More Bitter Than Death (22 page)

Sonja calmly flips through the stack of paperwork in front of her.

“Here, let me just read this to you. Let’s see here, last year, assault and shoplifting. July of this year—”

“Yeah, but I never
killed
anyone. Do you hear me, you
bitch
?”

Without reacting to his outburst, Sonja Askenfeldt leans over toward the microphone, looks at the clock, announces that they will take a break now from the questioning session, and turns off the recording. A moment later she slaps her hand down onto the tabletop so hard that Marek jumps up out of his chair before burying his face in his hands.

Roger smiles to himself.

Sonja is going to crack this Polish brat in no time.

I’m sitting in my office at the clinic, the one we call the Green Room.

Aina is holding my hand, firmly.

For once she’s the weak one. Tears running down her red, splotchy cheeks, she wipes her nose on the sleeve of her purple mohair sweater and shakes her head, resigned.

“Anyone, but Hillevi. It isn’t fair. Who’s going to take care of her children now? Their abusive father?”

I squeeze her hand without responding to her questions, because what is there to say? That was the first thought I had after the shock wore off. Hillevi’s children, those three little boys, the ones who are so afraid of their father that one of them wet his pants when he found out his dad was going to pick him up from school. What would happen to them now?

I feel the damp slip of paper in my free hand, glance at Aina again, into her bloodshot eyes.

“Make the call. Now!” Aina says.

I nod and reach for the phone, smooth the slip of paper out on the desktop, read the hastily jotted-down number, the number for the manager at Solgården, the women’s shelter where Hillevi was staying with her kids.

It rings five times, and then a high-pitched voice with a Spanish accent picks up.

“Solgården, Mirta speaking.”

I explain why I’m calling in a voice that is quiet and maybe a little frantic. I explain that Hillevi was in my counseling group, how she had told us about the abuse, that we were there when she died, and that I’m wondering what will happen now.

“It’s the children, I’m wondering what will happen to the children. I can’t . . . stop thinking about that. The kids’ father hit one of the boys too. You know about that, right? It’s very important that the boys not be placed with him.”

“It’s such a tragedy,” Mirta says, as if she hasn’t heard me. “In all the years
I’ve worked here, I’ve never lost a single woman, not one. My clients have been beaten and raped, but never killed.
Dios mío,
we couldn’t protect her.”

“But it wasn’t her husband who killed her.”

“Oh, the violence men perpetrate against women,” she begins, but then stops short and sighs deeply. “What can I do for you?”

“Uh, the children . . . ?”

“The children are being looked after by the child welfare authorities. They’ve been placed in a foster home in Nacka while they wait for the investigation to be completed.”

“The investigation?”

“Yes, the oldest son, his name is Lukas, well, he said his father had hit him. So we informed social services, which we are always required to do if we find out a child has been abused. That’s the law. Now the family group at social services will conduct a sort of expedited investigation. But if you ask me, I think the kids will be back with their father in a couple of weeks. That’s usually what happens. It’s just really hard to prove the boy’s accusations, you know? And the father is the sole guardian now . . . obviously. Well, I mean maybe I’m cynical, but that’s what I suspect will happen.”

Suddenly a child in the background screams so loudly that I almost drop the phone. I can hear Mirta scolding someone, I’m guessing a child, in Spanish.

“Sorry, things are crazy here today. We just got in three new clients. Well, yes, I suppose life goes on here . . .”

The line goes quiet; neither of us knows what to say. Then she starts again.

“Hillevi, she was special, that woman, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, she was very special,” I say.

“She was strong. And she shared her strength with all the women here.”

I feel a lump in my throat and don’t know what to say to her.

“She was a real angel, that woman. Yes, she was,” Mirta says softly.

“An angel,” I whisper. “It’s true, she was an angel.”

*   *   *

We walk the short stretch from Söderhallarna to Aina’s little apartment at Blekingegatan 27. The cold drizzle in the darkness makes the autumn leaves surrounding All Saints’ Church dangerously slippery. Aina doesn’t say anything, just hunches over slightly, recoiling from the rain and wind. Her red scarf is
wrapped again and again around her neck, her hands thrust deep in her pockets, her eyes locked on the wet asphalt.

Once we’re at her place, she lights some candles and puts the teakettle on. We sit in silence at the table in her old-fashioned kitchen. And it’s as if Hillevi is there with us, in this quiet little apartment. I can almost smell her light, androgynous perfume, see her finely lined, doll-like face and those perfectly manicured hands.

“This sucks,” Aina says, chewing on her thumbnail and looking out the window, down at the dark street, where the rainwater is forming small, dirty streams in the gutters.

I nod in silence, sip the hot tea, and carefully stroke Aina’s arm with my free hand. Suddenly she looks at me. There’s something black in her eyes now, a suppressed rage coming to the surface, and suddenly I feel scared. Aina does scare me at times. There is so much darkness in her, something so harsh about her.

Then suddenly I remember something, another rage, another darkness.

“Hey, you know all that stuff with Hillevi . . . It was so intense, so totally draining. I’ve been thinking about it so much that I forgot about something. Do you remember what Malin said at the session, before Hillevi got shot?”

“Malin?” Aina asks.

“Yeah, before Henrik came in. She said something weird, something about how maybe that woman—Susanne, who got kicked to death—got what she deserved. Do you remember that?”

Aina’s eyes are dark, and without looking away, she carefully sets her teacup down on the little saucer. “Yeah, I remember,” she says. “What on earth could she have meant by that? That was a really weird thing to say.”

I shiver, feeling a faint flutter in my stomach.

“Don’t you think there’s something a little suspicious about Malin? All that talk about strength and self-defense, and then this comment?”

Aina sits there quietly for a bit with her steaming teacup in her hands. “I don’t know. I think Kattis is a little odd too.”

“Kattis?” I ask. “She’s probably about as normal as they come. Why do you say that?”

Aina holds up her hand as if to stop me from talking. “Now hang on a sec, Siri. You are not objective when it comes to Kattis. You guys are like BFFs, right? Sitting in the office holding hands, calling each other on the phone, crying on each other’s shoulders. You think that’s okay? You think that’s ethical?”

Aina’s cheeks flush and I can tell she’s clenching her jaws.

“No, but . . .” I laugh. “You’re not jealous, are you, Aina?”

The question comes out of nowhere, but as soon as I say it, I feel its weight.

Aina furrows her brow and leans back on her crooked old kitchen chair. “Maybe. There was a time when we shared everything, don’t forget that.”

Her words feel like a rebuke and I turn away as they hit home: she is right. Part of our intimacy has been lost. Maybe it’s because of my relationship with Markus. Maybe we just haven’t been taking care of our friendship. Maybe it’s just changed over time, evolved.

I reach for one of the napkins sitting in a pile on the table. They have a picture of a maypole on them. I hold them up to her questioningly before blowing my nose into one.

“Um, May was months ago. You don’t think maybe it’s time to freshen up your napkin supply here?” I tease.

Aina smiles. “Oh, Carl-Johan brought those over last week. I don’t know where he gets all these weird things from.”

“Carl-Johan.” I linger on the name. “You’ve been seeing him for a while now, huh?”

Aina squirms and suddenly looks embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Absolutely not,” Aina says.

Aina’s love life is legendary. There is a constant string of new men in her life. I’ve watched them come and go over the years, young and old, long-haired and bald, bearded and clean-shaven, trash collectors and CEOs, Swedes and foreigners. Aina doesn’t discriminate; variety seems to be her thing. Which is why I’m surprised when I find out she’s still seeing this guy. She should have dumped him ages ago.

“You’re not—?” I prod.

She waves her hand dismissively. “Of course I’m not.”

But then she looks away and her cheeks turn red. “Oh shit.” She sighs deeply. “Do we have to talk about my conquests? Hillevi is actually dead.”

We contemplate this statement in silence as the tea cools in our cups.

“The point of coming here on your own, of course, is for you to have a chance to talk about things that you don’t want to discuss when Mia is around. It doesn’t need to have anything to do with your relationship. We can discuss anything you want.”

Patrik and I are meeting for a private session. I haven’t been doing much work lately, which maybe isn’t so odd given the situation. In my dreams, it’s me, not Sirkka, who’s bent over Hillevi trying to stop the blood from gushing out of her stomach. My hands are halfway inside her pulsing, still-warm body. And just as I realize the situation is hopeless, I wake up, bathed in sweat, with the blanket twisted up like a snake around my waist.

Patrik, who is sitting across from me, sighs deeply and crosses his arms over his chest. His whole body trembles with frustration.

“Sure, but I’m not the one with problems, am I?” Patrik says.

“Your relationship is crashing and burning; isn’t that a problem?”

“Well, yeah, but what I mean is that that’s not my fault.”

“So then we can agree that you do have a problem?”

Patrik sighs dramatically as he unthinkingly stuffs a pinch of snuff under his cracked upper lip and then wipes his hand off on his damp jeans. He gazes out the gray window. It’s raining again today, a fine but unrelenting drizzle that the gusts of wind periodically chase around the clusters of buildings.

I can smell the rain-damp scent of Patrik’s wool sweater from across the room, and suddenly I remember smells from my childhood—hand-knit Lovikka mittens drenched from throwing snowballs, sweaty wool long johns that had to be taken off after skiing, a white wine–fueled make-out session some dark autumn night with a pimply classmate on a damp Persian rug. Different wool smells from different parts of my life, scent memories.

Patrik seems to notice that I’m distracted, because he shrugs his skinny
shoulders as if to ask what’s up with me. “Mia’s the one with the problem,” he finally whispers.

“Cause and effect are often very complex in relationships. If one person has a problem, it affects both people. And vice versa. You can also say that the fundamental problem doesn’t always lie with the person who seems to be doing worse on the face of things.”