“And?”
“You could go with him. You know what he’s like. He’d think it was really nice to have some company.”
“I can’t go to Kiruna,” exclaimed Rebecka.
“No, I know that’s what you think. But I’m wondering why.”
“I don’t know, I…”
“What’s the worst that could happen? I mean if you bumped into somebody who knows who you are? And what about your grandmother’s house, you miss that, don’t you?”
Rebecka clenched her teeth.
I can’t go there, that’s just the way it is, she thought.
Maria replied as if she’d read her mind.
“I’m going to ask Torsten to ask you anyway. If there are monsters under the bed it’s just as well to put the light on and turn over onto your stomach and have a look at them.”
Dancing on the hotel’s stone terrace. Abba and Niklas Strömstedt pouring out of the loudspeakers. Through the open windows of the hotel kitchen comes the sound of porcelain crashing and the rush of water as the plates are rinsed before they go into the dishwasher. The sun has taken her red veils down into the water with her. Lanterns hang from the trees. A crush around the outdoor bar.
Rebecka walked down to the stone quay. She’d danced with her table companion then crept away. The darkness placed its arm around her and drew her close.
It went well, she thought. It went as well as anybody could expect.
She sat down on a wooden bench by the water. The sound of the waves lapping against the jetty. The smell of rotting seaweed, brine and diesel. A lamp was reflected in the shiny black water.
Måns had come over to say hello just as she was about to sit down at the table.
“How’s things, Martinsson?” he’d asked.
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? she thought.
His wolfish grin and the way he called her by her surname was like a great big stop sign: No confidences, tears or honesty.
So it was head up, feet down and an account of how she’d painted the window frames out at Torsten’s place with linseed oil. After Kiruna it had seemed as if he cared about her. But when she couldn’t work any longer he’d completely disappeared.
You’re just nothing then, she thought. When you can’t work.
The sound of footsteps on the gravel path made her look up. At first she couldn’t make out a face, but she recognized that high-pitched voice. It was that new girl, the blonde one. What was her name again? Petra.
“Hi Rebecka,” said Petra, as if they knew each other.
She came and stood far too close. Rebecka suppressed the urge to get up, shove her out of the way and scurry off. You couldn’t really do that sort of thing. So she stayed put. The foot on the end of the leg that was crossed over the other leg gave her away. Jiggled up and down in annoyance. Wanted to run away.
Petra sank down beside her with a sigh.
“God, I’ve just had three dances one after the other with Åke. You know what they’re like. Just because you work with them they think they own you. I just had to get away for a bit.”
Rebecka grunted some kind of acknowledgment. In a little while she’d say she needed the bathroom.
Petra twisted her upper body toward Rebecka and tilted her head to one side.
“I heard about what happened to you last year. It must have been terrible.”
Rebecka didn’t reply.
Wait for it, thought Rebecka nastily. When the quarry won’t come out of its hole, you have to lure it out with something. It ought to be some little confidence of your own. You hold out your own little confession and swap it for the other person’s secret like a bookmark.
“My sister had a terrible experience like that five years ago,” Petra went on when Rebecka didn’t speak. “She found their neighbor’s son drowned in a ditch. He was only four. After that she went a bit…”
She finished the sentence with a vague hand movement.
“So this is where you are.”
It was Popeye. He came over to them with a gin and tonic in each hand. He held one out to Petra, and after a microsecond’s hesitation offered the other one to Rebecka. It was actually for himself.
A gentleman, thought Rebecka tiredly, putting the glass down beside her.
She looked at Popeye. Popeye was looking greedily at Petra. Petra was looking greedily at Rebecka. Popeye and Petra were going to feast on her. Then they’d go off and have sex.
Petra must have sensed that Rebecka was about to run away. That the opportunity would soon have passed her by. Under normal circumstances she would have let Rebecka go, and thought to herself that there’d be other times. But right now too many drinks from the bar and too many glasses of wine with the food had clouded her judgment.
She leaned over toward Rebecka. Her cheeks were shiny and rosy when she asked:
“So, how does it feel to kill a person?”
Rebecka marched straight through the middle of the crowd of drunken people. No, she didn’t want to dance. No, thank you, she didn’t want anything from the bar. She had her overnight bag over her shoulder and was on her way down to the jetty.
She’d managed to deal with Petra and Popeye. Assumed a thoughtful expression, gazed out over the dark water, and replied: “It feels terrible, of course.”
What else? The truth? “I have no idea. I can’t remember.”
Maybe she should have told them about those totally pathetic conversations with the therapist. Rebecka sitting and smiling at every meeting and in the end nearly bursting out laughing. What can she do? She just doesn’t remember. The therapist very definitely not smiling back, this is no laughing matter. And finally they decide to take a break. Rebecka is welcome to come back at some point in the future.
When she can’t work anymore she doesn’t get in touch with him. Can’t bring herself to do it. Pictures the scene, sitting and weeping because she can’t cope with life, and his face, just enough sympathy to cover the what-did-I-tell-you expression.
No, Rebecka had answered Petra like a normal person, it felt terrible but that life must go on, however banal that might sound. Then she’d made her excuses and left them. It had been fine, but five minutes later the rage hit her, and now… Now she was so angry she could have ripped a tree up by the roots. Or maybe she should lean against the wall of the hotel and push it over like a cardboard box. Just as well for blondie and her little friend they weren’t still down on the quay, because she’d have kicked them into the water.
Suddenly Måns was right behind her. Beside her.
“What’s going on? Has something happened?”
Rebecka didn’t slow down.
“I’m leaving. One of the boys in the kitchen said I could borrow the skiff. I’ll row across.”
Måns uttered a snort of disbelief.
“Are you crazy? You can’t row across in the dark. And what are you going to do when you get to the other side? Come on, stop. What’s the matter with you?”
She stopped just before the jetty. Spun around and growled.
“What the fuck do you think’s the matter?” she asked. “People asking me what it feels like to kill a person. How the hell should I know? I didn’t sit there writing a poem while it was going on, analyzing how I felt. I… it just happened!”
“Why are you angry with me? I didn’t ask you, did I?”
Suddenly Rebecka was speaking very slowly.
“No, Måns, you don’t ask me anything. Nobody could accuse you of that.”
“What the hell,” he replied, but Rebecka had already turned on her heel and stomped off onto the jetty.
He dashed after her. She’d thrown her bag into the skiff and was untying the mooring rope. Måns searched around for something to say.
“I was talking to Torsten,” he said. “He told me he was thinking of asking you to go up to Kiruna with him. But I told him he shouldn’t ask.”