‘That’s good, Victoria. You’re …’ His voice trails off and she hears him sniff.
Is he crying?
‘I’ve missed you. It’s been empty here without you. Well, obviously we’ve both missed you.’
‘But I’m home now.’ She tries to sound cheerful, but feels the lump in her stomach grow because she knows what he wants.
‘That’s good, Victoria. Finish your shower and get dressed, then your mum and I want to talk to you. Mum’s making some tea.’ He blows his nose in his handkerchief, then snorts.
Yes, he’s crying, she thinks.
‘I’m almost finished.’
She waits for him to go before turning the water off and drying herself. She knows he might be back any moment and gets dressed as quickly as she can. She doesn’t even bother finding clean underwear, and puts the pair she’s been wearing all the way from Denmark back on.
They’re sitting quietly at the kitchen table waiting for her. The only noise is from the radio by the window. On the table is the teapot and a plate of almond biscuits. Mum pours a cup, which smells strongly of mint and honey.
‘Welcome home, Victoria,’ Mum says, holding out the plate of biscuits without looking her in the eye.
Victoria tries to catch her eye. Tries again and again.
She doesn’t recognise me, Victoria thinks.
The plate of biscuits is the only thing that’s really present.
‘You’ve probably been looking forward to having some proper …’ Mum loses her train of thought, puts the plate down and brushes some invisible crumbs from the table. ‘After all the strange things …’
‘It’ll be nice.’ Victoria lets her eyes roam around the kitchen, then looks at him.
‘You had something you wanted to tell me.’ She dunks the sugar-coated biscuit in the tea, and a big piece breaks off and falls into the cup. Fascinated, she watches it dissolve as the small pieces sink to the bottom, as though it had never been whole.
‘Mum and I have done some thinking while you’ve been gone, and we’ve decided to move away from here for a while.’
He leans over the table and Mum nods in agreement, as if to reinforce his words.
‘Move? Where to?’
‘I’ve been asked to lead a project in Sierra Leone. To start with we’ll be there for six months, then we can stay another six months if we want to.’
He slowly rubs his slender hands, and she notices how old and wrinkled they look.
So hard and eager. Burning.
She shudders at the thought of him touching her.
‘But I’ve applied to Uppsala University and …’ She can feel tears welling up, but doesn’t want to show any weakness. That might give him an opportunity to try to comfort her. She looks down into her cup, stirs it with her spoon, making porridge with the biscuit crumbs.
‘Africa’s such a long way away, and I …’
She’ll be completely at his mercy. Not knowing anyone, and with nowhere to escape to if she should need to get away.
‘We’ve arranged for you to be able to do a correspondence course. And you’ll get help a few times a week.’
He looks at her with his watery, grey-blue eyes. He’s already made up his mind, so there’s no point in her saying anything.
‘What sort of course?’ She feels a stab of pain in her tooth and rubs her chin with her hand.
They haven’t even asked her about her tooth.
‘It’s a basic course in psychology. We thought that would suit you.’
He folds his hands in front of him and waits for her response.
Mum gets up and takes her cup over to the sink. Without a word she rinses it, dries it carefully and puts it back in the cupboard.
Victoria says nothing. She knows there’s no point in protesting.
It’s better to store up the anger inside her, and let it grow big. One day she’ll open the floodgates and let the fire wash over the world, and when that day comes she will be merciless and unforgiving.
She smiles at him. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. After all, it’s just a few months. It might be fun to see something new.’
He nods and gets up from the table, to mark that the conversation is over.
‘Well, let’s all get back to our own business,’ he says. ‘Perhaps Victoria needs to get some rest. I’m going to continue out in the garden. At six o’clock the sauna will be heated up, and we can continue our conversation then. Is that OK?’ He looks expectantly first at Victoria, then at her mother.
They nod back.
That night she has trouble sleeping, and lies in bed twisting and turning.
She aches because he was so hard-handed. Her skin is stinging from the scalding water, and her crotch hurts. But she knows it will pass overnight. As long as he’s content and able to sleep.
She sniffs the little dog made of real rabbit fur.
In her memory she lists the injustices, and looks forward to the day when he and everyone else will beg her for mercy.
Karolinska Hospital
KILLING SOMEONE IS easy. The difficulties are mainly mental, and the underlying factors for that are very different. For most people a whole range of barriers need to be bridged. Empathy, conscience and reflection usually function as hindrances against outbreaks of fatal violence.
For some people it’s no harder than opening a milk carton.
It’s visiting time, and there are lots of people moving about. Outside the rain is pouring down, and the storm is lashing the windows. Every so often lightning lights up the night sky, and thunder follows almost instantly.
The storm is very close.
There’s a floor plan on the wall beside the lifts, and because she doesn’t want to ask anyone for directions she goes over to it and checks that she isn’t in the wrong place.
In one hand she is clutching a bunch of yellow tulips, and every time she passes someone she looks down to avoid eye contact. Her coat is unremarkable, as are her trousers and the white shoes with soft rubber soles. No one pays her any attention, and if anyone were to remember her, against all expectation, they wouldn’t be able to remember any details of her appearance.
She could be anyone, and she is used to being ignored. Nowadays it doesn’t bother her, but once upon a time the carelessness used to hurt.
A long time ago she was on her own, but she isn’t any more.
At least not in the same way.
The second door on the left is his. She slips in quickly, shuts the door behind herself, then stops to listen, but can’t hear anything that worries her.
Everything’s quiet and, as expected, he’s alone in the room.
In the window there’s a small lamp, whose weak, yellow light gives the room a feverish glow and makes it seem even smaller than it actually is.
At the end of the bed is his medical chart, and she picks it up and reads.
Karl Lundstr?m.
Beside the bed are a number of different gadgets, and two drip stands connected to his neck. There are two transparent tubes coming out of his nostrils, and another in his mouth.