Dead of Winter

13 Winter 1987

Laura slept late, stayed in bed for a while listening for Hedda, but the house was silent. She couldn’t stop thinking about the figure she thought she’d seen during the night. Had it been a dream? She didn’t think so.

So what was it? Or rather – who?

She looked out of the window. A grey mist hung low over the lake, carrying with it a disturbing smell of smoke that had somehow penetrated her bedroom.

She went into the kitchen and found George, who immediately started winding herself around Laura’s legs.

There was a note on the worktop.

Good morning, darling Laura!

A water pipe in the boiler room has sprung a leak, so I have to go to Ängelholm to pick up a few things. You were fast asleep, so I didn’t want to wake you.

Back soon,

Hedda

She peered outside; both Hedda’s and Jack’s cars were gone.

George seemed to sense her disappointment, and kept rubbing against her legs as if to console her.

Beneath the note lay the bathing book, a ledger with squared pages in which Hedda meticulously documented every swim. Dates, times, temperatures, who’d swum.

More fun than a diary, she always said. And it’s become a bit of an obsession.

This year’s book was green. The past few weeks and months contained only Hedda’s and Jack’s names, but when Laura turned back the pages it was summer once more, and there were other names.

Laura, Iben and Hedda.

Hedda, Laura and Jack.

Hedda, Jack, Laura, Iben and Peter.

The only name that never appeared was Tomas.

He certainly wasn’t afraid of the water, because he rowed, sailed and fished. He could even wade out a short distance from the shore if necessary, but he had never, ever had a sauna or taken a dip from the pontoon. Even Peter didn’t know why.

Laura made herself some toast and flicked through the local paper as she ate. Almost half the paper was taken up by adverts from various businesses, wishing their clients Merry Christmas. There were a couple of small articles, one about a car accident and one about a fire in a deserted house. Surely such fires didn’t break out by themselves, so could Ulf Jensen have been right? Was someone deliberately starting fires around the lake? The thought was unpleasant yet exciting at the same time.

On the next page there was a picture of Ulf himself standing in a gym, hands spread wide.

Record year for Vedarp Athletics Club. Successful trainer heading for bigger things.

Laura skimmed the article, in which Ulf proudly listed the medals the club had won in various competitions. Iben was responsible for over half of them. The previous day came into her mind once more. The gestures, the looks. The songs Iben and Jack had practised together.

The pain in her stomach was back.

There was still no sign of Hedda by three o’clock, so Laura walked up to the main road and caught the bus. The driver recognised her, asked her to pass on his best wishes to her aunt, and let her travel for free.

Part of her wanted to stay as far away from Iben as possible, but another more insistent part wanted to know the truth.

Peter was sitting on his moped outside Wohlin’s. He didn’t notice her approaching, and jumped when she tapped on his helmet.

‘Hi – what are you doing?’

He took off his helmet, gave an embarrassed smile.

‘Waiting for Tomas. How about you?’

‘I’m having coffee with Iben, but then she has a training session. Shall we meet up later?’

‘Me and Tomas have things to do.’

‘What kind of things?’

He shuffled uncomfortably, couldn’t look her in the eye.

‘Just a couple of errands.’

‘For Milla?’

She didn’t know where the question had come from.

He still refused to meet her gaze. She was about to say something else when they both heard the sound of another moped. Peter quickly crammed on his helmet.

‘See you!’

He kick-started his engine and took off as Tomas appeared.

Laura remained standing on the pavement, watching them go.

Wohlin’s café and bakery dated from the 1940s, its décor favouring dark wood and brass. The whole place smelled old-fashioned in a homely, comforting way.

‘Hi, Laura – so you’re back!’

Ella Bengtsson, who must have run Wohlin’s for twenty years, was a strong woman with sparkling eyes and a loud laugh.

‘You’ve grown since the summer – how old are you now?’

‘I’ll be sixteen in March.’

‘Sixteen, who’d have thought it! I remember the first time Hedda brought you in. You can’t have been more than four or five. You were so sweet, with your hair in plaits – and now you’re a young woman.’ She stroked Laura’s cheek. ‘I bet all the boys in school are after you!’

Laura blushed.

‘I go to a girls’ school. There aren’t any boys.’

‘What a shame! But I’m sure you have plenty of admirers here in the village. Peter Larsson has always followed you around like a faithful puppy, and then there’s that other boy . . .’

‘Tomas.’

‘That’s it, Tomas Rask.’

A small furrow appeared in Ella’s brow. Laura knew it was because of Tomas’s father. A lot of people were afraid of Kent Rask.

She ordered a cinnamon bun and a soft drink, then sat down at a table by the window with a view of the square. The Christmas tree lights were already on, brightening the December darkness.

She glanced at her watch. Iben was ten minutes late, which wasn’t like her. The pain in her stomach was coming back. Part of her wanted to get up and walk out, but she had to know.

Iben came rushing in at quarter past four.

‘Sorry I’m so late!’

There was a distinctive whiff of cigarette smoke as Iben pulled off her jacket and hat and draped them over an empty chair. She noticed it herself.

‘I was talking to my friends in the smoking area at break time,’ she said. ‘I’d better air my jacket before I go home to Dad!’

Iben didn’t smoke; her father would never allow it. Laura had heard what happened when Ulf caught Iben’s brothers smoking. He’d forced Christian and Fredrik to do fifty laps of the athletics track. Fifty laps, that was twenty kilometres. It had poured with rain for the last half-hour, but Ulf had insisted they carry on.

She could see Iben’s lips moving, but she wasn’t really hearing what Iben was saying. She was too busy studying her face. Iben was wearing makeup again today. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were shining. Another, fainter smell drifted across from Iben’s jacket. A smell Laura recognised all too well.

The cloying scent of a strawberry air freshener.

‘You’ve been with Jack,’ she interrupted Iben mid-sentence. ‘You’re together . . .’ Her voice gave way.

‘Oh, Laura . . .’ Iben had gone pale. ‘A lot of things have happened over the past few months.’

She placed a hand on Laura’s arm.

‘Dad’s saying I can’t go to the sports college in Malmö, even though he promised. He thinks it’s better if I stay at home and train with him, but I can’t stand that dump any longer. I have to get away. Jack . . .’

She faltered.

‘Jack’s the only one who understands. The only one who backs me up.’

Laura pushed her hand away.

‘You knew how I felt. You knew what happened between me and Jack in the summer.’

Iben shook her head.

‘You don’t understand, Laura. You’re only here in the holidays, when everything’s fine. You don’t see . . . the rest of it.’

‘What do you mean, the rest of it? You winning every competition, getting top grades in every subject? Is it all so fucking stressful that you have to go behind my back?’

Iben was still shaking her head. Tears had begun to trickle down her cheeks, but Laura didn’t care. Actually, it felt good to have swapped places. To be the one who was dishing it out instead of being hurt.

‘You don’t understand,’ Iben said again.

Laura got to her feet. Her chest was burning, her throat, her cheeks. Iben had betrayed her, and yet she was trying to make Laura feel sorry for her. This was one competition she wasn’t going to win.

‘You can go to hell, Iben. I never want to speak to you again, is that clear? I hope you die!’

She noticed Ella Bengtsson watching them from behind the counter as she grabbed her jacket and ran out without making eye contact with anyone.