Читать книгу The Drowning - Camilla Lackberg - Страница 9

‘You’ll behave yourself when our guests arrive, won’t you?’ said his mother, giving him a solemn look.

He nodded. He would never dream of behaving badly and embarrassing his mother. He wanted nothing more than to please her so that she would keep on loving him.

The doorbell rang, and his mother stood up abruptly. ‘They’re here.’ He heard the anticipation in her voice, a tone that made him uneasy. Sometimes his mother changed into someone else after he heard the sound of that little bell vibrating between the walls in her bedroom. But that might not happen this time.

‘Can I take your coat?’ He heard his father’s voice downstairs in the front hall, along with the murmuring of their guests.

‘Go on ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.’ His mother motioned towards him with her hand, and he breathed in the scent of her perfume. She sat down at her dressing table to fix her hair and put the last touches on her make-up as she admired herself in the mirror. He stayed where he was, watching her with fascination. A furrow appeared between her brows as their eyes met in the mirror.

‘Didn’t I tell you to go downstairs?’ she said sharply, and he felt the darkness take hold of him for a moment.

Shamefaced, he bowed his head and headed for the murmur of voices in the front hall. He would behave himself. Mother wouldn’t have to be ashamed of him.

The cold air tore at his windpipe. He loved that feeling. Everybody thought he was crazy when he went out running in the middle of winter, but he preferred to put in his miles in the frosty weather rather than go out running in the oppressive heat of summer. And on weekends he made a point of running his route twice.

Kenneth cast an eye at his wristwatch. It held everything he needed to know to make the most of his run. It measured his pulse and counted the steps he took; it even kept track of the time from his last session.

His goal right now was to run in the Stockholm Marathon. He’d taken part twice before, and in the Copenhagen Marathon as well. He’d been running for twenty years, and if he had a choice, he’d prefer to die in the middle of a race, twenty or thirty years from now. Because the feeling he had when he ran, when his feet flew over the ground – rhythmically pounding at a steady pace that in the end seemed to merge with the beat of his heart – was like nothing else in the world. Even the fatigue, the numb sensation in his legs when the lactic acid built up, was something that he’d learned to appreciate more and more with each year that passed. He felt alive whenever he ran. That was the best way he could describe it.

As he drew close to home, he began slowing his pace. When he reached his front door, he jogged in place for a few moments and then held on to the railing to stretch out his thigh muscles. His breath formed a white cloud of ice crystals, and he felt strong and cleansed after running twelve miles at a relatively fast pace.

‘Is that you, Kenneth?’ He heard Lisbet’s voice from the guest room as the front door closed behind him.

‘Yes, it’s me, dear. I’m just going to take a quick shower, and then I’ll come and see you.’

He turned the tap until the water was steaming hot and then stood under the needle-like spray of the shower. This was practically the most pleasurable thing of all. It felt so good that it took a real effort for him to turn off the water. He shivered as he stepped out of the shower stall. The bathroom felt like an igloo in comparison.

‘Could you bring me the newspaper?’

‘Of course, love.’ Jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweater. He was ready. He stuck his bare feet into a pair of Crocs slippers that he’d bought last summer and went out to the letterbox. When he picked up the newspaper, he noticed a white envelope stuck in the bottom. He must have missed it yesterday. His stomach turned over at the sight of his name written in black ink. Not another one!

As soon as he was back inside, he tore open the envelope and pulled out the card inside. Standing in the front hall, he read what it said. The message was brief and strange.

Kenneth turned the card over to see if there was anything on the back. But there wasn’t. The only message was those two cryptic sentences.

‘What’s keeping you, Kenneth?’

Quickly he stuffed the note back in the envelope.

‘I was just checking on something. I’m coming now.’

He headed for her door, holding the newspaper in his hand. The white card with the elegant handwriting seemed to burn in his back pocket.

It was like a drug. Sanna had become dependent on the high it gave her to check his email, go through his pockets, and surreptitiously examine his phone bill. Every time she didn’t find anything, she felt her whole body relax. But that didn’t last long. Soon the anxiety would start building again, and with it the tension in her body, until all the logical arguments for why she should restrain herself ceased. Then she would sit down at the computer again. She entered Christian’s email address and password, which had been easy to crack. He used the same one every time. His birth date, so he would always remember it.

In reality, there was no reason for this feeling that kept tearing at her heart and clawing at her guts until all she wanted to do was scream. Christian had never done anything to give her cause to distrust him. During the years she’d been carrying on this surveillance of his correspondence, she had never once found the slightest trace of anything suspicious. He was an open book. And yet … Sometimes she had the feeling that he was somewhere else entirely, a place to which she was denied access. And why had he told her so little about his background? He’d said that his parents had died long ago, and she’d never had occasion to meet any of his other relatives, although surely he must have some. He didn’t seem to have any childhood friends either, and no old acquaintances had ever got in touch. It was almost as if he hadn’t existed at all until he met her and moved to Fjällbacka. She hadn’t even seen his flat in Göteborg when they first met. He’d gone there alone with the removal van to pick up his few belongings.

Sanna ran her eyes over the messages in his inbox. A couple of emails from the publisher, several newspapers wanting interviews, some news from the local municipality having to do with his job at the library. That was all.

This time the feeling of relief was just as glorious as ever when she logged out of his account. Before turning off the computer, she did a routine scan of his web browser history, but there was nothing unusual. Christian had checked out the websites for the newspapers Expressen and Aftonbladet, as well as his publisher’s home page. He’d also looked at a new child’s car seat online.

But there was still the issue of the letters. He had insisted that he didn’t know who had sent those cryptic messages to him. Yet there was something in his tone of voice that contradicted his claim. Sanna couldn’t really put her finger on what it might be, and it was driving her nuts. What wasn’t he telling her? Who had sent those letters? Was it a woman who had once been his lover? Or someone who was his mistress now?

She clenched and unclenched her hands, forcing herself to breathe calmly. The temporary sense of relief had already vanished, and she tried in vain to convince herself that everything was as it should be. Reassurance. That was the only thing she desired. She just wanted to know that Christian loved her.

But deep inside she knew that he had never belonged to her. That he had always been searching for something else, someone else, during all the years they had lived together. She knew that he had never loved her. Not really. And one day he would find the person that he wanted to be with, the one he actually loved, and then she would be all alone.

Sanna wrapped her arms around herself for a moment as she sat on the desk chair. Then she got up. Christian’s mobile bill had arrived with the post yesterday. It would take her only a minute to peruse it.

Erica walked aimlessly through the house. This eternal waiting was going to drive her crazy. She’d finished writing her latest book, but she didn’t have the energy to start on a new project right now. And she couldn’t do much in the house without her back and joints protesting. She spent her time reading or watching TV. Or she did what she was doing now – wandering around the house out of sheer frustration. At least today was Saturday, and Patrik was home. He’d gone out with Maja for a short walk so she’d get some fresh air. Erica was counting the minutes until they returned.

When the doorbell rang, her heart nearly skipped a beat. Before she managed to respond, the door was thrown open, and Anna came into the front hall.

‘Are you practically going out of your mind too?’ she said, taking off her scarf and jacket.

‘How’d you guess?’ said Erica, suddenly feeling much more cheerful.

They went into the kitchen, and Anna set a steaming bag on the counter. ‘Freshly baked buns. Belinda did the baking.’

‘Really?’ said Erica, trying to picture Anna’s eldest stepdaughter wearing an apron and kneading dough with her black-painted fingernails.

‘She’s in love,’ said Anna, as if that explained everything. Which, in fact, it actually did.

‘Well, I can’t recall it ever having that sort of effect on me,’ said Erica, putting the buns on a plate.

‘Apparently he told her yesterday that he likes girls who are the domestic type.’ Anna raised one eyebrow and gave Erica a knowing look.

‘Oh, is that right?’

Anna laughed as she reached for one of the buns. ‘Hey, calm down, you don’t have to go over to his house and give him a thrashing. I’ve met the boy, and believe me, within a week Belinda is going to get tired of him and go back to her black-clad losers who play in obscure rock bands and don’t give a shit whether she’s the domestic type or not.’

‘Let’s hope so. But I have to say that these buns aren’t bad.’ Erica closed her eyes as she chewed. In her present condition, freshly baked buns was as close as she was going to get to an orgasm.

‘Well, the one advantage to how we look at the moment is that we can stuff ourselves with as many buns as we like,’ said Anna, taking a bite of her second one.

‘Sure, but we’ll have to pay for it later on,’ replied Erica, although she couldn’t help following her sister’s example by taking another bun. Belinda really seemed to have a natural talent for baking.

‘With twins, you’ll soon lose all that weight and more!’ laughed Anna.

‘You’re probably right.’ Erica found herself thinking about something else, and her sister seemed to guess what it was.

‘Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. Besides, you’re not alone this time. You have me to keep you company. We can move two armchairs next to each other in front of the TV and watch Oprah as we nurse the babies all day long.’

‘And take turns ordering takeaway for dinner when our husbands come home.’

‘Sure. You’ll see. Everything’s going to be great.’ Anna licked her fingers and leaned back with a groan. ‘Ow, I think I ate too much.’ She propped her swollen feet up on the chair next to her and clasped her hands over her belly. ‘Have you talked to Christian?’

‘Yep. I was over there on Thursday.’ Erica followed Anna’s example and propped her feet on a chair too. Only one bun remained on the plate, and it was practically shouting at her. After a brief battle, she reached for it.

‘So what exactly happened?’

Erica hesitated for a moment, but she wasn’t used to keeping secrets from her sister, so in the end she told Anna everything about the letters and their menacing tone.

‘Wow, that’s horrible,’ said Anna, shaking her head. ‘I think it’s odd that he started getting them even before his book was published. It would have seemed more logical if they arrived after he attracted attention in the media. I mean, they seem to be from someone who’s a little cuckoo.’

‘I agree. It does sound like that. Christian refuses to take them seriously. At least that’s what he told me. But I could tell that Sanna was upset.’

‘I can believe it,’ said Anna, licking her index finger and then dabbing up the sugar left on the plate.

‘Today he has his first book-signings,’ said Erica, unable to keep a trace of pride out of her voice. In many ways she felt that she’d contributed to Christian’s success, and through him she was reliving her own debut as an author. Those first book-signings. That was a huge deal. Really huge.

‘That’s great. Where are they going to be held?’

‘First at the Böcker och Blad bookshop in Torp, then at Bokia in Uddevalla.’

‘I hope some people actually turn up. It would be depressing if he had to sit there all alone,’ said Anna.

Erica grimaced at the thought of her own first signing, at a bookshop in Stockholm. She’d sat there for a whole hour, trying to look unconcerned while all the customers walked past as if she didn’t exist.

‘There’s been so much PR about his book that I’m sure people will come – out of curiosity if nothing else,’ said Erica, hoping that she was right.

‘Well, it’s just lucky that the newspapers haven’t got word of those threatening letters,’ said Anna.

‘Yeah, you’re right about that,’ replied Erica, and then changed the subject. But the uneasy feeling in her chest refused to leave her.