Inertia, page 32
‘OK.’
‘You can read a bit now. Begin where the bookmark is.’
‘Now?’
‘Of course,’ Rachel says.
The guy clears his throat and begins to read:
‘You don’t like Paris? No. Why don’t you go somewhere else? There isn’t anywhere else.’
Rachel laughs.
‘I was just joking. You don’t need to read right now. You’re just here visiting today.’
‘Uhm, OK.’
The guy clears his throat.
‘Nice bracelet.’
Rachel’s hands stop mid-movement and my wrist is lifted up. Someone fingers my mum’s glass-bead bracelet.
I want to cry, even though I don’t have any tears left.
‘Isn’t it pretty?’ Rachel murmurs with feeling and a bit of a tremble to her voice. ‘He made it for me in Year One, but after his accident I put it on him so that it would always be with him. Look at the beads.’
The guy leans in. I can’t see it, but I can feel his breath against my cheek. It comes in regular, warm puffs that smell of snuff.
‘M-U-M-M-Y,’ he sounds out like a fucking six-year-old. And when he does that – when he takes the word he shouldn’t be allowed to say into his mouth – something inside of me stirs and my whole body stiffens into spasms.
I want to hit him. I want to punch him, a straight punch to his face to send him straight into the wall head-first.
I test moving my fingers, expecting resistance but it’s not there. The sedative must be wearing off.
My arm flies up to his face, but not fast enough to knock him out. My fingers bend and I scratch him across the face. I can feel my nails cut through his skin before he yelps and jumps back.
‘Jonas,’ Rachel gasps.
And then: ‘I don’t understand what happened. He has never . . .’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ the guy says.
‘Wait here and I’ll get some Neosporin,’ Rachel says.
I hear steps and glimpse Rachel’s silhouette as she leaves the room.
It is quiet.
The guy breathes heavily. A few seconds later I hear a snap. He is taking a photo of me.
Why is he doing that?
A moment later I hear steps. Rachel is on her way back.
I try forming my lips into words, try to warn the guy. Because even though I didn’t like him messing with Mum’s bracelet I don’t want Rachel to get her hands on him.
But no sound passes my lips. My mouth won’t form itself around the words. My lungs are powerless. My vocal cords won’t obey me.
‘What are you doing?’
Rachel’s voice is calm, but I can hear the fear and anger under the surface.
‘I just wanted to . . .’
Rachel takes a few steps into the room.
‘Why are you photographing my son?’
‘I . . . didn’t mean. I . . .’
‘Give me your phone!’ Rachel screams.
No, I bellow. No, no, no!
But only in my head.
Manfred
U
lla Waldén is in her sixties and greets us in her apartment on Gärdet, where she just moved in. She is an elegant woman with thick salt-and-pepper hair swept back into a ponytail and a tight red cotton top that does her petite body justice. Large silver earrings dangle from her ears and around her neck she wears a simple pearl necklace of the kind that is probably more expensive than it looks.
Her handshake is firm, even though her hand is small and thin.
When Letit takes her hand he lights up and fires off one of his rare smiles. He sucks his gut in and stands up tall. His face softens and his eyes acquire a mischievous sparkle. For a second he almost looks like a roguish boy, rather than the curmudgeonly old man we are accustomed to.
‘Gunnar,’ he says, shakes her hand enthusiastically and shoots her another wolf-like grin.
They end up standing like that, in the hall, a few seconds too long and Malin gives me a meaningful look. This is exactly like when we met with Tuula Ahonen, I think. There’s a sort of charge in the air, some kind of energy between Letit and the slender woman.
‘Oh,’ Ulla says and smiles coyly. Looks at her hand that is still holding Letit’s and lets go hesitantly.
‘Welcome, Gunnar,’ she adds, emphatically.
In the next instant the moment has passed and Ulla shows us into her small, but cosily decorated living room.
The furniture has a patina. There are rag carpets on the floor and colourful paintings on the walls. The window is open and summer is flooding in through the small rooms.
‘Please have a seat,’ says Ulla, whose cheeks are now rosy. ‘Coffee?’
‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘We won’t stay long.’
‘I’d love some,’ says Letit, stretching himself.
Ulla smiles and disappears into the kitchen.
Malin and I sit down on the couch and Letit sits down in an armchair. His face is almost serene. Malin looks at me again and I nod slightly to confirm that I noted the small but very strange occurrence in the hall.
Ulla comes back with coffee and cinnamon buns for all of us on a silver tray. She places the tray on the coffee table and moves a vase of pink peonies and a few newspapers to make room. Then she sits on a stool. Puts on a pair of glasses with red frames and looks at me.
‘So, you wanted to talk about Susanne Bergdorff?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And of course I realise there is client confidentiality, but since we are investigating a murder you are no longer bound by it.’
‘I know,’ Ulla says calmly. ‘How can I help you? Is Susanne suspected of anything?’
I avoid answering her question directly.
‘Could you tell us a bit about her?’ I say instead.
Ulla nods, smoothing her skirt across her lap.
‘Susanne was one of the ones you remember,’ she says. ‘She came to me because she was depressed. The doctor at the medical centre recommended she speak to a therapist.’
She pauses, looks across the room and then continues:
‘She’d had a hard time. She was bullied as a child. Had difficulties with social interactions. Her parents died early on; I think they both got cancer. And then her husband fell sick and died – MS. You’d think that would be enough, that she’d already suffered plenty. Not so. Then her son was in that terrible accident.’
Ulla goes quiet and looks at the ceiling.
‘She cared for her husband herself, in their home. To the very end. And now she is apparently caring for her son at home. She made sacrifices, first for her husband and then for their son. A lot of people probably think that’s a beautiful thing, but I don’t. I think she might have bothered to think of herself a bit. And I told her as much.’
‘Do you know how her husband died?’ Malin asks.
Ulla shakes her head.
‘I don’t have any details on that, but I do recall that everyone was surprised. Sure, he had MS, but he wasn’t all that sick, as I understood it. Then one day suddenly he was dead. It was a big shock to Susanne.’
A clock on the wall chimes.
I clear my throat.
‘Are you in touch with Susanne at all now?’
Ulla smiles sadly and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Then shakes her head.
‘No, I’ve stopped working. I don’t see patients anymore. I moved to Stockholm to be close to my daughter, Greta, after my divorce.’
When she mentions her divorce her eyes quickly wander over Letit, who smiles again, and holds up a half-eaten cinnamon bun.
‘These are fantastic,’ he says, sounding so enraptured that you’d be forgiven for thinking Ulla had made a unicorn, rather than completely ordinary – and truth be told, rather dry – cinnamon buns.
Ulla smiles sheepishly and the colour on her cheeks deepens.
‘Why th-thank you,’ she stutters.
‘Do you know if Susanne had any boyfriends after her husband died?’ I ask.
‘No,’ Ulla says.
‘Does the name Rachel mean anything to you?’ Malin asks.
‘Rachel? No, I don’t think so. It sounds a bit biblical. Not exactly my area of expertise.’
I look down at the rag carpet. I’m beginning to wonder if this conversation is going to yield anything, because no matter how sympathetic an impression this nice-looking therapist gives, she does not seem to know anything that could further the investigation.
‘Was Susanne interested in biblical matters?’ Malin asks, making a note on her pad.
Ulla raises her well-groomed eyebrows slightly.
‘Well, I don’t know that she was especially religious, if that is what you mean. But her father was a priest, so she knew a lot about the Bible and often referred to Bible stories.’
‘Do you remember which ones?’ I ask.
She shakes her head.
‘No, I’ve forgotten that a long time ago. Or . . . wait! Actually, I do remember! How silly of me. She spoke of Jonah in the belly of the whale. She felt her son was trapped in the belly of the whale, just like Jonah. That his illness sort of held him prisoner.’
There is a pause. Malin gives me a quick look before she continues:
‘Were you able to help her?’
‘I think so. She didn’t have any close friends and at least she could talk to me. I tried to help her build a social base, a network that she could interact with, both at her home in Flen and on the internet. Well, there are lots of forums and the like on the internet for people in her situation. I encouraged her to be active there.’
Malin stops writing, her gaze still on her pad.
‘Was she?’ I ask.
Ulla shrugs slightly.
‘Yes, absolutely. Especially after her husband died. Susanne made many friends online and they helped her through her grief. I could tell by looking at her that the support from those people sort of carried her through that period. And she helped them too, that was the beauty of it. But then her son was in that terrible accident. After that she became more introverted. Came to me increasingly rarely. At first I was worried about her, but then I came to understand that she spoke to her other friends about all that – her friends online, that is.’
‘Do you think Susanne might pose a danger to herself or others?’ I ask.
‘A danger?’
Ulla looks confused, as if she doesn’t understand the question.
She continues: ‘I can’t imagine Susanne would hurt anyone,’ she says emphatically. ‘No. She was definitely not violent in any way, if that’s what you mean. Her big problem was that she was so shut off, that she couldn’t talk about stuff.’
Malin’s phone buzzes.
She picks it up and looks at her screen, then holds it up for me to read.
It’s a message from Malik.
Susanne Bergdorff lives on Marholmen outside Stuvskär. Meet me at the station in 15.
‘It must be hard,’ I say, turning to Ulla to wrap up the conversation in a reasonably nice way. ‘Not being able to talk about what hurts the most. Then there’s not much to—’
‘Oh, there is always a way forward,’ Ulla interrupts and smiles. Her eyes are shining and for the first time during our conversation I sense real enthusiasm in her.
‘It’s not always necessary to talk,’ she says. ‘I have talked my whole life. My entire career. One can write instead. What cannot be spoken can perhaps be written. And Susanne found her voice in that, in writing. Yes, she wrote poems. Really nice poems, I think.’
Samuel
‘I
’m sorry,’ Rachel says, stroking my cheek. ‘I don’t know who that guy Theo was, or why he was taking photos of you, but you can’t stay here.’
The door closes. Rachel’s steps fade away and I am alone with my pain and uncertainty.
You can’t stay here.
What does she mean by that?
A while later the door closes and the steps disappear.
My thoughts are clearer and my body has come back to life. I can move my fingers, but not my arms or legs.
I’ve understood that she is keeping me drugged.
What I don’t understand is why – why is she doing this? What kind of sick kick does she get out of having me here in this bed, massaging my hands with cream and sticking a fucking tube up my nose?
Steps approach from the outside, but I hear something else too, something that rattles on the steps and a hollow metallic bang, like from a tin bucket hitting something.
The steps enter the room.
‘We’ve got to hurry,’ Rachel murmurs, without further clarification.
One hand grabs on to my right upper arm, another takes the right leg, dragging me towards the edge of the bed.
I fight to open my eyelids but don’t succeed. But my hands have come to life – I spread my fingers and clench my fists, over and over again. Try to pump some life into my lower arms. I do my best to grab on to the mattress, to stop her from pulling me onto the floor, but don’t succeed.
The next instant the edge of the bed disappears from below my right shoulder.
I slide helplessly off the mattress, but not onto the floor. Instead I land in something hard that feels like a big box.
Rachel lays me on my side, takes a hold of one leg, bends it and puts it inside the edge of the box. Then she does the same with my other leg, then folds both my arms against my chest so that I am in a foetal position.
Steps leave the room. My cheek rests against cold tin.
I put my hands against each other and feel around. Feel the dry, cracked skin and the warm glass beads on the bracelet. My body wants to start to cry again, but whatever drug she shot me up with has made me as dry as the fucking desert.
Steps approach from the hallway.
Seconds later something soft lands over me – maybe a tablecloth or a blanket.
Rachel tips the whole tin box – my head is raised and my feet are lowered. The box shakes and I understand.
I’m in the wheelbarrow.
The fucking lunatic has put me in the wheelbarrow, just like we did with Igor.
*
She wheels me out of the door and down the ramp. Then she continues straight ahead and I hear the sound of gravel crunching under the wheel, which must mean that she is headed towards the road.
The wheelbarrow jolts and my head bounces against the bottom over and over, while I am unable to do anything about it. I smell soil and grass. Tiny rocks make their way into my mouth.
I think of Mum and of Alexandra. Of how I would do anything to have them back, to have my life back. And I think of how messed up it is that I thought that I was the one who was going to trick Rachel, steal from her, when in reality she was the bad guy.
Nice Rachel who is always so understanding. Who makes pancakes and looks like my mum. Who likes roses and takes morning swims and actually saved my life. Is she wheeling me off in a wheelbarrow?
This is so messed up; it has to be a punishment from God.
But even now I can’t believe in God.
Even now I can’t believe in heavenly salvation. Because if there was a God I don’t think He would have let Rachel do something so sick. No, he would have crushed her like a bug between his fingers before she could say hand cream.
Rachel wheels me over a bump and my hands end up outside the edge of the wheelbarrow.
Why doesn’t she say anything? Can’t she explain why she is doing this?
What does it matter? You’re going to die now either way, you little shit.
My eyes burn and it actually feels like real tears. Maybe the drugs are loosening their grip on me, maybe the tears will come after all.
Something is poking into my cheek, something sharp. It almost feels like a pin, or a small twig. With effort I manage to open one eyelid, try to see what it is, but the object is too close.
And then the wheelbarrow jolts and a small orange object rolls over a bit, so that it ends up an inch or so from my face.
It’s a ladybird, but not a real ladybird. It almost looks like an earring.
The wheelbarrow stops, my head is lowered and my feet are suddenly elevated.
There are a few seconds of silence, then I hear the rattling of keys and the squeak of the gate.
My head is raised again and I roll on.
After a while I feel as if Rachel is turning. The fabric that she has laid over me tickles my cheek and I have the impulse to scratch myself but I can’t move.
It is a few seconds before I realise where she is taking me.
My stomach contracts and my heart thumps in my chest, like a rabbit scared out of its mind. The only thought I can hold on to is that I need to get out of here somehow, that I have to stop her. But my arms and legs still won’t obey me. I’m lying helplessly on my side with my hands resting over the edge of the wheelbarrow.
I feel around for something to grab on to – anything, a stick or a rock – but around me is nothing but air, nothing but the teasing caress of the summer breeze.
I’m going to die today and nothing I do can stop it.
I’m going to die today, Mum.
I clasp my hands in desperation and suddenly I have an idea.
Suddenly the thought appears.
I don’t know if it’ll work, but it is worth a shot, after all it’s just a simple math problem.
There are 252 steps where she is going and she can’t have walked more than ten steps from the gate.
I put my right hand against my left and make a quick estimate. Then I begin to count Rachel’s steps.
One. Two. Three . . .
Pernilla
W
e’re standing in the harbour when Björn comes running along the road.
He runs as if he were chased by wolves. The long, gangly legs fly over the dusty dirty road. His face is an angry red and his blond hair stands out like a mane.
‘We’re over here!’ Stina calls, waving both her arms above her head so that her bangles rattle against each other.
We begin to run too, around the local history museum till we reach Björn.
