made her think so. She replied that he had started breathing even more heavily and that the rhythmic slapping noises had grown more and more intense, then he had groaned loudly and said, ‘Yeesss, that’s it!’ Poor things. And all the while Hasse Sternlund from the local paper was sitting there taking notes – his pen was practically on fire. That didn’t make matters any easier.”
Fjallborg stopped being irritable and started chuckling.
“The accused was a shifty, greasy individual in his thirties,” Martinsson said. “He already had several convictions for sexual assault. But he always denied everything and claimed that he suffered from asthma – what the ladies at the Employment Office had heard was him having an asthma attack, not masturbating. At that point the defence counsel asked the accused to demonstrate what it sounded like when he had an asthma attack. You should have seen the judge and the jury. Their faces were twitching, and the judge pretended to have a coughing fit. They were all desperately trying not to burst out laughing; the situation was utterly absurd. The man refused, thank goodness. The defence counsel told me afterwards that the only reason he asked his client to demonstrate an asthma attack was to see if he could knock me off balance. I had been so cold and clinical while interrogating both the plaintiffs and the accused. Whenever he rings me now about anything to do with work, he always starts breathing heavily and asks, ‘Is that the Employment Office?’”
“Was he convicted, then, the slimy man?” Fjallborg said, deliberately dropping some pieces of meat on the floor. Bella slurped them up in a trice.
Martinsson laughed.
“Of course. I mean, who’d want a job like mine? Those poor women – you try imitating the sound of someone having a wank!”
“No fear! I’d rather be sent to prison.”
Fjallborg laughed. Martinsson felt happier. At the same time she was thinking about the older of the two plaintiffs. She had screwed up her eyes and stared at Martinsson. They had been sitting in the prosecutor’s office before the trial. The woman’s voice was rough and shrill, tainted by smoking and alcohol. Her lipstick had bled into the wrinkles above her upper lip. A thick layer of powder covered her open pores, the colour quite lifeless. “This is all I need,” she had said, pursing her lips. And she had told Martinsson how she was bullied at work. That one of her colleagues had invited everyone to a party – everyone except her, that is. “They’re whispering behind my back all the time, just because at last year’s party I might have had a bit too much to drink and fell asleep on the terrace. They’re still going on about that. And they lie about me to the boss. I hate the whole damned lot of them. I ought to take them to court.”
Martinsson had felt completely exhausted after her meeting with the woman. Drained and depressed. Found herself thinking about her mother. If only she had not died so young. Would her voice have become like that woman’s at the end?
Fjallborg interrupted her thoughts.
“You seem to have a pretty exciting job, at least.”
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s nothing happening at the moment. Drink driving and domestic violence all day every day.”
It is still snowing when she walks home. But it is calmer now. The flakes are not hurtling down like they were, but drifting, dancing attractively. The kind of snowfall that makes you feel happy. Big flakes melting on her cheeks.
Although it’s quite late, it is not dark. The nights are getting lighter. The sky is grey, covered in snow clouds. Buildings and trees are blurred at the edges. As if they had been painted on wet water-colour paper.
She has reached the porch. She pauses, raises her hands, palms facing downwards. Snow stars land on her gloves and lie there, sparkling.
Without warning Martinsson is overcome by a feeling of pure, white happiness. It flows through her body like wind blowing down a mountain valley. Power surges up from the ground. Through her body and into her hands. She stands absolutely still. Dares not move for fear of frightening the moment away.
She is at one with it all. With the snow, with the sky. With the river as it flows along, hidden beneath the ice. With Sivving, with the villagers. With everything. Everyone.
I belong here, she thinks. Perhaps I do belong, irrespective of what I want or feel.
Unlocking the door, she goes up the stairs.
The feeling of reverence remains with her. Brushing her teeth and washing her face are a sacred ritual. Her thoughts remain still; nothing is bustling inside her head, just the sound of the toothbrush scrubbing and water running from the tap. She puts on her pyjamas like a christening suit. Takes the time to put clean sheets on the bed. The television and radio remain blind and silent. Mans calls her mobile, but she doesn’t answer.
She lies down between the sheets, which have that unused, slightly crisp feel: they smell clean.
Thank you, she thinks.
Her hands are tingling; they are as hot as the stones in a sauna. But it is not an unpleasant feeling.
She falls asleep.
She wakes up at about 4.00 in the morning. It is light outside; the snow must have moved on. A young girl is sitting on her bed. She is naked. She has two rings in one eyebrow. Freckles. Her red hair is wet. Water is running from her hair down her spine, like a little stream. When she speaks, water dribbles constantly from her mouth and nose.
It wasn’t an accident, she tells Martinsson.
No, Martinsson says, sitting up in bed. I know.
He moved me. I didn’t die in the river. Look at my hand.
She holds up a hand to show Martinsson. The skin has been torn away. The knuckles are sticking out through the grey flesh. The little finger and thumb are missing.
The girl looks sorrowfully at her hand.
I broke my nails on the ice when I was trying to scratch my way out, she says.
Martinsson gets the feeling that she is about to disappear.
Wait, she says.
She goes after the girl, who is running among the pine trees in a forest. Martinsson tries to follow her, but in the forest the snow is deep and wet, and she sinks up to her knees.
Then Martinsson is standing at the side of her bed. She hears her mother’s voice in her head: That’s enough now, Rebecka. Relax.
It was just a dream, Martinsson tells herself. She gets back into bed and drifts off into different dreams. Open sky above her head. Black birds flying up from the tops of the pine trees.
I go to visit the prosecutor. She’s the first person to see me since I died. She’s wide awake. Sees me clearly when I sit down on her bed. Her
I’ve no desire to frighten or upset anybody. All I want is for them to find Simon. I don’t know where to turn. I can’t bear to see them. Anni is at home in her house with the pink Eternit cladding, gazing out of the window in the direction of the road. She sometimes goes for days without speaking. Occasionally she takes her kick-sledge and wanders through the village. Now and then she struggles up the stairs to my room and looks at my bed.
Simon’s mother stares at his father with hatred in her eyes as he wolfs down his
