The Sandman (27 page)

Reidar excuses himself, gets up and leaves the table. He tries to smile at the others, but his heart is pounding with angst. He’s missing his daughter so much it hurts, enough to make him want to scream. Seeing Mikael sitting there with that childish cake. As if resurrected from the dead. He takes a few deep breaths and goes out into the hall, remembering the day he buried the children’s empty caskets next to Roseanna’s ashes. Then he went home. Invited everyone to a party, and was never properly sober again.

He stands in the hall, looking back into the dining room where Mikael is eating cake while Reidar’s friends try to make conversation and cajole him into laughing. Reidar knows he shouldn’t keep doing it, but he gets out his phone and calls Joona Linna.

‘It’s Reidar Frost,’ he says, feeling a faint pressure in his chest.

‘I heard that Mikael was discharged,’ the detective says.

‘But Felicia, I have to know … she’s, she’s so …’

‘I know, Reidar,’ Joona says gently.

‘You’re doing what you can,’ Reidar whispers, feeling that he has to sit down.

He hears the detective ask something, but he still ends the call in the middle of a sentence.

Reidar swallows hard, time after time, leans against the wall and feels the texture of the wallpaper under his hand, and notices some dead flies on the dusty base of the standard lamp.

Mikael said that Felicia didn’t think he’d look for her, that she was sure he didn’t care about her going missing.

He was an unfair father, he knew that, but he couldn’t help it.

It wasn’t that he loved the children differently, just that …

The pressure in his chest increases.

Reidar glances towards the corridor where he threw down his coat with the little nitroglycerine spray.

He tries to breathe calmly, takes a few steps, stops and thinks that he ought to turn and face his memories and let himself be overwhelmed by guilt.

Felicia had turned eight that January. There had been a slight thaw in March, but it was about to get colder again.

Mikael was always so sharp and aware, he would look at you attentively and do whatever was expected of him.

Felicia was different.

Reidar had a lot to do back then, he would write all day, answering letters from his readers, giving interviews, having his picture taken, travelling to other countries for book launches. He never had enough time and he hated it when people kept him waiting.

Felicia was always late.

And that day, when the unimaginable happened, the day when the stars were in terrible alignment, the day that God abandoned Reidar, that morning was a perfectly ordinary morning and the sun was shining.

The children started school early. Because Felicia was always slow and unfocused, Roseanna had already put some clothes out for her, but it was Reidar’s job to see that the children got to school on time. Roseanna had left early, she used to drive into Stockholm before the rush-hour traffic made the journey take five times as long.

Mikael was ready to go by the time Felicia sat down at the kitchen table. Reidar buttered toast for her, poured her some cereal, and put out the chocolate powder, milk and a glass. She sat and read the back of a cereal packet, tore off the corner of her toast and rolled it into a buttery lump.

‘We’re in a bit of a rush again,’ Reidar said in a measured tone of voice.

Looking down, she spooned some chocolate powder from the packet without moving it closer to the glass, and managed to spill most of it on the table. Leaning forward on her elbows she started to draw in the spilled powder with her fingers. Reidar told her to wipe the table, but she didn’t answer, just licked the finger she’d been poking at the chocolate powder with.

‘You know we have to be out of the door by ten past eight if we’re to get there on time?’

‘Stop nagging,’ she muttered, then got up from the table.

‘Brush your teeth,’ Reidar said. ‘Mum’s laid your clothes out in your room.’

He decided against telling her off for not putting her glass away or wiping the table.

Reidar stumbles and the standard lamp hits the floor and goes out. His chest feels horribly tight now. Pain is coursing down his arm and he can barely breathe. Mikael and David Sylwan are suddenly there beside him. He tries to tell them to leave him be. Berzelius runs over with his coat, and they hunt through the pockets for his medication.

He takes the bottle and sprays some under his tongue, then lets go of it on the floor as the pressure in his chest eases. In the distance
he hears them wondering if they should call an ambulance. Reidar shakes his head and notices that the nitroglycerine spray has triggered a growing headache.

‘Go and eat now,’ he tells them. ‘I’m fine, I just … I need to be alone for a while.’

Reidar is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. He wipes his mouth with a trembling hand, and forces himself to confront his memories again. It was eight o’clock when he went into Felicia’s room. She was sitting on the floor reading. Her hair was a mess and she had chocolate round her mouth and smeared across one cheek. To make herself more comfortable she had crumpled up her freshly ironed blouse and skirt to form a cushion to sit on. She had one leg in her woolly tights and was still sucking her sticky fingers.

‘You need to be on your bicycle in nine minutes,’ he told her. ‘Your teacher has said you mustn’t be late any more this term.’

‘I know,’ she said in a monotone, without looking up from her book.

‘And wash your face, it’s filthy.’

‘Stop nagging,’ she muttered.

‘I’m not nagging,’ he tried to say. ‘I just don’t want you to be late. Can’t you understand that?’

‘You’re nagging so much it’s making me sick,’ she said to the book.

He must have felt stressed by his writing and the journalists who wouldn’t leave him alone, because he suddenly exploded. He’d had enough. He grabbed her arm hard and dragged her into the bathroom, turned the tap on and scrubbed her face roughly.

‘What’s wrong with you, Felicia? Why can’t you ever do anything properly?’ he yelled. ‘Your brother’s ready, he’s waiting for you, he’s
going to be late because of you. But you don’t get it, you’re just a filthy little monster, not fit to be in a nice, tidy home …’

She started to cry, which only made him more angry.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ he went on, grabbing hold of a brush. ‘You’re completely useless.’

‘Stop it!’ she sobbed. ‘You’re horrid, Daddy!’

‘I’m horrid? You’re behaving like an idiot! Are you an idiot?’

He started tugging at her hair, his hands rough with rage. She screamed and swore at him, and he stopped.

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing,’ she muttered.

‘It sounded like something.’

‘Maybe there’s something wrong with your ears,’ she whispered.

He dragged her out of the bathroom, opened the front door and shoved her out so hard that she fell over on the path.

Mikael was standing by the garage door, waiting with both bicycles. Reidar realised that he had refused to ride off without his sister.

Reidar is sitting on the floor in the hall of the manor, his hands over his face. Felicia had been just a child, and had been acting like a child. Timing and messy hair really hadn’t mattered to her.

He remembers the way Felicia had stood in the drive in her underwear. Her right knee was bleeding, her eyes were red and wet from crying, and she still had a bit of chocolate powder on her neck. Reidar was shaking with anger. He went back inside and got her blouse, skirt and jacket, and threw them on the ground in front of her.

‘What have I done?’ she sobbed.

‘You’re ruining this family,’ he said.

‘But I …’

‘Say you’re sorry, say you’re sorry this instant.’

‘Sorry,’ she wept. ‘I’m sorry.’

She looked at him with tears streaming down her cheeks and dripping off her chin.

‘Just make sure you change,’ he replied.

He watched her get dressed, shoulders heaving as she cried, he watched as she wiped the tears from her cheeks and climbed on her bicycle, blouse half tucked in and coat open. He stood there as his
rage subsided and heard his little daughter cry as she cycled off to school.

He wrote all day, and felt pleased. He hadn’t bothered to get dressed, just sat in front of the computer in his dressing gown, he hadn’t brushed his teeth or shaved, he hadn’t even made the beds or cleared away the breakfast things. He thought he’d say all this to Felicia, and explain that he was just like her, but he never got the chance.

He was out late, having dinner with his German publisher, and by the time he got home that evening the children had already gone to bed. It was the following morning when they discovered their empty beds. There’s nothing in his life that he regrets more than the unfair way he treated Felicia.

It’s unbearable to think of her sitting alone in that terrible room, believing that he doesn’t care about her, and that he’d only bother to look for Mikael.

Saga is woken the next morning when the light in the ceiling comes on. Her head feels heavy and she can’t focus properly. She’s still lying under the blanket, and feels with her numb fingertips to make sure the microphone is safe in her trousers.

The woman with the pierced cheeks is standing outside the door shouting that it’s time for breakfast.

Saga gets up, takes the narrow tray through the hatch and sits down on the bed. Slowly she forces herself to eat the sandwiches while she thinks to herself that the situation is becoming intolerable.

She won’t be able to handle this much longer.

Cautiously she touches the microphone and wonders about asking to break off the mission.

After lunch she goes over to the sink on unsteady legs, brushes her teeth and washes her face with ice-cold water.

I can’t abandon Felicia, she thinks.

Saga sits back down on the bed and stares at the door until the lock starts to whirr between her cell and the dayroom. It clicks and opens. She counts to five, stands up and goes and gets a drink of water from the tap so she doesn’t look too eager. With a weary gesture she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then walks straight out into the dayroom.

She’s the first one there, but the television is on behind the
reinforced glass as if it’s never been switched off. She can hear angry shouting from Bernie Larsson’s room. It sounds like he’s trying to destroy his table. She hears his food tray hit the floor. He’s screaming as he throws the plastic chair at the wall.

Saga gets on to the running machine, switches it on, takes a few steps, then stops it and sits down on the edge, close to the palm, and pulls off one shoe, pretending there’s something wrong with the inner sole. Her fingers are cold and the numbness still hasn’t gone. She knows she has to hurry, but she mustn’t move too quickly. She blocks the camera’s view with her body and tugs the microphone from her trousers, trembling as she does so.

‘Fucking whores!’ Bernie shouts.

Saga removes the protective wrapping from the tiny microphone. The little object slips between her numb fingers. She catches it against her thigh and turns it the right way up in her hand. She can hear footsteps on the floor. Saga leans forward and presses the microphone to the underneath of one of the leaves. She holds it for a short while, then waits a few extra seconds before letting go.

Bernie pulls open his door and comes out into the dayroom. The palm-leaf is still swaying from her touch, but the microphone is finally in position.

‘Obrahiim,’ he whispers, and stops abruptly when he sees her.

Saga remains seated, tugs at her sock, smoothing out a crease, then pulls her shoe back on.

‘Fucking hell,’ he says, and coughs.

She doesn’t look at the artificial palm at all. Her legs are trembling beneath her and her heart is beating much harder than usual.

‘They took my pictures,’ Bernie says, panting as he sits down on the sofa. ‘I hate those fucking …’

Saga’s whole body feels oddly exhausted, sweat is trickling down her back, and her pulse is throbbing in her ears. It must be because of the medication. She slows the pace of the running machine, but still has trouble keeping up.

Bernie is sitting on the sofa with his eyes closed, one leg bouncing restlessly.

‘Shit!’ he suddenly exclaims loudly.

He gets up, sways, then goes over to the running machine and stands in front of Saga, very close to her.

‘I was top of the class,’ he says, spraying saliva in Saga’s face. ‘My teacher used to feed me raisins during breaks.’

‘Bernie Larsson, step back,’ a voice says over the loudspeaker.

He stumbles to the side and leans against the wall, coughs and takes a step back, straight into the palm with the microphone hanging from its bottom leaf.

Bernie almost falls, kicks the palm, walks round the running machine and approaches Saga again.

‘They’re so fucking terrified of me that they pump me full of Suprefact … Because I’m a real fucking machine, a big fucking stud …’

Saga looks at the camera and realises that she was right. Its view is blocked by the reinforced glass protruding in front of the television. There’s a narrow blind strip that the camera can’t reach, no more than a metre at most.

Bernie walks round the palm, almost toppling it, then carries on round the running machine and stops behind Saga. She ignores him, just goes on walking as she hears his breathing close behind her.

‘Snow White, you’re sweating between your buttocks,’ he says. ‘Your cunt’s probably pretty sweaty now. I can get you some tissues …’

On the television a man dressed as a chef is drawling something as he puts a load of little crabs on a barbeque.

The far door opens and Jurek comes into the dayroom. Saga catches a glimpse of his furrowed face and immediately stops the machine. She steps down onto the floor, panting from the exertion, and walks towards the sofa. Jurek shows no sign of having noticed. He just gets up onto the running machine, switches it on and begins walking with long strides.