55
Ylva looked at the screen. She saw Mike and Nour and Sanna get in the car. Sanna was in the back seat again, but seemed happy with her lot. Their routine seemed as pain-free as a morning routine could be with a daughter who took an eternity to spread the butter, ate slower than a snail and wasn’t happy until her laces were done up in a perfect bow and both ends were the same length.
This was possibly the last time she would see them. Certainly the last time she would see them on the screen. She wasn’t sad. It was fine now. More than enough.
She turned off the screen, lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. She went through the plan again. If it was actually a plan; she wasn’t sure. She intended to do what she’d decided, then what would be would be, she had no control over the result.
The glass of water, the flex, the fork under the mattress.
She had never hit anyone, didn’t know what to do. She took out the fork and felt the points. It wasn’t particularly sharp. She pulled back the sheet and stabbed the mattress. It didn’t even make a hole.
The eyes, she thought, she had to get his eyes.
She replaced the fork under the mattress, tucked in the sheet and went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She was someone else now, not the same person who had been dragged down into the cellar eighteen months ago. She wondered whether Mike would recognise her.
Ylva went back out to the kitchen, looked in the fridge. She had to eat something and rest.
No matter what happened, this would be her last day in captivity.
Mike leaned towards Nour and kissed her on the mouth.
‘See you this evening.’
‘Yes. Bye.’
Nour jumped out, closed the car door and waved again from the pavement. Mike slipped into gear and drove off, watching in the rear-view mirror as Nour disappeared into the office.
He felt warm and happy inside.
The euphoria stayed with him until lunch. And was then replaced by melancholy.
Nothing in particular had drowned out the rush. No bad news, unfavourable forecasts or complaining employees to dampen his joy. His mood hadn’t been caused by a sudden drop in his blood sugar levels, troublesome flashbacks or a difficult task. It was just a normal mood swing and Mike welcomed the change. If he went around in the euphoric state he’d been in all morning, he’d soon make himself unpopular. Either that or he’d be forced to move to Norway, where that kind of hearty behaviour was not seen as suspect.
He opened a new report and started to read. Three-quarters of an hour later he put down the tome, rubbed the base of his nose under his glasses and realised that he was none the wiser. It was just another of those long- winded volumes that managed to say nothing while costing the company a small fortune, their only merit being that they provided cowardly middle managers with something to blame when things went wrong.
Mike looked at the clock and saw that he could go home with a clear conscience. He called Nour from the car, but she still had some unfinished business at work, so she’d get the bus.
‘See you later then,’ he said. ‘I’ll make supper.’
Mike went to the supermarket and wandered aimlessly around looking for inspiration. Meat, hmm. Fish, nah. Chicken, not again. Vegetarian, was there anything other than broccoli quiche?
Gosta was also in the supermarket and they exchanged a few words about how difficult it was to get variety.
It was going to have to be spaghetti with blue cheese sauce and fried bacon. And a salad. Mike picked out what he needed and added a few things for breakfast.
He drove over to the school and went into the after-school club. He couldn’t see Sanna and the staff looked at him in surprise. His heart started to pound and for a fraction of a second Mike was launched into an abyss, until he remembered that Sanna had started music lessons. He smiled and walked towards a door, through which out-of- tune music could be heard.
He knocked gently on the door and went in.
Mike didn’t need to book Berwaldhallen concert hall quite yet.
‘Bravo.’ He applauded. ‘Sounds good.’
‘I can do it better,’ Sanna told him.
‘I thought it sounded great. Are you done?’
He looked at the music teacher, who nodded gallantly.
‘Well, then we’ll say thank you and goodbye.’
‘Thank you,’ Sanna said.
‘You’re welcome,’ the teacher replied. ‘See you next week.’
Sanna bounded out of the room and ran towards the car.
‘Can I sit in the front?’
‘Sweetie, it’s only a couple of hundred metres. It’s not worth moving the booster.’
‘Okay.’
What? Mike thought. No protest? Sanna got into the back without any grumbles and carried on playing her recorder. He wanted to say something encouraging. He just didn’t know what.
‘Is it fun, playing the recorder?’
‘Yes,’ she said breathlessly and carried on blowing.
Ylva was made up, dressed and ready. Hair in a ponytail. Gosta liked to pull it when he came. A kind of show of animal ecstasy.
She looked the way he wanted her to look. But this time she hadn’t used any lubricant. He wasn’t going to penetrate her, not today, not ever again.
Hearing his knock, she took a deep breath and checked that everything was in place. The glass of water next to the wall.
She stood in her designated spot, put her hands on her head, pulled back her elbows to push out her chest, and pouted.
He opened the door. He was holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
He looked automatically to the right, to check that the knife, scissors, kettle and iron were visible on the worktop, that she had no weapons and wouldn’t try anything stupid.
‘Thought we could celebrate,’ he said, and held up the bottle.
Ylva went down on her knees, hands behind her back.
She had planned it all, practised it again and again. She daren’t risk deviating from the plan.
He put the bottle down by the sink, locked the door and looked at her.
‘Can’t you wait?’
Ylva shook her head slowly, still with her eyes lowered and mouth open.
‘Well, you’ll have to restrain yourself,’ he said, and pulled the golden foil from the top of the bottle and started to unwind the metal thread.
Ylva stayed on her knees, watched him pull out the cork with a bang and fill the glasses.
He came over to her, looked down.
‘You’re a horny little bitch, aren’t you? Here.’
He held out a glass.
‘You’ve earned it,’ he said.
Ylva took the glass and filled her mouth, without swallowing. She put the glass down beside her on the floor and started to unbutton his trousers. She put his cock in her mouth, let the bubbles tickle his glans and the
