She's Never Coming Back (2 page)

He really didn’t understand rich people’s fascination
with art. What was it, other than a futile attempt to buy themselves free? A way of distancing themselves from those who had neither the money nor the opportunity.

Jörgen could easily fill the walls of his house with the three masters. Anders Zorn was bearable, but Bruno Liljefors’ wildlife paintings and Carl Larsson’s happy homes he could do without, thank you very much.

And he already had a Zorn. A poster from the museum in Mora adorned the outside toilet at his cabin. Jörgen looked at it while he was having a shit. Pragmatism and pleasure in gracious harmony. Neither his wife nor his children understood the charm; they would never dream of using the privy when they could sit comfortably indoors with underfloor heating. Jörgen’s wife had even suggested they should pull the old thunderbox down.

Jörgen had piped up then, though he normally didn’t interfere with decisions made in or about the home. But there were limits. A three-acre property, nearly four hundred metres of beach and he wasn’t allowed to have a dump in peace on his own lavvy? In the forgiving company of a half-solved crossword in some bleached old magazine.

It had been a good move on Jörgen’s part, to put his foot
down. His wife respected him more as a result and it had consolidated the image of him as eccentric and obstinate, not bad qualities for a rich man.

He studied the Åberg picture for a while and wondered what his own class photos would look like.

Who had he forgotten? Who could he remember?

And who could remember him?

It was possible that they’d read about him. Quite a bit had been written in the financial press and obviously there was a lot of chat about money and progress, but not to the extent that people reacted when he got on the metro.

Jörgen’s life was a bit like a successful game of Monopoly. Suddenly there he was with all the hotels and property and the money kept pouring in without any effort. His coffers were overflowing.

He’d made his first million with an Internet company, which, behind all the big words about the future and opportunities, in fact provided run-of-the-mill web design. But that was back in the day when only the initiated understood the concept of IT and the company still had to send its employees on courses to learn how to use the most basic word-processing programmes.

Jörgen had avoided the limelight for the simple reason
that his two colleagues, whom he’d founded the company with, were lens-loving boys.

The company had never run at a profit, but the stock market value nevertheless climbed to over two billion following its flotation. Jörgen had shaken his head at this madness, which annoyed his two ambitious colleagues who let the success go to their heads. They were frequently quoted on the business pages and obviously believed wholeheartedly in their visions of the future. They eventually offered to buy Jörgen out for half the value of his shares and had a good laugh when he accepted their offer, one hundred million kronor in his pocket, thank you very much.

The headline in the paper had read:
Dumbest Deal of the Year?
The greater part of the article was identical to a press release that Jörgen’s colleagues had slickly allowed to be sent out.

One year later, Jörgen’s former colleagues were in debt, the company had been restructured and was practically worthless.

Then suddenly Jörgen was the one all the papers wanted to talk to. He’d given a firm but friendly no to all requests and sent a silent thanks to his closest friend, Calle Collin, a freelance journalist for the weeklies, who repeated his words
of wisdom about living in the public eye whenever he got drunk.

‘There’s nothing positive about being visible, absolutely nothing. No matter what you do, never show your face. If you’re not Simon Spies, keep out the way.’

Calle Collin was one of the few who hadn’t been erased from Jörgen’s imagined class photo. Who else could he remember? A couple of the pretty girls who had been out of his league. Jörgen wondered where they were today. Wrong, he didn’t wonder where they were at all, he wondered what they looked like. He had googled them but hadn’t found any pictures, not even on Face book. Which couldn’t just be a coincidence.

He imagined their faces ravaged by cheap wine, consoled himself with the thought that their bodies were in decline. Their tits that had once defied gravity and been the stuff of his wanking fantasies now sagged and spilled out of heavily padded, wired bras.

Ouch, he was sounding bitter. Jörgen was a better person than that.

Or was he?

‘Are you sure? Just one. You’ll still be home in time to watch some rubbish on TV.’

‘Yes, go on, you don’t need to stay long.’

Ylva laughed, grateful for their nagging.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be good.’

‘You?’ Nour scoffed. ‘Why start now?’

‘Why not? Variety is the spice of life, isn’t it?’

‘One glass?’

‘No.’

‘You sure?’

Ylva nodded.

‘I’m sure,’ she said.

‘Okay, okay, it’s not like you, but okay.’

‘See you Monday.’

‘Yep. Say hi to the family.’

Ylva stopped and turned round.

‘You make it sound like something bad,’ she said, and put her hand on her heart with mock innocence.

Nour shook her head.

‘No, we’re just jealous.’

Ylva took out her iPod and wandered off down the hill. The wires had got tangled and she had to stop to unravel them before popping the earpieces in and selecting the playlist. Music in her ears, eyes straight ahead – the only way to avoid talk about the weather. There was always some
chatterbox who was dying for attention and gossip. The dilemma of small-town living.

And Ylva was an outsider. Mike had grown up here and couldn’t take a step without having to give an account of recent events.

Ylva cut down the deserted, picture-postcard lane and passed by a parked car with a tinted rear window. She didn’t notice the driver. The volume in her ears was so loud that she didn’t hear the car start either.

She only registered it when the car pulled up beside her and didn’t drive past. She turned. The window rolled down.

Ylva assumed that it was someone wanting directions. She stopped and wavered between turning the iPod off and taking out the earpieces. She decided on the latter and took a step towards the car, bent down and looked in. A cardboard box and a handbag on the passenger seat. The woman at the wheel smiled at her.

‘Ylva?’ she said.

A brief second, then that horrible feeling in her stomach.

‘I thought it was you,’ the driver said, cheerfully.

Ylva returned her smile.

‘After all, it wasn’t yesterday.’

The driver turned towards a man in the back seat.

‘D’you see who it is?’

He leaned forward.

‘Hello, Ylva.’

Ylva reached in through the window, shook both their hands.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘What are we doing? We’ve just moved here. And you?’

Ylva didn’t understand.

‘I live here,’ she said. ‘I’ve been here for nearly six years now.’

The driver pulled in her chin, as if she found it hard to believe.

‘Whereabouts?’ she asked.

Ylva looked at her.

‘Hittarp,’ she replied.

The driver turned to the man in the back seat, astonished, then back to Ylva.

‘You can’t be serious? Tell me you’re not serious. We’ve just bought a house there. Do you know Sundsliden, the hill that goes down to the water?’

Ylva nodded. ‘I live right by it.’

‘Right by it?’ the woman at the wheel parroted. ‘Really? Did you hear that, darling? She lives right by it.’

‘I heard,’ the man said.

‘What a small world,’ the woman said. ‘Well, then we’re neighbours again. What a coincidence. Are you on your way home?’

‘Um, yes.’

‘Jump in, we can give you a lift.’

‘But I …’

‘Just jump in. The back seat. There’s so much rubbish here.’

Ylva hesitated, but didn’t have an excuse. She took out the other earpiece, wrapped the wires round the iPod, opened the car door and got in.

The woman pulled out from the pavement.

‘Imagine,’ the man said, ‘that you should live here too. Do you like it?’

‘Yes, I’m happy here,’ Ylva said. ‘The town is smaller, obviously, but the water and the beaches are fantastic. And there’s so much sky. Feels like everything is possible. But it’s very windy. And the winters are not great.’

‘Really? In what way?’

‘Wet and bitter. Just sleet and slush, never white.’

‘Did you hear that?’ the man said to the woman. ‘No real winter. Just slush.’

‘I heard,’ the woman said, and looked at Ylva in the rear-view mirror. ‘But then it’s lovely right now. Nothing to complain about at this time of year.’

Ylva gave an ingratiating smile and nod.

‘It’s nice now.’

She tried to sound positive and look natural, but her mind was working overtime. What would the fact that they’d moved here mean to her? How would it affect her life? How much did they know?

The feeling of unease could not be washed away.

‘Sounds marvellous, doesn’t it, darling,’ the man in the back seat said. ‘Marvellous.’

‘Certainly does,’ said the woman at the wheel.

Ylva looked at them. Their responses were repetitive and rehearsed. They sounded false. It could just be the accidental meeting, the uncomfortable situation. She convinced herself that the fear she felt was all in her mind.

‘Fancy bumping into you, after all these years,’ the man said.

‘Yes,’ Ylva replied.

He looked at her, studied her without even trying to hide his grin. Ylva was forced to look away.

‘Which house is it that you’ve bought?’ she asked, and registered that her right hand touched her face in a nervous gesture. ‘Is it the house at the top of the hill, the white one?’

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ the man said, and turned to look ahead.

He looked normal enough. Ylva let her nerves be calmed.

‘We were wondering who’d moved in. My husband and I were talking about it just yesterday. We guessed a family with children …’

Ylva stopped herself.

‘It’s mainly people with kids who move here,’ she explained. ‘You’ve had builders in. Have you completely redone the house?’

‘Only the cellar,’ the man said.

‘Your husband,’ the woman looked at Ylva in the rear-view mirror again. ‘So you’re married?’

It sounded as though she already knew the answer to her question.

‘Yes.’

‘Children?’

‘We’ve got a daughter. She’s seven. Nearly eight.’

‘A daughter,’ the woman repeated. ‘What’s she called?’

Ylva hesitated.

‘Sanna.’

‘Sanna, that’s a lovely name,’ the woman said.

‘Thank you,’ Ylva responded.

She looked at the man, he was sitting quietly. She looked at the woman. No one said anything. The situation didn’t allow for pauses and Ylva felt forced to fill the silence with words.

‘So, what made you move here?’

She wanted it to sound natural. It was an obvious question, but her throat felt dry and her intonation sounded wrong.

‘Yes, why did we move here,’ the man said. ‘Darling, do you remember why we moved here?’

‘You got a job at the hospital,’ the woman reminded him.

‘So I did,’ the man said. ‘I got a job at the hospital.’

‘We thought it would be good to make a fresh start,’ the woman explained, and braked for a red light on Tågagatan.

People were waiting at a bus stop about thirty metres away.

‘Listen,’ Ylva started. ‘It’s kind of you to offer me a lift, but I think I’ll take the bus all the same.’

She undid the seat belt and tried to open the door without success.

‘Child lock,’ the man told her.

Ylva leaned forward between the seats and put a hand on the woman’s shoulder.

‘Could you open the door, please? I want to get out. I don’t feel very well.’

The man put his hand into the inside pocket of his coat and took out something square, just slightly bigger than his palm.

‘Do you know what this is?’

Ylva took her hand off the woman’s shoulder and looked.

‘Well, come on then,’ the man said, ‘what does it look like?’

‘An electric shaver?’ Ylva suggested.

‘Yes, it does,’ the man replied. ‘It looks like an electric shaver, but it’s not an electric shaver.’

Ylva tried the door again.

‘Open the door, I want—’

The shock made Ylva’s body arch. The pain was paralysing and she couldn’t even scream. A moment later her body relaxed and she crumpled, her head against the
man’s thigh. She was surprised that she was still breathing, as nothing else seemed to work.

The man reached over for Ylva’s handbag, opened it and poked around for her mobile. He took the battery out and put it in his inner pocket.

Ylva registered the car accelerating past the bus stop. The man kept the stun gun at the ready.

‘The paralysis is temporary,’ he explained. ‘You’ll soon be able to move and talk as normal again.’

He gave her a comforting pat.

‘Everything will be all right, you’ll see. Everything will be all right.’

Worth quarter of a billion and what was he doing? Standing in his briefs in the cellar, rummaging through until now unopened boxes, looking for his old school yearbooks. One way of passing the time.

Jörgen Petersson managed to open and go through about half of the boxes before he found what he was looking for. Considering that the treasure was normally hidden in the last chest, he reckoned he’d been lucky.