The Drowning

He didn’t ask any more questions. Making his mother sad was the last thing he wanted to do. He just wished that she would be happy and that she would stroke his hair like she used to and call him her handsome little boy. That was all he wanted.

He put the blankets down in front of the washing machine and pushed aside all his gloomy, dark thoughts. They were going on holiday. In the caravan.

Christian drummed his pen on the top of the small table where he was sitting. Next to him was a big stack of copies of The Mermaid. He still couldn’t get enough of looking at the book. It seemed so unreal that his name was actually on the cover. The cover of a real book.

There wasn’t yet any rush to buy copies, and he didn’t think there would be. It was only authors like Liza Marklund and Jan Guillou who attracted large crowds. He was perfectly happy with the five copies that he’d signed so far.

Although he had to admit that he did feel a bit lost as he sat there. People hurried past, giving him curious looks, but they didn’t stop. He wasn’t sure whether he should say ‘Hello’ when he felt them staring at him or just pretend that he was busy with something else.

Gunnel, the owner of the bookshop, came to his rescue. She walked over and nodded at the stack of books.

‘Would you mind signing a few of those? It’s so nice to have signed copies to sell later.’

‘Sure. How many should I sign?’ asked Christian, happy to have something to do.

‘Hmm. Let’s say ten,’ replied Gunnel, straightening the stack, which had got a bit crooked.

‘That’s no problem.’

‘We did a proper amount of advertising for the book-signing,’ said Gunnel.

‘I have no doubt that you did,’ Christian told her with a smile. He could see that she was concerned he would think the meagre turnout could be blamed on the shop’s lack of PR for the event. ‘I’m not exactly a household name, so I didn’t have very high expectations.’

‘At least we’ve sold a few copies,’ she said kindly, heading back to the checkout counter.

He reached for a book, removed the cap on his pen, and began signing. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that someone was standing in front of the table. When he looked up, he found a big, yellow microphone thrust in his face.

‘We’re here in the bookshop where Christian Thydell is signing his first novel, The Mermaid. Christian, your name is all over the newspaper placards today. How worried are you about the threats that have been levelled against you? Have the police been brought in?’

The reporter hadn’t yet introduced himself, but judging by the label on the microphone, he was from the local radio station. He was peering at Christian with an urgent expression on his face.

Christian felt his mind go blank. ‘The newspaper placards?’ he said.

‘Yes, you’re on GT’s placard. Haven’t you seen it?’ The reporter didn’t wait for Christian to reply but just repeated the question he’d asked initially. ‘Are you worried about the threats? Have the police provided special protection for you today?’

The reporter glanced around the shop, but then turned back to Christian, who was holding his pen above the book he’d been just about to sign.

‘I don’t know how –’ he stammered.

‘But it’s true, isn’t it? You’ve received threats while you were writing the book, and you passed out on Wednesday when another letter was delivered to you at the book launch.’

‘Er, yes, well …’ Christian could feel himself gasping for air.

‘Do you know who sent the threats? Do the police know?’ The microphone was again only about an inch from Christian’s mouth, and he had to restrain himself from shoving it away. He didn’t want to answer these questions. He had no idea how the press had found out about any of this. He thought about the letter in his jacket pocket. The letter that had come yesterday and that he’d managed to retrieve from the stack of post before Sanna discovered it.

Panic-stricken, he looked for some way to escape. He caught Gunnel’s eye, and she seemed to realize at once that something was wrong.

She came over to them and asked, ‘What’s going on here?’

‘I’m doing an interview,’ said the reporter.

‘Have you asked Christian whether he wants to be interviewed?’ She glanced at Christian, who shook his head.

‘He’s not interested.’ She fixed her eyes on the reporter, who had lowered the microphone. ‘And besides, Christian is busy. He’s signing books for our shop. So I’m going to ask you to leave him alone.’

‘Yes, but …’ the radio reporter began. Then he stopped. He pressed one of the buttons on his recording equipment. ‘We were unable to do a short interview because …’

‘Get lost,’ said Gunnel, and Christian couldn’t help grinning.

‘Thanks,’ he said after the reporter had left.

‘What was that all about? He seemed really determined.’

Christian’s feeling of relief that the reporter was gone quickly faded, and he swallowed hard before saying:

‘He claimed that my name was on the GT placard. I’ve received a few threatening letters, and apparently the press found out about it.’

‘Oh my.’ Gunnel looked first upset and then worried. ‘Would you like me to go out and buy you a copy of the newspaper so you can see what they wrote?’

‘Would you do that?’ he said, his heart pounding.

‘Sure, I’ll be right back.’ She gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder and left.

Christian sat motionless for a moment, staring into space. Then he picked up his pen and began writing his signature in the books as Gunnel had requested. After a while he realized he needed to go to the toilet. Since there were still no customers heading for his table, he didn’t think a brief absence would be noticed.

He hurried through the employees’ break room at the back of the bookshop. A few minutes later he was already on his way back to his post. He sat down at the table. Gunnel hadn’t yet returned with the newspaper, but he was steeling himself for what was to come.

Christian reached for his pen, but then looked with surprise at the books he was supposed to sign. Had he really left them lying on the table like that? They didn’t look the same as when he’d dashed off to the toilet, and he thought that maybe someone had taken the opportunity to swipe a copy while he was gone. Yet the stack didn’t look any smaller, so he decided he was just imagining things. He picked up the top copy and opened it to write a greeting to the reader.

The page was no longer blank. And the handwriting was all too familiar. She had been here.

Gunnel was coming towards him with the newspaper, and he saw a big picture of himself on the front page. He knew what the article would say. The past was about to catch up with him. She would never give up.

‘Good Lord, do you realize how much money you went through the last time you were in Göteborg?’ Erik was holding the credit-card bill in his hand, staring at the figures.

‘I think it must have been about ten thousand kronor,’ said Louise as she calmly continued to paint her nails.

‘Ten thousand! How is it possible to spend ten thousand on a single shopping trip?’ Erik waved the bill in the air and then tossed it on the kitchen table in front of him.

‘If I’d bought the purse I was thinking of getting, it would have been closer to thirty thousand,’ she said, studying with satisfaction the pink colour of her nails.

‘You’re out of your fucking mind!’ He picked up the bill again and stared at it, as if sheer force of will might be able to change the total amount due.

‘You mean we can’t afford it?’ asked his wife, looking at him with a sly smile on her lips.

‘It’s not a question of whether we can afford it or not. It has to do with the fact that I work around the clock making money, which you then squander on … idiotic purchases.’

‘Oh, right. I do nothing at all at home during the day,’ said Louise, getting to her feet as she fluttered her hands to make the nail polish dry faster. ‘I just sit here, eating sweets and watching soap operas all day long. And you’ve been raising the girls all on your own without any help from me, right? You’ve changed their nappies, fed them, bathed them, driven them wherever they needed to go, and kept the whole house neat and clean. Is that what you mean?’ She swept out of the room without giving him another glance.

This was a conversation that they’d had hundreds of times before. And no doubt they’d have it hundreds of time again, if nothing drastic happened. They were like two well-rehearsed dancers who knew all the steps and were able to carry themselves with consummate elegance.

‘This is one of the finds that I made in Göteborg. Nice, isn’t it?’ She was back, holding a leather jacket that she’d taken from a hanger in the front hall. ‘It was on sale, reduced to only four thousand.’ She held it up, then hung it back in the hall and went upstairs.

Presumably neither of them was going to win the argument this time either. They were equal adversaries, and every single row they’d had over the years had ended in a tie. Ironically enough, it might have actually been better if one of them had been weaker than the other. Then their unhappy marriage could have come to an end.

‘Next time I’m going to cut up your credit card!’ he yelled after her. The girls were at a friend’s house, so there was no reason to keep his voice down.

‘As long as you continue to spend money on your mistresses, you’re not going to do a damn thing with my card. Do you think you’re the only one who pays attention to the details on credit-card bills?’

Erik swore. He knew that he should have changed his mailing address so that the bills were sent to his office instead. He couldn’t deny that he was a generous man when it came to anyone who happened to have the joy and the honour of sleeping with him. He swore again and stuck his feet in his shoes. He realized that, in spite of everything, Louise had won this round. And she knew it.

‘I’m going out to buy the evening paper,’ he shouted, and then slammed the door after him.

Gravel flew in all directions as he roared off in his BMW, and his pulse didn’t slow until he had almost reached the village. If only he’d been smart enough to demand a prenuptial agreement. Then Louise would be nothing more than a bad memory by this time. But back then, they had been poor students, and when he brought up the subject a few years ago, she had merely laughed in his face. Now he refused to let her get away with half of everything that he’d built up, what he’d fought and slaved for. Never! He pounded his fist on the steering wheel but calmed down as he turned into the car park of the Konsum supermarket.

It was Louise’s job to do the grocery shopping, so he moved quickly past the shelves stocked with food items. As he headed towards the stand holding newspapers, which was right next to the checkout counters, he came to an abrupt halt in mid-stride. Big, black type on the placards screamed at him: Rising-star author Christian Thydell fears for his life! And in smaller type: Collapsed during book launch party after receiving threatening letter!

Erik had to force his feet to go closer. It felt as if he were trying to walk through deep water. He picked up a copy of GT and with trembling fingers leafed through the paper until he found the right page. When he finished reading the article, he dashed for the exit. He hadn’t even paid for the paper, and from somewhere far away he heard the clerk shouting at him. But he kept on running. He had to get home.

‘How the hell did the newspapers find out about this?’

Patrik and Maja had been out buying groceries, and now Patrik flung a copy of GT on the table before he went on putting food away in the refrigerator. Maja had climbed up on a kitchen chair and was eagerly helping him unload the shopping bags.

‘Er …’ was all Erica could say.

Patrik stopped what he was doing. He knew his wife well enough to be able to decipher what her reticence signified.

‘What did you do, Erica?’ He was holding a tub of Lätt & Lagom margarine in his hand as he looked her in the eye.

‘I think it must have leaked out because of me.’

‘How did that happen? Who did you talk to?’

Now even Maja was aware of the tension in the kitchen. She sat on the chair, staring at her mother. Erica gulped and then told him. ‘Gaby.’

‘Gaby!’ Patrik nearly choked. ‘You told Gaby? You might as well have rung up GT yourself.’

‘I didn’t think that –’

‘No, I’m quite certain you didn’t. What does Christian say about all this?’ asked Patrik, pointing at the blaring headlines.

‘I don’t know,’ said Erica. She felt her insides tie themselves in knots whenever she thought about how Christian would react.

‘As a police officer, I have to tell you that this is the worst thing that could have happened. This kind of attention will not only incite the person who sent those letters, but new letter-writers as well.’

‘Don’t yell at me. I know it was a dumb thing to do.’ Erica could feel the tears rising. She cried easily even under normal circumstances, and all the raging hormones of her pregnancy didn’t make things any better. ‘I just wasn’t thinking. I phoned Gaby to find out whether they’d received any threatening letters at the publishing house, and I knew instantly that it was stupid to tell her anything about it. But by then it was too late.’

Patrik handed Erica a tissue and then put his arms around her, stroking her hair. He whispered in her ear:

‘Don’t be upset, sweetheart. I’m sorry I yelled. I know that you didn’t mean for this to happen. Hush now …’ He rocked her in his arms until her sobs began to fade.

‘I never thought that she would …’

‘I know, I know. But she’s a different sort of person than you are. And you need to learn that not everybody thinks the same way.’ He held her at arm’s length and looked at her.

Erica dried her eyes on the tissue he’d given her.

‘What should I do now?’

‘You need to talk to Christian. Apologize and explain.’

‘But I can’t …’

‘Don’t argue. It’s the only solution.’

‘You’re right,’ said Erica. ‘But I have to say, I’m dreading it. And I’m going to have a serious talk with Gaby.’

‘Above all, you need to stop and think next time before you say anything, and consider who you’re talking to. Gaby’s top priority is her publishing company, and the rest of you come second. That’s just the way it is.’

‘Okay, okay, I know that. You don’t need to harp on it.’ Erica glared at her husband.

‘We’ll leave it at that, then,’ said Patrik, and he went back to putting away the groceries.

‘Have you had a chance to take a closer look at the letters?’

‘No, I haven’t had a spare moment,’ said Patrik.

‘But you’ll do it, won’t you?’ Erica persisted.

Patrik nodded as he started cutting up vegetables for dinner.

‘Sure, of course I will. But it would be easier if Christian were cooperating. Then I could have a look at the other letters too.’

‘So talk to him about it. Maybe you can persuade him.’

‘Then he’ll realize that you’re the one who told me about it.’

‘And I’ve hung him out to dry in one of Sweden’s biggest newspapers, so you’d better watch out, because he’s probably still wishing that I’d go to hell.’

‘It won’t be that bad.’

‘If I were in his shoes, I’d never speak to me again.’

‘Stop being so dramatic and pessimistic,’ said Patrik, lifting Maja on to the counter so she could sit there and see what he was doing. She loved to watch him cook and always wanted to ‘help out’. ‘Go over to see him tomorrow and explain what happened. Tell him it was never your intention for things to get out like this. Then I’ll have a talk with him and try to get him to cooperate with us.’ He handed Maja a slice of cucumber, which she instantly started gnawing on, using the few but very sharp teeth she had.

‘Tomorrow? Okay,’ sighed Erica.

‘Yes, tomorrow,’ said Patrik, bending down to give his wife a kiss on the lips.

Ludvig found himself constantly casting glances at the side of the football pitch. It just wasn’t the same without his father.

He had been to every practice session, no matter what the weather. Football was their thing. It was the reason their friendship had lasted, in spite of Ludvig’s determination to break free of his parents. Because they had actually been friends, he and his father. Of course they’d quarrelled now and then, just like all fathers and sons. But in spite of it, they had still remained friends.

Ludvig closed his eyes, picturing his father in his mind. Wearing jeans and a woollen sweater with ‘Fjällbacka’ across the chest. It was the sweater he’d worn so often, to his wife’s regret. His hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the ball. And on Ludvig. But he never yelled at his son – not like the other fathers who turned up at practice and football matches, spending their time screaming from the sidelines. ‘You better bloody well pull yourself together, Oscar!’ or ‘Damn it, get moving, Danne!’ Nothing like that. Not from his father. All he ever said was: ‘Good, Ludvig!’ ‘Great pass!’ ‘You show them, Ludde!’

Out of the corner of his eye Ludvig saw that the ball was about to be passed to him, and he automatically kicked it onward. He no longer took any joy in playing football. But he still did his best, running hard and fighting to win in spite of the winter chill. He could have easily thrown in the towel and given up. Stayed away from practice, saying to hell with it and the whole team. No one would have blamed him; everyone would have understood. Except his father. Giving up had never been an option for him.

So here Ludvig was. One of the team. But all his joy was missing, and the sideline was empty. His father was gone. He knew that now. Father was gone.

6

He wasn’t allowed to ride in the caravan. And that was only the first of many disappointments during the so-called holiday. Nothing turned out the way he had hoped. The silence, broken only by harsh words, seemed even more oppressive when it didn’t have a whole house to move around in. Being on holiday felt like having more time for quarrels, more time for Mother’s outbursts. And Father seemed even smaller and greyer.

This was the first time he went along, but as he understood it, every year Mother and Father would take the caravan to the place with the peculiar name. Fjällbacka. The name meant ‘Mountain Hill’ in Swedish, but he saw no mountains and only a few hills. The ground was completely flat in the camping area where they parked the caravan, squeezed in among scores of other campers. He wasn’t sure that he liked it. But Father had explained that Mother’s family was from the area, and that was why she wanted to go there.

But that was strange too, because he didn’t meet any relatives. During one of the arguments inside the cramped space of the caravan, he finally understood that someone called the Old Bitch lived here, and that she was what his mother meant by ‘family’. What a funny name that was. The Old Bitch. But it didn’t sound as if his mother cared much for her, because her voice got even harsher when she talked about the woman, and they never did see her. So why did they have to come to this place at all?

Yet what he hated most about Fjällbacka and being on holiday was having to go swimming. He’d never swum in the sea before. At first he wasn’t sure what to think. But his mother admonished him. Said she refused to have a wimp for a son, and she told him to stop whining. So he took a deep breath and timidly waded into the frigid water, even though the feeling of cold and salt on his legs made him gasp for air. When the water reached up to his waist, he stopped. It was too cold, he couldn’t breathe. And he could feel something moving around his feet, touching the calves of his legs, something creeping and crawling over him. Mother waded out to him from shore, laughing, and then took his hand to lead him further out. All of a sudden he felt happy. She was holding his hand, and her laughter bounced off the surface of the water and off of him too. His feet now seemed to move of their own accord, as if they left the sandy bottom and were floating. At last he couldn’t feel anything solid under his feet, but that didn’t matter, because Mother had hold of him, she was carrying him, she loved him.

Then she let go. He felt the palm of her hand slide over his, then her fingers slipped past his fingertips until not only his feet but his hands were fumbling with nothingness. Again he felt the cold pressing against his chest, and the water seemed to rise up. It reached his shoulders, his neck, and he raised his chin to prevent the water from reaching his mouth, but it rose too fast, and he couldn’t stop it. His mouth filled with salt and cold, which raced down his throat, and the water kept rising – over his cheeks, his eyes, and he felt the water close like a lid over his head, until all sound vanished and the only thing he heard was the roar of what was crawling and creeping.

He flailed his arms, lashing out at whatever it was that wanted to pull him downward. But he was no match for the massive wave of water, and when he finally felt someone’s skin against his own, a hand on his arm, his first instinct was to defend himself. Then he was yanked upward, and the top of his head surfaced. The first breath was brutal and painful, then he greedily gasped for air. Mother had a tight grip on his arm, but that didn’t matter. Because the water was no longer trying to get him.

He looked up at her, grateful that she had rescued him, that she hadn’t let him disappear. But what he saw in her eyes was contempt. Somehow he’d done something wrong, he had disappointed her again. If only he knew why.

He had black and blue marks on his arm for days afterward.

‘Did you really have to drag me over here today?’ It was rare for Kenneth to let his annoyance show. He believed in staying calm and focused in every situation. But Lisbet had looked so sad when he told her that Erik had phoned and he’d have to go over to the office for a couple of hours even though it was Sunday. She hadn’t complained, and in a sense, that just made it worse. She knew how few hours they had left together. How important they were, how precious. And yet she offered no objections. Instead, he saw how she summoned the strength to be able to smile and say: ‘Of course you have to go. I’ll be fine.’

He almost wished that she had got angry and screamed at him. Told him that it was about time for him to get his priorities straight. But she didn’t have it in her to do anything like that. He couldn’t recall a single occasion in their twenty-year marriage when she had raised her voice to him. Or to anyone else, for that matter. She had accepted all setbacks and sorrows with equanimity, and she’d even comforted him when he was the one to break down. Whenever he lacked the energy to carry on, she had mustered enough strength for both of them.

Now he’d left her at home because he needed to go to work. He was going to waste a few precious hours they could have spent together, and he hated himself because he always came running whenever Erik snapped his fingers. He couldn’t understand why. It was a pattern that had been established so early on that by now it was practically part of his personality. And Lisbet was always the one who had to suffer for it.

Erik didn’t even bother to answer his question. He just kept staring at the computer screen, as if he were in another world.

‘Was it really necessary for me to come in today?’ Kenneth repeated. ‘On a Sunday? Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?’