THIRTY-SEVEN... THIRTY-EIGHT, she counted to herself before stopping to take a short break. She was already out of breath and she could feel the sweat soaking through her thin blouse. This was more difficult than she’d expected, even though she had crutches to help her along. She hardly felt any pain after swallowing four Tylenol 3s. The hospital had recommended she stay in bed for at least a week to lower the risk of bleeding, but she’d solved that problem with a hospital diaper and three menstrual pads. Her two police guards had initially insisted on following her, but after arguing about it for a bit they’d agreed to stay at the bottom of the stairs and guard the entrance.
She continued up the spiral staircase as she drank the last of the Brämhults Juice she had bought at the Pressbyrån down on Stortorget. She wished she’d bought a bigger bottle. She had wanted the larger size, but chose the smaller out of sheer stubbornness even though the price per litre was the same. It didn’t matter anyway. Pretty soon nothing would matter.
Fifty-nine... sixty. She had eighty-six steps left before she was at the top.
Sixty-one.
This was the second time in her life she’d walked up Kärnan tower. The first time was on a class trip in the eighth grade: they’d had to go into the various rooms to look at paintings and hear about how the thirty-five-metre-high tower had been built by the Danes in the early 1300s to keep watch and defend the Øresund inlet, along with Kronborg Castle. All she and her classmates had cared about was counting the steps up to the top as fast as they could.
Glenn Granqvist had been the first one to finish and he claimed there were one hundred and thirty-nine steps, but he was wrong. She remembered it as if it were yesterday —maybe because she’d been the first one up to broadcast the right number. There were one hundred forty-six steps; no more, no less.
Seventy-four.
She remembered her high school years as the best of her life. She’d been in her prime: top grades in all her classes and she’d still managed to be one of the most popular people in the class. Back then, Ingela Ploghed was the sort of person that people listened to. She’d wanted to become one of the best lawyers in the country and devote all of her energy to helping the weakest people on the bottom rungs of society. She’d had no problem getting accepted to law school in Lund and had loved the student life.
In retrospect, she had no idea how she did so well in school. There wasn’t a night without an invite to a party, each one crazier than the last. She would dance herself into a sweat at Västgöta Nation, only to go to a Twin Peaks party dressed as the Log Lady the next day. Two and a half years later, the romance had ended.
One hundred thirteen.
Late one night, she ran into Gerhard Kempe, her Civil Law lecturer, on her way home from Malmö Nation. He insisted on walking her to her door, and on the way they discussed the considerable differences in salary between male and female lawyers. Gerhard believed male lawyers earned more money because they were better at negotiating and realizing their own worth. She had argued that it didn’t matter how much women negotiated, they would still receive lower salaries than men. Now, in retrospect, she would probably agree with him.
Once they arrived at Sparta, the student building she lived in, he asked if they could have a nightcap. She declined, explaining that the last thing she needed was more alcohol. After that, everything happened so fast that all she had left were sporadic memories.
One hundred twenty-six. A hard blow to the face, falling.
One hundred twenty-seven. Head hitting the asphalt. Hands everywhere.
One hundred twenty-eight. Trying to claw her way free, screaming.
One hundred twenty-nine. More punches. Her front tooth loose. The taste of blood.
One hundred thirty. The sound of underwear ripping.
One hundred thirty-one. Eager fat fingers, deep inside her.
One hundred thirty-two. Giving up, letting him continue.
One hundred thirty-three. Turned on her stomach.
One hundred thirty-four. Hair pulled. Pain in her anus.
One hundred thirty-five. A warning not to tell anyone.
One hundred thirty-six. Scurrying footsteps, further in the distance.
She ran up the last few stairs as fast as she could and emerged into the daylight, the gentle breeze cooling her sweaty body.
The only visitors aside from her were a Dutch family with two adults and two children. She couldn’t understand what they were saying, but she could make out that the daughter standing by the binoculars was begging for money and the son kept stubbornly trying to climb up over the edge.
She went to stand in the corner furthest from the family, struck by the marvellous view. She couldn’t recall being this impressed when she was here with her class, which was unusual. As a kid, everything felt bigger, bolder, and deeper, but back then she’d had other concerns.
As usual, Jörgen and Glenn hadn’t been able to leave Claes alone; they had lifted him up to the edge of the wall and threatened to throw him over. She could still hear his voice, begging and pleading with them to stop. Their other classmates emerged from the stairwell one at a time, each out of breath and armed with a guess on the number of stairs in the tower. As soon as they realized what was going on with Claes, they’d rushed to the other side of the tower and pretended to enjoy the view.
She had approached Jörgen and Glenn and ordered them to put Claes down. “He’ll get down all right,” Jörgen replied with a grin. Camilla and Elsa had been there, too. Camilla just stood there staring as they messed with Claes, like she always did. It was as if she’d enjoyed watching Claes suffer. Predictably, Elsa ran her mouth. “Come on! What the hell are you waiting for? The wind is blowing his fucking dandruff around like snow! Oh my God, it’s so gross!”
It had felt like an eternity before Monika Krusentierna walked up, announcing the correct number of stairs. She had no intention of acknowledging that Claes was still sobbing, his eyes completely red.
The Dutch family vanished down the stairs and finally she was alone.
She rested her crutches against the wall, took off her sandals, and placed them beside each other along with her watch, headband, and necklace. She felt the pain return as soon as she climbed up and sat on the edge of the wall, but it didn’t bother her in the least. She looked out at the roofs and trees far below and let her feet dangle in the air. She’d thought she would feel faint and nauseous, but she only felt a sense of freedom. Soon it would all be over.
She had considered taking her own life after the first rape, even giving it a few clumsy tries. She’d read somewhere that people who failed to take their own lives actually wanted to live, and that the attempt was just a cry for help. But that wasn’t true for her. After the incident in Lund she’d started to hate herself until, deep down, she just wanted to die. It was no exaggeration for her to say that the last few years of her life had been nothing but a string of failures.
If she were to point her finger at the criminal who had assaulted her this time, it would only turn into another fiasco. She could identify him: the memory had come back to her in the policewoman’s car. She didn’t think she’d seen his face, but apparently she had. What did it matter now? No one would believe her anyway. If only it had been someone different, maybe she would have said something, but not him — not a chance. It would be her word against his. A drugged, half-conscious woman, or a...
Ingela Ploghed let go of the thought, closed her eyes, and leaned forward.