The Stonecutter (45 page)

Arne stood in hand-wringing silence and watched while she packed. If Asta hadn’t been so determined, his helplessness would have surprised her so much that she might have been unable to continue. But her fury kept her hands at work, folding clothes and stacking them in the biggest suitcase they owned. She didn’t yet know how she was going to lug it out of the house, or where she would go. It didn’t matter. She didn’t intend to stay in this house one more minute. Finally she could see him for what he was. That feeling of dissonance that she’d always had, the feeling that things might not be the way that Arne said, had been accurate after all. He wasn’t all-powerful. He wasn’t perfect. He was merely a weak, pathetic man who enjoyed bullying other people. And then there was his belief in God, which didn’t go very deep. Asta saw clearly now how he used the word of God only to support his own prejudices, views, and desires. If God was like Arne’s God, then Asta wanted no part of his faith.

‘But Asta, I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?’

His voice was childish and whiny, and she chose to ignore him. He stood there in the doorway wringing his hands as he watched her remove one item of clothing after another from the drawers and wardrobes. She didn’t intend to come back, so it was best that she take everything all at once.

‘Where are you going? You have nowhere to go!’

Now he was begging her, but the extraordinary nature of the situation only made her shudder. She tried not to think of all the years she’d wasted; fortunately she was cast in a pragmatic mold. What was done was done. But she didn’t intend to waste even one more day of her life.

Acutely aware that the situation was about to slip out of his grasp, Arne reverted to his usual method of controlling his wife: he raised his voice.

‘Asta, you have to stop all this nonsense! Unpack your clothes at once!’

For an instant she did stop packing, but only long enough to give him a look that summed up forty years of oppression. She gathered all her wrath, all her hatred, and tossed it back at him. To her satisfaction, she saw him recoil and shrink from her gaze. When he spoke again, he had returned to the quiet, pitiful voice. The voice of a man who realized that he’d for ever lost control.

‘I didn’t mean … I mean, of course I shouldn’t have spoken to the girl that way, I realize that now. But she lacked all respect, and when she behaved so stubbornly toward me I could hear the voice of God telling me that I was compelled to intervene, and—’

Asta cut him off. ‘Arne Antonsson. God has never spoken to you. He never will. You’re too stupid and deaf for that. As for all that nonsense I’ve listened to for forty years about how you never had a chance to become a pastor because your father drank up all the money—you should know that it wasn’t money that was lacking. Your mother kept a tight grip on the money and didn’t let your father drink up more than was necessary. But she told me before she died that she had no intention of throwing their money in the sea by sending you to seminary school. She may have been an unkind woman, but she had a clear head, and she could see that you weren’t suited to be a pastor.’

Arne gasped for breath and stared at her as he slowly turned more and more pale. For a moment she thought he was having a heart attack, and felt herself softening inside against her will. So, gathering the suitcase, she made herself march immediately out of the house. She slowly let the air seep out between her lips. She took no pleasure in destroying him, but in the end he gave her no choice.

27

Göteborg 1954

She didn’t understand how she could keep doing so many things wrong. Even though she had been trying so hard to be good, once again she had ended up down here in the cellar, and the dark seemed to make the wound on her bottom hurt that much more. The buckle on the belt had torn open the wound. Mother only used the end with the buckle when she had been really bad. If only she could understand what was so terrible about taking a tiny little cookie. They had looked so good, and the cook had made so many that she was sure nobody would notice if one was missing. But her mother sensed it somehow whenever she was about to stuff something good in her mouth. Mother would come sneaking up behind her without a sound, just as her hand was going to close around something delicious. Then all she could do was steel herself and hope for one of the milder punishments.

At first she had tried to catch Father’s eye, to see if he could save her, but he always looked away. He would pick up his newspaper and go out to sit on the veranda while Mother dispensed whatever punishment she’d chosen. She no longer even tried to get any help from him.

She was shivering from the cold. Little rustling sounds became magnified as she pictured gigantic rats and enormous spiders, and she could hear them getting closer. It was so hard to keep track of time. She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting down here in the dark, but judging by the growling in her stomach it must have been hours. She was nearly always hungry, which was why Mother kept reprimanding her so harshly. There seemed to be something inside her that constantly longed for food, cakes and candy, screaming to be filled with sweets. Right now, though, she could only taste the rough, dry, acrid substance that Mother always made her eat. A spoonful that was forced down her throat when the blows stopped and it was time for her to sit in the cellar. Mother said that what she was feeding her was Humility. Mother also said that she was punishing her for her own good. That a girl couldn’t allow herself to get fat, because then no man would look at her and she would have to spend her whole life alone.

Actually she didn’t understand what would be so terrible about that. Mother never seemed happy around Father, and none of the men who kept swaggering round Mother’s slim figure, giving her compliments and fawning over her, seemed to give her any great satisfaction either. No, she would rather be alone than live in the icy cold that prevailed between her parents. Maybe that was why food and sweets tempted her so much. Maybe what she wanted was to build a thick protective padding over her skin. Even at such a young age, she had known that she could never live up to her mother’s expectations. Mother had made that quite clear. Even so, she had really tried. She had done everything that Mother said, trying especially hard to starve off the fat that kept collecting under her skin. But nothing seemed to help.

But she had begun to learn who was actually to blame for the whole situation. Mother had explained that it was Father who demanded so much of them, and that was why Mother had to be so strict with her. At first that didn’t sound right. Father never raised his voice and seemed entirely too weak to make any demands on Mother, but the more often the claim was repeated, the more it began to sound like the truth.

She’d begun to hate Father. If only he stopped being so malicious and unreasonable, Mother would be nice and the beatings would stop and everything would be better. Then she wouldn’t need to eat so much, and become just as thin and beautiful as Mother, and Father would be proud of them both. Instead he made Mother sneak up to her room in tears in the evenings and in a whisper describe the various ways he tormented her. On those occasions she always said how painful it was for her to be the one who meted out the punishments. She called her darling, just like when she was small, and promised that things would be different. Then Mamma gave her a hug, which was so unusual and unexpected that the first time she sat as stiff as a stick, unable to respond to the embrace. Gradually, though, she began to long for those occasions when her Mother put her thin arms round her neck and she felt her cheeks wet with tears against her own. Then she felt needed.

As she sat there in the dark, she felt her hatred toward Father swelling monstrously inside her. In the daytime, up in the light, she had to hide this hatred of him behind smiles and curtseys, pretending everything was fine. But down here in the dark she could allow the monster out, letting it grow in peace and quiet. She actually got on well with the monster. It had turned into an old, dear friend, the only friend she had.

‘You can come up now.’

The voice from upstairs was clear and cold. She opened herself up and drew the monster inside, where it would stay until she ended up in the cellar again. Then it could come out and continue to grow.

Patrik received the call just as he was about to escort Kaj to the interrogation room. He listened in silence and then went to get Martin. As he reached his door, he remembered that Annika had told him that Martin had gone to Fjällbacka, and he cursed to himself when he realized that he would have to take along Gösta instead. He didn’t even consider Ernst. The mere thought of him made the rage rise up in his throat, even more so after the news he’d just heard. If the guy knew what was good for him, he would stay as far away from Patrik as humanly possible.

But just as he was heading reluctantly toward Gösta’s office, he heard Martin’s voice out in the reception area and hurried out to find him.

‘There you are. Thank goodness. I thought you wouldn’t get back in time. You have to come with me at once.’

‘What happened?’ said Martin, following Patrik, who hurried out the main entrance after giving a hasty wave to Annika behind the glass.

‘A young man has hanged himself. He left a note that mentions Kaj.’

‘Oh, shit.’

Patrik got behind the wheel of the police car and put on the blue light. Martin felt like an old lady as he automatically reached out for the handle above the door on the passenger side, but with Patrik in the driver’s seat it was a matter of sheer survival.

A mere fifteen minutes later, they pulled up in front of the Rydén family’s house in the part of Fjällbacka that for some reason was called ‘The Swamp.’ An ambulance was parked in front of the low brick house, and the EMTs were doing their best to lift a gurney out of the back. A little man with thinning hair in his forties was running back and forth on the driveway and seemed to be in shock. As Patrik and Martin climbed out of the car, one of the ambulance workers went over to the man, wrapped a yellow blanket round his shoulders, and seemed to be trying to coax him into sitting down. The man finally obeyed. With the blanket wrapped tight around him, he sank down on a low curb that marked the border between the driveway and the flower bed.

They approached the ambulance personnel and nodded their greetings.

‘So, what happened?’ asked Patrik.

‘The stepfather came home and found the boy in the garage. He hanged himself.’ One of the EMTs nodded toward the garage door, which somebody had pulled down so that nothing inside could be seen from the street.

Patrik looked over at the little man sitting a few yards away, reeling from a sight no one should ever have to see. He was shivering now, as if from the cold, which Patrik recognized as a sign of shock. But that was something for the EMTs to handle.

‘Can we go inside?’

‘Yes, we thought we’d just check with you before we lifted him down. He’s been hanging there a couple of hours, so there was no reason to hurry. We’re the ones who pulled down the garage door, by the way. It seemed unnecessary to let him hang there in public view.’

Patrik patted him on the shoulder. ‘Quite right, good thinking. In case there’s any connection with our ongoing homicide investigation, I’ve called the techs in too. So it was good that you didn’t cut him down. They should be here any minute, and they’ll no doubt want as few people as possible stomping around in there. I suggest that Martin and I go in and that you wait out here for the time being. Do you have the situation under control?’ He nodded in the direction of the stepfather.

‘Johnny will take care of him. But I’m sure you can talk to him in a little while. He told us that he found a note in the boy’s room. He didn’t bring anything out, so it’s probably still up there.’

‘Good,’ said Patrik and headed slowly toward the garage door. He grimaced, steeling himself as he bent down to take hold of the handle and raise the door.

The sight was just as horrible as he’d expected. He could hear Martin gasp behind him.

For a moment, it felt to Patrik as if the boy was staring right at them, and he had to stop himself from turning and running away. He turned around at a choking sound behind him, just in time to see Martin running out of the garage and over to a bush where he emptied his stomach.

He heard another vehicle pull up next to the police car and the ambulance and assumed it was the tech team arriving. He tried to move carefully so as not to disturb any evidence if this wasn’t a straightforward suicide. But nothing he saw contradicted that assessment. A thick rope hung from a hook in the ceiling. The noose was around the boy’s neck and a chair had been kicked over and lay on the floor. It looked like a kitchen chair brought from inside the house, with a cushion upholstered in a lingonberry pattern. Its bright cheerfulness offered a sharp contrast to the macabre scene.

Patrik heard a familiar voice behind him.

‘Poor devil, he wasn’t very old, was he?’ Torbjörn Ruud, chief of the technical team from Uddevalla, stepped into the garage and looked up at Sebastian.