57
Mike felt feverish and sick. Too many thoughts that refused to stay still. Too fast for him to grasp, not waiting to be understood – taunting him like a circle of school children. No matter how Mike twisted and turned, the theories and questions were there, ready to push him back into the ring.
Another nutter, had to be. In cahoots with that reporter from the weeklies who had accosted him in his own home the week before. Some sicko who got pleasure from spreading shit, just to be in the momentous presence of death for a short while. Death was attractive, no doubt about it. It drew nutters like honey. Like the ones who phoned people who’d lost someone in the tsunami and claimed that their loved one was alive and would be home soon.
And yet … Gosta had had a daughter. She had died young. He didn’t want to talk about it. Which was perfectly understandable. Especially given Gosta and Mike’s respective roles.
What did he mean? Why link Ylva with Gosta and Marianne? They weren’t even living here when she disappeared, they moved in just afterwards. Or about the same time. At the same time.
But whenever it was, Ylva had never mentioned meeting the new neighbours who’d just moved in.
And why would the crackpot want to drag Gosta and Marianne Lundin into this? How did he even know who they were?
Mike didn’t get it. Then it hit him.
A patient.
Naturally. The guy who’d called him was one of Gosta’s patients. Who’d somehow heard Mike and Gosta talking and in his sick mind had created a parallel world.
That had to be it. There was no other explanation.
Mike let out a deep sigh. He was still upset, almost shaking. He blinked his hot eyes furiously. But the relief spread through his body like a Friday drink.
Slowly he started to register the world around him, let himself be filled with visual impressions and sounds. Which were coming from a recorder in the sitting room.
The recorder’s equivalent to ‘Fur Elise’ on the piano.
The recorder’s equivalent to ‘Smoke on the Water’ on …
Mike remembered the first time he’d met Gosta, when they realised that they were neighbours. Gosta had moved into the house in Sundsliden, where they had done out the cellar and spent a lot of money on a music studio. Gosta had played on an air guitar while he hummed a riff from Deep Purple’s ‘Smoke on the Water’.
He was obviously being ironic, but
Thoughts started to chafe again. Mike found it hard to swallow.
He had told Gosta about the idiot from the magazine who had gone on about the three dead guys. Gosta had said that he didn’t quite follow.
Three …
But there weren’t three: with Ylva there were four. Mike and Gosta always talked about Ylva as if she was dead. Neither of them thought she would come back. But Gosta didn’t say four, he said three.
Probably just a mistake, but still.
Mike shook off the uncomfortable thought, turned on the water, let it run cold, then drank straight from the tap.
Anyway, it would be easy enough to check.
He opened the door to the sitting room.
‘Hey, sweetie, you’re playing really well. Do you know what I think?’
She shook her head.
‘I think we should go over to Gosta and Marianne, you know, the ones who live in the white house on Sundsliden. He’s got a music studio there. Maybe we could record you playing. Then you can listen to it later and see how much you’ve learned. Would you like that?’
Ylva turned the key and opened the first door. It was so easy, she couldn’t understand why she hadn’t done it before. She picked out the next key and felt something cold against her back. She felt it again.
Ylva gasped for breath, but her lungs were only half full. She breathed out and there was blood in her mouth. One of her lungs had been punctured. To her surprise, she thought of it as a burst balloon. She hadn’t thought about her lungs as balloons. Lungs were pieces of meat, squishy and revolting, like most things inside the body, not balloons.
She turned the key and pushed open door number two. A faint light slipped down the stairs and into the cellar. Gosta was lying on the floor behind her, unable to get up again. The fork was still in his cheek, just below the eye. The kitchen knife was in his hand.
Ylva was surprised that his hate was so intense that he had managed to pull the knife out of his own body, stand up and stab her in the back twice. It didn’t worry her, she was neither frightened nor angry, but it did fill her with surprise.
‘We were children,’ she said, her mouth full of blood. ‘Children.’
She staggered towards the stairs. The blood ran from her mouth, down her chin, past the black bra, down her stomach, knickers and thighs. She grabbed hold of the banister, used all her strength to haul herself up the stairs, step by step.
She heard voices, felt the cool air full of fantastic smells. She wanted to fill her lungs, both lungs, but immediately started to cough. The light got brighter. Real daylight, blinding light from the sun.
Only a few steps more.
58
Mike held his daughter’s hand.
‘Are we in a hurry?’ Sanna asked.
‘No, no. We’re not in a hurry. Just thought we’d do it before we eat. Nour will be back soon. Would be a nice surprise for her, wouldn’t it? Her own disc.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A sound recording. And you can play it again and again. Whenever you want.’
‘Like on the computer.’
‘Exactly.’
They cut across the grass, which was wet. Mike held the gate open for Sanna, saw Marianne in the kitchen window and raised his hand in greeting. She opened the door before they’d even got there.
‘Gosta’s not at home,’ she said.
‘Oh, that’s a pity,’ Mike said, and placed his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. ‘Sanna’s just started to play the recorder. I thought I’d ask if we could borrow the studio to record her first attempts.’
‘The studio?’ Marianne didn’t understand.
‘The music studio,’ Mike said. ‘In the cellar.’
‘Oh, right. No, I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
Mike smiled, taken aback. Marianne shifted her weight.
‘Gosta’s very particular about his studio. He doesn’t like to let anyone in. It’s his space for him.’
‘I understand, I understand.’
Mike started to feel uncertain, didn’t know how to approach it.
