She's Never Coming Back (9 page)

She looked around, grabbed the broken chair leg and held it in front of her.

She was prepared.

The policeman who filed Mike’s report over the phone was calm and understanding. He asked, without causing embarrassment, whether Ylva had a history of being down or depressed, if she had disappeared before without getting in touch, whether Mike and Ylva had perhaps quarrelled or disagreed recently.

‘So when she left her colleagues just after six, she said she was going home?’ he asked, when Mike had finished.

‘Yes.’

‘And she said to you that she was going out?’

‘She said that she might, but that nothing had been decided.’

‘And when was the last time you spoke?’

‘Yesterday morning, before she went to work.’

‘And her mobile has been switched off?’ the policeman probed.

Mike knew how it sounded. She’d spent the night with her lover. It had been wonderful and she didn’t want to break the spell, only to replace it with broken crockery and feelings of guilt.

‘Let me be frank,’ the policeman said. ‘We get calls like this more or less every day. And nearly always, the person reappears within twenty-four hours. Your wife has been missing for twenty hours now, so I suggest that if she hasn’t been in touch by the evening, you call me again. I’m here until nine.’

The policeman gave him a direct number.

‘One more thing,’ he added. ‘When she comes home, take it easy. Don’t do anything stupid.’

‘I won’t,’ Mike said, like an obedient schoolboy.

‘Remember that tomorrow is another day.’

‘Yes.’

Mike even nodded, standing there alone in the kitchen.

‘Good,’ the policeman said. ‘Then I hope that I won’t be hearing from you later. Take care. Goodbye.’

Mike put the receiver down and felt that he’d done the right thing. He’d phoned Nour, who had then phoned their friends and that slimeball of a restaurant owner. He’d contacted the hospital and now the police. There wasn’t anything else he could do.

Mike went out to his daughter in the sitting room. She looked at him.

‘When’s Mummy coming home?’

‘She’ll be here soon. Any minute, I reckon.’

‘Do you think she’s bought anything?’

‘What? No, I don’t think so.’

Mike turned to look at the TV and hoped that Sanna would do the same. He didn’t like her looking at him when he was weak.

The feeling that overwhelmed him now was guilt. His efficiency was swept to one side by a blast of regret. He’d run to the teacher and told tales. He could see Ylva’s accusing eyes.

One bloody night. Couldn’t she have one bloody night
off and let her hair down? Without him getting hysterical and behaving like an idiot.

‘Do you want to build a tower?’

‘Lego,’ Sanna countered.

‘Okay, Lego.’

The man smiled when he opened the door and saw Ylva holding the jagged chair leg up like a weapon in front of her. It wasn’t the reaction that Ylva had hoped for.

‘Let me go,’ she said.

She wished that her voice was stronger. The man closed the door.

‘I said LET ME GO!’

She sounded desperate now. The man didn’t answer. The door clicked shut behind him. Ylva thrust the chair leg around in front of her, threatening.

‘The key, give me the key!’

The man held the key ring out in front of him. He was finding it difficult to hide his amusement.

‘Drop it on the floor.’

The man did what Ylva told him.

‘Move away.’

She waved the chair leg at him.

‘The kitchen?’ he asked, and pointed towards the kitchenette.

Ylva realised that that wasn’t a good idea. There wasn’t enough distance to the door.

‘The bathroom,’ Ylva ordered, and backed away to give him room to pass.

He nodded and went in.

‘Close the door behind you.’

He obeyed.

‘And lock it,’ Ylva shouted.

He locked it. Ylva looked around for something to jam the door, but there wasn’t anything except the broken chair.

She bent down and picked up the key ring, without letting go of the chair leg. With shaking hands, she fumbled for the right key. There were two to choose from. Finally she managed to get the first one in, but couldn’t turn it. She pulled out the key, dropped the key ring, bent down and picked it up again.

The second key didn’t fit in the lock at all. She tried the first one again. Had just pushed it back into the lock when the bathroom door opened.

‘Do you need some help?’

Ylva spun round, holding the chair leg in front of her with outstretched arms.

The man came out of the bathroom, put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a single key.

‘Guess you’ve got the wrong ones,’ he said.

‘Give it to me!’

The man stepped back, smiled.

‘You’ll have to get it from me.’

Ylva went for him. She lifted her arms above her head and stormed towards him. He jumped nimbly up on to the bed.

‘This is fun,’ he said. ‘Just like when we were children.’

‘Let me out, you bastard.’

‘Of course. But first you have to get the key.’

He held it out, teasing her. Ylva got up on to the bed, the man stayed where he was.

‘Give it to me.’

‘Here, take it.’

‘Put it down,’ Ylva ordered. ‘Put the key down now.’

‘Take it.’

‘I’ll hit you.’

‘Come on then, take the key.’

Ylva swung the chair leg and hit him and gashed open his hand. He looked at the thin line that was now filling with blood.

‘That hurt,’ he said, and put the wound to his mouth and sucked.

‘I’ll hit you again,’ Ylva screamed. ‘I will. Give me the key. Now!’

The man stopped sucking. The amused look on his face had been replaced by anger.

‘Okay, that’s enough.’

He reached out to try to get the chair leg from Ylva. She hit him again, he grabbed her arm and blocked the movement. With his other hand, he wrestled the chair leg out of Ylva’s grasp and threw it to one side, then forced her face down on to the bed.

‘I’m going to have to teach you some fucking manners.’

He straddled her thighs and pulled down her jeans without undoing the buttons and started to spank her on the bottom. He hit her until she was red before pulling down her trousers completely and thrusting his hand into her vagina.

She heard him unbutton his own jeans.

Mike built up the Lego pieces along the edges of the base plate. Sanna was critical of his work.

‘Aren’t you going to have windows?’

‘I can’t find any.’

‘You could just leave an opening. You can’t get bored if there’s a window.’

Mike looked at his little grown-up daughter. She noticed it.

‘That’s what the teacher says,’ she explained. ‘It’s a saying or something.’

How like that hideous old witch, Mike thought to himself. She’s not ashamed to ask the children what their parents do or what kind of car they’ve got. Mike had his own cynical version of the saying his daughter had just shared with him:
An ugly view is always ugly, a beautiful one only interesting for ten minutes.

It was not an attitude to life that he wanted to hand down to Sanna.

‘You’re right,’ he said, and removed some bricks. ‘If you’ve got a window, you won’t ever be bored.’

‘And doors,’ Sanna said. ‘Otherwise you can’t get in.’

‘Or out,’ Mike said.

‘But you have to go in first.’

‘Right again.’

Mike looked at the clock. Quarter to six.

‘Is Mummy not coming home soon? I’m hungry.’

‘She’ll be here anytime now.’

Sanna gave a long sigh.

‘We can get a pizza,’ Mike suggested, and immediately felt a pang of remorse.

A burger and pizza on the same day, both as good as cake in terms of nourishment. Mike didn’t care, things being what they were. It wasn’t a day like any other.

He got up. His body was stiff. He didn’t know if it was because he was tense or because he’d spent an hour and a half on the floor playing with Lego.

He went out into the kitchen. The pizza menu was stuck to the fridge with a magnet, a last resort on bad days when imagination and motivation were lacking.

‘Cheese and ham?’

‘The usual.’

Mike phoned and ordered.

‘If we go straight away, we can buy some Saturday treats.’

Sanna scrambled to her feet.

‘Can we get a film as well?’

‘If we’re quick. It would be a shame if the pizza got cold.’

Mike said that to be on the safe side. Sanna chose her films as if world peace depended on it. Even then, nine times out of ten, it was one she’d already seen. The comfort of familiarity.

‘Twice in less than twenty-four hours. We’re practically a couple.’

Ylva wept silently, lying on her side, cheek to the covers, staring at the wall.

‘And you were wet.’

He stood and buttoned up his trousers.

‘I haven’t even seen your breasts yet.’

He slapped her lightly on the calf.

‘Turn over, I want to see your breasts.’

Ylva just lay there and didn’t move. The man knelt one leg back down on the bed, grabbed her hip and turned her over.

‘Your breasts. Don’t make this any harder on yourself. You think I haven’t seen breasts before?’

Ylva lifted up her top, turned her face away.

‘Sit up so I can see. All breasts are flat when you’re lying down.’

He sat her up and took a step back.

‘Off with your top. Your bra as well, no messing around.’

He looked from left to right and back, with the expression of a disappointed horse trader.

‘You’re too thin,’ he said eventually. ‘All the women round here are. You’ll need to put on a bit of weight. That might be difficult to begin with, with all the stress, but you’ll soon get used to it.’

He sat down on the bed.

‘Let me guess what you’re thinking. You’re trying to
work out how you can get out of here, you’re thinking about how unfair it is that you’re being kept here against your will. You keep watching the screen, waiting for something to happen, a dramatic event that will end in your release. It’s natural.’ He sat down on the bed. ‘And believe me,’ he continued, ‘I don’t want to interfere with your dreams and fantasies. But the sooner you accept your situation, the easier it will be.’

He put his finger under her chin and lifted her head. She met his eyes, without reciprocating his smile.

‘You’re sick,’ she said.

The man shrugged.

‘If you did manage to escape, which I strongly doubt, I’d be in the headlines for weeks, of course I would. But, you see, when you’ve suffered misfortune and loss, life changes. Things that were once important become meaningless and what you thought of as nonsense before suddenly becomes an obsession.’

He patted her on the arm and stood up.

‘You’ll be grateful for the small things. It might be hard to imagine now, but I promise you, you’ll get there. And we’ll make the journey together.’

*

They ate the pizza straight from the box.

‘Don’t forget the salad,’ Mike nagged.

‘I don’t like pizza salad,’ Sanna complained.

Mike dropped it. He’d attempted an enticing
Milk?
as he set the table, but capitulated to the very clear reply:
It’s Saturday
.

Mike had cut Sanna’s pizza into smaller pieces and she ate while she looked at the DVD cover for
The Parent Trap
, a film about twins who’ve grown up not knowing about each other, one with the mother in England and the other with the father in the USA. After meeting at a summer camp, they switch places. When the father decides to marry a gold-digger, the twins set about stopping the plans.

The best kind of film, according to Sanna. Mike was forced to agree.

The grease dripped from Sanna’s pizza.

‘Here,’ Mike said, and handed her a piece of kitchen roll. ‘It’s dripping.’

Sanna took it and wiped herself awkwardly. Mike was about to give her a hand when he suddenly remembered his own father’s irritated comment:
Can’t you feel that you’ve got sticky fingers?

‘Just wash your hands when you’re finished,’ he said, gently.

‘Okay.’

As usual, Mike was done before Sanna had even finished her first slice. He insisted that she have one more, which he put on to her plate. Then he put his glass and cutlery into the dishwasher and went out to throw the boxes straight in the bin.

Helsingborg local council had introduced an over-ambitious environmental project that involved all residents sorting their rubbish down to an atomic level. It was a minor science now with a dozen different plastic bins, which had in turn made the binmen so self-important and difficult that they refused to empty any bins that were not right at the edge of the pavement well before they did their rounds.

Mike ripped the boxes into small pieces and then stood for a while outside the house, breathing in the fresh air, completely unaware that his wife was not far away, watching him on a grainy TV screen, with tears in her eyes.

‘I take it that you’re not going to write about the case?’

Erik Bergman looked at Calle Collin in amusement. The meeting had been arranged by the wise woman with the big heart, and she had also reminded the crime reporter that Calle was the temp who some years earlier had said no to a job on the evening paper’s news desk, with the now infamous words:
If I was interested in news, I would’ve gone to a newspaper.