Dead of Winter

2

Water is nothing to be afraid of, Laura. Not as long as you respect it.

Hedda’s words echo in Laura’s mind as she swims.

The pool in the apartment block’s spa and gym complex is twenty metres long, and Laura covers a length in fifteen seconds, breathing only after each tumble turn. Her movements are even and economical, using up no more oxygen than necessary. Length after length, usually with nothing else in her head except the sound of the water and her own heartbeat. Today it’s different. Her thoughts are all over the place, bringing up voices, memories.

She was never any good at sport, particularly anything involving teamwork. The expensive private school gave her plenty of opportunity to find that out.

Swimming was different. There were no team mates, no balls. No visible opponents. Just herself and the water.

It was Hedda who taught her to swim properly. She’d already had swimming lessons in Singapore, managing exactly one panic-stricken length of doggy paddle with the teacher beside her in the pool, while her mother sat on a sun lounger flicking through Vogue.

Hedda had seen how afraid Laura was, and one summer’s evening she took her out in the little rowing boat. Laura was seven, but she can still remember every detail. The full moon and the starlit sky above them. The silence when Hedda stopped the oars in the middle of the lake.

‘The water will hold you up,’ she said. ‘If you just have the courage to trust it. And I’ll be right behind you. All the way home.’

She pointed to the shore and the lights of the holiday village.

‘Are you ready?’

Laura inhaled, nodded. Then Hedda capsized the boat.

As always, Laura showers in the cubicle on the far left, where the grouting between the tiles is clean, the stream of water is steady, and the drain operates efficiently. She meticulously sprays the walls and floor before stepping in. The black bottle she has brought with her contains a fifty per cent dilution of chlorine, guaranteed to kill most micro-organisms that could be lurking on the tiles. She keeps her flip-flops on, just in case.

Her swimsuit has long sleeves and bears more than a passing resemblance to a wetsuit. She doesn’t take it off until she has locked the door behind her. No one can see her in here, and she doesn’t need to turn her back to the wall while she showers.

She and Hedda repeated that first swim every single summer. Capsized the boat together, even though there was no need. If the water was really warm, they would take their time making their way back to the shore, floating on their backs while she pointed out the different constellations and told Hedda their names.

The little rowing boat would be bobbing by the shore right outside the house next morning.

The boat knows the lake as well as I do. It can find its own way home.

When she has finished showering she wraps herself in her bathrobe, pulls up the hood and takes the lift straight to her apartment. The cleaner has been in while she was swimming, leaving behind nothing but the faint smell of detergent.

Laura kicks off her flip-flops and walks barefoot across the smooth limestone floor. Straightens the little Guan Yu statuette that protects the entrance against evil spirits; it is a millimetre out of position thanks to the cleaner’s efforts with the duster.

The under-floor heating is on, the thermostat shows twenty-five degrees. There is a stove in one corner, but the fire itself is actually gas, controlled by technology and contained behind reinforced glass. She switches it on with a remote, avoids looking at the flames. Then she slips her feet into her sheepskin slippers.

It is just after three o’clock on Saturday afternoon. The darkness is already beginning to gather over Stockholm’s snow-clad roofs. The apartment is silent; the only sound is a faint hum of traffic from far below. She decides not to turn on the lights just yet. She picks up her phone from its charging dock. No messages or missed calls. Not that she was expecting any, but there is a call she has to make. She should have done it this morning, but she’s put it off for as long as possible.

‘Madeleine Aulin.’

The buzz of conversation in the background.

‘Hi, Mum, it’s me. Are you busy?’

‘Pierre and I have guests.’

‘From Sweden?’

‘Yes. Some old acquaintances.’

Laura immediately sees through the slight change in tone.

‘Is Marcus there?’

The brief pause gives her the answer.

‘They arrived yesterday – a last-minute decision. He’s been so stressed, and the au pair will take care of the girls until the Christmas holidays begin.’

Laura clamps her lips together in a thin line. Technically she is Marcus’s boss, but needless to say her little brother hasn’t said a word about his plans to take some time off. Or that he was going to join their mother and Pierre in Majorca.

Madeleine draws her own conclusions from Laura’s silence.

‘We thought you couldn’t come. Marcus said you were very busy. But of course you’re welcome any time – you know that.’

Laura moves her jaw from side to side in an attempt to release the tension. She can’t say yes, partly because the invitation was forced out, but mainly because she can’t think of anything worse than celebrating Christmas in Mum and Pierre’s flashy Spanish villa with Marcus’s noisy kids. But if she refuses – blames work as she usually does when it’s time for a family gathering – she’ll prove that they were right to exclude her.

‘By the way, have you spoken to Andreas?’ her mother says before Laura has worked out what to say.

‘Why?’

The question surprises her, and yet it doesn’t.

‘Marcus bumped into him near Stureplan the other day, with a woman. He seemed a little embarrassed?’

Mum manages to make the last sentence sound like a question, as if she’s expecting some kind of explanation.

‘It’s over a year since we divorced. Andreas can see whoever he wants.’

A brief noise on the other end of the line, possibly a snort.

‘Hmm. Not even his patience lasts forever.’

Laura has been expecting the comment ever since Andreas’s name came up. The acidic little remark, reminding her that she’s being ridiculous, that she ought to stop messing around and beg Andreas to take her back, before it’s too late.

‘Did you know that Aunt Hedda has passed away?’

The click of a cigarette lighter. Her mother still smokes, even though Laura’s father died of lung cancer. A long exhalation, a sigh filled with nicotine as Laura’s brain automatically computes the risk of disease after fifty-five years of smoking.

‘Yes, I heard something about that. Such a shame.’

‘Why didn’t you call and tell me?’

Silence, another exhalation.

‘It didn’t occur to me. Pierre and I have had a lot to do in the house, and you always have your hands full with work. How did you find out?’

‘A solicitor contacted me last night. Hedda’s left Gärdsnäset to me in her will.’

‘I see.’

Laura can sense unease in the neutral words.

‘Why do you think she did that?’ she asks.

‘I’ve no idea. Hedda’s always been a little . . . different. As I’m sure you recall, she didn’t even have the decency to get in touch when your father died. Her own brother. After everything we’ve done for her. What on earth are you going to do with a rundown holiday village?’

The sharpness was back, the implication that Laura has done something wrong. She chooses to ignore it.

‘I thought I’d go to the funeral. It’s next Saturday.’

‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

‘I’m Hedda’s closest relative.’

‘So that’s the only reason you’re going? Because you’re so kind-hearted?’

Laura clamps her lips together again.

‘It’s because of him, isn’t it?’ her mother continues. ‘The orphan.’

The feeling of being caught out makes Laura’s cheeks flush red.

‘His name is Jack.’

Another snort. ‘He disappeared, don’t you remember? Left you when you were at rock bottom.’

Her mother’s words slice through her, mainly because they’re true.

‘I remember.’

‘You were only just sixteen, it was a stupid teenage crush. And yet you still can’t stop thinking about him. No doubt you’re hoping he’ll turn up at the funeral.’

Laura forces herself not to respond.

‘If I were you, I’d stay away. Gärdsnäset is a terrible place, and after everything that’s happened I can’t imagine why you’re even—’

Her mother breaks off, takes two quick drags.

‘What I’m trying to say, Laura . . .’ Her tone has softened, there is even a hint of sorrow. ‘Is that you shouldn’t dig up the past. It rarely leads to anything good, believe me.’

Laura stands in the bedroom in front of the full-length mirror. Hesitates for a moment before opening her robe and letting it fall to the floor. The last of the warmth from the shower fades away, and she shivers.

The room is in darkness, with only a small amount of light filtering in and making her skin look whiter than usual. She unties her hair, lets it fall over her shoulders, then folds her arms over her breasts. Without taking her eyes off the mirror, she slowly turns her upper body. The mark begins halfway down her left shoulder blade. She keeps moving, watching it grow into a large patch of rough scar tissue, spreading diagonally downwards across her spine. She shivers again.

For a few brief moments, she remembers it all. The roar of the flames, the smell of soot, burned hair and flesh so intense that she can taste it.

The pain in her back that is both heat and cold at the same time.

Then the floating sensation as someone carries her over the ice, closer and closer to the black, cold water out there. And finally the screams. Her own and someone else’s.