The Blood Spilt

4

Rebecka ate some of the Waldorf salad dutifully. She started with half a walnut. As soon as she got it into her mouth, it grew to the size of a plum. She chewed and chewed. Got ready to swallow. Maria looked at her.
“So how are things?” she asked.
Rebecka smiled. Her tongue felt rough.
“Actually, I have absolutely no idea.”
“But you’re okay about being here this evening?”
Rebecka shrugged her shoulders.
No, she thought. But what can you do? Force yourself to go out. Otherwise you’ll soon end up sitting in a cottage somewhere with the authorities after you, terrified of people, allergic to electricity and with a load of cats crapping indoors.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It feels as if people are checking me out when I look away. Talking about me when I’m not there. As soon as I come along, the conversation kind of starts afresh. You know what I mean? It seems as if it’s ‘Tennis, anyone?’ in a mad panic as soon as they see me coming.”
“Well, it is,” smiled Maria. “You’re the firm’s very own Modesty Blaise. And now you’ve gone to stay out at Torsten’s place and you’re getting more and more isolated and peculiar. Of course everybody’s talking about you.”
Rebecka laughed.
“Oh, thanks, I feel much better now.”
“I saw you talking to Johan Grill and Petra Wilhelmsson. What did you think of Miss Spin? I’m sure she’s very nice, but I just can’t take to somebody whose backside is up between her shoulder blades. Mine’s like a teenager. It’s kind of liberated itself from me and wants to stand on its own two feet.”
“I thought I heard something dragging along the grass when you turned up.”
They fell silent and gazed out over the channel where an old Fingal was chugging along.
“Don’t worry,” said Maria. “People will soon start to get really pissed. Then they’ll come weaving over to you wanting to chat.”
She turned to Rebecka, leaned in close and said in a slurring voice:
“So how does it actually feel to kill somebody?”
* * *

Rebecka’s and Maria’s boss M?ns Wenngren was standing a little way off, watching them.
Good, he thought. Nicely done.
He could see Maria Taube was making Rebecka Martinsson laugh. Maria’s hands were waving in the air, twisting and turning. Her shoulders moved up and down. It was a wonder she could keep her glass under control. Years of training with upper-class families, presumably. And Rebecka’s posture softened. She looked brown and strong, he noticed. Skinny as a rake, but then she always had been.
Torsten Karlsson was standing a little way to the side behind M?ns studying the barbecue buffet. His mouth was watering. Indonesian lamb kebabs, kebabs of beef fillet or scampi with Cajun spices, Caribbean fish kebabs with ginger and pineapple, chicken kebabs with sage and lemon, or Asiatic style, marinated in yogurt with ginger, garam masala and chopped cucumber, along with lots of different sauces and salads. A selection of red and white wines, beer and cider. He knew they called him “Karlsson on the roof” at the office, after the character in Astrid Lindgren’s books. Short and stocky, his black hair sticking up like a scrubbing brush on top of his head. M?ns, on the other hand, always looked good in his clothes. There was no way women told him he was sweet, or that he made them laugh.
“I heard you’d got a new Jag,” he said, pinching an olive from the bulgur wheat salad.
“Mmm, an E-type cabriolet, mint condition,” answered M?ns mechanically. “How’s she getting on?”
For a split second Torsten Karlsson wondered whether M?ns was asking how his own Jag was getting on. He looked up, followed the direction of M?ns’ gaze and landed on Rebecka Martinsson and Maria Taube.
“She’s staying up at your place,” M?ns went on.
“She couldn’t stay cooped up in that little one room apartment. She didn’t seem to have anywhere to go. Why don’t you ask her yourself? She’s your assistant.”
“Because I’ve just asked you,” snapped M?ns.
Torsten Karlsson held up his hands in a don’t-shoot-I-surrender gesture.
“To be honest, I don’t really know,” he said. “I never go out there. And if I am there we talk about other things.”
“Like what?”
“Well, about putting fresh tar on the steps, about the red Falun paint, about her plans to replace all the putty round the windows. She works all the time. For a while she seemed to be obsessed by the compost.”
The expression on M?ns’ face encouraged him to go on. Interested, almost amused. Torsten Karlsson pushed his fingers through the black mop of hair on his head.
“Well,” he said, “first of all she set about building. Three different compost bins for garden and household waste. Bought the rat proof kind. Then she built a rapid compost heap. She practically made me write down how you had to layer it all with grass and sand—pure science. And then, when she was supposed to go on that course on corporate taxation in Malm?, you remember?”
“I do, yes.”
“Well, she rang me up and said she couldn’t go, because the compost was, now how did she put it, there was something the matter with it, not enough nitrogen. So she’d fetched some household waste from a nursery nearby, and now it was too wet. So she’d have to stay at home and scatter and drill.”
“Drill?”
“Yes, I had to promise to go out there during the week she was away and drill down through the compost with an old hand drill— the kind you use to make holes in the ice. Then she found the former owners’ compost heap a little way into the forest.”
“And?”
“There was all sorts in there. Old cat skeletons, broken bottles, all kinds of shit… so then she decided to clean it. She found an old bed behind the outhouse with a kind of mesh base. She used that as a huge sieve. Shoveled the stuff onto the bed and shook it so the clean compost fell through. I should have brought along some of our clients and introduced them to one of our promising young associates.”
M?ns stared at Torsten Karlsson. He could see Rebecka in his mind’s eye, rosy cheeks, hair standing on end, frantically shaking an iron bed on top of a pile of earth. Torsten down below with wide-eyed clients dressed in dark suits.
They both burst out laughing at the same time and almost couldn’t stop. Torsten wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Although she has calmed down a bit now,” he said. “She isn’t so… I don’t know… the last time I was there she was sitting out on the steps with a book and a cup of coffee.”
“What book was it?” asked M?ns.
Torsten Karlsson gave him an odd look.
“I didn’t think to look,” he said. “Talk to her.”
M?ns knocked back his glass of red wine.
“I’ll go and say hello,” he said. “But you know me. I’m crap at talking to people. And even worse at talking to women.”
He tried to laugh, but Torsten wasn’t smiling.
“You have to ask her how she is.”
M?ns blew air down his nose.
“I know, I know.”
I’m better at short-term relationships, he thought. Clients. Cab drivers. The checkout girl in the local shop. No old conflicts and disappointments lurking just under the surface like tangled seaweed.
* * *

Late summer’s afternoon on Lid?. The red evening sun settling over the gentle contours of the rocks like a golden bowl. One of the archipelago cruise boats slips by out in the channel. The reeds down by the water put their heads together and rustle and whisper to each other. The sound of the guests chatting and laughing is carried out over the water.
Dinner has progressed to the stage where cigarette packets have appeared on the tables. It was okay to stretch your legs before dessert, so it wasn’t quite so crowded around the tables. Sweaters and cardigans that had been tied around waists or slung over shoulders were now slipped over arms chilled by the evening air. Some people were paying a third or fourth visit to the buffet, standing and chatting to the cooks who were turning the spitting kebabs over the glowing charcoal. Some were well on the way to being drunk. Had to hold on to the railings when they went up the steps to the toilets. Waving their arms about and spilling cigarette ash all over their clothes. Talking just a bit too loudly. One of the partners insisted on helping a waitress carry out the desserts. With great authority and a gentlemanly flourish he relieved her of a big tray of vanilla cream tartlets with glazed red currants. The tartlets slid alarmingly toward the edges of the tray. The waitress gave a somewhat strained smile and exchanged a look with the cooks who were busy at the barbecue. One of them dropped what he was doing and hurried to the kitchen with her to fetch the rest of the trays.
Rebecka and Maria were sitting down on the rocks. The stones were releasing the heat they’d stored up during the course of the day. Maria scratched a mosquito bite on the inside of her wrist.
“Torsten’s going up to Kiruna next week,” she said. “Did he tell you?”
“No.”
“It’s this project with the Jansson Group Auditors. Now that the Swedish church has separated from the state, it’s an interesting client group to link up with. The idea is to sell a legal package, including accounting and auditing of the Swedish church assets all over the country. Offer help with just about everything, ‘how do we get rid of Berit and her fibromyalgia,’ ‘how do we reach an economically sound deal with entrepreneurs,’ the whole package. I don’t really know, but I think there’s a long-term plan to work together with a broker and grab the capital administration. Anyway, Torsten’s going up to give the sales pitch to the church council in Kiruna.”
“And?”
“You could go with him. You know what he’s like. He’d think it was really nice to have some company.”
“I can’t go to Kiruna,” exclaimed Rebecka.
“No, I know that’s what you think. But I’m wondering why.”
“I don’t know, I…”
“What’s the worst that could happen? I mean if you bumped into somebody who knows who you are? And what about your grandmother’s house, you miss that, don’t you?”
Rebecka clenched her teeth.
I can’t go there, that’s just the way it is, she thought.
Maria replied as if she’d read her mind.
“I’m going to ask Torsten to ask you anyway. If there are monsters under the bed it’s just as well to put the light on and turn over onto your stomach and have a look at them.”
* * *

Dancing on the hotel’s stone terrace. Abba and Niklas Str?mstedt pouring out of the loudspeakers. Through the open windows of the hotel kitchen comes the sound of porcelain crashing and the rush of water as the plates are rinsed before they go into the dishwasher. The sun has taken her red veils down into the water with her. Lanterns hang from the trees. A crush around the outdoor bar.
Rebecka walked down to the stone quay. She’d danced with her table companion then crept away. The darkness placed its arm around her and drew her close.
It went well, she thought. It went as well as anybody could expect.
She sat down on a wooden bench by the water. The sound of the waves lapping against the jetty. The smell of rotting seaweed, brine and diesel. A lamp was reflected in the shiny black water.
M?ns had come over to say hello just as she was about to sit down at the table.
“How’s things, Martinsson?” he’d asked.
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? she thought.
His wolfish grin and the way he called her by her surname was like a great big stop sign: No confidences, tears or honesty.
So it was head up, feet down and an account of how she’d painted the window frames out at Torsten’s place with linseed oil. After Kiruna it had seemed as if he cared about her. But when she couldn’t work any longer he’d completely disappeared.
You’re just nothing then, she thought. When you can’t work.
The sound of footsteps on the gravel path made her look up. At first she couldn’t make out a face, but she recognized that high-pitched voice. It was that new girl, the blonde one. What was her name again? Petra.
“Hi Rebecka,” said Petra, as if they knew each other.
She came and stood far too close. Rebecka suppressed the urge to get up, shove her out of the way and scurry off. You couldn’t really do that sort of thing. So she stayed put. The foot on the end of the leg that was crossed over the other leg gave her away. Jiggled up and down in annoyance. Wanted to run away.
Petra sank down beside her with a sigh.
“God, I’ve just had three dances one after the other with ?ke. You know what they’re like. Just because you work with them they think they own you. I just had to get away for a bit.”
Rebecka grunted some kind of acknowledgment. In a little while she’d say she needed the bathroom.
Petra twisted her upper body toward Rebecka and tilted her head to one side.
“I heard about what happened to you last year. It must have been terrible.”
Rebecka didn’t reply.
Wait for it, thought Rebecka nastily. When the quarry won’t come out of its hole, you have to lure it out with something. It ought to be some little confidence of your own. You hold out your own little confession and swap it for the other person’s secret like a bookmark.
“My sister had a terrible experience like that five years ago,” Petra went on when Rebecka didn’t speak. “She found their neighbor’s son drowned in a ditch. He was only four. After that she went a bit…”
She finished the sentence with a vague hand movement.
“So this is where you are.”
It was Popeye. He came over to them with a gin and tonic in each hand. He held one out to Petra, and after a microsecond’s hesitation offered the other one to Rebecka. It was actually for himself.
A gentleman, thought Rebecka tiredly, putting the glass down beside her.
She looked at Popeye. Popeye was looking greedily at Petra. Petra was looking greedily at Rebecka. Popeye and Petra were going to feast on her. Then they’d go off and have sex.
Petra must have sensed that Rebecka was about to run away. That the opportunity would soon have passed her by. Under normal circumstances she would have let Rebecka go, and thought to herself that there’d be other times. But right now too many drinks from the bar and too many glasses of wine with the food had clouded her judgment.
She leaned over toward Rebecka. Her cheeks were shiny and rosy when she asked:
“So, how does it feel to kill a person?”
* * *

Rebecka marched straight through the middle of the crowd of drunken people. No, she didn’t want to dance. No, thank you, she didn’t want anything from the bar. She had her overnight bag over her shoulder and was on her way down to the jetty.
She’d managed to deal with Petra and Popeye. Assumed a thoughtful expression, gazed out over the dark water, and replied: “It feels terrible, of course.”
What else? The truth? “I have no idea. I can’t remember.”
Maybe she should have told them about those totally pathetic conversations with the therapist. Rebecka sitting and smiling at every meeting and in the end nearly bursting out laughing. What can she do? She just doesn’t remember. The therapist very definitely not smiling back, this is no laughing matter. And finally they decide to take a break. Rebecka is welcome to come back at some point in the future.
When she can’t work anymore she doesn’t get in touch with him. Can’t bring herself to do it. Pictures the scene, sitting and weeping because she can’t cope with life, and his face, just enough sympathy to cover the what-did-I-tell-you expression.
No, Rebecka had answered Petra like a normal person, it felt terrible but that life must go on, however banal that might sound. Then she’d made her excuses and left them. It had been fine, but five minutes later the rage hit her, and now… Now she was so angry she could have ripped a tree up by the roots. Or maybe she should lean against the wall of the hotel and push it over like a cardboard box. Just as well for blondie and her little friend they weren’t still down on the quay, because she’d have kicked them into the water.
Suddenly M?ns was right behind her. Beside her.
“What’s going on? Has something happened?”
Rebecka didn’t slow down.
“I’m leaving. One of the boys in the kitchen said I could borrow the skiff. I’ll row across.”
M?ns uttered a snort of disbelief.
“Are you crazy? You can’t row across in the dark. And what are you going to do when you get to the other side? Come on, stop. What’s the matter with you?”
She stopped just before the jetty. Spun around and growled.
“What the f*ck do you think’s the matter?” she asked. “People asking me what it feels like to kill a person. How the hell should I know? I didn’t sit there writing a poem while it was going on, analyzing how I felt. I… it just happened!”
“Why are you angry with me? I didn’t ask you, did I?”
Suddenly Rebecka was speaking very slowly.
“No, M?ns, you don’t ask me anything. Nobody could accuse you of that.”
“What the hell,” he replied, but Rebecka had already turned on her heel and stomped off onto the jetty.
He dashed after her. She’d thrown her bag into the skiff and was untying the mooring rope. M?ns searched around for something to say.
“I was talking to Torsten,” he said. “He told me he was thinking of asking you to go up to Kiruna with him. But I told him he shouldn’t ask.”
“Why?”
“Why? I thought it was the last thing you needed.”
Rebecka didn’t look at him as she answered.
“Perhaps you’d allow me to decide what I need and don’t need.”
She was beginning to become vaguely aware of the fact that people nearby were tuning in to her and M?ns. They were pretending to be busy dancing and chatting, but hadn’t the general murmur of conversation dropped a little? Maybe now they’d all have something to talk about next week at work.
M?ns seemed to have noticed as well, and lowered his voice.
“I was only thinking of you, I do apologize.”
Rebecka jumped down into the boat.
“Oh, you were thinking of me, were you? Is that why you’ve had me sitting in on all those criminal trials like some kind of tart?”
“Right, that’s enough,” snapped M?ns. “You said yourself that you didn’t mind. I thought it was a good way of keeping in touch with the job. Get out of that boat!”
“As if I had a choice! You could see that if you bothered to think about it!”
“Stop doing the bloody criminal cases, then. Get out of the boat and go upstairs and get some sleep, then we’ll talk in the morning when you’ve sobered up.”
Rebecka took a step forward in the boat. It rocked back and forth. For a moment the thought went through M?ns’ mind that she was going to clamber out onto the jetty and slap him. That would be just perfect.
“When I’ve sobered up? You… you’re just unbelievable!”
She placed her foot against the jetty and pushed off. M?ns considered grabbing hold of the boat, but that would cause a scene as well. Hanging on to the prow till he fell in the water. The office’s very own comedy turn. The boat slipped away.
“Go to bloody Kiruna then!” he shouted, without paying any attention to who might hear him. “You can do what you bloody well like as far as I’m concerned.”
The boat disappeared into the darkness. He heard the oars rattling in the rowlocks and the splash as the blades slid into the water.
But Rebecka’s voice was still close by, and had gone up a pitch.
“Tell me what could possibly be worse than this.”
He recognized the voice from those endless rows with Madelene. First of all Madelene’s suppressed rage. Him without the faintest idea of what the hell he’d done wrong this time. Then the row, every time the storm of the century. And afterward that voice, a little bit higher pitched and about to splinter into tears. Then it might be time for the reconciliation. If you were prepared to pay the price: being the scapegoat. With Madelene he’d always trotted out the old story: said he was just a heap of shit. Madelene in his arms, sobbing like a little girl with her head leaning on his chest.
And Rebecka… His thoughts lumbered drunkenly through his head searching for the right words, but it was already too late. The sound of the oars was moving further and further away.
He wasn’t bloody well going to shout after her. She could forget that.
Suddenly Ulla Carle, one of the firm’s two female partners, was standing behind him wondering what was going on.
“So shoot me,” he said, and walked off up toward the hotel. He headed for the outdoor bar under the garlands of colored lanterns.