man. Thank goodness Niclas had managed to escape from him, but when he studied his mother he realized that the years had not been kind to her. He saw the same weary, submissive expression on her face as when he'd left, but now made worse by all the new wrinkles she had acquired.
Niclas pulled up a chair next to hers, but not too close, and waited for her to begin. She didn't really seem to know what she had come there to say. After a moment's silence she said, 'I'm so, so sorry about the girl, Niclas.' That was all she said, and all he could do was nod.
'I didn't know her… but I wish I had.' Her voice quavered slightly, and he sensed the emotions that lay beneath the surface. It must have been very hard for her to come here. As far as he knew, she had never gone against his father's orders before.
'She was wonderful,' he said, and even though there was a lump in his throat behind the words, no tears came. There had been so many the past few days that he doubted he had any left. 'She had your eyes, but I don't know where she got the red hair.'
'My grandmother had the loveliest red hair you ever saw. It must have been from her' – she hesitated before saying the name but finally managed it – 'that Sara got her red hair.'
Asta looked down at her hands resting in her lap. 'I saw her now and then. Her and the boy. Also saw your wife when she was out walking with them. But I never said anything. We just looked at each other. Now I wish that I'd spoken with the girl at least once. Did she know that she had a grandmother here?'
Niclas nodded. 'I talked a lot about you. She knew your name and we showed her pictures of you as well. The few that I took with me when…' He let the words die out. Neither of them dared set foot on the minefield that had caused their estrangement.
'Is it true what I heard?' She raised her eyes and looked straight at him for the first time. 'Did someone harm the girl?'
He tried to answer, but the words lodged deep in his throat. There was so much he wanted to tell her, so many secrets that weighed like an enormous boulder on his chest. He wanted nothing more than to cast it off at her feet. But he could not. Too many years had passed.
Now the tears came which he thought were done. They spilled over and ran down his cheeks. He didn't dare look at his mother, but her instinct conquered all admonitions and prohibitions, and in the next second he felt her fragile arms around his neck. She was so tiny and he was so big, but at that moment the situation seemed reversed.
'There, there.' With practised hands she stroked his back, and he felt the years fall away, and he was a child once more. Safe in his mother's hands. Her warm breath and loving voice in his ear, and assurances that everything would be all right. That the monsters under the bed were really only in his imagination, and that they would disappear if he told them to. But this time the monster was there to stay.
'Does Father know?' he said with his mouth against her shoulder. He knew better than to ask, but he couldn't help it. He felt her stiffen immediately, and he pulled away from the consoling embrace. The magic was broken, and she again sat facing him like a worn-out, grey little old lady, who had sided with his father at the moment when Niclas needed her most. His feelings were so ambivalent. He longed for her and loved her, but he was also filled with bitterness and contempt because she hadn't defended him when he needed her.
'He doesn't know that I'm here,' was all she said, and Niclas saw that mentally she had already walked out the door. But he couldn't let her go yet. If only for another moment, he wanted to keep her here with him, and he knew just how to do it.
'Do you want to see pictures of the children?' he asked softly, and she nodded.
He went over to his desk and pulled out the top drawer. He took out the photo album and handed it to her, careful not to look at it himself. He wasn't ready for that yet.
Deferentially she paged through the photographs, smiling sadly at each picture. What she had lost suddenly became incredibly tangible.
'How lovely they are,' she said with a grandmother's pride in her voice. But the pride was mixed with sorrow that one of the children was now gone for ever.
'You took your wife's surname?' she asked hesitantly clutching the album tightly on her lap.
'Yes,' said Niclas, his eyes fixed on some point behind her. 'I didn't want to keep his name.'
She just nodded sadly. 'Shouldn't you be getting back to your work?' she added uneasily, looking at him sitting behind the desk.
Niclas plucked aimlessly at the papers before him and swallowed hard to force back the last of his tears.
'I saw no alternative if I wanted to survive,' he continued.
His mother contented herself with that explanation, but the concern in her eyes increased. 'Just don't forget about the ones you still have left,' she said softly, hitting the tender spot in his chest with frightening precision.
But he felt as though he were two people. One person who wanted to be home with Charlotte and Albin and never leave them again, and one who wanted to escape into work, away from the pain that was made worse by sharing it. Above all he didn't want to see his own guilt mirrored in Charlotte's face. That was why his flight instinct had at last won the battle. All this he wanted to tell his mother. He wanted to put his head in her lap, grown man that he was, and tell her everything and then hear her assurances that everything would be all right. But the moment passed, and after placing the photo album on the desk she got up and headed for the door.
'Mother?'
'Yes?' She turned round.
Niclas held out the photo album to her. 'Take this, we have lots more pictures.'
Asta hesitated but then accepted it, as if it were a precious but fragile piece of jewellery. She slipped it carefully into her handbag.
'It's probably best if you hide them properly,' he said quietly with a wry smile, but she had already closed the door behind her.
He stared up at the ceiling and gave the wall a light kick. He couldn't comprehend how it could have turned out this way.
Why him? And why hadn't he objected when it might still have been possible?
The posters on the wall reminded him of who he wanted to be. Normally the heroes surrounding him could motivate him to fight harder, make a greater effort. Today they were just making him mad. They never would have stood for this shit. They would have refused at once. Done what had to be done. That was why they were where they were today. That's why they were heroes. He himself was just a little shit, and he would never be anything else. Just as Rune had always said. He hadn't wanted to believe him when he said that. He had dug in his heels and thought that by God, he was going to show Rune that he was wrong. He would show Rune that he was a hero, and then he'd be sorry, sorry about all those harsh words. All the humiliations. Then he would be the one who had the upper hand, and Rune would have to beg on his bended knee to get even a minute of his time.
The worst thing was that at first he had liked Rune. When his mum first met him he'd thought he was cool as hell. He drove a big American car and had mates who drove trendy choppers, and sometimes they let him ride on the bitch seat. But then they'd gotten married and that's when it all started to go haywire. Suddenly Rune and his mum had to show that they were proper Svenssons, with a house, a Volvo, and even a fucking caravan. The mates with the choppers disappeared, and instead they hung out with other ordinary Svenssons and had dinner parties with couples on Saturday nights. And of course they had to have their own kid. He'd heard Rune say that once to one of the boring neighbour couples. That they needed to have a kid of their own. Naturally he loved Sebastian, he said, but then added in a serious tone of voice that it still wasn't the same
