No, we’re just jealous.’
Ylva took out her iPod and wandered off down the hill. The wires had got tangled and she had to stop to unravel them before popping the earpieces in and selecting the playlist. Music in her ears, eyes straight ahead – the only way to avoid talk about the weather. There was always some chatterbox who was dying for attention and gossip. The dilemma of small-town living.
And Ylva was an outsider. Mike had grown up here and couldn’t take a step without having to give an account of recent events.
Ylva cut down the deserted, picture-postcard lane and passed by a parked car with a tinted rear window. She didn’t notice the driver. The volume in her ears was so loud that she didn’t hear the car start either.
She only registered it when the car pulled up beside her and didn’t drive past. She turned. The window rolled down.
Ylva assumed that it was someone wanting directions. She stopped and wavered between turning the iPod off and taking out the earpieces. She decided on the latter and took a step towards the car, bent down and looked in. A cardboard box and a handbag on the passenger seat. The woman at the wheel smiled at her.
‘Ylva?’ she said.
A brief second, then that horrible feeling in her stomach.
‘I thought it was you,’ the driver said, cheerfully.
Ylva returned her smile.
‘After all, it wasn’t yesterday.’
The driver turned towards a man in the back seat.
‘D’you see who it is?’
He leaned forward.
‘Hello, Ylva.’
Ylva reached in through the window, shook both their hands.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘What are we doing? We’ve just moved here. And you?’
Ylva didn’t understand.
‘I live here,’ she said. ‘I’ve been here for nearly six years now.’
The driver pulled in her chin, as if she found it hard to believe.
‘Whereabouts?’ she asked.
Ylva looked at her.
‘Hittarp,’ she replied.
The driver turned to the man in the back seat, astonished, then back to Ylva.
‘You can’t be serious? Tell me you’re not serious. We’ve just bought a house there. Do you know Sundsliden,
