I slept poorly; woke up several times and had a hard time going back to sleep. Listened to the blackbird who carried on in the cage in Samuel’s room. Twisted and turned in the damp sheets. Cried and prayed alternately.
I cannot understand that Father is gone.
That his soul was called home by the Lord while I was digging up a bag full of drug money – because those bills hardly came from selling Brownie biscuits.
When I arrived at the hospice one of the nurses escorted me into his room.
There were fresh cut flowers on his bedside table and a candle was burning next to them. Father’s hands were folded over the Bible on his chest. It was beautiful and terrible at the same time. Commonplace, even as it defied the imagination – that a beloved person can be here one second and gone the next.
And in the midst of sorrow I felt anger.
Father chose a very convenient time to die. Now I will never have any answers to why he didn’t tell me that Mother wanted to see me.
We are alone now, Samuel and I.
I think of him. Remember the tiny body that the midwife placed on my chest and the joy in Father’s eyes when he saw his grandchild for the first time, despite the unfathomable shame. Despite his unmarried teenage daughter having sinned and given birth to an illegitimate child.
And then the fat little two-year-old, with rolls on his legs and arms. The one who was always happy, as long as he got double portions of formula.
And now?
Money in a bag under a rock.
Tiny bags full of drugs, spread out like rose petals across the linoleum floor in the apartment.
Expensive designer clothes that I knew he couldn’t afford.
And it is all my fault. It has to be, because of course Samuel was born perfect and innocent like all God’s children.
I put the last of the cheese sandwich in my mouth and glance at the bag on the floor.
‘Just do it,’ it says.
I couldn’t keep myself from looking inside the bag when I got home.
Samuel was right – it was full of money. And as soon as I’d seen the stacks of bills lying randomly the fear came creeping back in and I began thinking about the man in the stairwell again – Igor.
My body remembered too, because the place where he grabbed my arm ached and the skin stung as if I’d got sunburnt.
I had to get up several times. Check that the front door was locked and that the safety chain was on. And when I stood in the dark behind the thin curtain in the living room I thought I saw someone in the shadows outside – a dark figure hiding by the trees on the other side of the road.
But that had to have been my imagination?
In any case I do not intend to keep this money in my room a minute longer than necessary. I have made plans to meet Samuel by the dock in Stuvskär at five o’clock this afternoon, but I have decided to leave in the morning.
It is Midsummer’s Eve.
I always spent Midsummer with Father. This will be my first time without him. Without pickled herring, sour cream and finely chopped chives. Without visiting the maypole. Without beer and aquavit and rain and sun and sun and rain.
I look out through the window.
The sun is shining down from a clear sky and the tree canopies don’t appear to move an inch.
It is a beautiful day, as good a day as any to tell Samuel that his grandfather has passed away.
And to give him that godforsaken bag.
I still haven’t unpacked the backpack I was supposed to bring on the hike. I decide to bring it to Stuvskär, in case Samuel needs to borrow something when he leaves.
I have a shower and brush my teeth. Put on a layer of mascara and pull a thin summer dress over my head. Then I take my backpack in one hand and the gym bag in the other and go out to the car.
*
Around the time I pass Länna I begin to get suspicious.
The black BMW that has been behind me since I got onto the Nynäs road is still there, even though I have tried slowing down as well as speeding up.
The vehicle is too far away for me to be able to see who is driving, but whoever it is, they are very concerned with maintaining distance.
A cold feeling spreads across my chest and my mouth goes dry. Despite the sunshine and the lush summer greenery surrounding me I feel unsafe.
I tell myself I am imagining things and turn the sound up on my stereo, so that I can hear the music through the roar from the open windows that are the closest my old banger comes to having AC.
The radio station plays ‘Dancing Queen’.
ABBA was the only modern music group that Father would play when I was growing up. Really he preferred classical music and Christian bands, but I suspect he was so fond of ABBA that he just couldn’t help listening to them.
The result was that we would play ABBA until the records were so worn that he was forced to buy new ones. And I knew every song by heart, despite not understanding the words.
The fact is that I would recount the names of the songs to myself if I got scared for some reason. Like a mantra.
‘Dancing Queen’
‘Mamma Mia’
‘Chiquitita’
‘The Winner Takes It All’
I adjust the rear-view mirror a bit and notice a white Volvo that has overtaken the black BMW and is now in the space between us.
My heart finds its normal rhythm and I draw a deep sigh of relief. Focus on the road in front of me. Loosen my white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and wipe the sweat – first from the palm of one hand, then from the other – against the thin fabric of my skirt.
Then I raise the volume again and sing along to the lyrics.
But when I drive into Stuvskär a while later I see the black car again, maybe seventy-five yards behind me. It is rolling so slowly it is almost standing still.
The panic surfaces again.
My heart is beating out of my chest and sweat trickles between my breasts. Keeps running, like a small stream of anxiety, along the side of my belly.
What are my options?
Should I park, as if nothing has happened, and just go and lie down on a rock without worrying about the car, or should I try to shake off my shadow – if that is what it is.
Shake off my shadow?
That’s a line straight out of a crime novel. Do I even know how to do such a thing?
Still I decide to try to do just that. Drive around the small roads in the area in the hope of losing the black BMW, as if it were an annoying insect crawling on my clothes.
I turn around by the ferry dock and drive back towards the black car. It immediately turns onto a forest road.
When I pass I slow down to try to get a glimpse of the driver, but it is impossible so I accelerate and continue a few hundred yards before I take a right on a small gravel road.
The road is terrible – there are large potholes here and there and I repeatedly have to dodge rocks.
I am surrounded by a forest of sparse, tall pines. The sun is filtering through the canopies and creating lace-like patterns on the roadway. Between the thin trees chubby slabs of granite poke through, partially overgrown with white moss. In the crevices I catch glimpses of ferns and blueberry bushes.
The air is cooler here in the shade. Cooler and saturated with the scent of conifers and rich soil.
I see fantastic villas from the last turn of the century and box-like summer homes from the 1950s. I see caravans and expensive sports cars parked on neat driveways, but I don’t see any people.
Where is everyone? Have the Midsummer festivities already begun?
I glance in my rear-view mirror.
Nothing.
I slow down and continue winding along the narrow dirt roads around Stuvskär. Then I drive across a small bridge leading over glimmering water and onto one of the small islands.
There are fewer houses here. At one point I glimpse a driveway and I see one building a bit further into the woods, but generally speaking the area is oddly deserted.
Just as I am about to begin making my way back to the dock I discover the black car in my rear-view mirror.
I feel as if someone kicked me right in the gut.
Maybe it would be better to return to Stuvskär and go and lie on the rocks after all?
I slow down and drive around a large rock that has fallen onto the roadway. At the same time I see a narrow driveway on my right. There is a motorbike parked next to a black Volvo and something about the motorbike looks familiar. Something about the black paint and the flames on the petrol tank.
I look in among the pines. Glimpse the top floor and roof of a beautiful old wooden house.
I accelerate and look in the rear-view mirror again.
The car is still there and I say a prayer:
‘Please, God. Help me get to Stuvskär safely. In Jesus’ name. Amen.’
I squeeze the steering wheel as I whisper these words. Close my eyes for a moment trying to get in touch with Him.
When I open my eyes again I am blinded by a ray of sunlight. I squint and try to make out the contours of the road.
The forest has got denser. It is darker and in places there are fir trees growing among the pines.
I look in the rear-view mirror.
The car is gone.
Is it possible? Has my prayer been heard?
At first I don’t dare believe it’s true. I drive around the small roads for probably fifteen minutes before I realise that the BMW really is gone.
‘Thank you, God,’ I murmur and begin to find my way back to Stuvskär. ‘Thank you, God, for hearing my prayer.’