‘I’m a friend of hers, and I need to see her.’
The man chuckles to himself. ‘Oh, so the old bag’s got friends? I’d never have guessed.’ He pulls out a crumpled cigarette packet and lights a butt. ‘What’s in it for me? I mean, if I show you where she is.’
She’s no longer sure he’s drunk. There’s a sudden clarity in his gaze that scares her. What if he remembers her?
‘You can have three hundred if you show me where she is. All right?’
She gets out her purse and gives him three hundred-krona notes that he looks at with a satisfied grin before holding the door open for her and gesturing to her to go in.
A cloying, suffocating stench hits her, and she pulls a handkerchief from her pocket. She holds it over her nose and mouth to stop herself from throwing up, as the man chuckles at her reaction.
The staircase is long, and when her eyes have got used to the darkness she can see a faint light at the bottom.
When she steps out into the large cavern she can’t believe her eyes. It’s the size of a football pitch and the roof must be ten metres high. All around there’s a clutter of tents, boxes and shelters around small open fires and a mass of people lying or sitting around the fires.
But the most noticeable thing is the silence.
The only sounds are low whispering and snoring.
There’s something respectful about the place. As if those who live here have come to a tacit agreement not to disturb one another, to let each of them be in peace with their own worries.
The man walks past her, and she follows him into the shadows. No one seems to have noticed her.
‘This is where the old bag hangs out.’ He points to a den made of black bin bags, large enough for at least four people. The entrance is covered with a blue blanket. ‘I’m off now. If she asks who showed you the way, just say it was B?rje.’
When she squats down she can see someone moving inside. Slowly she removes the handkerchief from her mouth and takes a cautious breath. The air is thick and stuffy, and she makes an effort to breathe through her mouth. She takes out the piano wire and hides it in her hand.
‘Fredrika?’ she whispers. ‘Are you there? I need to talk to you.’
She moves near to the entrance, takes the Polaroid camera from her bag and carefully pushes the blanket aside.
If shame has a smell, then that’s what hits her nose.
Mariatorget – Sofia Zetterlund’s Office
ANN-BRITT INFORMS her that Linnea Lundstr?m has arrived, and Sofia Zetterlund goes out into the waiting room to meet her.
Just as with Ulrika Wendin, Sofia intends to use a three-stage process in her treatment of Linnea.
The first part of the treatment is exclusively about stabilisation and trust. Support and structure are the keywords, and Sofia hopes medication won’t be needed, for either Ulrika or Linnea. But it can’t be ruled out yet. The second part is about remembering, discussing, reliving and working on the sexual trauma. Finally, in the last phase, the traumatic experiences have to be separated from sexual experiences now and in the future.
Sofia had been surprised by Ulrika’s story of picking up a stranger from the bar, a purely sexual act that had clearly made Ulrika feel better.
Then she remembers Ulrika’s reaction when she caught sight of the picture of Viggo Dürer. Dürer had a central role in Linnea’s childhood.
What role might he have played in Ulrika’s life?
Linnea Lundstr?m sits down opposite Sofia. ‘Feels like I was only just here,’ she says. ‘Am I so ill I’ve got to come here every day?’
Sofia is relieved that Linnea is relaxed enough to be making jokes.
‘No, it’s not about that. But it’s good to have frequent sessions at the start, so we can get to know each other quickly.’
Very gradually, Sofia leads the conversation towards the subject that is the real reason for her meetings with Linnea: the girl’s relationship with her father.
Sofia would rather Linnea bring the subject up herself, as she had done during their meeting the previous day, and soon enough her hopes are fulfilled.
‘Do you think I’d understand myself better if I understood him better?’
Sofia pauses before answering. ‘Maybe … But first I want to be completely sure that you think I’m the right person to talk to.’
Linnea looks surprised. ‘Well, who else is there? My friends, or what? I’d die of shame …’
Sofia smiles. ‘No, not necessarily any of your friends. But there are other therapists.’
‘You talked to him. You’re the most suitable, at least according to Annette.’
Sofia looks at Linnea and decides that the best word to describe her is ‘stubborn’. I can’t lose her now, Sofia thinks. ‘I understand … So, back to your father. If you want to talk about him, where would you like us to begin?’
Linnea digs a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket and puts it on the desk. It looks like she’s embarrassed. ‘I kept something from you yesterday.’ Linnea hesitates, then pushes the piece of paper towards Sofia. ‘This is a letter Dad wrote to me this spring. Read it.’
The handwriting is beautiful, but difficult to decipher. The letter was written during a flight just a few weeks before Karl Lundstr?m was arrested.
The first part is just the usual phrases. Then it gets increasingly fragmentary and incoherent.
Talent is patience, and fear of defeat. You have both qualities, Linnea, so you have all the prerequisites for success even if it doesn’t feel like it now.
But for me all is past. There are wounds in life that quietly devour the soul like leprosy.
No, I need to seek out shadow! Healthy and alive try to get near, follow them in awe and keep them dear, I shall seek a home in the home of shadows.
Sofia recognises the phrase. Karl Lundstr?m had talked about the home of shadows during their first meeting in Huddinge. He had said it was a metaphor for a secret, forbidden place.
Everything is in the book I have with me. It’s about me and about you.
It says that I only desire what thousands, perhaps millions, have done before me and that means my actions are sanctioned by history. The impulses to the desires are not in my conscience, but in the collective interaction established by others. By others’ desires.
I am only doing what the others have done, and my conscience should feel clear. Yet my conscience still says something is wrong! I don’t understand!
Of course I could ask the Oracle of Delphi, Pythia, the woman who never lies.
Thanks to her, Socrates realised that a wise man knows he knows nothing. The ignorant man believes he knows something he doesn’t know, and is therefore doubly ignorant because he doesn’t understand that he doesn’t know! But I realise that I don’t know!
Does that mean I’m wise?