Читать книгу The Drowning - Camilla Lackberg - Страница 12

Weren’t they ever going back home? The caravan seemed to get smaller with every day that passed, and he’d already explored every corner of the camping area. Maybe once they were home they’d start to like him again. Here it felt as if he didn’t exist at all.

Father sat around solving crossword puzzles, and Mother was ill. At least, that was the explanation he’d received when he tried to go in and see her. She spent the days inside the caravan’s cramped sleeping area. And she hadn’t gone swimming with him again. Even though he couldn’t forget the terror or the feeling of something wriggling past his feet, he would have preferred that to being constantly banished from the caravan.

‘Mother is ill. Go out and play.’

So he would take off, filling the hours of the day on his own. At first the other children at the campground tried to play with him, but he wasn’t interested. If he wasn’t allowed to be with his mother, then he didn’t want to be with anybody.

When she didn’t get better, he started to worry more and more. Sometimes he’d hear her throwing up. And she looked so pale. What if it was something serious? What if she too was going to die and leave him behind? Just like his mamma did.

The mere thought made him want to crawl into a corner and hide. Shut his eyes tight, so tight that the darkness couldn’t grab hold of him. He refused to think about that. His beautiful mother could not die. Not her too.

He’d found a special place for himself. Up on the slope, with a view of the campground and the water. If he craned his neck, he could even see the roof of their caravan. That’s where he now spent his days, in the one place where he was left in peace. Up there he could make the hours fly by.

Father wanted to go home too. He’d heard him say that. But Mother refused. ‘I’m not going to give the Old Bitch that satisfaction,’ Mother said as she lay on the bunk, looking pale and thinner than usual. She wanted the Old Bitch to know that they’d been here all summer, as usual, though they hadn’t visited her even once. No, they weren’t going home. She’d rather die than leave early.

There was no further discussion. Once Mother had decided something, that was how it had to be. Each day he went out to his special place and sat there with his arms wrapped around his knees as all sorts of thoughts and fantasies raced through his mind.

If only they could go back home, then everything would be the way it used to be. He was sure of it.

‘Don’t run off too far, Rocky!’ Göte Persson shouted, but the dog wasn’t listening, as usual. Göte just managed to catch a glimpse of the golden retriever’s tail before Rocky turned left and disappeared behind a boulder. Göte tried to pick up the pace, but his right leg made that impossible. Since his stroke, his leg had a hard time keeping up with the rest of his body, and yet he still considered himself lucky. The doctors had given him very little hope of ever being able to move much on his own again because his entire right side had been affected. But they hadn’t counted on how stubborn a man he was. Thanks to his God-given tenacity and his physiotherapist, who had pushed him as if he were training for the Olympics, he’d gained greater mobility for every week that passed. Occasionally he’d suffered setbacks, and he had to admit that several times he’d been close to giving up. But he had soldiered on, continually making progress that brought him closer to his goal.

By now he was taking daily one-hour walks with Rocky. He walked slowly, and with a noticeable limp, but he kept on going. They went out no matter what the weather, and each yard forward was a victory.

The dog had come back into view. He was on the beach now, sniffing about near the Sälvik swimming area and glancing up once in a while to make sure his master hadn’t got lost. Göte took the opportunity to pause and catch his breath. For the hundredth time he put his hand in his pocket to touch the mobile phone he’d brought along. Yes, it was still there. Just to make sure, he took it out and checked to see that it was switched on and that he hadn’t accidentally turned off the ringer. He didn’t want to miss a call, but no one had tried to phone him. Impatiently he stuffed the mobile back in his pocket.

He knew it was ridiculous to check the phone every five minutes. They’d promised to ring when they left for the hospital. His first grandchild. His daughter Ina was almost two weeks past her due date, and Göte couldn’t understand how she and her husband could stay so calm. To be honest, he’d heard a trace of annoyance in his daughter’s voice when he’d called for the tenth time that day to ask if anything was happening yet. But he seemed to be considerably more concerned than they were. He’d spent the better part of the last few nights wide awake, staring alternately at the alarm clock and his mobile phone. These kinds of things tended to happen in the middle of the night. And what if he was sleeping too soundly to hear when they called?

He yawned. The night-time vigils had started to take their toll on him. So many emotions had been stirred up inside him when Ina and Jesper announced that they were expecting a child. They’d told him a couple of days after he collapsed and was rushed by ambulance to the hospital in Uddevalla. They had actually planned on waiting to tell him, since it was so early in Ina’s pregnancy, and they’d only just found out themselves. But no one had thought that Göte would survive. They weren’t even sure that he could hear them as he lay in the hospital bed, hooked up to all sorts of tubes and machines.

But he did hear them; he’d heard every single word. And the news had given his stubborn nature something to hold on to. Something to live for. He was going to be a grandfather. His only daughter, the light of his life, was going to have a baby. How could he miss such an important occasion? He knew that Britt-Marie was waiting for him, and he actually wouldn’t have minded letting go of life so he could see her again. He had missed her every day, every minute since she died and left him and Ina on their own. But he was needed now, as he explained to Britt-Marie, telling her that he couldn’t join her yet because their daughter needed him here.

Britt-Marie understood. As he knew she would. He had regained consciousness, waking from the sleep that had been so different and in many ways so enticing. He had climbed out of bed, and every step he’d taken since then was for the sake of the little grandson or granddaughter. He had so much to give, and he was planning to use every extra minute of life he’d been granted to spoil his grandchild. Ina and Jesper could protest as much as they liked. It was a grandfather’s prerogative.

The mobile phone in his pocket rang shrilly, making him jump and tearing him away from his thoughts. Eagerly he pulled out the phone, almost dropping it on the ground. He looked at the display. His shoulders sagged with disappointment when he saw the name of a good friend. He didn’t dare answer. He didn’t want his daughter to get a busy signal if she rang.

He couldn’t see Rocky any more, so he put the mobile back in his pocket and limped towards the spot where he’d last seen the dog. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of something bright, and he turned his head to look at the water.

‘Rocky!’ he shouted, alarm evident in his voice. The dog had wandered out on to the ice. He was almost twenty yards out, standing there with his head lowered. When he heard Göte yelling, he started barking wildly and pawing at the ice. Göte held his breath. If it had been a bitterly cold winter, he wouldn’t have been so concerned. Many times, usually just after New Year’s, he and Britt-Marie had packed sandwiches and a thermos of coffee and walked across the ice to one of the nearby islands. But this year the water had alternately frozen and thawed, and he knew the ice wasn’t to be trusted.

‘Rocky!’ he shouted again. ‘Come here!’ He tried to sound as stern as he could, but the dog ignored him.

Göte now had only one thought in his head. He couldn’t lose Rocky. The dog would die if he fell through the ice and landed in the frigid water, and Göte simply couldn’t bear for that to happen. They’d been companions for ten years, and in his mind he had pictured so many scenes of his future grandchild playing with the dog. He just couldn’t imagine being without Rocky.

He walked along the shoreline, then put out one foot to test the ice. Thousands of hairline cracks instantly appeared on the surface, but the ice held. Apparently it was thick enough to bear his weight, so he headed towards Rocky, who was still barking and pawing at the ice.

‘Come here, boy,’ coaxed Göte, but the dog stayed where he was, refusing to budge.

The ice felt more solid here than near the shoreline, but Göte still decided to minimize the risk by lying down on his stomach. With an effort he dropped down and then stretched out, trying to ignore the cold that pierced right through him even though he was bundled up in his winter clothes.

It was difficult to move forward on his stomach. His feet kept slipping when he tried to get some traction, and he wished that he’d been a little less vain and had worn shoes with cleats. That was what every sensible retiree did in Sweden when it was slippery outside.

He glanced about and discovered two sticks that he might be able to use instead. He managed to drag himself over to them and then began using them as improvised ice cleats. Now it was easier, and inch by inch he made his way towards the dog. Occasionally he tried calling Rocky again, but the dog was so interested in whatever he had found that he refused to take his eyes off it even for a second.

When Göte had almost reached Rocky, he heard the ice start to crack and protest under his weight. He allowed himself to think how ironic it would be if he’d spent months and months regaining his mobility, only to fall through the ice at Sälvik and drown. But the ice continued to hold, and he was now so close that he could stretch out his hand to touch Rocky’s fur.

‘Okay, boy, you shouldn’t be out here,’ he said soothingly, sliding forward a little more in an attempt to grab the dog’s collar. He had no idea how he was going to drag both himself and an intractable dog back to shore. But somehow he would manage.

‘Now what’s so interesting out here, anyway?’ He grabbed Rocky’s collar. Then he looked down.

At that moment his mobile rang in his pocket.

As usual, it was hard to get anything done on a Monday morning. Patrik was sitting at his desk with his feet propped up on the edge. He was staring at a photo of Magnus Kjellner, as if willing the man to reveal where he was. Or rather, where his remains were.

Patrik was also worried about Christian. He pulled out the right-hand desk drawer and took out the little plastic bag containing the letter and card. He would have liked to send both to the lab for analysis to look for fingerprints. But there was so little to go on, and nothing specific had happened yet. Not even Erica, who unlike Patrik had read all the letters, could say for sure that someone was intending to harm Christian. But her gut told her he was in danger. And Patrik felt the same way. They both sensed something malevolent in the words. He had to smile at himself. What a word to choose. Malevolent. Not a very scientific description. But the letters seemed to convey an intent to do harm. That was the best way he could describe it. And that feeling made him very uneasy.

He’d discussed things with Erica when she came back from visiting Christian. He had wanted to go over there and have a talk with him too, but Erica had dissuaded him. She didn’t think Christian would be receptive to the idea, and she asked Patrik to wait until the newspaper headlines had calmed down a bit. He had agreed. But now that he sat in his office staring at the elegant handwriting, he wondered whether he’d made the right decision.

He gave a start when the phone rang.

‘Patrik Hedström,’ he said. He put the plastic bag back in the desk drawer, which he then closed. Suddenly he froze. ‘Excuse me? What?’ He listened tensely, and as soon as he put down the phone, he went into action. He made several quick calls before dashing out into the hall and knocking on Mellberg’s door. He went right in, without waiting for an answer, and woke up both the master and his dog.

‘What the devil …’ Mellberg hauled himself upright from his slumped position in his office chair and stared at Patrik.

‘Didn’t you ever learn to knock before entering?’ The police chief straightened his comb-over. ‘Well? Can’t you see that I’m busy? What do you want?’

‘I think we’ve found Magnus Kjellner.’

Mellberg sat up straighter. ‘Is that right? So where is he? On an island in the Caribbean?’

‘Not exactly. He’s under the ice. Off of Sälvik.’

‘Under the ice?’

Ernst could sense the tension in the air, and he pricked up his ears.

‘An old man who was out there with his dog just called to report finding a body. Of course we can’t be sure that it’s Magnus Kjellner, since the body hasn’t been identified yet. But it seems highly likely.’

‘So what the hell are we waiting for?’ said Mellberg, jumping to his feet. He grabbed his jacket and pushed past Patrik. ‘I can’t understand why you’re all such bumblers at this station! How long does it take to spit out the news? Let’s go! You’re driving!’

Mellberg ran towards the garage, while Patrik hurried to his office to get his jacket. He sighed. He would have preferred not to take his boss along, but at the same time he knew that Mellberg wouldn’t want to miss the chance to be in the centre of all the action. As long as he didn’t have to do any of the real work, that is.

‘Okay, step on it!’ Mellberg was already sitting in the passenger seat. Patrik got in behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition.

‘Is this your first time on TV?’ chirped the woman doing his make-up.

Christian met her glance in the mirror and nodded. His mouth was dry and his hands sweaty. Two weeks ago he’d accepted the invitation to appear on the Morning show on TV4, a decision that he now bitterly regretted. During the long train ride to Stockholm the night before, he’d had to fight the impulse to turn around and go home.

Gaby had been overjoyed when the producer from TV4 had called. He said they’d heard rumours that a new star in the author firmament was about to be discovered, and they wanted to be the first to book him for a television interview. Gaby had explained to Christian that there was no better marketing opportunity, and he would sell tons of books just from a brief appearance.

And he’d allowed himself to be seduced by the idea. He’d asked for time off from his job at the library, and Gaby had bought his train ticket and made his hotel reservation in Stockholm. At first he’d felt quite excited about being on TV to promote The Mermaid. But the newspaper placards over the weekend had ruined everything. How could he have allowed Gaby to talk him into this? He’d lived such a reclusive life for so many years, and he’d convinced himself that by now it would be okay to step forward. Even when the letters started arriving, he had continued to live under the misconception that everything was over, that he was safe.

The newspaper headlines had jolted him out of his delusion. Someone would notice, someone would remember. Everything would be made public again. He shuddered, and the make-up woman looked at him.

‘Don’t tell me you’re freezing when it’s so warm in here. Are you coming down with a cold?’

Christian nodded and smiled. That was the easiest way to respond, so he wouldn’t have to explain.

The make-up on his face looked thick and unnatural. Some of the flesh-coloured cream had even been applied to his ears and hands. Apparently the normal skin tone looked pale and slightly greenish on TV without make-up. In some ways he didn’t really mind. It was like putting on a mask that he could hide behind.

‘All right. We’re done here. The stage manager will come to get you in a minute.’ The make-up artist inspected her work as Christian stared at himself in the mirror. The mask stared back.

A few minutes later he was escorted to the green room just outside the door to the TV studio. An impressive breakfast buffet had been set up, but he made do with a small glass of orange juice. Adrenalin was surging through his body, and his hand shook slightly as he raised the glass.

‘It’s time,’ said the stage manager. ‘Come with me.’ And she motioned for him to follow. Christian put down his glass, still half-filled with juice. His legs wobbling, he walked behind her to the studio, which was down one flight of stairs.

‘You can sit here,’ she whispered, ushering him to his seat. Christian sat down and then gave a start when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘Sorry. I just need to attach the microphone,’ whispered a man wearing a headset. Christian nodded. His mouth was now even drier, if that was possible, and he drank the whole glass of water that was put in front of him.

‘Hi, Christian. Great to see you. I read your book, and I have to tell you that I think it’s amazing.’ Kristin Kaspersen held out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Christian politely responded. Considering how sweaty his palm was, it must have felt like shaking hands with a wet sponge. Then Anders Kraft, the other talk-show host, came over and sat down as well. He said hello to Christian and introduced himself.

A copy of the book was lying on the table. Behind them the weather forecaster was delivering his report, so they had to carry on their conversation in a whisper.

‘You’re not nervous, are you?’ asked Kristin with a smile. ‘You don’t need to be. Just stay focused on us, and everything will be fine.’

Christian nodded mutely. His water glass had been refilled, and again he drank it down in one gulp.

‘We’re on in twenty seconds,’ said Anders Kraft, giving him a wink. Christian felt himself calmed by the confidence exuded by the man and woman seated across from him. He did everything he could not to think about the cameras surrounding them that were about to broadcast the programme live to a large segment of the Swedish population.

Kristin began talking as she looked at a spot behind him, and he realized that the programme had started. His heart was pounding, there was a rushing in his ears, and he had to force himself to listen to what Kristin was saying. After a brief introduction she asked her first question.

‘Christian, the critics are raving about your first novel, The Mermaid. And there has also been an unusual amount of advance interest from readers. How does it feel?’

His voice quavered a bit as he started talking, but Kristin kept her eyes steadily fixed on his, and he concentrated on looking at her instead of at the camera, which he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye. After stumbling over a few words, he could hear that his voice got stronger.

‘It’s been incredible. I’ve always dreamed of being a writer, and to see that dream realized and to get this kind of reception is way beyond my wildest imagination.’

‘The publisher is putting a lot of PR behind your book. We’ve been seeing signs in all the bookshop windows, and it’s rumoured that the first printing was much bigger than usual. The book pages of all the newspapers seem to be competing with each other to compare you with some of the literary greats. Has it been a little overwhelming for you?’ Anders Kraft gave him a friendly look.

Christian was feeling more confident, and his heart had returned to its normal rhythm.

‘It means a lot that my publisher believes in me and is doing so much promotion for the book. But it does feel a little strange to be compared to other authors. We all have our own unique style of writing.’ Now he was on solid ground. He began to relax, and after a couple more questions, he felt as if he could have sat there and talked all day.