The Silver Road, page 17
The bulb hanging from the ceiling cast her shadow on the wall and she found herself waving at it from her bunk. She saw the tall, thin figure wave back, in their fight against the isolation.
The room was a perfect square. It was like being in a box. Along one wall was the bed and a side table with the untouched food: a cheese sandwich wrapped in cling film and a flask of soup. She smelled the soup when the hunger became unbearable, but retched as soon as she took a mouthful. Her body refused. It was as if her insides protested against the captivity.
On the other wall, beside the metal door, was one bucket intended for use as a toilet and another filled with water. She avoided both of them as far as possible. She ate so little she hardly even had to pee, and she didn’t have the energy to wash herself. Her hair hung in thick, matted strands over her shoulders and left greasy marks on the pillow, and she guessed she stank, even if she couldn’t smell it herself. She hoped she stank. It might keep him from touching her.
She tried to sleep away the dead hours, to sleep away time. When the restlessness came she walked round and round until her legs ached. She tapped her knuckles on the walls, searching for hollow sections, and concentrated hard to hear anything other than her own breathing. She couldn’t help listening for sounds that didn’t exist. Without daylight it was hard to know how many days she had lost. Hours ran into each other and were defined only by sleep and exercise. And listening. For long periods of time she watched the door. Her own blood had dried like rust on the light grey metal. It was a long time since she banged on the door, but her fingers were still red raw, as if the skin wouldn’t heal in the enclosed space and the darkness. He had offered to put plasters on them, but she had rolled herself into a ball and turned to face the wall, like a hedgehog with its prickles out. The last thing she wanted was for him to touch her.
Lelle sipped his coffee and looked at the bent heads of the students in front of him. All that could be heard was the scraping of pens. There must be a trend for long hair, judging by the number of boys constantly pushing it out of their faces. The girls were more particular. One of them had pink highlights in her fringe, another had a wide, shaved strip just above her ear. They were so young and healthy and bored that it made him catch his breath.
Lina was older than them now. She would be twenty soon, but he found that impossible to imagine. She had talked about it so much, all the countries she would visit. Thailand, Spain, maybe America. She had mentioned working as an au pair.
What do you know about kids?
How hard can it be?
He liked to daydream about it. Lina, driving on a highway in California, with a couple of American kids on the back seat. That she wasn’t missing at all.
The darkness had returned and another summer had passed him by. Autumn terms felt like a death sentence these days, forcing him to give up the search and sit in the classroom. The new students knew who he was. He saw the looks they gave him, a mixture of fascination and sympathy. It made his stomach turn. But they never asked questions. When he introduced himself to the new class he didn’t mention Lina. They knew anyway. Everyone in Glimmersträsk knew. People were afraid, and the youngsters at their desks had to live with that fear. They’d had to learn never to walk alone and always be on their guard. He doubted any of them had stood alone at a bus stop, waiting for a bus that didn’t arrive on time. Their parents had learned from his tragedy and certainly weren’t going to make the same mistake. Hanna Larsson’s disappearance had added fuel to the fire, yet another reminder of everything that could go wrong and how vital it was to keep your children close, even in a small community like Glimmersträsk.
The kids were easier to deal with than their parents. When lessons finished and they slouched past him and through the door, he sat for a long time in the silence they had left behind. It was the staffroom he worried about, the colleagues with their strained expressions and empty, well-meaning remarks.
He flinched at their bursts of laughter, and walked straight to the coffee machine, busied himself there, stirring his mug even though he didn’t take milk or sugar. He hid behind the clink of metal against china. Through the slats of the blinds he saw the birch trees that had begun to turn yellow and drop their leaves. A fragile layer of ice covered the puddles outside.
Claes Forsfjäll, one of the sociology teachers, came and stood next to him and started talking about the moose hunt.
Lelle listened dutifully, but didn’t shift his gaze from the frozen puddles outside. Forsfjäll’s breath smelled disgustingly of banana and liquorice throat sweets when he leaned closer and put a hand on Lelle’s shoulder.
‘You know, we always think of that daughter of yours when we’re out in the forest.’
Lelle turned to look at Forsfjäll’s pasty face and felt a shiver run down his spine. ‘And what makes you think she’s out there in the forest?’
Forsfjäll shut his mouth and his face turned red above the knot of his tie. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant we think about her. That we keep our eyes open.’
Lelle bowed his head, suddenly conscious of the hard floor under the soles of his shoes and the weight on his feet from the effort of keeping himself upright.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That means a lot.’
Forsfjäll moved away to sit with the other teachers, the ones who could relax and cross their legs and knew how to make conversation. Lelle saw Anette sitting on one of the wooden chairs, talking and waving her arms about like she always did when speaking to a group of listeners. She was wearing a tight dark jumper, which made it impossible to miss the hard little bump above her jeans. He put his hand on the windowsill as his legs turned to jelly, and he heard his coffee slop on the floor and then the rustle of their shirts and blouses as they turned to him with their sympathy. The floor rocked under his feet as he hurried away. He thought he could hear them shouting after him. Poor devil! How do you cope?
She had no warning when he came, only the squealing hinges and the door that clanged against the toilet bucket. If the light was off he pulled the cord and peered down at her, and his stare burned through her eyelids, even when she pretended to be asleep. After he had convinced himself she was alive, he reached for the buckets and left. She had time to see a staircase behind him, but no daylight. He always emptied the dark urine from one bucket and filled the other with fresh water before returning. It left dark pools on the cement.
The door locked automatically. She never heard any keys. Right at the beginning, when she was stronger, she would try to attack him as he came in with the buckets. She would stand by the door and hurl herself at him as he stepped over the threshold, and the water would splash everywhere. He had struck out and hit her on her back with the metal bucket with such force that she couldn’t stand up afterwards. She couldn’t even protest when he lifted her back on to the bunk and stroked her with his disgusting hands. He patted her as if she were an animal that had to be calmed down before the slaughter.
His face was covered by a balaclava and through the holes his eyes looked pale against the black cloth. She had never seen his hair and got the idea he didn’t have any, that his head was bare and misshapen underneath.
It was difficult to judge his age. She guessed he was younger than her father, but couldn’t be sure. He dominated the little room. His back and shoulders loomed over the raw concrete walls as he stood by the door. But she couldn’t be sure if he really was a big man in the outside world. His movements were light, despite his thick, workman’s boots, and he always smelled of sour new sweat, as if he had been running. His voice was like velvet when he spoke, and low, as if his vocal cords sat deep in his stomach.
‘Why aren’t you eating?’
He impatiently gathered up the uneaten food and replaced it with vegetables that were still steaming, and a shiny piece of meat. The nausea attacked her immediately. Despite her hunger. Her stomach was a yawning hole.
‘I can’t eat. I throw up as soon as I try.’
‘Is there anything special you want, something you really like?’
She heard he was trying hard to be kind, even though the rage was vibrating under his artificial voice.
‘I’ve got to have fresh air. Just for a few moments. Please!’
‘Don’t start that again.’
He unscrewed the beaker from the thermos, filled it and handed it to her. The steam felt gentle against her flaking lips. It smelled sweet, like fruit.
‘Rose-hip soup,’ he said. ‘Get a few mouthfuls down and you’ll feel better.’
She raised the beaker to her mouth and pretended to drink. Her eyes fell on his boots, where a small yellow leaf was stuck.
‘Is it autumn out there?’
He visibly stiffened and began backing to the door.
‘When I come back I want that food to be gone.’
‘I dreamed you were pregnant.’
Carl-Johan had pulled out of her, leaving her lying in the damp patch. Meja pushed the duvet aside and got out of bed.
‘Sounds more like a nightmare.’
‘You were so beautiful, with your huge belly!’
Meja disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door behind her to stop him following. She brushed her teeth and hair and put on some mascara. There was no time for anything else. When she came out again he was still lying there, grinning. She walked over to the bed and leaned over him, put her lips on his and felt the warmth radiating from his body. He reached out both arms and drew her down on the bed.
‘Do you really have to go? Can’t you stay here with me?’
He hugged her tight and then ruffled her hair with both hands.
Meja twisted free. ‘Why do you have to ruin my hair?’
‘Why does it matter? Who are you making yourself gorgeous for?’
Carl-Johan and Birger didn’t like her going to college. They thought it was a waste of time. Meja had to explain over and over that she had promised herself she would pass her exams and do well in life. Better than Silje, at least. Silje, who left school when she got herself knocked-up.
‘Your mother didn’t miss out on a thing,’ Birger had told her. ‘Bringing a child into the world is considerably more important than being brainwashed by the most manipulative of all the state lackeys.’
It would have been easy to give way, because she didn’t even like school. She had never lived in one place long enough to get used to it. As soon as she started to feel at home in a classroom, the bags were packed and ready in the hall. Silje didn’t care if it was the middle of term. If it was time to move, they moved. And that’s what motivated Meja. Being someone different. Being herself.
It was three kilometres to the Silver Road and the bus stop. You won’t like it when November comes and it gets dark, Birger had warned her. But it was already dark. The forest was a mass of shadows around her and she kept her eyes firmly on the gravel to avoid seeing the movements among the trees. The code for the gate was a combination of numbers she had to learn by heart, because they wouldn’t let her write it down. She found out later it was the date of Birger’s birthday. The gate whined in the silence and she could feel Birger’s eyes staring at the back of her neck. She was careful to shut the gate after her and then began jogging, past the sad-looking grey pines and naked birches. The ground squelched and crackled under her feet and she thought she could smell snow in the air, even though the first frosts hadn’t arrived yet.
Her throat was stinging as she reached the road, and she had to stand well away from the verge so the bus driver could see her. He was a short, florid man who drank coffee from a flask and spoke so abruptly she could barely understand what he said, other than that he asked after Birger.
The bus gradually filled up with students from the surrounding villages. She rarely saw any houses, just the signs that pointed in among the trees. The kids stood by the roadside and waited. Meja could see rosy cheeks and their breath in the chilly air. She shut her eyes and leaned her head against the cold glass when they got on. She felt them looking at her. Her eyelids burned with their curiosity, but they left her alone.
Tallbacka School was in Glimmersträsk and consisted of a single-storey red-brick building that was more like a barn than a school. The windows were draughty and most people in her class kept their coats on. Inside the swing doors were rows of green lockers. Meja hung her jacket on its hook inside her locker and ran her hand along the bookshelf until she felt the blister pack. She broke out one of the blue tablets and swallowed it without water. When she shut the locker door there stood Crow with her spiky pink hair.
‘Your parents don’t know you’re on the Pill, right?’
‘I’ve moved in with Carl-Johan.’
Crow’s eyes widened. ‘And he doesn’t know?’
Meja smiled.
‘He wants to get me pregnant.’
When he came next time she had drunk the rose-hip soup. She smelled the cold air and rotting leaves. The smell of autumn was clinging to his clothes and she didn’t need to ask if summer was over.
‘It makes me happy when you eat.’
He had milk and cinnamon buns with him. The aroma lay like a truce between them.
‘Stay for a while,’ she pleaded.
He stiffened, his eyes moving cautiously in the balaclava, and then he sank to the ground with his back to the door. He scratched his covered cheeks as if there was an itchy beard hiding underneath.
She gave him back the bag of buns and sat down on her bed.
‘It’s so boring, eating alone.’
He took a bun and the black mask came alive as he chewed. She couldn’t eat one herself, because of the fear that lurked inside her and had a stranglehold on her throat. She put on an act instead.
‘Can’t you take the balaclava off?’
‘When are you going to stop asking the same stupid questions?’
He grinned, as if he was teasing her. She felt a spasm of hope inside and searched her mind for something that might make him relent.
‘Have you baked these?’
‘No.’
‘Are they shop-bought?’
‘What have I told you about being nosy?’
He took another bun and wiped the crumbs from his chest. He was wearing a dark Helly Hansen fleece that sagged over his stomach. A hint of irritation in his voice made her press her shoulders up against the cold wall. He didn’t like it when she asked questions.
He stood up, clenched one hand over the other and approached the bed. It creaked under his weight. She shut her eyes as he reached out his arm, and felt his fingers glide along her collarbone, over her T-shirt and down over her chest. He tapped his knuckles on her ribs.
‘You’ve got to eat. You’re fading away in front of my eyes.’
‘I’m not hungry. I need fresh air.’
She forced herself to meet his gaze and tried to swallow her fear. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, either from drugs or lack of sleep. Enlarged pupils that didn’t reveal much. He still smelled of the chilly air outside. Perhaps he interpreted the eye contact as an invitation, because an instant later he leaned over and pulled her towards him. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he held her even tighter and slid a hand under her top. She clawed at his cold fingers and tried to knock them away. She felt the fury boiling inside him. When he let her go, he hit the wall so close to her head that she could feel the rush of air.
‘You should learn to show a little gratitude,’ he said. ‘For everything I do for you.’
She didn’t look as he left. There was the slam of the door behind him, and then the loneliness.
It had already begun to get dark when Meja walked out of the school doors. Crow stood hunched under a birch tree, making a roll-up. Her tongue piercing showed as she licked the paper, and her pink hair was frizzy in the damp air. She cocked her head at Meja.
‘You coming for a pizza? My treat.’
‘I can’t. My bus leaves soon.’
‘Isn’t it boring out there at Svartliden?’
‘No, I think it’s lovely and peaceful.’
‘Yeah, well, you’ve got Carl-Johan to help you pass the time.’ Crow looked around, sucking her roll-up suggestively. ‘What’s he like? In bed, I mean?’
‘None of your business.’
‘God, you’re so boring!’ Crow cackled. ‘Judging from the colour in your cheeks I’d say he lives up to expectations.’
Meja pulled up her collar.
Crow went on: ‘I’ve always thought he was hot. A bit distant and weird, but hot.’
A car pulled up beside them. Meja recognized it immediately from the rusty paintwork and felt a knot in her stomach. Torbjörn had wound down the window and was leaning over the steering wheel. He was alone, there was no trace of Silje. He smiled broadly under his moustache and said hello to Crow, who answered by blowing smoke rings in his direction.
‘Meja, have you got a minute?’
She pulled a face at Crow, before walking round the car and sliding into the passenger seat.
‘Something happened?’
‘No, no. All’s well.’
He closed the window and lowered the volume on the radio. The dashboard was littered with tobacco pouches and sweet wrappers. Meja propped her backpack on her lap and took a look at the clock. Her bus was due to leave in ten minutes. She wasn’t going to let Torbjörn drive off with her.
‘What do you want?’
‘It’s Silje. She sleeps all day and won’t eat.’
‘Has she stopped painting?’
He sighed and she interpreted that as a yes.
‘Make an appointment. But not the local surgery. You’ll need a psychiatrist.’
‘What do I do if she refuses?’
‘You take away the wine until she agrees.’
