Some Kind of Peace (36 page)

          
Background:
Pat. grew up in Huddinge in south Stockholm. He grew up in a tight-knit family, the oldest of three siblings. He has two younger sisters. His father worked as an attorney at a government agency and his mother was a housewife. During the latter part of pat.’s upbringing, his mother started working outside the home as a medical secretary. Pat. describes his childhood as ordinary. He thinks that he was a calm, nice boy but that sometimes he had a tendency to worry. According to him, his father was troubled for many years with recurring depression. Otherwise, there is no history of psychiatric problems in the family.

          
Social:
Patient is currently living alone. He works in a commercial bank. He describes his career as successful. He has a good relationship with his family and states that he is very close to his sisters. He also has several good friends with whom he often spends time.

          
Mental status:
Good formal and emotional contact. Completely oriented. Pat. appears somewhat depressed. To the direct question, he denies suicidal thoughts but admits that he has felt resigned and meaningless. Pat. becomes noticeably upset when describing the contents of his compulsive thoughts.

          
Assessment:
Thirty-eight-year-old man with sexually tinged compulsive thoughts. There does not seem to be any component of pleasure in these thoughts, and it is most probable that this is a less common form of compulsion syndrome. Additional assessment interviews are necessary, however. The undersigned will inform pat. that additional conversations are required before a decision about treatment can be made. In addition, pat. is informed that medical treatment may be effective with this type of problem.

Next visit on September 26 at 3:00 p.m.

•  •  •

I stop reading. The report hasn’t given me any new information. If Peter Carlsson’s motive is to manipulate, then it’s not strange that his story doesn’t change when he talks to Sven. And if the thoughts he is seeking treatment for really do exist, then he will obviously tell the same story. There is only one more case note left.

          
Date:
September 25

          Note: Pat. calls today at undersigned’s office hours. He says he has decided to end the sessions, as he has contacted a psychiatrist for medication that he thinks is a more effective form of treatment for him. Pat. is invited to a conversation with the undersigned to talk this through, but he declines. We hereby conclude our contact.

So Peter has terminated his therapy with Sven. I wonder what this means. Presumably, nothing at all. Perhaps he simply had enough of Sven. I sit with the notes in my hand and inspect them again to see if I missed any details. I read the first note again:
Pat. grew up in Huddinge in south Stockholm
.

•  •  •

Suddenly I feel cold inside. A sensation that spreads in my body and makes me put the case record down. I also grew up in Huddinge. But Huddinge is big. This may very well be a coincidence. I check Peter’s
year of birth: 1969. The same as my older sister. I glance over at my cell phone lying next to me on the desk. I hesitate before entering my sister’s number. She answers right away.

“Siri! How nice to hear from you. I heard from Mom and Dad that you might not be coming home for Christmas. Why not? It would be fun. Can’t you come for a day anyway? Is everything okay? Are you feeling okay?”

Sofia’s questions come at a rapid tempo, like relentless air rifle shots: not lethal but they sting when you get hit by them. In the background, I hear her two children squabbling about who gets to sit in the corner of the couch, and her husband’s gentle voice trying to mediate.

“I don’t have time to talk about that right now, Sofia, just listen.”

“But—”

“Just listen!”

“Okay, okay.” She sounds offended.

“Do you remember a Peter Carlsson, from your class, or your grade maybe?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“Peter Carlsson. Tall, slim, good-looking guy. Though I don’t know what he looked like back then, of course.”

“When?”

“In school. In Huddinge.”

Sofia is silent, and I guess that she is thinking about it. In the background there’s a thud, followed by a shrill scream and prolonged crying.

“There was a Peter Carlsson in my class in middle school. He lived really close to us. In a house close to Långsjön. But tall and good-looking… well, I don’t know. He was a little… special. Always fiddling with his keys. He was afraid he’d lose them and counted them over and over every day. A case for you maybe.” She giggles before I hear her roar at the children.

“
Now you shut up
. Mommy is having an
important
conversation.”

I think for a moment. I can’t remember this Peter, but it sounds like it could be “my” Peter.

“But his younger sisters,” Sofia continues, “they would have been your
age. Petra and Pernilla. Who the hell calls their kids Peter, Petra, and Pernilla?”

“How can anyone call their kids Sofia, Susanne, and Siri?” I answer.

I don’t expect an answer to my rhetorical question. Instead, my thoughts are racing. In my mind, I am back in the long, narrow corridors of elementary school. An image develops of a girl with crutches making her way with difficulty through the crowded hallways. Outside each classroom stands a cluster of kids, waiting to be let in. The girl makes an effort not to accidentally bump into anyone. Her gaze is fixed on the end of the corridor. She pretends she does not see or hear the other children. Just continues straight ahead. When she passes the group I am standing in, my best friend, Carolina, sticks out her leg. The girl does not see it and falls against the hard, dirty stone floor. She manages to break her fall with her hands, placing her palms into a puddle of something. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Carolina says falsely. “I
really
didn’t see you.”

The others grin. I laugh audibly. With great effort the girl gets up and continues wordlessly on her way.

Crutch-Petra.

Petra Carlsson.

Cars are moving slowly south along Götgatan in the thick snowfall. It is rush hour, and pedestrians are huddling and walking quickly and determinedly toward the subway stairs. The cold and damp are seeping inside my wool coat. I am dressed too lightly, but I haven’t been able to go out to my abandoned cottage to get warmer winter clothes. I still have a hard time accepting that I have been forced to flee my home, even though I feel safer in the little studio apartment on Kungsholmen island.

I have started working a little more—no new patients, just the old ones. This is for the sake of continuity, I tell myself; the patients’ feeling of continuity, that is. The truth is probably also, at least in part, that I can’t stand sitting alone for days on end in the gloomy little apartment on Hantverkargatan.

Something strange has happened over time. I have stopped planning farther ahead than a week or two. It feels as if time, my time, slowly but surely is approaching an unavoidable conclusion. I am not going to be able to escape the person who wishes me harm. Living this way, threatened and hunted, has made me feel more resigned than I would have thought possible. I no longer think that I can get away, and I see no opportunity to strike back. I feel stuck, fossilized. Only when I’m with Markus do I feel small, cautious rays of hope.

I turn off from Götgatan and jog along the tall buildings on Blekingegatan until I arrive at the Pelican. Inside the pub it is soothingly warm and dry. The buzz of the customers rises toward the high ceiling and the air is saturated with the scents of food.

Markus is waiting for me, leafing through a magazine. For a brief moment, I cannot resist the temptation to watch him from a distance, while he still doesn’t see me. I take in his image. Register how his one hand plays with the snuffbox sitting beside him. How his hair is almost plastered on his temples from the dampness outside. There is something about his posture that makes me sense that he is frustrated. Even though
he is busy with the magazine, he reveals his impatience and restlessness by being constantly in motion.

I walk over to his table and he jumps up to greet me. He envelops me in a long, warm embrace that brings us close again. We drink our beers and talk about this and that for a long time. Giggle. Behave like teenagers. I forgave him long ago for having told Sonja about us. And he has forgiven me for being relentlessly pedantic and exhausting.

Markus kisses my hands and runs his tongue over my knuckles, as he looks at me with a grin. It’s such an intimate gesture that I feel embarrassed; instinctively I withdraw my hands, wipe them on my blouse as if to brush away invisible crumbs.

“I have to talk with you.”

“Start talking.” Markus grins again, taking hold of my damp hand, pulling it to him.

“It’s about… it’s about a patient.”

I look around to make sure no one in our vicinity is watching us or showing any interest in what we’re talking about. I am going to violate therapist-client confidentiality. It’s bad enough to tell Markus; everyone in the Pelican doesn’t need to hear. A couple in their fifties sits at the table next to us. Both are wearing name tags and are having an animated discussion in what sounds like Dutch. They seem totally uninterested in us. On the other side, a noisy group of guys seems to be talking about a concert they are on their way to. They don’t appear to take any notice of us either.

“Okay, I’m listening.”

I have Markus’s full attention. I start slowly, telling him about Peter Carlsson and our three conversations. I tell him about his fears and fantasies about violence, sex, and death. Markus’s expression wavers between curiosity, surprise, and something that resembles suspicion.

“He sounds totally nuts.”

“He isn’t necessarily nuts at all.”

Without being fully aware of it, I find myself defending Peter Carlsson and describe the mechanisms behind obsessive-compulsive disorder. What appears to be crazy often isn’t. On the contrary, individuals with obsessive-compulsive disorder are often the last ones who would really harm anyone.

“If that’s the case, then why are you telling me this?”

“Because of the car,” I answer quietly. “He drives a Volvo Cross Country. And because his sister was in my class in elementary school.”

“His sister?”

“Petra.” I look down at the table. “She was sick. She had a leg injury, after a cancer operation, I think. We… we teased her.”

“Who’s we?”

“The girls in my class. My best friend Carolina was the worst, but I wasn’t that much better myself.” I put my head in my hands and try to get rid of all the images that have tormented me since I realized the connection among Peter, his sister, and me.

Markus sits in silence. He is clearly trying to process and analyze what I have just told him. He needs to assess the weight of my story.

“Are you afraid of him?”

Markus’s question is clear and concrete.

“I’m terrified of him.”

My admission surprises even me. For the first time I have admitted to myself just how scared I am of this man.

“Okay, give me his information. I’ll make sure Sonja checks him out.”

I give Markus a slip of paper with Peter’s full name, address, and personal identity number on it. We sit in silence and look at each other. It is hard to recreate the mood we were in before we started this serious conversation. Markus hesitantly strokes my cheek. Then he waves a waitress over and orders two more beers.

“Have you thought about Christmas?” he asks, abruptly changing subject.

“Christmas?”

“Christmas. Five days from now. What are you going to do?”

I imagine sitting with my parents, sisters, brothers-in-law, and nieces and nephews in Mom and Dad’s brick house in Huddinge. It’s impossible. I don’t want to go. I can’t.

“I just want to stay home.” The answer came out quickly, before I had time to remember that I don’t have a home right now.

“You can’t stay at
home
, Siri.”

Markus sounds as if he’s losing patience with me, as he drums the snuffbox lightly against the table.

“I can stay in the apartment.”

The thought of Christmas Eve alone in the little studio apartment on Kungsholmen does not feel all that terrible. I don’t really care about Christmas anyway. I can watch TV shows and drink red wine.

“I have to work, so I can’t be with you.”

Markus looks worried, which annoys me. I don’t need a nanny. I have lived alone for over a year, spent a Christmas without Stefan, and don’t need to be taken care of the way Markus thinks I do.

I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’ll manage.”

“Have you talked to your mom and dad?” He looks doubtful.

“Yes, of course I’ve talked to them, but we aren’t going to celebrate Christmas together. We send Christmas presents to each other. That’s enough.”

His concern is touching, but it also provokes me. Markus picks up on my feeling. Perhaps it’s his keen perception that makes me feel so strongly about him.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to pry, I’m just wondering: Have you even
told
them what has happened?”

“It’s complicated…”

“Maybe I’m dense, but how is it complicated? A crazy murderer is after you and you don’t even tell your family because of some sort of misdirected consideration? If I were you—”

“Yes, but you aren’t! Stop treating me like a child.”

I don’t mean to shout, but without realizing it, I have stood up and raised my voice loud enough to stop the conversations at the tables around us. “Bitch,” I hear one of the tipsy regulars mumble from a table near the bar.

Without saying a word, I grab my coat and bag and rush toward the exit. “Merry Christmas,” another drunk says, just as I open the door and disappear into the darkness.