The Crow Girl (7 page)

I need to start from the beginning again with Victoria Bergman, she thought. There’s something I’ve missed.

Her bag was beside the sofa and she sat down, took out her laptop and set it up on the table in front of her.

She opened the document in which she had gathered some brief notes together to compile a short overview of Victoria Bergman’s case.

Sofia realised that her time in high school was a conflicted period for Victoria Bergman. When she started there she was two years younger than her classmates, and was considerably less developed both physically and emotionally.

Sofia knew from experience how mean teenage girls could be in the changing room after gym classes. And Victoria had basically been entirely at the mercy of her peers for her upbringing. But there was something missing.

Sofia realised that there was one more central question that needed work, and added a new note.

What does ‘weak’ mean? she wrote.

She could see great angst, a profound guilt in Victoria Bergman.

Over time perhaps together they would be able to dig deeper and find a way to unravel some of the knots.

But that was far from certain.

There was a lot that suggested Victoria Bergman was suffering from a dissociative disorder, and Sofia knew that problems of that sort were, in ninety-nine per cent of cases, the result of sexual abuse or similar recurrent traumas. Sofia had met people before who had been through traumatic experiences yet had apparently been entirely incapable of remembering them. On some occasions Victoria Bergman would talk about terrible abuse yet on others appear to have no memory of the events at all.

Which was actually a perfectly logical reaction, Sofia thought. The psyche protects itself from what it regards as disturbing, and, in order for her normal life to function, Victoria Bergman suppresses her memory of events and creates alternative recollections instead.

But what did Victoria mean when she talked about her weakness?

Was it the person who had been subjected to the abuse who had been weak?

She closed the document and switched off the computer.

On one occasion she had given Victoria Bergman one of her own boxes of paroxetine, even though that was beyond her authority. It wasn’t just illegal, but also unethical and unprofessional. Yet she had still managed to persuade herself to ignore the regulations. And the medication hadn’t done any damage. On the contrary, Victoria Bergman had seemed much better for a while, and Sofia concluded that what she had done had been OK. Victoria needed medication, that was the bottom line.

Alongside the dissociative tendencies there were also signs of compulsive behaviour, and Sofia had even made notes hinting at savant syndrome. Once Victoria Bergman had commented on Sofia’s smoking.

‘You’ve smoked almost two packs,’ she had said, pointing at the ashtray. ‘Thirty-nine butts.’ When Sofia was alone she had counted just to make sure, and found that Victoria had been right. But that could have been a coincidence, of course.

All in all, Victoria Bergman’s personality was undoubtedly the most complex Sofia had encountered in her ten years as an independent therapist.

Sofia woke up first, stretched, and ran her fingers through Mikael’s hair, then down through his beard. She saw that it was starting to go grey and smiled to herself.

According to the clock radio it was half past six. Mikael moved and turned towards her, put his arm across her breasts and took hold of her hand.

She had no appointments that morning, so decided to give herself permission to arrive late.

Mikael was in an excellent mood, and explained how, as well as digging up unflattering facts about the journalist, he had spent the week setting up a big account with a large hospital in Berlin. The bonus he was expecting could pay for a luxury holiday to anywhere.

She thought about it, but couldn’t think of a single place she wanted to go.

‘How about New York? A bit of shopping in the big department stores. Breakfast at Tiffany’s and all that, you know?’

New York, she thought, and shuddered at the memory. She and Lasse had visited New York less than a month before everything fell apart.

It would be far too traumatic for her to tear open those old wounds.

‘Or would you rather go somewhere sunny? A package holiday?’

She could see how eager he was, but no matter how she tried, she couldn’t match his enthusiasm. She felt heavy as stone.

Suddenly she thought of Victoria Bergman.

The way Victoria had slid into an apathetic state during their last conversation, not showing the slightest sign of any emotional response. Right now she felt the same, and thought that she’d have to ask her doctor to increase the dose of paroxetine the next time she saw him.

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me, darling.’ She kissed him on the lips. ‘I’d really like to, but right now it feels like I haven’t got the energy to do anything. Maybe it’s because I’ve got so much to think about at work.’

‘Well, in that case a holiday would be perfect. We wouldn’t have to be gone for long. A weekend, or so?’

He rolled over to face her, letting his hand slide up over her stomach.

‘I love you,’ he said.

Sofia was somewhere else entirely and didn’t reply, but she sensed his irritation when he suddenly threw the duvet off and stood up. She wasn’t keeping up with him. He reacted so quickly, so impulsively.

Mikael sighed, pulled on his briefs and went out into the kitchen.

Why was she feeling guilty? Why should she feel guilty about him? What gave him that right? Guilt must be the most repulsive of all human inventions, Sofia thought.

She swallowed her anger and went after him. He was loading up the coffee machine, and glared sullenly at her over his shoulder. She was suddenly overcome with tenderness towards him. After all, it wasn’t his fault he was the way he was.

She slid up behind him, kissed his neck and let her dressing gown fall to the floor. She’d let him take her against the kitchen worktop before she went into the shower.

It’s not the end of the world, she thought.

JUST AS SOFIA
Zetterlund was done for the day and was ready to leave for home, the phone rang.

‘Hello, my name’s Rose-Marie Bjöörn, I’m calling from social services in Hässelby. Have you got a minute?’ The woman sounded friendly. ‘I was just wondering, is it true that you’ve had experience dealing with children suffering from war trauma?’

Sofia cleared her throat. ‘Yes, that’s right. What do you want to know?’

‘Well, we’ve got a family out here in Hässelby and the son could do with seeing someone who has a deeper insight into his experiences. And when I happened to hear about you, I thought it might be a good idea to get in touch.’

Sofia could feel how tired she was. Most of all she just wanted to end the call.

‘I have to say, I’m fairly booked up. How old is he?’

‘He’s sixteen, his name’s Samuel. Samuel Bai. From Sierra Leone.’

Sofia reflected for a moment.

That’s an odd coincidence, she thought. I haven’t thought about Sierra Leone for several years, and suddenly I’ve got two offers of work connected to the country.

‘Well, it might be possible,’ she said eventually. ‘How soon would you like me to see him?’

They agreed that he would come for a preliminary evaluation in a week’s time, and, after the social worker had promised to send Sofia the boy’s file, they hung up.

Before she left the office for the day she changed into a pair of red Jimmy Choos. She knew the scars on her heels would start to bleed before she even got in the lift.

SHE INHALES FROM
the bag she has filled with glue. First her head starts to spin, then every sound around her becomes twice as loud. Finally Crow Girl sees herself from above.

On the outskirts of Bålsta he pulls off the motorway. All morning she has been dreading the moment when he would pull over to the side of the road and turn off the engine. She closes her eyes and tries not to think as he takes her hand, puts it on that place, and she notices that he’s already hard.

‘You know I have my needs, Victoria,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing strange about that. All men do, and it’s only natural for you to help me relax so we can continue with the journey afterwards.’

She doesn’t answer, and keeps her eyes shut as he strokes her cheek with one hand and opens his fly with the other.

‘Help me out and don’t look so sulky. It won’t take long.’

His body smells of sweat, and his breath of sour milk.

She does as he has taught her.

Over time she has become better at it, and when he praises her she almost feels proud. For knowing how to do something, and being good at it.

When he’s done she picks up the roll of toilet paper beside the gearstick and wipes her hands.

‘How about stopping at the shopping centre in Enköping and buying something nice for you?’ he says with a smile, giving her a tender look.

‘OK,’ she mutters, because she always mutters her replies to his suggestions. She never knows what they really mean.

They’re on their way to the cottage in Dala-Floda.

They’re going to be there on their own for a whole weekend.

Him and her.

She didn’t want to go.

At breakfast she had said she didn’t want to go with him, and would rather stay at home. Then he had got up from the table, opened the fridge and taken out an unopened carton of milk.

He had stood behind her and opened the carton, then slowly poured the chilled liquid all over her. It ran over her head, through her hair, over her face and down into her lap. A big, white puddle formed on the floor.

Mum hadn’t said anything, just looked away, and he had gone out into the garage without a word to pack the Volvo.

And now she’s sitting here, driving through the summer green of western Dalarna, with a big black knot of anxiety inside.

He doesn’t touch her all weekend.

He may have looked at her as she changed into her nightgown, but he hasn’t crept in beside her.

As she lies there sleepless, listening for his footsteps, she pretends that she is a clock. She lies in bed on her stomach for six o’clock, then she turns clockwise and lies on her left side for nine o’clock.

Another quarter turn and she’s lying on her back for twelve o’clock.

Then her right side, three o’clock.

Then onto her stomach again and six o’clock.

Left side, nine, on her back, midnight.

If she can control time, he’ll be fooled by it and won’t come in to her.

She doesn’t know if that’s why, but he stays away from her.

On Sunday morning, when they’re due to drive back to Värmdö, he is making porridge as she presents her idea. It’s the summer holidays, and she tells him she thinks it would be nice to stay a bit longer.

At first he says she’s too little to manage on her own for a whole week. She tells him she’s already asked Aunt Elsa next door if she could stay with her, and Elsa had been really happy.

When she sits down at the kitchen table the porridge is stone cold. The thought of the grey mass swelling in her mouth makes her feel sick, and as if it wasn’t sweet enough to start with, he’s stirred in loads of sugar.

To dilute the taste of the swollen, disintegrating, cold oats, she takes a sip of milk and tries to swallow. But it’s hard, the porridge seems to want to come back up again.

He stares at her across the table.

They sit each other out, he and she.

‘OK. Let’s say that, then. You can stay. You know you’re always going to be Daddy’s little girl,’ he says, ruffling her hair.

She realises that he’s never going to let her grow up.

She will always be his.

He promises to drive to the shop and buy supplies so she doesn’t run out of anything. When he comes back they unload the goods at Aunt Elsa’s before he drives her the fifty metres back to the cottage to pick up her bag of clothes, and when he stops by the gate she hurries to give him a peck on his unshaven cheek before quickly jumping out. She had seen his hands on their way towards her and wanted to forestall him.

Maybe he’ll make do with a kiss.

‘Take care of yourself, now,’ he says before shutting the car door.

He just sits there in the car for what must be a couple of minutes. She takes the bag and sits down on the little step up into the house. Only then does he look away and the car start to move.

The swallows are swooping above the yard and Tupp-Anders’s dairy cows are grazing in the meadow beyond the red-painted outhouse.

She watches him drive out onto the main road, then off through the forest, and she knows that he’ll soon be back on the pretext of having forgotten something.