He raised the bottle to his mouth. The liquid he’d been longing for ran down his throat, but all he sensed was a shrill ringing in his ears.
He turned to the desk and swept the computer to the floor. The screen went blank and he gave it a kick to make sure that it would never light up again.
Jesper was gone.
Jesper had left him.
Jesper was dead and had taken with him all that he had meant to Kristoffer. The closest thing to love he had ever dared feel.
Outside the window, Katarina Church still stood there. The branches of the trees were still attached to the trunks. No windows were blown out in the surrounding buildings. And down in the cemetery someone was walking as if the air were still fit to breathe. Only in his flat was the catastrophe apparent. The rest of the world seemingly intended to go on as if nothing had happened.
He was gone. Would never exist again. All that he’d had ahead of him would never happen now. His brilliant power of observation had in the end been beaten by cynicism. Evil had been permitted to triumph.
Exhausted, Kristoffer sank down in a chair. He sat there, listening to the sound of his own breathing. The involuntary repetition. The prerequisite for his survival. The instinct to keep himself alive.
Gratefully he felt it take over. The feeling of liberation when his brain went numb. When he was no longer capable of comprehending the depth of his pain. Why weren’t human beings born this way? With their blood spiked from the start with a small percentage of alcohol. With the defence mechanism disconnected and the soul in a state of peace.
Was survival really so important that it outweighed all suffering?
He took another gulp from the bottle. On the desk before him lay a letter. He had picked it up from the hall when Jesper was still alive. Having a reason to reach out his hand felt like an achievement. Sender: Marianne Folkesson. He tore open the envelope. Inside was a note and another letter.
I found this in Gerda’s flat. See you at the funeral.
Yours truly,
Marianne
A white envelope with his name on it. Written in a flowing script.
To be delivered after my death.
He opened the envelope lethargically and began to read.
32
‘Iplan to ring Ellen and tell her about this. You’re not going to convince her with a bunch of lies that this is all my fault!’
‘I have no intention of doing that. Jan-Erik, please, don’t ring her tonight. She mustn’t find out by telephone. We have to sit down with her and tell her face-to-face.’
‘No chance. I’m not going to help you cover up your sick decisions. You’re going to have to do it yourself.’
‘Jan-Erik, please…’
But he had slammed down the receiver, and as he’d threatened to do, he rang Ellen’s mobile.
‘Ellen? Ellen, this is Pappa. I just wanted to call and tell you what’s happening before your mother beats me to it and deludes you into believing a bunch of lies. She’s decided that the two of us should get a divorce, that we won’t live together any more. She says you should live with each of us every other week, but I think you should just stay with me. We’ll stay in the flat, you and I, so she’ll have to manage as best she can. You should know that she’s the one who decided all this. I tried to talk her out of it, but she’s only thinking of herself. But we’ll stick together, Ellen, you and me.’
It was Louise’s fault that Ellen had cried on the phone. Louise’s fault that he was drunk and wandering about in the dark like a lost soul in his childhood home.
The heating was turned up all the way, but nothing could prevent the cold from eating its way in. He didn’t want to be here, walking about among all the memories that saturated the walls. He hated this house down to the tiniest piece of it, hated every nail and every board that held its walls together. The atmosphere penetrated his skin and spread through his veins. He wanted to fight yet there was no one to hurt, scream yet there was no one to scare.
By God, he would show her! Even if she had bewitched his father to write her into the will, he was the one who would continue to manage the funds. He would raise the fee for his lectures, invest wisely in an account out of the reach of her greedy fingers, and work out a way to transfer all the copyrights exclusively into his name. He would see to it that her share of the inheritance would be as small as possible, and he would have his plans ready for the day the old devil finally died. Louise’s brief triumph would rapidly turn into bitterness when she realised how much she had lost.
He stopped outside his father’s office. As usual, his body involuntarily hesitated before stepping over the threshold. His eyes were drawn to the lamp hook, but he looked away at once. Annika had also let him down. She was one of those who had left him.
He looked at the cupboard. It was in there he would find the solution. There must be unpublished texts he could use as a tribute after Axel Ragnerfeldt’s death. The income would replace the part of the inheritance stolen by Louise.
He went over and opened the door. Darkness welled out and he picked up the pocket torch that was still lying on the desk. At the entrance to the cupboard he stumbled on the black rubbish bag. Furiously he tore it open and went back to the office, where he emptied the contents on the floor. Papers flowed out over the carpet. He squatted down but lost his balance. Sitting on the floor he ran his hand through all the documents, and a tiny spark of excitement unexpec t edly came over him when he discovered a thick manuscript. Something his pappa had discarded, but which would probably be considered good enough in Jan-Erik’s eyes. There was a little note attached to the title page, and he scanned the lines.
Axel, the hours that have passed have not been lonely. You are still with me in my thoughts. Since I’ve had a hard time getting away I thought I’d just send you my book anyway. I’d be grateful to have your wise views on it. No one else has read it (as you will see, it’s far above Torgny’s head). My book longs only for your lovely eyes to read it.
Your Halina
P.S. I’m so glad that we finally met! H
He swore to himself. The lover again. Everywhere in the cupboard she kept popping up as if she’d rented part of the space. Without much interest, he was leafing through the handwritten pages when a sudden sound made him snap to attention. It didn’t come from inside the house, but from somewhere nearby he could hear a rhythmic, ringing sound. He put down the manuscript and got up from the floor. Outside the window it was pitch dark, and he hurried to switch off the overhead light so he could see better. Nothing moved in the dark garden. He took his pocket torch and went through the darkened rooms. From each window he peered out at the yard, but nowhere could he find an explan ation. He could see nothing from the living room, nothing from the dining room, nothing from the kitchen. He opened the door to the room where Gerda had once lived, went over to the bureau and looked out of the little round window above it. Something was moving outside. A black silhouette on the lawn way over by the bushes. In the spot where the greenhouse had once stood but which on his return from the States had been turned into a flagstone patio. He stood still and watched until his eyes adjusted to the dark. Only then did he realise what the sound was; the blade of a shovel hacking at the flagstones.