Sanna was happy, seemed to be almost unbelievably harmonious and unperturbed. Mike exchanged a few words with her teachers practically every day, but the many in-depth conversations from the period immediately after Ylva’s disappearance had now been replaced by something more akin to pleasantries.
‘Everything okay?’ Mike asked.
‘Yes, we think so,’ the staff said. ‘She’s a strong girl.’
His mother was an enormous support. Without her, it wouldn’t have been possible. She collected Sanna from school and made supper several days a week. Sometimes she stayed over and cleaned the house the following day. Mike felt like a spoilt teenager, but he knew that the benefit was mutual. Kristina had lived up to her sudden importance.
They talked a lot about Mike’s father, nearly more about him than about Ylva. Any talk of Ylva ended in guesswork and speculation, conjectures that didn’t lead to anything positive, but that continued to ferment in his subconscious, only to surface a few days later as horrible dreams.
And on those nights, Mike couldn’t get back to sleep. And then he sometimes phoned his mother and cried on the phone. They talked about grief and loss, about the awful feeling in your throat that made everything taste bad and that made it hard to breathe.
His mother and Gosta Lundin. Wise, understanding, sensible people who listened and let him talk, be miserable and weak. No bloody pills that calmed you down and took the edge off things.
Mike had to be clear-headed and present for his daughter.
It was his only obligation. And it gave him strength, this single priority. It had given him another perspective, he didn’t care about anything else. His work was a means, not an end in itself. At meetings, he had started to ask the questions that no one else dared to ask, to raise obvious objections that normally were the remit of only the most powerful and influential.
Someone waved at him. One of the pedestrians had stopped in front of his car and was trying to catch his attention. A beautiful woman, who was smiling at him.
Was something wrong, Mike wondered, then he realised who it was and waved and smiled back.
Nour came over to the car and Mike opened the window on the passenger side. She bent down.
‘Hi, how’s things?’
He understood what she meant. They hadn’t been in touch since all the drama in connection with Ylva’s disappearance. Mike smiled at her.
‘Good, thanks, everything’s okay. Things feel much better, they really do.’
‘I’ve thought about calling you a thousand times, but just never done it,’ Nour said.
The car behind started to hoot. Mike glanced quickly in the rear-view mirror.
‘I’m obviously in the way.’
‘Where are you heading?’ Nour asked.
‘Work. And you?’
‘Same direction. Can I get in?’
‘Of course.’
Mike moved Sanna’s booster. Nour opened the door and jumped in. Mike slipped into gear, but the car behind had already changed lanes and overtaken him, lights flashing furiously. Mike lifted a hand in apology, but the driver just shook his head.
‘Urgent things,’ Nour said, ironically. ‘Really important things.’
38
The neon light on the ceiling flickered on and Ylva was woken by the sudden light. Her eyes were gungy and she felt feverish.
She didn’t know how long the electricity had been off, but possibly a couple of days. The milk in the fridge had turned sour and the only thing she had to eat was dry, sliced rye bread and a cheap tin of tuna.
She didn’t know why she was being punished. She had in fact anticipated some reward for her sexual services. She had done more than was expected of her and had really got into it. Gosta hadn’t complained about anything.
Ylva looked at the screen. It was light outside and Mike’s car wasn’t in the driveway. She guessed it was a weekday.
Two hard knocks on the door. Ylva stood up on shaky legs and put her hands on her head. She was dizzy and felt her body swaying. To pass the time on the dark days, she had lain under the covers and hummed children’s songs, over and over again up to ten thousand times, back and forth, and only stopped singing to go to the toilet.
Floor, walls, ceiling.
Now that the electricity was back on and she could follow the world outside via the TV screen, she was prepared to do almost anything to make sure it didn’t go dark again.
She heard the key turning. The door opened and Marianne came in. She had a length of wound-up rope in her hand and Ylva automatically started to back away.
Marianne came towards her and Ylva sank down on to the bed, bowed her head and hunched her shoulders.
‘Do you think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?’
Ylva looked up timidly without answering. The only words she was allowed to say without being told she could speak were thank you and sorry. And she had to say them wholeheartedly. If Marianne thought there was so much as the tiniest lack of sincerity, she would be punished.
‘It’s laughable,’ Marianne said. ‘You’re a worthless whore and you think you can come between me and my husband. Do you have no grip on reality? Do you really think that he wants you?’
She paused, looked at Ylva with the same exasperation a teacher might show when dealing with a particularly stupid child.
‘Do you honestly believe that anyone would want you? If we opened the door and let you go, what do you think would happen? Do you suppose Mike would take you back? When he finds out how shameless you’ve been in giving your body?’
Marianne sounded vaguely amused. Her derision was absolute because she knew she had total control. It was impossible for Ylva to contradict her. To even try answering back would be futile.
Marianne raised a hand. Ylva cowered instinctively.
‘Why would I hit you?’ she asked. ‘It’s not worth the effort.’
She threw the length of rope down on the bed and went back to the door. When she’d put the key in the lock, she turned round.
‘Did I say that your daughter was here? I bought a May Day flower from her. Gave her a bit extra. You might say that we’re friends now.’
She opened the door and went out.
‘South of Tradgardsgatan,’ Mike exclaimed, and turned, his eyes wide open.
‘Scary?’ Nour said, and tasted the coffee.
‘Just a bit.’
‘You better believe it. I grew up round here.’
‘Impossible,’ Mike said. ‘One simply doesn’t live south of Tradgardsgatan, it’s just not done.’
‘Where did you grow up then?’ Nour asked. ‘Tagaborg?’
‘Hittarp.’
‘Really?’
Mike nodded and smiled.
