The Cruel Stars of the Night

Forty-four

The flashlight gasped one last time and then went out for good. However Ann tried it remained dark. She tossed it away and curled up in the wine cellar.

The rustling of the rats became louder. It was as if Ann’s rearranging of the wood drove them to gnaw even more eagerly on Ulrik Hindersten’s body. Ann also thought the smell of rotting flesh had grown stronger.

Her hand fumbled over the bottles of wine. They tempted her. She longed intensely for a sip of red wine. She sneezed as a result of the dust she had disturbed. The rustling died down for a few seconds. The rats were aware of her presence, they heard her and perhaps with cold calculation counted on the fact that a new feast awaited them.

She had been cold for the past half hour and regretted the fact that she had not gathered up some of the old clothes she had seen. Now that the light was definitely not functioning she was hesitant to move around in the dark basement. She told herself that it wasn’t because of the rats, but the fact was that her terror was building minute by minute in the pitch black and stinking cellar.

Wine was her only friend, the only thing she could perceive as positive. But she was not allowed to drink it. When Laura returned, Ann had to be in good shape. She did not count on being able to free herself with physical force; she assumed the only possibility was to talk herself out of the basement and then she could not be slurring her speech. And above all, her thinking had to be clear.

It struck her that perhaps Laura would not be coming back at all. That she had left the house for good. Ann had seen the suitcase in the hall. The sudden insight that she was going to be abandoned made her jump to her feet. Instinctively she groped around with her hand in front of her without knowing what she was going to do-it just seemed wrong to sit there completely passive. She thought she had tested all the possibilities open to her. Now she could only hope that Laura would return.

Only seeing a hint of light if Laura was going to open the door, and even if Ann had to stand at the foot of the stairs, a glimpse of light was so enticing that she cautiously made her way out of the wine cellar and haltingly made her way closer to the staircase even if this meant she drew closer to the rats.

She had heard that your eyes grew accustomed to darkness and that you would start to see partly after a while but it wasn’t true. The darkness was as compact as before and she regretted having wasted the batteries in the flashlight as she had looked for a way out.

Her thoughts and yearning for Erik were the worst. At a few points she had sniffed her right shoulder. When she carried him he would rest his head there and sometimes his scent lingered, but now she picked up nothing.

Does terror smell? It must be sweat in that case, she thought.

She ended up standing by the staircase, crouched down, and brushed her hand over the first step. If I sit at the very top, she thought, and hold a piece of wood in my hand I can hit her as soon as she opens the door.

In the midst of her misery she laughed at the thought of getting free. The rats quietened again. They were apparently sensitive to sound. God, how she hated rats. Were there more detestable animals?

The closer she got to the woodpile the more it stank. In order to control her revulsion and urge to vomit she tried to imagine which state of decomposition the corpse was in. Ryde could have informed her. He could have given her a long lecture about the various decomposition processes of the human body depending on temperature and other factors, if he was in the mood. Otherwise he would simply snort.

She recited the names of her colleagues while she searched for a weapon. She had thrown some logs to the side and after a while her foot bumped up against a heavy piece of wood, which she quickly bent down and picked up.

She crept carefully up the stairs and sat down on the top step, extremely pleased with her new position, raised above the rats and within striking distance of Laura.

Normally she didn’t hate the criminals she came into contact with, even if she at times had wanted to castrate some of the rapists she had arrested. But she hated Laura without reservation. Not because she had killed her father and most likely three other men but because she had robbed Ann of her freedom in the most ignominious way. The feeling of having been tricked probably played into this, but Ann convinced herself that Laura was an evil person through-and-through who deserved to get a piece of wood in the face.

Hell, how she would strike! That witch would get a real bonk on the nose. Then down into the basement with her and only after a good long while would Ann alert the rest of the police corps. Red alert. Bring the bitch to jail. Lock her up. A cell. Under lock and key. High-security prison. Rats. Bleached bones that are raked away after fifty lonely and painful years.

Thoughts of revenge were the nourishment to keep Ann’s spirits up, at least at such a level that the anxiety did not completely get the upper hand.

“Erik,” she said softly.

Why do I expose myself to this? she thought and the anger at herself that had been lurking beneath her venting at Laura broke out. She had acted in such an amateurish manner. She had broken her own ground rule: to always maintain contact.

She could hardly keep still in the darkness. The air seemed more stale and smelly for every minute that went by. She had the strange feeling that the stench of Ulrik Hindersten would follow her for the rest of her life, seep into her pores and constantly make itself known.

Perhaps it was her own aching arm that made her think of Allan Fredriksson. Bird-watching was for sissies. She shook her head in the dark. It was envy, nothing more. Fredriksson had an interest outside of his work. Ann felt as if she didn’t have anything, except caring for Erik. Not mushroom-picking and bridge, like Sammy; or gardening, like Bea, with her flourishing vegetable beds that she was always talking about; or Ottosson with his summer cottage where he happily pushed a lawn mower around in shorts and a straw hat.

Ann was like a robot with three stations: her home, day care, and the station. She snorted when a thought of Charles fluttered by.

She retreated into self-pity and nodded off with her head against the door.