Cinderella Girl (7 page)

She got on her knees on Daddy’s chair at the kitchen table and tore the freezer tape from the packet. The contents had clumped together inside. She tapped it on the table, carefully to start with and then more violently. Finally a few crumbs and then a large, frozen chunk of potatoes, onion and meat fell on to the table. The small pieces could easily be eaten; they melted quickly in her mouth and gradually took on a familiar taste. The large clump of ice, on the other hand, was harder to attack; she bit into it like an apple, but did not manage to get even a little bit loose. She was goose-pimply and her temples felt so cold that it was painful. Her teeth could not bite through the frozen block and Hanna suddenly felt herself getting angry. She took the stupid clump and threw it on the floor with a howl, causing a whole bunch of little frozen cubes to come loose. Yet another meal was eaten on the floor and even though her teeth ached and she was so cold that she was shaking, she felt rather content afterwards. Her stomach was full and she had shown that she could take care of herself, even get food.

She swept together the leftovers on the floor with her
hands and put them in the packet, which she left lying on the kitchen table. Then the phone rang. She rushed out into the hall where the phone was mounted on the wall. She tried to make herself as tall as she could, but she could not possibly reach the furiously ringing apparatus. She jumped up and tried to get hold of the cord to the receiver, but failed again and again until the telephone stopped ringing.

What if it was Daddy calling from Japan? Or what if it was Mummy who did care about her a little after all and wanted to hear how she was doing? She sank down on to the floor with tears running down her cheeks. How could Mummy do this to her? Silly, silly, silly Mummy, who only likes Lukas. At that moment she hated her and hoped she would die over there in her new life where Hanna was not allowed to be.

She was sitting on the cold tiled floor, with her hands in her armpits to get warm, when she suddenly happened to think about the door. She had not even tried to open the outside door. Opening it and running out and making noise in the stairwell and disturbing the neighbours was so forbidden that she had not even thought of it before. But the rules must be different now. Could Mummy have meant Hanna to live alone here in the apartment for the rest of her life without even being able to go out and shop?

She pulled herself up from the floor and went over to the wrought-iron gate. It looked closed, but Mummy had not locked it and the gate simply glided open when she pulled on the grating. Then she reached for the door handle and pulled it down. Nothing happened. The door was locked. But there was a knob higher up and if she could
turn that the door would surely open, so she went back to the kitchen again to get the child’s chair.

This time she pulled hard and managed to really lift the chair, a little at a time. She did not want to make any more scratches. It was quite far from the kitchen to the hall, but at last she was there. She climbed up on the chair, full of expectation, and made a half-turn on the knob until it stopped, at the same time pushing down the handle. Nothing. The door would not budge. So Mummy had locked her in. Could that really be so? She could believe many things about Mummy, but she never would have imagined that she would want Hanna to starve to death.

Hanna climbed carefully down from the chair again and carried it over to the telephone, so that she would be prepared next time it rang. If it rang. She shivered, still freezing after her ice-cold dinner. Her whole body was cold, except her right hand, which throbbed angrily from the hot water that had splashed on her that morning. She went to the children’s room to look for some clothes to put on. Just as she had pulled out one of the drawers in the dresser and yanked out a little white T-shirt with a strawberry on the chest from one of Mummy’s neatly folded piles, the phone rang again.

This time she would make it; the child’s chair was already by the phone. One ring: Hanna started running towards the hall. Two rings: she was at the chair and starting to climb. Three rings now: she would make it, she was already halfway up. Four rings: she reached for the receiver, but with the dark-red, tender back of her hand she bumped against a framed photograph of herself and Lukas that was hanging on the wall. It hurt so much that she pulled her hand away wildly, losing her balance and
falling headlong from the chair. She fell to the side where there was a bureau with metal knobs sticking out from the drawers. One of them struck her across the mouth and another one tore a gash in her cheek as she fell. She landed on her back on the hard, cold tiled floor, her hair fanned around her head like an ash-blonde wreath. The phone rang a fifth time and then it was silent.

* * *

Sjöberg took the opportunity to live like a bachelor whenever the rest of the family was out of town. This was something Sandén – who cared little about his health – was always open to, but which Sjöberg seldom indulged in. If you decide to have five kids you have to bear the consequences. This evening, however, they would party.

Sjöberg could not quite shake off the unpleasant mood of his dream and felt slightly nauseous all day. The dream, which he usually had once or twice a month, had started haunting him several times a week. And it had such a powerful effect on him that it never really left him in peace, not even during the day.

When Sandén had called to suggest they meet for a beer, Sjöberg happily accepted the invitation. He was on the way back from visiting his mother at Huddinge Hospital. She would be there for another twenty-four hours according to the medical staff, but was feeling good for the most part.

At four o’clock, when Sjöberg showed up at the little pub, the Half Way Inn on Swedenborgsgatan, Sandén was
already perched on a bar stool by the window waiting for him. He could not have been waiting long; the two pint glasses in front of him were untouched. Sjöberg cheerfully greeted his old partner-in-crime, but was given a reserved smile in return. He did not understand until Sandén turned his whole face towards him.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ Sjöberg exclaimed. ‘Do you have a black eye?’

Sjöberg could not conceal his amusement. Sandén was big enough to take care of himself and if something had happened to the lout, he no doubt had himself to blame. He was good-hearted by nature, but he could be a bit too aggressive for his own good.

‘Ran into a door,’ Sandén replied, nonchalantly drumming against his glass with his fingertips.

‘Ha,’ said Sjöberg. ‘Classic.’

Sandén wrinkled his face into a grimace that was supposed to look distressed, and said in a quivering voice, ‘It’s Sonja. Spouse abuse.’

‘Oh boy,’ said Sjöberg, affecting sympathy, well aware that Sandén’s wife was a gentle, peaceful soul who would never harm a hair on his head. ‘We’ll have to call the men’s crisis centre. They can save a place for you at a shelter.’

‘No, damn it! Call the women’s crisis centre, I’d rather stay at a women’s shelter. Cheers.’

He stopped his drumming and brought the glass up to his mouth. Sjöberg pulled off his jacket with a broad smile, hung it on a hook under the table and sat down. Sandén pushed the untouched glass towards him and Sjöberg took a generous gulp.

‘What happened really?’ he asked, more serious now.

‘Oh, it’s that damn Pontus,’ Sandén sighed. ‘Jenny’s boyfriend.’

Jenny was the older of Sandén’s two daughters. She was twenty-four and had slight learning difficulties. Right now she was not working or going to school; Sjöberg was also keeping his eyes and ears open for available jobs simple enough to suit Jenny. Quite recently she had moved in with a guy Sjöberg had never met, but who was, according to Sandén, an unpleasant character who was exploiting her. Jenny was an incredibly nice person and gullible besides. Sandén had hinted that she probably went along with almost anything this Pontus asked her to do.

‘Did he beat you up?’ said Sjöberg.

Sandén answered by pulling air into his mouth to a toneless ‘yes’.

‘What? You got beat up by some little punk?’

‘Well, he’s not that little …’

‘You have to report him,’ said Sjöberg excitedly. ‘Tell me now, what happened?’

‘I probably thrashed him first,’ said Sandén, lowering his eyes.

‘Seriously? The guy is an idiot, but you didn’t really resort to violence, did you?’

‘He assaulted Jenny. She had ugly bruises on her arms and her whole back was scraped up on some old trunk they have in the apartment.’

Sjöberg felt completely cold inside. Jenny had never had it easy with her handicap; it was too mild for others to really notice, but too serious for her to manage a normal job. During the past year she had been happily in love, something her parents had welcomed but also worried about.

‘Why, I don’t know; she wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Sandén continued, taking a gulp from his glass. ‘But when I found out I went crazy and hit him. That little piece of shit hit back, so Sonja had to intervene. But his black eye is probably worse than mine,’ he added with a cheerless laugh.

Sjöberg shook his head. ‘That was childish, Jens. The kid can report you to the police, you know that. Is it worth it? Will anything be better for Jenny, if you’re done for assault?’

‘Listen, that’s exactly what he intended to do. Then I pointed out to him that if he did, I’d report him for assaulting Jenny. He answered that he didn’t have any problem with that. He thought life in jail would be harder for me than for him. Being a cop. How do you respond to that? He’s right.’

‘Yes, how did you respond to that?’

‘I offered him ten thousand kronor to forget the whole thing, move out of the apartment and break off contact with Jenny.’

‘Did he take the bait?’

‘He’s going to think about it.’

‘Jenny will be heartbroken,’ said Sjöberg.

‘Yes, but we’re here for her. He’s an idiot if he doesn’t take up an offer like that. Ten thousand is a lot of money.’

There was nothing to add. Sjöberg absentmindedly fingered his glass and sat with his eyes fixed on the Scottish plaid wallpaper.

After a while Sandén broke the silence. ‘Is that supposed to look “genuine British”? Who the hell ever saw plaid wallpaper in a real pub? They’re too funny, those Scotsmen …’

Sjöberg, who had just emptied the last contents of his
glass, started laughing, and beer sprayed out of his nose and mouth. Sandén started laughing so hard that people turned around, and the oppressive mood quickly lifted. Sandén never let sorrows and grief put a damper on his good time.

After another two beers they moved on to Portofino on Brännkyrkagatan. The restaurant was full and they did not have a reservation. Sandén, however, ate at the excellent little Italian restaurant often, so Marco, the owner, managed to conjure up a table for them at lightning speed. After a superb pasta meal with wine and grappa with coffee, they found themselves at the Cadier Bar at the Grand Hotel of all places, shortly before midnight. Sjöberg had suggested a simple beer at some place like Akkurat on Hornsgatan, where they had a number of varieties to choose from. But Sandén was in an extravagant mood and was determined to spend the rest of the evening at a piano bar. Because these days there was only one left in Stockholm, they ended up at the Grand Hotel.

Together, they had endless topics of conversation. They had a long shared history because they had worked together ever since the police academy. Their families happily socialized a good deal too. Sandén’s daughters no longer lived at home, but the jovial Sandén and his wife, both fond of children, were not bothered by the presence of the Sjöberg children at family gatherings.

The pianist was playing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, and the tipsier members of the audience sitting closest to the keyboard were singing along. Sjöberg and Sandén stood further away at the bar, each with a beer. The noise, the music and the relaxed atmosphere that prevailed in
Sandén’s company surrounded Sjöberg like a warm embrace, and he found himself feeling euphorically free of demands. With Jens he could just talk, there was no attitude, no scrutinizing glances. They had already taken each other’s measure twenty-five years before and there were no personality analyses left to make. And besides, Sandén was fun. The laughs came often when he got going, and Sjöberg could already feel how hoarse he would be in the morning. His bad dreams, his obligations were pushed from his thoughts. He was just taking in life with all his senses.

It was then that Margit Olofsson emerged from the throng of people over by the piano and approached them.

‘Hi, Conny!’ she called happily, to make herself heard over the buzz and the music.

‘Look who’s here!’ Sjöberg answered in surprise, spontaneously putting his arm around her. The way you do when you meet an acquaintance in a crowded bar, he told himself. Sandén looked, perplexed, from one to the other. He knew he recognized the woman, but the connection between her and Sjöberg was an unsolvable equation.

‘Don’t you recognize Margit, the nurse? Ingrid Olsson’s benefactor?’ said Sjöberg, with a friendly pat on her shoulder.

‘Exactly! It’s you!’ Sandén exclaimed, still looking a trifle perplexed.

‘We met yesterday, at Huddinge,’ Sjöberg helped out. ‘When I was there with my mother.’

‘That explains it,’ said Sandén cheerfully. ‘I was starting to wonder whether you were on a friendly footing with all the old witnesses and murderers and victims and relatives …’

‘Jens …’ said Sjöberg urgently.

‘Jens Sandén,’ said Sandén, extending his hand to Margit Olofsson.

‘Yes, I recognize you too,’ said Margit, still smiling. ‘Are you out celebrating a solved murder, or …?’

‘We’re celebrating Conny’s recovered youth,’ Sandén answered quickly. ‘He’s a temporary bachelor and enjoying his freedom without five snot-nosed kids around his ankles.’

‘And you?’ Sjöberg added.

‘We’re a group of nurses celebrating a birthday. Not mine,’ she added, raising her hand in a deprecatory gesture.

‘Is he here, that eighty-year-old guy in a nurse’s uniform?’ Sandén asked in his customary outspoken manner.