raindrops almost caressing his shaved head, but it’s not a good feeling, she can tell from the look on his face.
Malin winds the window down.
‘Gunilla’s wondering if you’d like to stay for dinner?’
‘But not you?’
‘Don’t be daft, Fors. Come in. Get some hot food. It’ll do you good.’
‘Another time, Zeke. Say hi to Gunilla, and thank her for the offer.’
Gunilla?
Wouldn’t you rather have Karin Johannison in there? Malin thinks.
‘Come in and have something to eat with us,’ Zeke says. ‘That’s an order. Do you really want to be on your own tonight?’
Malin gives him a tired smile.
‘You don’t give me orders.’
She drives off with the window open, in the rear-view mirror she sees Zeke standing in the rain, as some autumn leaves shimmer rust-red in the glow of the car’s rear lights.
It’s dark outside as she drives into the city. Damn this darkness.
What a day. A murder. A dirty great murder. A crazy car chase. An old woman with a shotgun. No time to think about all the other crap. Sometimes she loves all the human manure this city is capable of producing.
Clothes.
Must have clothes.
Maybe I could go out to the house and quickly pick up what I need. But maybe Janne would ask me to stay, Tove would watch me with that pleading look in her eyes, and then I’d want to as well.
Then Malin catches a glimpse of her face in the rear-view mirror and she turns away, and suddenly realises what she’s done: she’s left the man she loves, she’s hit him, she put their daughter in mortal danger, and instead of helping herself move on she’s flown straight into her own crap, given in to her worst instincts, given in to her love of intoxication, for the soft-edged cotton-wool world where nothing exists. No past, no here and now, and no future. But it’s wrong, wrong, wrong, and she feels so ashamed that it takes over her breathing, the whole of her body, and she wants to drive out to the house in Malmslatt, but instead she drives to Tornby, to the Ikea car park, parks in a distant corner and gets out.
She stands in the rain and looks at the darkness around her. The place is completely anonymous and deserted, and even though it’s wide open, the light from the retail units doesn’t reach this far.
She heads over to the shopping centre. Wants to call Tove, ask her for advice, but she can’t. After all, that’s why I’m here, because I’ve fucked everything up beyond hope of salvation.
She moves through the rows of clothes in H amp;M, grabbing underwear and socks and bras, tops, trousers and a cardigan. She pays without even trying on the clothes, they ought to fit, the last thing I want right now is to look at myself in a full-length mirror, my swollen body, red face, shame-filled eyes.
She sinks onto a bench in the main walkway of the shopping centre. Looks over at the bookshop on the other side, the window full of self-help books.
Fucking hell, get me out of here, she thinks, as nausea takes a grip on her again.
Outside the newsagent’s she sees the flysheets for both
Which one’s going to sell best? The second one?
Half an hour later she’s sitting at the bar in the Hamlet pub. Tucked away at the end, but still within earshot of the old closet alcoholics who make up the regular clientele.
Two quick tequilas have made her vision agreeably foggy, the edges of the world cotton-wool soft and friendly, and it feels as if her heart has found a new, more forgiving rhythm.
Beer.
Warming spirits.
Happy people.
Malin looks around the bar. People enjoying each other’s company.
Mum and Dad. You only had one child, Malin thinks. Why? Dad, I’m sure you would have liked more. But you, Mum, I got in your way, didn’t I? That’s what you thought, isn’t it? You wanted to be more than just an increasingly peculiar secretary at Saab, didn’t you?
I’ve always wanted a brother. Damn you, Mum.
Tove, do you long for a brother?
Damn me.
‘I’ll have another,’ Malin says. ‘A double. And a beer to wash it down.’
‘Sure,’ the bartender says. ‘You can have whatever you want tonight, Malin.’
What do I want? Fredrik Fagelsjo thinks as he huddles on the bunk in his cell, absorbing the darkness around him, running his hand over the scratched wall.
Have I ever known?
He’s just spoken to his wife for the second time, just an hour ago.
She wasn’t angry this time either, demanded no explanation, and instead said just: ‘We miss you here. Come home soon.’
The children were asleep, she wanted to wake them but he said not to, let them sleep, I’d only have to lie to them about where I am.
Victoria, five years old.
Leopold, three.
He can feel the warmth of their bodies as he pulls the blanket around him to keep out the damp chill of the underground room.
He misses them, and Christina. He wants to know what he wants. This room doesn’t make him feel panicky. He doesn’t know why he didn’t answer the police’s questions, why he kept quiet and lied as Father had asked him to, as if that were somehow his natural role. But he was very vulgar, that aggressive policeman. And during the car chase earlier there had been a feeling of trying to direct his own life, an intoxicating rush of adrenalin and fear.
Fredrik breathes.
Who do I have to prove anything to, really? And Father, you could scarcely bring yourself to accept Christina and her well-educated parents. God knows what you’ve done to Katarina.
Fredrik closes his eyes.
Sees Christina lie with the children close to her in the double bed in the bedroom in the Villa Italia.
It won’t be easy, Fredrik thinks, but from now on nothing’s going to come between us.
What’s the bartender saying to me? Malin thinks, as she tries to keep her balance on the bar stool, not wanting to fall and lose sight of the bottles on the illuminated shelves along the wall.
There’s quite a crowd behind her. She’s almost drunk, but she hasn’t spoken to anyone.
Then someone taps her on the back.
She turns around. But there’s no one there, just her own reflection in the mirror above the bottles.
‘I thought I felt someone tap me on the back?’ she says, and the bartender grins.
‘You’re imagining things, Malin. There’s no one there,’ and then she feels it again, sees the empty mirror, but she doesn’t turn around, just says: ‘Stop doing that.’
In her intoxication she imagines she can hear a cacophony of voices gathering into one single one, just like out at the forest around Skogsa.
‘I do what I want,’ the voice says.
‘How did I end up in the water, you have to find out,’ it goes on a moment later. ‘Who had I harmed that badly?’
‘Go to hell,’ Malin whispers. ‘Let me drink in peace.’
‘Do you miss Tove?’ the voice asks.
‘Tove could die,’ Malin yells, ‘do you hear? And it’s my fault.’ She doesn’t notice that the people in the pub have fallen silent, that they’re staring at her, wondering why she’s tossing words into thin air.
