THIS SUMMER OUR LIVES HAD INTERSECTED on only a tiny number of occasions. My dad had taken advice from Håkan and Dr. Norling long before he’d even informed me of what was going on. In this war council of men gathered at the farm I’d had no seat and no voice. Either that was because, as my mum claimed, they were working together to cover up a crime, or because I’d so effectively written myself out of my parents’ lives that my dad considered me of little use in this predicament. His reasoning would’ve been that I offered nothing and might myself have required attention when he had none to spare. Therefore believing in the conspiracy flattered me—it absolved me of responsibility, I’d been excluded for devious reasons rather than for deficiency of character. Troublingly, I wondered whether my mum had seen my absence as further evidence of a conspiracy against her. My absence offered her a hook from which to hang the notion that those men were set against her for a specific reason based upon local events. Up until this point I’d been ashamed of having played no part in events. But I was wrong. By not being there I’d played a very specific part. If everyone my mum loved had gathered in the farm that night, from both England and Sweden, could she have so conclusively believed that we were all against her? If I’d been there, with Mark by my side, there would’ve been no easy way for my mum to incorporate our support for my dad into her narrative, so far only hinted at, but which seemed to be about the sexual exploitation of a vulnerable young woman. I saw my name clearly in the otherwise blank email:
Daniel!
My reaction to her desperate email had been breezy complacency. I had no idea that I was being shaped in my mum’s mind as the alternative to my dad, a loved one who’d believe her. Her conspiracy had already begun to live in me:
“I should’ve flown out to Sweden, Mum, after that email.”
My mum gestured for me to take a seat and I obeyed. She joined me:
“What’s done is done. And I’m here with you now. We’re almost at the end. There’s only one last piece of evidence.”
My mum opened her purse, as though she were about to give me pocket money:
“Open your hand.”
I offered her my palm.
It’s a human tooth. No animal teeth look like this, burnt black, no flesh or tissue remaining.
Now you’re going to ask if I believe this is Mia’s tooth. You want to ask the question because if I say yes, then you have your proof. I’m insane and you must take me to a hospital.
My answer is this—
It’s a milk tooth, a child’s tooth. Mia was sixteen years old so it can’t be her tooth, and I never claimed it was.
The tooth came into my possession a few hours before Dr. Norling’s assessment. My appointment was scheduled for the afternoon—he selected the time, not me, a fact that struck me as irrelevant, but this was of great importance, the sequence of events is crucial, a sequence they hoped would drive me mad.
With the morning at my leisure I decided not to work. I needed to be fully rested and have my wits about me. If I failed Dr. Norling’s evaluation then I was finished, as an investigator and as a free individual. My liberty was at stake, decided not by a fair audience but conducted by one of my enemies. Was I compos mentis? If I failed their tests they’d drive me from his beach house to the hospital, where Norling would personally oversee my admission. I couldn’t skip the appointment even though it was self-evidently a trap. My absence would be taken as proof of madness and I’d be hunted down. So I’d attend, on time, punctual, well turned out—I’d attend and give them nothing—that was the key, give them nothing! Walk into their trap and wriggle right out! I wouldn’t talk about murder and conspiracy, not a word, instead I’d discuss my plans for the farm, the barn conversion, salmon fishing, vegetable gardens, homemade jam, I’d play the part of a docile and harmless wife entirely at ease with her new life, challenged, yes, tired from hard work, certainly, but looking forward to many happy years. Give them nothing, not a furrowed brow, not a single allegation, not a dark thought, and then what could the doctor do?
My plan was a good one. I intended to spend the next few hours avoiding anyone who might disturb me. I toyed with the boat. I swam. I was relaxing on the jetty, my feet in the water, when, in the distance, from the forest, I saw wisps of black smoke rising into the sky. I knew—I just knew—that the smoke was coming from Teardrop Island.
I jumped into the boat, barefoot, setting off upstream, using the electric motor at full speed, passing Håkan’s farm, noticing that his boat wasn’t docked. He must be on the river. Maybe he was already there. I pushed on, eyes fixed on the rising curl of smoke. As I reached the forest, there was a chemical smell. This wasn’t a natural fire. It was a petrol fire. Up ahead, Teardrop Island was ablaze. The cabin at the back was engulfed in flames twice as high as me. Embers fizzled on the surface of the river but I didn’t slow down, I took aim and rammed into the tip of the island, powering onto the muddy rim with a thud, jumping out, standing before the flames, cowering from the intense heat. Fortunately there was a container in the boat to shovel out rainwater, and I filled it from the river, throwing bucket after bucket at the base of the fire, plumes of steam erupting. Quickly the entire cabin collapsed. I used an oar to knock some of the burning planks into the river, where they spat and hissed.
My initial conclusion was an obvious one. The fire had been started for a simple reason—to destroy evidence. Almost certainly the people who’d started it were in the woods, watching the fire burn, and now they were watching me.
Let them watch!
I wasn’t scared. With the island smoldering I set about carefully pouring water on the ash until the area cooled down. Once that was done, and the water no longer turned to steam, I raked through the remains, running my fingers through the ash and the sooty puddles, the black water, finding a lump—the tooth you now hold. If I were mad I would’ve jumped to some sensational conclusion, screaming out:
“Murder! Murder!”
I didn’t. I sat on Teardrop Island, staring at the tooth, sat and sat, and thought and thought, and asked myself—what was this doing here? No corpse had been burnt on that island, where was the skull, the bones? The idea was ridiculous. Where had this tooth come from, this tiny tooth, this milk tooth, not Mia’s tooth but the tooth of a young child? It was then that I realized the true purpose of the fire was not to destroy evidence but to destroy me. The tooth had been planted there, possibly with several others, a handful of teeth to ensure I found at least one. My enemies had planted this shocking and provocative evidence before setting fire to the island.
Consider the sequence. Why now? Why would they have started a fire now, today, in the morning? Why not wait until I was at Norling’s house, by the sea, far away—I wouldn’t have seen the smoke, there was nothing I could’ve done. As an attempt to destroy evidence the fire makes no sense! The discovery of the tooth was too easy. The real purpose of this fire had been to unsettle me before Norling’s examination. They wanted me to walk into Norling’s house stinking of smoke and ash, with mad sooty hair, clutching this charred tooth, they wanted me to declare the black tooth as evidence of murder—to cry out:
“Murder! Murder!”
A simple laboratory test would reveal it was the tooth of some little girl, safe and well on another farm. She’d brought it to the island to show a friend, or some such lie. Where would I be then? What could I say? I’d be sent straight to the asylum.
I shook my fist and cursed my enemies hiding among the trees. I wasn’t the fool they thought me to be.
I’m no fool!
But they’d already won a small victory. I was going to be late for my appointment with the doctor. I hastily climbed back into the boat, noticing for the first time that one side of my foot was burnt from the hot embers, bubbling with blisters. It didn’t matter. I had no time to spare.
Returning to the farm as fast as I could, late for my appointment, I stripped off, tossing my smoke-stinking clothes aside, and swam in the river, hastily washing myself. I couldn’t wear those clothes again, so I ran naked to the farm, where I changed into fresh clothes, hiding the charred tooth in my satchel.
Chris was standing by the white van wearing his smartest clothes. When does your father wear anything other than jeans and a jumper? The reason was obvious. He was primed for his role at the hospital, for his appearance before the doctors and nurses, the devoted loving husband, wanting to appear at his best—which is to say, his most convincing. Gone were the T-shirts that stank of pot. Gone were the ugly old boots. Just as a mugger might borrow a suit that doesn’t fit for a court hearing, Chris had dug out clothes he never normally wears. He didn’t mention the smoke in the sky, didn’t ask where I’d been, didn’t pick up on the fact that I’d taken the boat. He studied me carefully, disappointed to find me compos mentis. He offered to drive. I didn’t trust the offer. I expected there’d be another incident, some frightening item placed on the seat, something to shock me, so I refused. I said we had very limited petrol, which was true, very little money, which was also true. I was more than happy to cycle and mentioned some small details that needed attending to on the farm as though it was inevitable I’d be returning soon, life would continue, this was not the end! He’d dressed up in his best clothes for no reason. There’d be no visit to the asylum today!
Leaving the farm on my bicycle, I slung my satchel over my shoulder, refusing to abandon it for their examination. I even dared to turn around, acquiring a knack for deceit, giving Chris a carefree wave goodbye, calling out a dishonest:
“I love you!”