It was Axel who found her. Annika had carefully unscrewed the light fixture in the ceiling and stood on Axel’s desk. His scream woke her. On the way downstairs, fumbling to tie her dressing gown, Alice realised that the belt was missing. The sight of her daughter with the belt as a noose round her neck was eternally etched in her memory.
She filled the glass and knocked it back. No, that was enough of that. This was not something to dwell on. Thirty years had passed and nothing could be undone. Drowning herself in guilt would do no good. She had done the best she could under the circumstances.
She put the bottle back in the cupboard and went over to the sink to rinse out the glass.
‘Yes. That’s how it was, so now you know. The best thing for all of us is for this to remain within the family. It’s not something we should go round talking about.’
Jan-Erik’s shoulders stopped heaving. Slowly he straightened up. She wished she could escape the look that he gave her. Then he stood up, went into the living room and fetched the piece of paper. Without saying a word he went out the front door.
Alice looked at the clock. The TV programme she was waiting for would be starting soon. Why dig up old memories now? They were better off left alone.
She went back to the sofa and reached for the remote.
14
I t is by describing love that we rob fear of its power.
Kristoffer stood in front of one of the gravestones in Katarina cemetery and read the inscription. He’d had to get out of the flat. He was restless and needed to get hold of something to keep his fear at bay. He knew what his body was longing for.
The odd thing about alcohol was that it could be used for so many purposes: to forget, to intensify a mood, to relax. To celebrate, go to sleep, be content, warm up, cool off, escape, find inspiration.
To summon courage.
Of all the drugs he had used, alcohol was the one he found most deceptive. Insinuated into and accepted in every environment, always available, enthusiastically promoted by the state and establishment. He was well aware of the discomfort he caused each time he said ‘No, thank you.’ The status these words conferred. People didn’t want to have sober witnesses when they let go of their inhibitions; a guilty conscience sitting next to them, looking on.
He had read something once that stuck in his mind. He recalled the lines pretty much word for word, since he thought he’d found an explanation and maybe an excuse for his own earlier behaviour: Since the human being as a species is extremely vulnerable, he must always be ready to defend himself. The human brain has increased in size during evolution. Consciousness is a refined defence system – a constant state of alertness that watches the surroundings to discover possible threats. Our strong sense of fear explains much about human nature and civilisation.
Sometimes he thought this fear might be the explanation why alcohol was so tempting. To be able to shut down the warning system for a while and relax. To numb one’s brilliant consciousness. In all cultures intoxicants are used; only the types are different. If one discovered an isolated tribe in a remote jungle, there were bound to be certain leaves or roots that could be chewed or smoked to achieve the desired intoxication. In the Western world alcohol had been chosen as the legitimate drug.
Sometimes he thought that evolution had made a mistake in developing such an advanced brain. Why else would so many people feel the need to numb it? Yet we see ourselves as being the crown of creation with a superior intellect and the ability to show empathy and moralise. Perhaps humanity was at a critical stage: intelligence had made it possible to eradicate the planet, while deep inside everyone was governed by powerful fears and primitive desires; an immense ongoing conflict hidden inside everyone.
Right now he was missing the solace of alcohol. For a long period it had been his best friend and ally, the one thing that had been allowed to take precedence over everything else. It had helped him to rob the fear of its power.
But on the gravestone before him it said ‘love’.
That sort of love, he was not familiar with.
He often took walks in the cemetery, even though he had no real reason to go there. He found it peaceful, and not even his fear of the dark kept him away. There was nothing to fear in a place where death already resided. There was only calm, and everything in comparison became small and surmountable. He was not even sure whether he was afraid of death. Sometimes he envied people who had lived their lives and were now allowed to rest. Not that he longed to die, but neither did he feel particularly keen to live. He envied the dead because they avoided the responsibility of continuing to struggle. They had escaped having to maintain the will to go on.
Rich, poor, good, evil, ugly, beautiful, smart and simple – the same fate awaited all. No matter how fast one ran, it was impossible to escape.
All those names and dates on the gravestones. Some of the people resting below had been dead for hundreds of years, but their memory had won out over wind and weather. Only the special ones were allowed to have their graves undisturbed and the stones left in place, the ones who were of importance. The graves of ordinary people were cleared out as they were forgotten, and their last resting place became someone else’s. His goal was to be one of those who were left, one of those whose names were allowed to remain and remind new generations of their existence. He would be one of the special ones, one of those who had excelled, who had done something of significance. A true survivor.
Then death would no longer be able to get to him.
Herein lies that which belonged to the earth. Faithfully loving, eternally reunited.
The man had died in 1809, his wife in 1831. No one was now alive who had known them. And yet he was standing here 175 years later and knew that they had existed.
He liked reading the messages on the gravestones and found them consoling. He would wander among the well-tended graves with flowers that were constantly replaced, and those graves that no one cared for any longer. Time came and went and priorities changed; stones with one engraved name stood next to a blank space waiting for the spouse still living. He wondered how it felt to stand there, knowing that one’s name and a date would some day be etched there, and one would never see the result. He felt a flicker of jealousy that they at least knew where they belonged.
He continued along the illuminated gravel path, lured by the glow from the floodlights in the corner of the cemetery where the newer graves were located. On the way he passed several large stones with the inscription ‘Family Plot’. One of the most beautiful phrases he knew.
Eternally reunited.
He had not been without offers. He was good-looking and had been considered, at least as long as he was drinking, to be interesting enough to spend time with. Now he no longer knew. He didn’t frequent places where prospective speculators could show their interest, since that most often occurred under the influence of alcohol. But back then, when he was still participating in the mating dance of nightlife, he had seldom gone home alone. He had experienced sex so many times he eventually grew weary of it, but he hadn’t really known love. Whenever something was about to develop, he had declined and returned to his waiting.
For the answer to who he was.
Then his life could begin.
His ringtone began to play in his pocket, and he took out his mobile. He recognised the number at once.