Part 13 (1/2)

All this is logical. A reasonable course of action. I had nailed you down so that you couldn't come and threaten my family, my children. I did what had to be done.

But as I stood there looking at you and panting, you smiled that smile again, the smile that said you had the upper hand because you knew my most fragile secrets, while I didn't even know your name. The smile that said I was worth nothing, a little grey, flat woman whispering and wors.h.i.+pping by your side.

I undid my trousers and took out my sodden sanitary towel. I painted you red. Chest, arms, legs. To finish off I tried to force the towel into your mouth, but it was too tightly closed. I placed it over your eyes instead.

Then I left.

I took a long, hot shower, then I crawled into bed and wrapped myself in a coc.o.o.n of warmth and darkness. I closed my eyes and tried to persuade my body that none of this had actually happened.

I said I was ill, that I had a temperature. Perhaps I did. The combination of sweating and getting cold. I felt wretched, s.h.i.+vering fits running beneath my skin, and my body felt sick, sick, sick in a way that no thermometer could measure.

They brought me food. Spaghetti bolognese. La.s.se sat down by my bed and asked what I'd been doing during the day. Emil came up and told me about his project again. It was to do with a farm. They were building a farm out of cardboard and making animals out of clay. Next week they were going to visit a farmer. It sounded terrific. I just wanted to cry. I managed to control myself.

When I was alone again, I crawled onto the floor. I lay down on the wooden floorboards and lifted up my hair, exposing the back of my neck.

Seize me. Stab me.

Nothing. I wanted it to happen. There was no prayer so heartfelt or so eloquent that it could match my need. There was only one thing to say: Punish me. Or forgive me.

Perhaps G.o.d would punish me later. Perhaps he would allow Emil to drown. From now on, every terrible thing that befell my family was my fault. It was a dreadful thought. The alternative was that he might forgive me. Yes. It was possible. But I didn't believe it. If our picture of G.o.d is a projection of what we ourselves are, then there is no forgiveness. Not for me. Never. Everything remains as it is.

Evening came, then night. When La.s.se came to bed he asked me how I was, how things really were. I said I felt sad. I wanted to tell him everything, but I said I felt sad, then I rolled over with my back to him and asked him to hold me. He did as I asked and it was nice, but it wasn't enough. He would have had to be ten times bigger. A hundred times bigger. I would have needed to lie in the palm of his hand.

So the night came, and the minutes. They were long. La.s.se's breathing was warm and whispering against the back of my neck. The minutes crawled on spider's legs through pine resin. I slid out of La.s.se's arms and got up. Stood for a long time in the middle of the floor listening to the wind in the tin roof. Bang. Bang. Bang bang.

I will stand here. All night. As a penance.

It was the first thought I had had all day that made me...well, not happy. But contented. It was a good thought. Stand motionless in the middle of the floor all night. See if I could do it. Perhaps G.o.d would notice me then.

I had been standing there for maybe half an hour when the urge to do what I shouldn't do began to make itself felt: to go over to the window, peek through the blind and see if you were standing out there. I pinched my earlobe. Hard. La.s.se turned over in bed. A relief. If he opened his eyes now he wouldn't be able to see me.

Ten minutes pa.s.sed. My knees were beginning to ache. The urge came over me again. I stared at the blind, tried to stare straight through it. Pinched my earlobe again. Harder this time, I almost squealed out loud.

Bang. Bang bang.

Loud bangs. I thought: if the front door opens, I won't be able to hear it.

I made my body stiff and straight, like a plank of wood. Nailed myself to the floor. I was the one who usually locked the front door at night. Had La.s.se done it tonight? He had once said it made him feel as if he was at work, at the prison, if he had to lock the front door. He wanted to feel relaxed at home.

My stomach was churning. The torments of the night would be even worse if I stood here not knowing.

Anyone who really wants to get in will get in anyway, La.s.se had said on that occasion.

I pinched my earlobe again. It didn't help. I had to check the door. On feet that tingled from standing still, I crept over to the door, opened it cautiously and peered down the stairs.

The air. What's different about...the air...

The air outside the bedroom was fresh and cold. Not only was the front door unlocked, it was standing wide open, with the night wind blowing through the hallway. My heart leapt in my breast, and just as I reached the top of the stairs I heard Emil scream.

Not scream. Roar. Nothing on earth is worse than hearing a child roar like that, from the depths of his body, with horror, pain, when it's your own child roaring. Nothing. Nothing.

I almost fell down the stairs as I hurled myself forward and my body was an open wound, Emil's roar was a red-hot poker being thrust into the wound. I reached the landing and saw you coming out of Emil's room.

You were naked. Your body was smeared with my blood and you were holding the clasp knife in your hand. The blade was open. Your hand reached out towards my face and Emil kept on roaring and somewhere right at the back of my mind a voice was whispering: He's yelling. He's alive.

And the hand reaching out towards my face was not a hand but merely a ragged combination of bits of skin and skeleton left over when you tore it free of the nails and staples. You hit me across the cheek. My head jerked to one side and I fell.

As you walked out through the front door I crawled towards Emil's room. I wanted to be sick. I didn't want to see. I could see the soles of Emil's feet drumming against the mattress as if he were running up towards the ceiling ridiculously fast. I dragged myself to my feet.

Emil was stretched out on the bed, dressed only in his underpants. The quilt had been thrown to one side. The whole of his little body was shaking and jumping with the jerking of his legs as they ran and ran. His mouth was wide open, a gaping hole letting out that roar.

The wound was directly over his heart. I fell on him, I wrapped him in my arms and his roaring deafened me.

'Don't die, don't die...'

The sensible part of my brain, the cold, clear sense somewhere behind the fear was whispering: Stop the bleeding. Help him.

I obeyed. With shaking hands I switched on the bedside light and looked at the wound, ready to tear strips off the quilt cover, tear strips off myself.

It was only a scratch. Making a point. Emil carried on screaming.

At last I heard La.s.se's footsteps on the stairs. Three long strides, loud thuds and he came running into the room.

'What is it? What's happened?'

What I said couldn't have made any sense to him, couldn't possibly have seemed like the right reaction to what he could see before his eyes. I ran my hand over the wound, got a tiny drop of blood on my fingers, and I whispered, 'It's only a scratch...just a little scratch...'

It took two minutes before La.s.se grasped what had happened. A man had come into his house and marked his son, frightened him out of his wits. La.s.se went out to look for the man. Someone from the mental inst.i.tution, no doubt.

I sat with Emil. Johanna came to join us. We sat with Emil. The fear shone from his eyes, he couldn't speak. I thought: Thank you, Lord. Thank you for letting him live.

La.s.se came back after a quarter of an hour. He hadn't found the man, so he called the police. Emil was no longer screaming, he was just panting. I asked Johanna to stay with him, then I got up and went outside. La.s.se was busy on the phone.

I went to the woodshed and fetched the axe.

n.o.body knew you had been dead from the start. It wasn't even possible to identify you from the remains. But there were other mitigating circ.u.mstances. Several.

I'm happy with my punishment.

Can't see it! It doesn't exist!.

Frank Johansson is waiting for the picture that will change his life.

He is sitting in an elm tree, six metres above the ground. In order to avoid chafing, he has wrapped two layers of foam rubber around the branch on which he is sitting. Since he began his surveillance two days ago, he has drunk fifteen litres of water. His back is killing him.

It is summer. A fat, Swedish summer. The sun is blazing down through the foliage and the sweat is pouring off him. The only breeze comes from the wing beats of fate. This is his last chance. It's the picture or the abyss. Well, bankruptcy anyway.