More Bitter Than Death: A Novel Part 20

"I think you're going to have to help me understand," I begin cautiously, afraid to question or jeopardize their newfound harmony. "How exactly did you find your way back, because I'm sure it wasn't as easy as just flushing the pills down the toilet, right, Mia?"

"Well, actually I think it was that easy," Mia says, running her hand through her freshly washed hair, tucking it neatly behind her ear.

"No, no, no, it must have started with me actually shaping up," Patrik says.

"I think that when I figured out why I was so incredibly p.i.s.sed off at Mia, my anger just evaporated. We talked and I told her about my mom and stuff."

"And then I felt like I had no choice but to get off the Serax for Patrik's sake," Mia adds. She's more enthusiastic now, gesturing vigorously in front of her face, her chubby hands like fat sparrows.

"Well, you've done a remarkably good job, if I may say so. I mean, you're not schoolchildren, I don't mean to belittle your efforts. You've really fought for this. What you need to know is that it is very easy to fall back into the old rut again. If the going gets tough, if you have a falling out, if you're vulnerable. It can be helpful to keep that in mind, to know it's not abnormal. What's important is that together we come up with a plan for how we will sustain your progress."

"That won't be a problem," Mia says calmly. "I feel so strong, did I mention that? I think I can handle anything."

I glance at Patrik, but he doesn't say anything, just nods enthusiastically, and tugs at his T-shirt, which says The Smiths.

Friday morning.

A sharp bang wakes me up and I spring upright in bed but don't hear anything other than the house's normal sounds, the soft humming of the refrigerator, rain falling on the roof, and the wind howling outside.

The darkness outside my window is so dense that it's like a big, black animal has wrapped itself around my little cottage to sleep.

I get up, put on my frayed bathrobe, sneak out into the living room, and feel a cold draft sweeping over the floorboards. I shiver and glance at the clock: six thirty, almost time to get up.

Everything in the living room seems calm, but I notice right away that something is wrong with the center window. A long crack runs all the way across it, as if someone hit the pane with a heavy object.

I stand at the window for a long time looking out at the darkness. Everything is black and I can't make anything out, just the faint gleam of the bay below the rocks. The wind must have picked up overnight, because now I hear pine branches whipping against the sides of the house. Yet another branch must have fallen and hit the window. It happened once before, but the window didn't break that time.

It's still pitch-black outside when I creep down through the leafless rosebushes to the outhouse. Icy wind blows in under the T-shirt I wear as a nightshirt.

Markus is at a disaster preparedness course in Vasters and I didn't sleep well, woke up several times with my heart racing, swimming in sweat. I don't remember any dreams, just a vague but insistent feeling of panic and anxiety, and the feeling that it's all too late, that the damage is already done, that an event that can't be stopped has already been set in motion.

The muddy little path isn't frozen stiff, but almost. Quiet and firm, the ground only gives way a few millimeters beneath my rubber boots. In my hand I'm holding the big flashlight, the one I always carry. The beam of light searches its way across my waterlogged lawn to the rocks beyond. There was a time when I was truly afraid of the dark; now I only feel a little anxious when the blackness surrounds me, like a sort of dizziness maybe, hardly a handicap, but uncomfortable.

Just as my hand closes around the door handle to the outhouse, I hear a sound behind me. At first I think it's an injured animal, because it's a shuffling, dragging sound.

I turn around and aim the oversized flashlight at the house, lighting up the door and the flaking paint on the wood siding. I let the beam of light sweep over the ground: yellowish-brown clumps of gra.s.s, scraggly pine tree branches that the fall storms have brought down, frost-tinged needles in drifts around the foundation. I don't see anything out of place. And all I hear is the rhythmic sound of waves. .h.i.tting the rocks.

"Markus, is that you?" I ask, but no one answers me.

I decide it's an animal and nothing else.

Again I think we should move into the city. It's impractical in many ways to live out here, but something keeps me here.

Stefan?

It's as if I thought leaving the house would increase the distance between us.

Our house.

Markus is ambivalent about it. He'd prefer to live in an apartment in Sodermalm, but since he works in Nacka, the commute is nice and short from here. And he knows how much I want to stay.

The door to the outhouse slides open with a grating sound and I hurry in out of the wind. The little bathroom is bare-bones, and the only decoration is the collage of Bowie pictures on the one wall. I sink down onto the toilet and pee and brush my teeth at the same time, thinking that if I ever do move, I want a proper bathroom, one with tile on the walls, a heated floor, and a bathtub.

A luxury to dream about.

The air feels even colder and rawer, if that's possible, as I make my way back through the yard to the cottage. The windows gleam like yellow eyes in the darkness as I approach the door. I take one last, big step to avoid the mud puddle that has formed just at the base of the steps. In the distance I hear a boat approaching.

Once I'm safely back in the relative warmth, I shove some wood into the woodstove and get the fire going, then go to the kitchen to put the teakettle on. And it is then, as I stand there holding the retro-trendy pistachio-colored teakettle my sisters gave me for Christmas, that I hear the sound. It sounds like someone knocking in the living room.

Hesitantly I tiptoe out of the kitchen. The floorboards feel colder than usual, but in the living room the heat from the fire has started to spread and I can hear the crackling of the burning wood.

I don't see her right away. At first I can only make out the contours of a white face outside the black gla.s.s doors. Pale and bleary-eyed, the face seems to inspect me as I stand there in the middle of the room, frozen in fear. Then the face comes closer, presses up against the windowpane, and I see who it is.

Malin.

I open the gla.s.s door slightly. She's not wearing a jacket, just a thin cardigan and sneakers. Her eyes are swollen and red and her skin is white as paper.

"Can I come in?"

"What in the world happened?"

"Please, let me in. You remember how you said we could always get in touch with you if something came up and . . . I couldn't stand it at home, so I drove out here. I'm sorry I didn't call first. I should have called, but . . ."

Without saying anything, I open the door, and she slips in like a cat.

"Come in," I say. "I'm sure you're freezing."

She nods at me and rubs her hands together, walks right over to my worn, yellowish-brown couch, and plops down.

I approach her cautiously, wrap the plaid blanket around her shivering, chilled body.

"You're not even dressed. What happened?" I ask.

"I can't take it anymore. I just can't do it," Malin says, staring vacantly, shoulders tensely pulled up, her wet hair plastered to her head.

I sit down next to her on the couch and take her hand in mine, feel her shivering, from the cold and maybe from something else. Fear?

"Malin, what happened?"

But it's as if she doesn't hear me. She's just shivering under the blanket, staring straight ahead with a vacant look in her eyes. Suddenly I'm worried that she actually has hypothermia, that maybe I need to take her to the hospital.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" I ask.

She nods without looking at me, and I hesitantly return to the kitchen.

"Do you want anything else? A sandwich maybe?"

She shakes her head.

The situation feels uncomfortable. I'm not close to Malin, would never invite her to my home under normal circ.u.mstances. Obviously Aina and I urged all the women in the group to call if they wanted to talk, but coming to my house like this, at seven o'clock in the morning? That really isn't normal. I bring Malin the steaming cup of tea and sit down next to her.

She's shaking so much that when she raises the cup, hot tea sloshes onto the couch and her hands, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"You know, for a while I felt like I had everything under control," she whispers.

"What did you have under control?" I ask.

She looks at me and smiles weakly.

"Myself. After the rape it was like my whole world fell apart. For a while I thought I was going crazy for real, losing my mind. Then . . . I forced myself to be unbelievably disciplined about my training and food, and I totally gave up drinking since I was so afraid of losing control. And you know what? It actually worked. I got my life back, my mind back. It's just that every once in a while, it all sort of . . . comes back to me. Like when I ran into him, the rapist, downtown. I had the worst panic attack. And I'm scared that I'm losing it again and . . . I don't want to, because I want to be in control of my life. I don't want to fall down into that abyss, don't want to go crazy."

"I don't think you're going crazy, Malin. I think it just feels that way. And the more you run away from your feelings, the more power you're giving them. It would be better if you got up the courage to tackle your feelings head-on instead of going out running as soon as the fear starts closing in."

"But now everything is all shot to h.e.l.l-" She buries her head on her knees, resting it on the plaid blanket. I carefully take the teacup out of her hand and set it on the table.

"What's happened now that is making you feel like this?" I ask.

"I'm back in that black hole and it feels like I'm going crazy again."

"You have to tell me about it, Malin. Otherwise I can't help you."

"Okay." She sighs, pulling her head back up out of the blanket to look at me. "That woman who was kicked to death by her boyfriend, Susanne. She was one of the people who gave my rapist an alibi. I didn't realize that at first. But when Kattis said her name and where she lived, I recognized it right away. I mean, there were a bunch of people who gave him an alibi, five people, so it wasn't just her fault. But . . . do you know how many hours I've spent hating those people, wishing they would die? And then she did die, and it's like I don't know if I should be happy or think it's awful. On the one hand, I think she deserved to die, on the other hand I totally get how sick that is, and I don't want to be sick. And then the police came and started asking a bunch of questions about the rape and whether I knew Susanne and what I thought about her. They were trying to see if I was involved in some way, like I haven't suffered enough. I mean, I told them that I'm the victim. I just want my life to be the way it used to be. Before. But it can't, because now everything that happened to me is, like, coming back. I can't sleep anymore, can't eat, can't even concentrate for long enough to watch a normal TV show. I feel like I'm losing it now. For real."

The rain has finally stopped. The heavy clouds have moved on, revealing a pale-blue November sky. The wind has let up and the bay is glossy; only gentle ripples are visible on its surface. A few seabirds bob on the water, periodically diving and then resurfacing.

I don't know anything about birds. Don't know what kind they are, what they eat, where they nest. If Markus were here, he could tell me. He's more of an outdoorsman than I am. He knows the plants and animals. He can start a fire with two sticks, has an uncanny sense of direction.

A real boy scout.

But Markus is still in Vasters and I'm left alone in the cottage. Left to my own thoughts and devices.

Malin has gone home. She slept for several hours on my couch and then left. Mostly she seemed guilty about bothering me. I'm sitting at the computer, working. I decided to work from home since today's only patient canceled.

I think about Malin's story, wonder if she might have something to do with what happened to Susanne, try to understand her reaction, how extreme discipline can protect a person from feelings of powerlessness, humiliation, and fear.

No matter how I try, I can't shake the thought of her. I do a little cleaning, wash the dishes, measure the bedroom yet again to decide if the crib will really fit.

Then twilight falls and yet another day is over.

There are five messages on my cell phone the next morning. Four are from Elin at the office, who wants to change around appointments, but the messages she leaves are so confused that I can't understand what she means. I make a note in my calendar to call her Monday and clear things up.

The fifth message is from a Roger Johnsson. He introduces himself as a police officer investigating the murder of Henrik's girlfriend, Susanne Olsson, and says he wants me to call him back as soon as possible.

Roger Johnsson answers his phone before I even hear it ring, as if he had had spent his whole Sat.u.r.day morning just waiting for my call. He explains rather brusquely that he wants to see me, preferably today. I suggest Monday instead, but he says that it's important and that he would appreciate it if I could stop by. When I ask what it pertains to, his answer is evasive, a strategy I am familiar with from Markus. He wants me not to know when we meet, so he can observe my reactions, my spontaneous reactions. We decide to meet that afternoon in Nacka Strand where he works.

Where he and Markus work, same precinct station.

Markus and Roger are colleagues, which Roger quickly mentions to me. They know each other, chat sometimes, occasionally get coffee. But they're not working together on this case.

I open the gla.s.s door. The birds are gone and a strange silence has spread over my little bay. There's almost no wind and the water is smooth and leaden gray. Dark clouds have spread across the sky from the north and the air feels colder.

It looks like there's a storm coming.

Roger Johnsson is middle-aged. He's wearing jeans, a dress shirt and blazer, and a leather belt with a big bra.s.s buckle. He's also one of very few Swedish men with a mustache. For some reason it makes me think about the men on the TV show Dallas. He looks like one of Bobby Ewing's buddies straight out of 1980s Texas, just without the cowboy hat-a sort of anachronism in a cowboy shirt plunked down in a small town in Sweden.

"Ah, Siri. I'm sure you're wondering why you're here." He looks at me and I make out a restrained smirk behind his bushy mustache. "I want to talk to you about Malin Lindbladh. You were a witness to the fatal shooting at Medborgarplatsen, and I have some questions that relate to that and to another violent crime. Markus might have mentioned the investigation?"

Roger leans forward and gazes at me, studying me intently, in a way that makes me uncomfortable, as if I were sitting naked in front of him. I'm grateful that I'm here voluntarily and not as a suspect. I'm guessing that Roger would be really uncomfortable to have to deal with, the kind of person you want on your side.

We're in his office at the Nacka police station. It's already dark outside, even though it's only three in the afternoon, one of the pleasures of living so far north. The glow of the streetlights reflects off the wet asphalt, and a few people scurry by, huddled over, toward the bus station or maybe the ferry, in the heavy rain that has moved in from the north. Roger's office is small and cluttered with books, papers, and files. A radio is on low playing easy listening. Someone named Monica dedicates a song to her honey, and then Ronan Keating starts singing.

"Weren't you involved in some other case several years ago? Wasn't a patient murdered in your yard? It seems like having you for a therapist is dangerous. s.h.i.t, I didn't know therapy could kill," Roger jokes.

He laughs a brief, horselike laugh, and I feel even more unsettled. He must be aware of my background, know what I've been through. And yet he's sitting here teasing me about what happened to me and my patient. It's preposterous and offensive. Plus he's asking questions about one of my current patients. I feel increasingly irritated.

"Yes," I say, in a tone that says, Get to the point, would you?

"Right, Malin. She is in some kind of group for abused women that you're leading. Is that correct?"