Dark Angel (19 page)

‘I feel sick.’

She didn’t manage to say anything more before she threw up. He helped her clean herself up. She started crying, and he did his best to console her.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Pernilla.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Hemse.’

Good Lord, thought Johan. What kind of parents would let a young girl like this stay out late at night so far from home? And, to cap it all, drunk. He searched her jacket pockets and pulled out a mobile that showed several missed calls from her mother. He rang the number. He heard loud music in the background and a laughing woman’s voice answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, my name is Johan Berg, and I’m sitting here with your daughter, Pernilla.’

‘Yes?’

‘We’re in Visby, and I’m sorry to tell you that your daughter is extremely drunk.’

The voice now sounded worried.

‘What? Are you sure?’

‘It would be best if you came to get her. She can’t make it home on her own.’

Now he heard several agitated voices in the background.

Christ. Pernilla’s drunk. Who can drive? We’ve all been drinking. Susanne, she’s pregnant. She’s the only one who could drive right now. We shouldn’t have let them go into town. I told you we shouldn’t let them go. Where are the others? Where did they get the booze from?

After a minute the woman was back on the line.

‘OK, my husband is coming. Where are you?’

Johan gave her directions to the Solo Club.

The girl threw up a few more times. She had no idea where her friends had gone. When Johan asked her how old she was, she said she was twelve. Good Lord, he thought. That means she’s just a year older than Emma’s daughter Sara. Is Sara going to be sitting here like this a year from now?

He stayed for almost an hour, helping Pernilla vomit up all the alcohol she’d consumed. Finally a car pulled up and parked. A man his own age got out, dressed in jeans and a shirt, looking stressed. Right behind him was a very pregnant woman. She was the one who had driven the car.

‘Oh, sweetie,’ cried the man, taking the girl in his arms. ‘How are you feeling? Come on, let’s get you home. Where are Agnes and Mimmi?’

He got her into the car as he continued to ask questions. He briefly thanked Johan for his help before they sped away.

Feeling depressed, Johan walked back through town to the office. He pictured Sara’s sweet, innocent face. She had already started to use make-up once in a while. Was this what awaited her, right around the corner? He shuddered at the thought. At the same time, it seemed disturbing that the partying at the Solo Club was going on as usual, only a day after Alexander Almlöv had died.

Exactly as if the assault had never happened.

SHE WAS AWAKENED
by a fit of coughing. A suffocating smell. Her eyes were running. She immediately jumped out of bed, realizing to her horror that she was surrounded by thick smoke. When she went to bed, she had deliberately closed the bedroom door since she had nearly scared herself silly imagining that someone was outside.

The smoke was coming through the gaps around the door, and the heat was unbearable. For a moment she closed her eyes as she shut her mouth tight. The bedroom was at the very back of the cabin, behind the kitchen. Her first thought was to tear open the door and get out, but as soon as she touched the metal door handle, she knew that the rest of the house must be in flames. Instead she picked up the floor lamp and rammed it against the window to break the glass. Her eyes were burning so badly that she could hardly keep them open. The smoke was making her dizzy. She tried to breathe in as little as possible. Then she plunged headlong out of the window and on to the lawn. Feeling sick and in shock, she began crawling away, trying to get as far from the fire as she could. She didn’t dare turn around until she’d made it all the way over to the privy. She sat on the ground, leaning against the wall, and watched, dumbfounded, as the drama unfolded before her. The cabin was totally engulfed, the flames shooting high up into the air, an angry inferno against the night sky. There was nothing she could do but sit there as the house, in which she’d spent so many summers and which had given her so many good memories, burned to ashes before her eyes. She hadn’t managed to take a single thing
with
her. Her mind and her body were both numb; she didn’t dare allow herself to feel anything.

There was no one else around. It was just her and the fire. She had no means of communicating with the rest of the world. She had no mobile, and the nearest neighbouring farm was several kilometres away. For a moment she drifted off, feeling as though she might fall asleep.

Only then did she hear the sirens.

KNUTAS COULDN’T SLEEP
. He tossed and turned in bed. After several hours of fruitless attempts, he finally gave up. He slipped out of bed and went downstairs to the kitchen where he poured himself a glass of milk and got out a packet of biscuits. With a sigh he sat down at the table. The cat hopped up next to his plate and rubbed his hand, wanting to be petted. At least you like me, he thought morosely. The argument with Nils had proved a brutal wake-up call. He’d had no idea that the distance between them was so great. He cursed himself. How could he have been so clueless? So selfish?

The children provided a crystal-clear mirror that ruthlessly exposed every flaw and defect that he possessed as a parent. The degree of trust, love and solidarity the children displayed was a manifestation of his success as a father. How did they behave at home? What were they willing to share without being asked? How much love did they voluntarily express? He had merely walked about, blind to what was going on around him. It was Lina who took the kids out to the country on weekends; she was the one who drove them to football matches and practice sessions; she was the one who did most of the cleaning and cooking. He had been so wrapped up in his job that he hadn’t been paying attention.

The guilt that he felt was almost too much to bear.

MAYBE IT’S THE
regular conversations that are causing the haze before my eyes to disperse. The fog is starting to lift. My vision is clearer, even though I feel worse. The headaches clamp even more tightly around my forehead.

We’re sitting in that room, as usual, resting in the silence for a while.

If I turn my head and the light slants in from the side, the plaster rose in the ceiling looks like a person with a huge mouth. Maybe it’s my mother’s jaws that just keep getting bigger the more things you try to stuff inside. Her sense of dissatisfaction grows with each day, month and year that passes. She always has something new to complain about. New problems, new obstacles, new spanners thrown into the works. It’s the end of the world the minute life doesn’t flow smoothly. She’s constantly searching for new sources of wood to throw on her bonfire of wretchedness. Hungrily she swings her axe at the smallest thing that might sustain her misery. Sometimes it feels as if my brain is about to boil over.

She takes up so much space. I can always feel her presence, whether I like it or not. She’s been transformed into a thick pulp that has forced its way up inside me to settle in my throat. The only thing I want is to spit out that crap once and for all. To vomit her up. Make her leave my body, which she has invaded from the day I was born. It’s sick. I know it is.

Now I’m back with the person I’m talking to.

The window is slightly open. The sun is shining, and it’s warm outside.

‘The last time we met, you left rather abruptly. What happened?’

‘Sometimes I feel so filled with my so-called mother that I end up overflowing. Then I either have to throw up or take a shit, almost as if I’m a rubbish bin and she’s the rubbish.’

‘Can you describe what it feels like when that’s about to happen?’

‘Sometimes I just can’t stand the thought of her, and then it feels like something takes me over.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘As if my body takes control. It reacts on its own, takes on its own life, and it’s impossible to control. It’s a form of protest. As if it’s rebelling against the fact that she’s eating me up from the inside, like a fucking parasite. Taking up residence and getting bigger and bigger until one day she’ll be the death of me. Against my will, she’s the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last thing on my mind when I fall asleep. There’s nothing I can do about it, no matter how hard I try. She is always there, like my guilty conscience.’

‘How does that affect you?’

‘Well, all my life I’ve always felt guilty if I did anything fun on my own, without her.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The minute I decide to take a skiing holiday or go to a concert or do anything else fun, I hear her complaints about how she’s longing to do exactly the same thing.
If only I could
… Even when I had a family, I would feel guilty when we sat at the table with the candles lit, having a pleasant dinner. And I’d think to myself that I should have invited my mother. Not that it was particularly nice having her visit. I remember when Daniel was a newborn and we had moved to the new flat. Mamma used to come over on Sundays. Even before she’d taken off her shoes in the front hall, she would ask: “Is the coffee ready?” in that shrill voice of hers. Then she’d sit down on the sofa and stay there, as if glued to the cushions, until it was time for her to leave again. The coffee would grow cold in her cup as she babbled about one thing or another. If I happened to mention that Daniel was having trouble sleeping or if Katrina said that he was suffering from colic, my mother would merely dismiss our concerns as unimportant. Then she would turn to Katrina and start telling her how
wonderful
her own children had been. They’d never had any stomach troubles or problems with eating or sleeping. And the implication was:
You’re a failure as a mother. My children were always perfect, but that’s because I was their mother, of course
. I mostly kept quiet or tried to smooth things over, but that just made matters worse. It gave Mamma even more fodder for her criticisms, and her barbs were vicious. Usually Katrina would end up leaving the room to potter about in the kitchen until Mamma left. I’m ashamed that I behaved so spinelessly.’

‘Why did you act that way?’

‘I don’t know. When I think back, I can’t for the life of me understand why I allowed Mamma to have so much power over me. Even as a grown man with my own family to take care of, I acted like a frightened little boy. It’s as if she always makes me feel guilty. As if I ought to be paying her back.’

‘It must be a way of maintaining control. And continuing to stand in the spotlight.’

‘And the gods only know that’s what she wants. Whenever she comes to visit, all other activity has to stop. Everyone is expected to immediately drop whatever they’re doing and devote all their attention to her. And after we’re done with coffee, she has to have help with everything.
Do you have a phone book? A nail file? Can you help me book theatre tickets on the Internet? Do you have a sewing machine? I want to sew a pair of trousers. I need to dye my hair – can I do it in your bathroom? Can I borrow the phone? How does my mobile work? Can you read the instructions out loud so we can go over them, step by step?

‘And she’s completely oblivious to the fact that we might have other things to do. If I tell her I’ve had a tough day at work, she waves it aside.
Be glad you have a job
, she’ll say. Or if, in a weak moment, I ask for her support because Katrina and I have quarrelled, she’ll tell me:
Be glad you have a wife – that there are two of you. Just think about me. I’ve always been a single mother
. She forgets, of course, that she was always the one to dump every single boyfriend she ever had while we were growing up.’

The person I’m talking to is starting to look more and more puzzled. As if it’s hard to believe that what I’m saying is true. But it is. Every word
of
it. And now I’m really getting started. Even though it hurts, it’s great to say all this shit out loud. I’ve never done that before.

‘The worst thing is that no matter what I do for her, she’s never satisfied. If I help her with her shopping, then drive her home and unload all the groceries, she still asks me to stay and cook dinner. If I refuse, I know that she’ll be unhappy with me when I leave. If I go to visit her and bring along a bottle of wine as a surprise, she’ll curse me for not bringing a whole case. No matter what I do, it’s never enough. The strangest part is that the more I serve her, the more dissatisfied she is.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The more she gets, the more she wants. Her demands increase the more effort I make. She doesn’t think like a normal person would: OK, now I’ve received so much help that I can be content for a while. She just can’t do that. As soon as one task is finished, you have to start on the next one.’

‘Why do you keep on doing things for her? You’re just encouraging her behaviour. Why don’t you ever say no?’

‘I don’t know. That’s just the way it’s always been. And I’ve learned not to protest. The minute I disagree with her or offer any sort of objection, she gets furious. She can’t stand to be contradicted. Then she raises her voice and gets more and more worked up. She talks non-stop, her voice gets louder and louder and she repeats herself like a parrot. It’s so unpleasant and she’s so unreasonable that I’d rather not have that happen. I learned that early on.’

‘Can’t you explain to her how you feel?’

‘I’ve dreamed of doing that. Mamma’s inability to listen has sometimes made me fantasize about tying her to a chair, taping her mouth shut and forcing her to hear me. Then I would tell her everything. What my childhood was like and how I felt about her behaviour. I would give her concrete examples so she would understand. She would have to sit on that chair, her hands and feet bound and with thick duct tape over her mouth, and she’d be forced to take in every word.’

‘Why do you think you have this fantasy?’

‘Deep inside I may still have a naive hope that everything will be OK. That she will finally see me, understand me, and show me some respect.
That
we will connect somehow.’ I hear myself sigh heavily. ‘Soon I won’t be able to stand this any longer.’