More Bitter Than Death (15 page)

“A matter of training? What do you mean, like at the gym?” Kattis asks.

There’s a collective giggle.

Malin looks irritated but then explains, “Well, yeah. There’s actually no difference between mental and physical strength. You can build up your mental strength. Your brain is just like a muscle. And once you’ve done it, no asshole will be able to demean you again.”

“So you can teach me?” Kattis asks, smiling.

“Of course,” Malin says. “Once I’m done with you, sister, no one will mess with you. Although you’re going to have to work hard, understand? Everything has a price. If you want to transform your body or your mind, you have to make big sacrifices. You have to dedicate yourself to the task.”

“But won’t you be like them, then?” Sirkka asks.

Malin freezes, sets her glass on the table, and runs her hand through her short, platinum-blond hair. There’s a brief pause. “What do you mean by ‘like them’?” Malin asks.

“Well, like a man, big and muscular, tough. We are still women, aren’t we?” Sirkka mumbles, rubbing her hands together, and suddenly I realize they’re hurting her, and I wonder why I haven’t noticed it before, her crooked fingers, her swollen joints. She has a faint smile on her lips that hides the countless tiny wrinkles around her mouth, makes her look younger, suggests who she was at one time.

Back then.

Before.

Malin has her arms crossed. There’s something dark in her eyes now. “Better than being a victim,” she says defensively.

“Does it have to be like that?” Sirkka says. “Do we have to turn ourselves into men to protect ourselves? Is that the solution? Can’t we remain who we are, without being raped and beaten and . . . denigrated? Is that too much to ask?”

“At any rate, here’s what I think,” Aina suddenly says, setting down her almost-empty beer glass with a loud thud that makes everyone jump. “I think Sirkka is totally right that we shouldn’t have to change who we are. Wearing a short skirt should not result in rape. Getting out of a relationship should not result in being beaten to a pulp. No woman should be called a whore because she embraces her own sexuality. But until that’s the case, I prefer to take self-defense classes. Right?”

“I wonder, though. Would a self-defense class have saved Susanne Olsson?” Sirkka mumbles.

“Susanne Olsson? Her last name was Olsson?” Malin asks, freezing suddenly with her glass halfway to her lips.

Kattis nods.

“Where did she live?” Malin asks.

“Blåsippevägen, I think it was,” Sirkka says.

“Why, do you know her?” Kattis asks.

Malin shakes her head vigorously and sets down her glass. “Absolutely not, I just . . . It’s nothing.”

The food arrives. An intense debate arises about Gustavsberg, about how almost everyone has some connection to Susanne, about the pros and cons of living in a small town. Sirkka gesticulates wildly with her skinny, wrinkled arms. Malin still has hers crossed defensively. Sofie looks back and forth intensely, as if trying to assess the situation and decide where she fits in. Suddenly Aina lets out a loud, throaty laugh—the way only she can.

Only Kattis is looking at me with her big, dark, vacant eyes. It’s as if everyone else has disappeared, like they’ve faded away into the noisy room, blending in with everyone else at the bar. And suddenly everything is quiet. Kattis’s pale face and those black eyes are all I see, and I so badly want to comfort her, be there for her, make this easier to bear, this burden that for some reason she has been assigned.

She licks her narrow, cracked lips and attempts a smile, which comes out crooked and stiff.

“It’ll be okay,” I tell her.

Kattis smiles again now, and suddenly she’s beautiful. It doesn’t matter that her hair is greasy or that her eyes are red. She’s beautiful. Period.

“You actually don’t know that,” she says hoarsely.

“Yes, I actually do,” I say. And in that moment I know that I mean it, that some part of me intuitively knows that Kattis will always pull through. That she’s a survivor, the kind of person who makes it to the surface, who always lands on her feet.

The kind of person who is loved and can love back.

Not like me.

This migraine is a steel hat weighing down my head, dragging it down toward the muddy ground as I jog across a lawn turned mud pit, with only the occasional tuft of grass sticking up out of the water. The wind is whipping the sea into a froth, which washes over the rocks along the shore, leaving behind small, gray foamy pools. Raindrops hit my cheeks like sewing needles.

It’s five o’clock and Sweden is so far north that it’s already dark.

Why, oh why did we put the bathroom in a separate building? Really, an outhouse in this day and age? Whose idea was that?

Stefan’s. Always Stefan.

Stefan’s idea: a cottage by the sea, just him and me, close to nature, perfect for someone who likes diving.

Stefan’s idea: if we put the bathroom in the outbuilding, we’ll have room for a living room.

Somewhere out over the sea there’s a drawn-out whine, as if from a dying animal, maybe an injured seabird? I pause for a moment, clutching the plastic bag from the drugstore in my freezing hand, and I can’t help it, the thought comes out of nowhere. Not again. The baby that died, that we killed. I know, I know, technically we “terminated the pregnancy,” and for good reason. The baby had a serious birth defect, thus putting an end to Stefan’s and my hopes of starting a family.

But still.

Suddenly I’m transported back in time, to that day when I took that pregnancy test and walked this same path to share the good news with Stefan. My body was filled with a warm, light, confident feeling. Confidence in Stefan. Confidence in life, maybe.

This time that feeling has been replaced with an overwhelming sense of anxiety. If something is growing in there, in my dark insides, I’m not sure how welcome it is. Not sure if I can muster up that confidence again.

Once in the warmth of the outhouse, I sink down onto the toilet seat, unwrap the test, which resembles a thermometer.

I pee.

I see David Bowie staring at me from the wall, provocative as ever, his snakelike body leaning back, squeezed into a silver bodysuit, platform shoes, red hair, a thick layer of makeup.

He winks at me in understanding and I take a deep breath and read the test results.

Sonja Askenfeldt stuffs the pack of cigarettes into her purse and wonders if maybe she’s been a cop for too long. They’re supposed to question a little girl today who in all likelihood watched her mother being murdered and all Sonja can think about is that she has to stop by Polarn O. Pyret, the children’s clothing store, after work to use her gift card, which is about to expire. Ten years ago her stomach used to hurt before this type of forensic interview.

Sonja knows from experience that she will become more anxious once the questioning is under way, that it will become hard to listen to and absorb the testimony, but so far it’s business as usual, just another day on the job.

She greets the child interview specialist, who says, “Hi, I’m Carin von Essen. I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

Sonja nods and smiles. Of course she’s met Carin before, Bush-in-the-Bush Carin. Carin gave a lecture during a training seminar on questioning techniques last spring. Sonja also remembers her from last summer’s office party.

That office party.

What she remembers is a different Carin, not the formal, serious woman standing before her, but a tipsy, giggly, slightly dumpy woman in her forties wearing a silly party hat, flashing way too much cleavage and wearing ripped nylons. Carin had been one of the loudest singers, one of the most out-of-control dancers, and had flirted a little too much with their male colleagues. People had talked about her afterward, about how she peed behind a bush in the front yard, a very small bush, so small in fact that it didn’t even cover her private parts. Which is why people started calling her Bush-in-the-Bush Carin.

And now here she was, standing in front of Sonja with her blond hair freshly blow-dried and her white polo shirt buttoned all the way up, looking clean and maternal, like a daycare worker, the way most of the child interview specialists look. Apparently there was an unwritten dress code.

Carin greets Sonja’s colleague, Roger, who is wearing cowboy boots and a belt with a big brass eagle-embossed buckle. He lights up at the sight of Carin, and Sonja feels vaguely irritated and maybe a little embarrassed.

Is Sonja ashamed of Roger? Does his ridiculous outfit bother her? Or is it the way he leers at Carin von Essen?

Sonja quickly decides she doesn’t care. The way he dresses, his chauvinistic comments, and his lecherous grin really have nothing to do with her.

She has worked with Roger for years and for the most part he is a good policeman. But his heart isn’t in it anymore. The level of commitment he had ten years ago is gone, like a reservoir that’s almost empty. Roger’s energy and emotion are gone; just a flimsy veneer of empathy and dedication remains. He comes to work because he has to, because he has to pay his bills, and also because he wants to be able to take the wife and twins on vacation next winter. And to be frank, she can’t really blame him, can she? No one can remain an idealist in this profession for very long. Either you succumb or you become . . . hardened. You develop a kind of armor against the brutal realities that confront you every day. You learn to joke about death, vomit, and strung-out teenagers. You even learn to like the jokes.

And yet . . .

He bugs her. He’s crossed the thin line between resignation and outright laziness. Increasingly, she ends up staying late to write his reports, when he has to pick up the girls after school, or work out, or just sit down with a book and a cigarette.

She reminds herself that she needs to have that talk with Roger soon. That it’s no longer okay with her that he’s the third child she never had and didn’t want.

Carin, the child interview specialist, greets the little girl’s father. It is standard procedure to have the parents close by when little kids are questioned. The father looks nervous and disheveled, as if he has just woken up. His hair is messy; his eyes are swollen and red-rimmed; his worn wool sweater stretches unattractively over his belly.

“Why are you going to videotape the session?” he asks, and Sonja detects suspicion, maybe even hostility, in his voice.

“We videotape all sessions involving children under the age of fifteen,” Carin explains patiently. “That way the children won’t have to testify in court. Our footage can be used instead. You can go get Tilda and bring her to the questioning room now.”

Tilda’s father nods and rubs his stubbly chin but doesn’t look completely convinced.

“But I can’t be in there, right?” he asks.

“No, as I explained when we spoke yesterday, only the child and the interviewer will be in there. It’s important that the child be able to concentrate fully on the questions and answer them all by herself. It is very easy for parents to try to help by prompting their child, and then you risk affecting the results. You can wait here with Roger and—?”

“Sonja,” Sonja says. “We’ll look after you here. And you’ll be able to watch us through this window and hear everything that’s said. And if it’s too difficult for Tilda, then we’ll just take a break. Okay?”