Liza Marklund - Red Wolf

The Black Panther , he thought, stopping beside the snow-covered mini-golf course to catch his breath, letting his lost children come to him. His heir and eldest son, the most impatient and restless of them, the most uncompromising, the Panther had taken his name from the freedom fighters in the USA. There had been some discussion about that in the group; someone had claimed that calling yourself something American was counter-revolutionary. The Panther himself claimed the opposite, said that taking the name of America’s own critics supported the fight against the lackeys of capitalism.

Personally he had remained on the sidelines, watching the others argue. When they couldn’t agree he cast the deciding vote and sided with the Panther.

His chest grew thick and tight when he thought about how the young revolutionary had changed. Without his leader the Black Panther had become a mere shadow instead of a force to be reckoned with.

The other children had gone their separate ways, had ended up far from their ideals. Worst of all was the White Tiger. The middle-aged Tiger was so different from the skinny boy he remembered that he almost suspected they had switched him for someone else.

He walked slowly towards his cabin, the smallest one, called a Rälsen. The White Tiger had walked with him here that summer; and suddenly he was beside him once more, the boy who had chosen his name because the colour stood for purity, clarity, and the animal symbolized stealth and strength.

He had been pure of heart, the man thought, yet today his heart is as black as the steelworks he runs.

Behind curtains and round corners he caught glimpses of people busy with inconsequential human activities: drinking coffee, writing shopping lists, hatching mean plots against their competitors, and dreaming of sexual fulfilment. The cluster of cabins was almost fully occupied, visitors to one of the fairs in the huge monstrosity, which suited him fine. No one had spoken to him since he had checked in after his trip to Uppland.

He stopped outside his cabin, aware that he was swaying, that his powers would soon be gone. His two last children came to him.

The Lion of Freedom had been given his name because it was agreed that someone in the group ought to symbolize their solidarity with Africa, but the Lion himself had been incapable of any truly great thoughts. There was nothing wrong with the lad’s convictions, but he needed a strong leader to help him find the right path. Together they had decided to make the Lion of Freedom’s roar echo across the whole of the oppressed black continent and liberate the masses.

The Lion of Freedom was the one who probably needed him most; he was also the one for whom things had turned out worst.

I’ll take care of you, my son , the man thought, and went into his little cabin.

He sat on the chair by the door and struggled to take off his shoes. His diaphragm was really hurting now, and bending down made him feel sick. He groaned and leaned back against the chair, shutting his eyes for a moment.

His other daughter, Barking Dog, had been noisy and difficult in the sixties, but so much could have happened. It would be interesting to meet her. Maybe it was she who really deserved her inheritance.

He went over to the wardrobe to check that the duffel bag was still there.

The front door clicked shut with a bang and silence spread through the apartment. Annika was alone again. She lay in bed with her head burrowed into the pillow and her knees drawn up to her chin, the duvet cover damp with anxiety. The angels were humming in the background, monotonous and powerless.

She had to get up today, at least to pick up the children. She wasn’t ill often; Thomas wasn’t used to being responsible for them, both dropping them off and picking them up as well as preparing food and reading to them and putting them to bed. It made him grouchy and irritable and made her feel guilty.

She snuggled deeper under the covers.

Things could be worse , she thought.

If the children got sick. If Thomas left her. If the paper was shut down. If war broke out in Iraq, all of that would be worse. This is nothing .

But it was something. It was like a big hole where the foundation of her professional confidence had been.

She had trusted Schyman. Trusted his judgement.

Something had happened, either to him or to her. Maybe to both of them. Maybe it was because of the story; maybe it was too big for them.

Or maybe she really had gone mad in that tunnel. She knew that this was a real possibility.

Had she lost the ability to judge relevance and probability? Was she on the verge of losing her grip on reality?

She pulled the covers over her head and let the thought creep up on her. It stopped beside her, settling down on her pillow. She looked at it and realized that it really wasn’t dangerous.

The story was what it was, and she was right. There was something there. Schyman may have been right before, but not this time.

She threw off the duvet and gasped for air. She hurried naked into the bathroom and brushed her teeth and showered, in rapid succession.

The apartment echoed desolately without Thomas and the children. She stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and looked at the mess they had left behind them from breakfast, without really acknowledging it. Instead she listened to the sound of silence, sounds she never appreciated when they were all home and she had another function apart from just being an individual. When she became part of something bigger than herself, the little, insignificant things didn’t get through to her. In her role as Responsible Adult, only the most persistent cries reached her, like ‘Food!’ and ‘Sticky Tape!’ and ‘Where’s Tiger?’

Now she was just her own self, off sick, holed below the waterline, a used-up reporter who had passed her sell-by date, and the nuances submerged her, making her listen in mute astonishment.

The fridge was rumbling, deep and steady, a half-tone lower than the ventilation unit on the roof of the next building. The smell of frying was creeping in from somewhere, a restaurant in the block heating up pans and griddles and preparing lunch of the day. The buses at the stop down on Hantverkargatan sighed and groaned, sirens from the fire engines stationed by Kronoberg Park rose and fell.

Suddenly the panic struck.

I can’t bear it .

All the muscles in her body strained, sound and breathing vanished.

There’s nothing wrong , she thought. It just feels like it. I’m not suffocating, but the opposite. I’m hyperventilating, it’ll pass, just wait, calm down .

And the floor came closer and pressed against her thighs and elbows until she ended up staring under the dishwasher.

He completely invalidated me as a person , she thought, a moment of clarity that brought back sound and colour. Schyman wasn’t just seeing me as a reporter; he took away my honour and value as a person. He’s never done that before. He must be under serious pressure from an unlikely desire to be accepted. I’m not accepted. He can’t go into battle on my side right now, because it would cost too much .

She got up, noticing that she had banged her knee. Her arms and feet ached, a sign that she had absorbed too much oxygen. Her panic attacks had disappeared for several years. She hadn’t had any since the children were born, until the Bomber got her. Now they came at irregular intervals, with the same violence and terror as they had before.

I wonder if I need happy pills , she thought.

She knew that Anne Snapphane had a large bottle hidden in her bathroom cabinet.