Betrayal

When she came out the front door of the building it was ten after four in the morning, and she didn’t know where she was. The taxi had driven south from Gamla Stan and took a right at Gullmarsplan, she remembered that, but then she had lost her bearings. She turned around. To the right of the entrance hall she had just come out of there was a street sign on the wall, and she took a few steps closer so she could read it in the dark. Storsjövägen. She was in a dead end, and she started walking down the street. The façades of the buildings were dark with shiny black windowpanes. Only a few lights were on.

She was grateful that he didn’t wake up when she got out of bed. For about an hour she lay still, pretending she was asleep, until his regular breathing assured her that he was sleeping. Only then did she dare open her eyes. A bed-sit, strangely empty of objects. Maybe he was just living there temporarily. Only the walls belied this idea. A great number of oil paintings of various sizes, all with colourful abstract patterns, covered almost every square centimetre.

He had fallen asleep with his lips against her left shoulder. It was noticeably cold in the flat. Carefully, so that he wouldn’t wake up, she drew away from him, got up and rummaged on the floor for her clothes.

In his bathroom mirror she saw a woman who was a stranger. A woman who had seduced a twenty-five-year-old, gone home with him to his flat and to bed. She still could not decide whether it had had the effect on her that she had imagined.

Everything seemed shut down inside her.

On the way up the stairs to his flat she became nervous. The courage of intoxication had vanished and for a moment she wanted to leave. But then she envisaged Henrik and Linda together and it made her feet continue through the door of the flat. As soon as she entered the hallway she pressed herself against him, just to conceal her inner imbalance, and his desire was so strong that they scarcely managed to get their clothes off. His frantic hands had fumbled over her body, and it occurred to her that perhaps he was a virgin, but she did her best to instil self-confidence in him, pretending to enjoy his clumsy attempts.

The street ended at an intersection, and she took out her mobile and rang for a taxi.

His name was Jonas and Hansson was the name on his door. That was all she knew, and she had no interest in knowing more. He had done his part and she had done hers.

It was like a void inside her, an inability to be touched. The only man who had touched her in fifteen years was Henrik, and now she had given herself to a total stranger.

And she couldn’t care less.

There was a light on in the entrance hall when she came home. She took out her purse, took out her wedding ring and slipped it back on her finger. As quietly as she could she hung up her coat and went into the kitchen. Everything was quiet. Axel’s plate was still on the table, and she could see that they had eaten spaghetti with meat sauce. A completely normal dinner. Henrik’s mobile lay on the kitchen counter. Not a single message. The call list showed no numbers, either received or called; it must have been erased. He thought he was smart, that bastard.

She went into Axel’s room. The moon-shaped night-light was on and the floor was covered with toys, but the bed was empty as usual. She sat down on the floor. An Action Man lay next to her on the carpet, with arms and legs stiffly extended. It lay there abandoned by his defenceless little hands – powerless to stop his life coming apart.

She looked at the toy she was holding in her hands. Who had given him this? The right hand was shaped to grip its weapons.

She stood up quickly. Henrik’s keyring was in his jacket pocket and she continued down to the cellar. The gun cabinet. Where he kept his hunting rifles. The only place in the house where she never went.

She found them under a red box of ammunition: a bundle of computer-printed letters with no envelopes. She only managed to read the first four lines. Pressure gripped her chest. She leafed rapidly through them and found at the bottom of the pile two folded lists from the Swedish Real Estate Agency. Properties T 22 and K 18. That bastard was looking for a new place to live, well aware that she could never afford to keep living in the house without him. He didn’t even have the courtesy to tell her that she would soon be forced to move out of her home.

Never in her life had she thought that anyone would treat her this way.

For the time being she couldn’t do anything to Henrik.

Linda, on the other hand, had no idea what was in store for her.