She's Never Coming Back

‘Back to the scene of the crime then, eh?’ Nour said, and immediately regretted her choice of words.

‘Suppose so,’ Mike answered, without taking offence.

‘Same house as well?’

‘Not quite that bad.’

‘Parallel street?’

Mike couldn’t help laughing. It burst out through his nose.

‘Almost,’ he said.

Nour nodded silently to herself.

‘I have a friend,’ she said, ‘who claims there are two ways of measuring a person’s success. I can’t remember what the first one is, but the second is the geographical distance between the place where you grew up and the place where you live now. The further the distance, the greater the success.’

‘Then I’m a total failure,’ Mike said. ‘Though, having said that, I did actually live in Stockholm for a few years and I was born in the States.’

‘A round of applause for you,’ Nour said. ‘And as soon as you had Sanna, it was home again?’

‘Not for Ylva. She was from Stockholm.’

Was …

The unconscious choice of tense hung in the air.

Nour studied Mike, who swallowed nervously. Eventually she gave him a friendly smile.

‘Do you think about her a lot?’

Mike pushed his cup into the middle of the table.

‘I don’t know what I think,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if my thoughts have words. How do you think? In pictures or words?’

Nour didn’t answer.

‘She flickers by,’ Mike said. ‘Sometimes she has opinions. Stands beside me and says that I should turn down the heat so as not to burn the food, urges me to put my hands on my hips and roll my eyes when Sanna chooses the wrong clothes. What do you call that?’

‘That she’s watching over you?’

Mike took a deep breath and released it with a sigh.

‘Whatever. Whatever the hell it is. Would you like to come for dinner?’

‘Dinner?’

Nour jumped. The question was so sudden.

‘If you’ve got a boyfriend, bring him with you,’ Mike said.

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. Great. Friday?’

‘I mean, I’d love to come. But on my own. I don’t have a boyfriend …’

‘Or should we say Saturday instead? If the weather holds, we could have a barbecue.’

Nour laughed. Mike had no idea why.

‘What?’

‘Barbecues.’

‘Don’t you eat meat?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. It’s just the whole idea. It’s kind of, well, sweet.’

‘Meat?’

‘No, sweet. As in cute.’

‘What’s cute about a barbecue?’ Mike wondered.

‘Sweet, because it’s touching,’ Nour explained. ‘Men who think they can do things. Like omnipotent children. All by themselves.’

39

Denial of the self

In order to cope with the humiliation and constant assaults, the victim learns to distance herself from her own body. It is not her who is being exploited, it is someone else. The body becomes a shell that has nothing to do with her. This extreme form of self-loathing can in time become so intense that the woman never finds her way back to her true self.

There was a knock at the door and Ylva positioned herself where she was visible and put her hands on her head.

The door opened and Gosta Lundin came in. He had a bag in his hand. Ylva tried to smile at him, but he glowered back at her.

‘You’re not wearing any make-up,’ he said, and closed the door behind him.

‘I’m sorry.’

Gosta pointed towards the bathroom and Ylva scurried in.

When she came out again, her lips were bright red and her eyes were smouldering. Gosta was standing beside the bed unbuttoning his shirt. He had already taken off his trousers and folded them on the edge of the bed.

‘Down on your knees.’

Ylva kneeled in front of him and took hold of his underpants with both hands and teased them down as she beamed up at him. He tired of her play-acting, lifted his cock and thrust it into her mouth.

‘Hands behind your back. Only your mouth. All the way in.’

Ylva clasped her hands behind her back and did as she was told. His cock swelled in her mouth and she wanted to pull back so she didn’t choke, but Gosta grabbed hold of her head and pulled her towards him.

Ylva coughed, nearly threw up and instinctively turned her head away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

Gosta pulled her up by the hair.

‘Hands behind your back,’ he reminded her when Ylva held on to the bed so it would be easier to get to her feet. ‘Kneel on the bed.’

Ylva turned round and did as he said. Gosta pushed her forward so she fell with her face down on the mattress, this time without moving her hands.

‘Keep your hands behind your back. All the time.’

When he was done, he shoved her to one side.

Ylva sat on the bed while he got dressed. The lipstick was gone, her eye shadow was smudged. It had been a long while since he’d been violent.

‘My wife says you’re getting sloppy.’

Ylva didn’t understand.

‘With the laundry,’ Gosta continued. ‘You only iron one side. That’s not good enough, you have to iron the inside too.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t know what you do all day. And there’s no feeling. I don’t want to use violence, but won’t hesitate to do it, if that’s what’s needed to get through to you.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re starting to get ideas above your station. To think that you’re important. Well, you mean absolutely nothing.’

He looked at her.

‘Next time I expect you to take a bit of initiative.’