Midwinter Sacrifice

51

Plants that need watering, post that needs sorting, taps that need checking. Dust that needs sweeping up, a freezer that needs defrosting, a bedspread that needs straightening, and then the memories that need suppressing, events that need forgetting, suspicions that need denying, broken promises that need forgiving and love that needs to be remembered for ever.

Is that possible?

13.45, a few hours after Bengt Andersson’s funeral.

Malin is moving through her parents’ apartment. Remembers when she was last here. Tove, just like her, on her parents’ bed, the same unsuspecting determination, the same naïve openness with her own body.

But still.

Malin laughs to herself. She has to give Tove full marks for her ingenuity in her hunt to find a love-nest for her and Markus in this cold. The two of them are at a matinée, a new action film based on the long-forgotten adventures of some comic-book hero from the fifties, updated for modern tastes: more violence, more – but just as chaste – sex, and a more obvious and happier ending. Ambiguity is the enemy of security, and security is necessary for success at the box-office.

Every age, Malin thinks, gets the stories it deserves.

The smell of her parents’ apartment.

It smells of secrets.

In the same way as the hunting cabin in the forest, although it was clearer and cooler in the forest night, not as impenetrable and personal as here. You get twisted, Malin thinks, around your own axle if you spend too long in the past. At the same time, you’re done for if you don’t dare touch it. Psychotherapists know all about that.

Malin sinks into the sofa in the sitting room.

Feels exhausted and thirsty: Dad keeps his drink in the cupboard above the fridge in the kitchen.

Twist the soul.

Fine furniture that isn’t really that fine.

‘You’ll water the plants, won’t you?’

I’ve already watered them.

The plants. Smells. The smell of cabbage bake.

Of lies. Even here? Just like in Rakel Murvall’s house in Blåsvädret. Just weaker, vaguer here. Have to go out there again, Malin thinks, have to go there and squeeze the secrets from the floorboards and walls.

Her mobile rings out in the hall.

It’s in her jacket pocket, and she gets up from the sofa, runs out, fumbles.

International call.

‘Hello, Malin.’

‘Malin, Dad here.’

‘Hello, I’m in the apartment, I’ve just watered the plants.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But that’s not why I’m ringing.’

He wants something, but doesn’t dare say, the same feeling as last time. Then her father takes a deep breath, and lets the air out before he starts to speak.

‘You know,’ he says, ‘we’ve been talking about Tove coming out here, and it must be her half-term break soon? Perhaps that would be a good time?’

Malin takes the phone from her ear and holds it out in front of her, and shakes her head.

Then she pulls herself together. Puts the phone to her ear.

‘In two weeks.’

‘Two weeks?’

‘Yes, it’s half-term in two weeks. There’s just one problem.’

‘What’s that?’

‘We haven’t got the money for a flight. I don’t have any spare and Janne had to pay for a new boiler just before Christmas.’

‘Yes, we talked about that, your mum and I. We can pay for her ticket. We went to a travel agent today, and there are cheap flights via London. Maybe you could get some time off as well?’

‘Impossible,’ Malin says. ‘Not at such short notice. And we’ve got a difficult case right now.’

‘So what do you think?’

‘It sounds like a great idea. But of course you’ll have to talk to Tove first.’

‘She can go swimming here, go horse-riding.’

‘She knows what she wants to do and what she doesn’t. Don’t worry about that.’

‘Will you talk to her?’

‘Call her yourself. She’s at the cinema right now, but she should be home by ten.’

‘Malin, can’t you talk—’

‘Okay, okay. I’ll talk to her, then I’ll call you back. Tomorrow.’

‘Don’t wait too long. Those tickets won’t last.’