Sacrifice (9 page)
A
new flame was flickering on the grave. She watched her mother's hands put back the burnt match in the box, for the umpteenth time. However many times it had been, she only knew it was far too many.
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Her decision was final. She would tell Thomas the truth, for the first time in her life confess what had happened and what she had done. And not done. This time she wouldn't let the fear destroy everything. Not again.
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The flat smelled stuffy and she was on her way over to the living-room window to open it when her mobile rang. She had just thought about calling him herself and would really have liked to first. Her mobile was in her handbag, and she went back out in the hall to retrieve it. An unfamiliar number showed on the display and it made her hesitate. He was the only one she wanted to talk to; she had absolutely no desire to get involved in a long conversation with someone else. But then she let her sense of duty take over.
âHello, Monika here.'
At first she thought it was a wrong number, or someone trying to play a joke on her. A woman's voice she didn't know was shrieking from the phone,
and it was impossible to understand what she was saying. She was just about to hang up when she suddenly realised it was Ã
se. Secure, matter-of-fact Ã
se who with her mere presence had helped her through the past few days. Ã
se belonged back at the course, and her voice sounded odd here in her airless flat.
âÃ
se, I can't hear what you're saying. What's happened?'
Suddenly she was able to catch a few words. Something about coming over, she was a doctor. She didn't have a chance to be scared. Not now. For a few seconds there was silence. She heard the sound of sirens approaching. Only then did she feel the first glimmer of trepidation. Nothing alarming, only a hint of heightened alertness.
âÃ
se, where are you? What's happening?'
The sound of panting. Shallow, rapid breathing, like a person in shock. Unknown voices in the background, a wordless wall of sound yielding no information. She made her decision unconsciously. Something about what was going on made Monika slip into her professional role.
âÃ
se, now listen to me. Tell me where you are.'
Maybe Ã
se could hear the change in her voice. Maybe that was just what she needed. Authority. Someone telling her what to do.
âI don't know, somewhere on the road ⦠it just crashed, Monika ⦠I didn't see it, I didn't even have a chance to hit the brakes.'
Her voice cracked. The secure, self-confident Ã
se started sobbing desperately. Monika's professional persona closed around her even tighter as she acknowledged
Ã
se's desperation. Like armour it slid into place, protecting her from becoming emotionally involved.
âI'm coming.'
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It was as a doctor that she drove off. Her thoughts were running along an objective path that required only information; no emotional nonsense was allowed to penetrate. No hasty conclusions before verifying reliable facts. After every curve she expected to see an oncoming ambulance, but none appeared. Her phone rang once and she saw his name on the display. He didn't belong here right now, he would have to stand aside; right now she was a doctor on the way to an accident site.
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She could see it a long way off. At the far end of a long row of flashing blue lights against a greyish-blue horizon. All the way up to the top of a hill. Emergency vehicles had parked every which way, and were now confined behind traffic cones and red-and-white plastic tape. A small queue of traffic had formed, and a policeman did his best to let it trickle past on the hard shoulder. Monika pulled over to the side and parked, her car's emergency lights flashing. It was a hundred metres to the cones and she jogged alongside the cars. All that existed was the accident site up ahead. It was the only thing that meant anything. Step by step she came closer. She was almost there but a fire engine was blocking her view. She slipped underneath the red-and-white tape.
âHey, this area's blocked off.'
âI'm a doctor and I know Ã
se.'
She didn't stop. Didn't even look at him. Just searched
the surroundings for data. The rear of the red van was sticking up from the ditch.
Ãrje's consbtruction
. Normal letters, perfectly legible. A cable from a tow-truck was fastened to a hook on the van and was slowly pulling the vehicle from its position.
Firemen, police, ambulance crew. But something was wrong. A disturbing calm prevailed in the midst of the visual chaos. No one but herself seemed to be in a hurry. A fireman was calmly and methodically packing up his tools. A paramedic in the front seat of the ambulance was filling out a report.
Then she caught sight of Ã
se. Leaning forward, her face in her hands, she was perched at the rear of the ambulance. Next to her sat a female police officer with an arm around her shoulders, and the expression on the woman's face took Monika's breath away. She stood motionless in the midst of it all. Someone came up and said something but she only saw a mouth moving. Only a few steps to go. More than two this time but just as difficult for her to take. What she wanted to know was concealed down there in the ditch, but the taut cable grew shorter and shorter and at any moment would reveal the full extent of the catastrophe. She put her hands in front of her eyes. In the darkness she heard that they had found the elk some distance away, in the woods. The engine noise from the tow-truck stopped, but she kept her hands where they were, not wanting to know.
She was back there again. Once again she stood there, very much alive, and it was all her fault. It was impossible to change a thing, to undo it; she had set the trap and Mattias would never get out.
She opened her eyes and something finally fell to
pieces inside her. Where the passenger side had been there was only crumpled sheet-metal and a piece of shattered window.
And then she saw the mangled body that was impossible to identify but should have been hers.
H
i, Majsan!
I suppose I should begin by thanking you for your
letter even though I have to admit it didn't make me
very happy. But that probably wasn't the point either.
You can calm down, I won't continue our correspondence
alone, but this letter seems necessary to
send. It will be the last one
.
I beg your pardon if I offended you with my speculations
in my last letter, it was really not my intention.
On the other hand, I don't intend to apologise for
actually having the opinions that I have. If there's
one thing I'm tired of it's people who think they're
so perfect in their faith that they feel entitled to look
down on that of others and condemn it. And in no
way am I condemning your parents' faith as you said.
I'm merely exercising my right to believe otherwise.
I plan to keep thinking about things and see whether
I can find some good new answers, because maybe
we can agree that what we've had so far has not
created a particularly pleasant world. As I read in a
book the prison chaplain gave me: âAll great inventions
and advances have been made based on a willingness
to admit that no one has been correct so far,
and then put all correctness aside and rethink things.'
As far as my âhome-made heathen belief', the simplest
answer is that our beliefs are very different, but that's
completely okay by me. The Bible says quite eloquently
that only God has the right to judge. Most of us have
thoughts about eternity now and then. I don't
understand why we human beings, as soon as we find
something to believe in, have to run out and try to
convince everyone else that we're right, as if we don't
dare believe anything by ourselves but have to do it
in a group for it to count. Then it suddenly becomes
important for everyone to believe the exact same thing,
and how do we achieve that? Well, we set up laws and
rules that fit into the framework we have erected,
and to be included we have to adapt. We quite simply
have to stop asking our own questions and hoping to
find any answers, since the right ones have already
been written down in the laws of the religion. That
must be the purest coup de grâce for all types of development,
don't you think? Then it's merely a matter of
power, isn't it? In any case, that's what religion is about
for me, because no religion was created by any God
but by us humans, and history has shown us what
people think they can do in religion's name
.
As I read over what I've written I realise that I've
probably offended you in this letter too. I just want
you to know that I am also a believer, but my God
is not as judgemental as yours. You wrote that considering
the fact that I'm serving a life sentence, there
is no reason to read my sick speculations. Well, that
may be, but I still want to conclude by telling you
my version of why I'm sitting here today
.
Do you remember that I always dreamed of being a
writer? In my childhood home that was just about like
dreaming of becoming king, but our Swedish teacher
(remember Sture Lundin?) encouraged my writing. After
you and I lost contact I moved to Stockholm and there
I studied to be a journalist. Not that any of my articles
have become immortalised, but I made my living as a
journalist for almost ten years. Then I met Ãrjan. If
you only knew how much time I've spent trying to
understand why I fell so crazily in love. Because looking
back it's inconceivable that I closed my eyes to all the
warning signs. And there were certainly more than
enough of them. The strangest thing of all is that I felt
safe with him, even though everything he said and did
should have made me feel exactly the opposite. Even
then he was drinking far too much, and he always had
money without ever telling me where it came from. Now
I realise that it was because he reminded me of my own
father and that the âsecurity' came from recognising my
own childhood. I felt at home with him and knew
exactly how to act. I never fell in love with any of those
âkind, friendly' men I had run into over the years,
because they made me feel insecure. I never knew how
I should act with them. Ãrjan didn't like women to be
too independent, and I didn't have to work because he
could provide for us with his money. And fool that I
was, I tried to adapt myself to his wishes, and about
six months after we met I quit my job. Then it was my friends he didn't want me to see, and to avoid a fight
I stopped communicating with them. Of course that
made them stop calling me as well. In only a year I lost
all contact with the outside world and had become more
or less a slave. I won't tire you with the details, but
Ãrjan was a sick person. He wasn't born that way, of
course, but he had grown up in an abusive home and
kept on living the way he had been taught. It began
almost imperceptibly. A nasty little comment now and then that gradually became so commonplace that I got used to it. Finally I ended up believing those things, and I began to think he had a right to say them. Then he started hitting me. There were days when I could hardly move, but it served me right, he said, because then he knew where he had me. But he knew that anyway, because I wasn't allowed to leave the house without asking his permission, which he never gave
.
Now this is the hard part, telling you about my dear children. They are still in my thoughts, and so many times I've gone over and over all the âif onlys'. But 17 years and 94 days ago, I saw no other solution than to take them with me into death, to save them from the hell we lived in, and it was MY fault they were born into it. I could see no other solution. I was so bone-tired of always being afraid. Maybe only a person who has lived in constant fear for a long time can understand how it feels, and how powerless you become in the end. What happened to me was not important, but I could no longer stand watching my children suffer. I was so ashamed of myself and everything I had let happen that I didn't dare seek help. I was guilty too, after all! I hadn't stopped him in time! I had seen how he went after the children, and I hadn't dared stop him then either. I desired nothing more than death, but I couldn't leave my children with him. At that point my brain was so mixed up that there seemed no other way out. I saw it as our only salvation. I gave them sedatives and suffocated them in their beds. It was never my plan to kill Ãrjan, but he came home early unexpectedly, and found me in the children's bedroom. I've never been so scared in all my life. I
managed to get out and run to the kitchen, and when he caught up with me I had a butcher's knife in my hand. Afterwards I emptied the petrol can that Ãrjan kept in the storeroom and lay down with the children and waited. What I remember most strongly about those hours was how I felt when I heard the flames crackling downstairs, slowly but surely destroying our prison. For the first time in my life I felt total peace
.
The worst moment I've ever had was when I woke up in the hospital a couple of weeks later. I'd survived, but my children were with him on the other side. I survived, but it means nothing to me that I got my life back
.
I'm not trying to make excuses for what I did, but it's some solace to me to try to understand the reason why everything turned out the way it did. My punishment is not being locked up here. My punishment is a thousand times worse and will last the rest of my life. For every second that remains, it's seeing my children's eyes before me, remembering the looks they gave me when they saw what I was doing
.
There is no hell after death to which your God can condemn us. We create our own hell here on earth by making the wrong choices. Life is not something that âhappens to us', it's something that we create and shape ourselves
.
I will follow your wishes and stop writing to you. But I must write one more thing before our paths part once again. If it's true that you have pain somewhere, then I think you ought to have it examined, and for safety's sake you ought to do it as soon as possible
.
You know I'm here if you need me
.
Your friend,
Vanja
