Liza Marklund - Red Wolf

‘I see what you mean,’ Annika said, putting her hand on the door-handle to help her stay upright.

‘When I walk around town everything seems so strange. I don’t remember it ever looking like this. It’s hard to breathe, somehow. Everything’s so fucking grey. People look like ghosts; I get the idea that half of them are already dead. I don’t know if I’m alive. Can anyone live like that?’

Annika nodded and swallowed audibly, the door to the bin room crashed twice, bang, bang.

‘Welcome to the darkness,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you’ve come to keep me company.’

It took a few moments for Anne to appreciate the seriousness of her words.

‘What’s happened?’ she said, getting up, taking off her coat and scarf and hanging them up. Then she joined Annika at the window, looking down at the bin room.

‘It’s a whole load of things,’ Annika said. ‘My position at work is pretty shaky; Schyman has forbidden me to write about terrorism. He thinks the Bomber made me a bit crazy.’

‘Huh,’ Anne said, folding her arms.

‘And Thomas is having an affair,’ she went on, almost in a whisper, the words rolling round the walls, growing larger and larger until they got caught on the ceiling.

Anne looked sceptically at her. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’

Annika’s throat contracted, the sticky little words wouldn’t come out. She looked down at her hands and cleared her throat, then looked up. ‘I saw them. Outside NK. He kissed her.’

Anne’s mouth had fallen half open, scepticism and disbelief dancing across her face.

‘Are you sure? You couldn’t be mistaken?’

Annika shook her head, looked down at her hands again.

‘Her name’s Sophia Grenborg, she works for the Federation of County Councils. She’s on the same working group as Thomas – you know, the one looking into threats to politicians…’

‘Shit,’ Anne said. ‘Shit. What a bastard. What’s he say? Does he deny it?’

Annika closed her eyes and put a hand to her forehead. ‘I haven’t said anything,’ she said. ‘I’m going to deal with this my own way.’

‘What?’ Anne said. ‘Rubbish. Of course you’ve got to talk to him.’

Annika looked up. ‘I know he’s thinking about leaving me and the children. He’s started lying to me as well. And he has been unfaithful before.’

Anne looked astonished. ‘Who with?’

Annika tried to laugh and felt the stone forcing tears into her eyes.

‘With me,’ she finally said.

Anne Snapphane sighed heavily and looked at her with eyes of black glass. ‘You’ve got to talk to him.’

‘And I hear angels,’ Annika said, taking a deep breath. ‘They sing to me, and sometimes they talk to me. As soon as I get stressed they start up.’

And she shut her eyes and hummed their melancholy song.

Anne Snapphane took hold of her shoulders and pulled her round to face her with a stern, dark expression on her face.

‘You’ve got to get help,’ she said. ‘Do you hear me, Annika? For God’s sake, you can’t go round with a load of fairies in your head.’ She took a step closer, shaking Annika until her teeth rattled. ‘You mustn’t let go, Anki, listen to me.’

Annika pulled free of her friend’s grasp.

‘It’s okay,’ she said quietly. ‘They go away when I have something to think about. When I’m working, doing things. Do you want coffee, then?’

‘Green tea,’ Anne said. ‘If you’ve got any.’

Annika went into the kitchen with a peculiar bounce in her step, feeling the angels’ astonishment right down to her stomach. She had called their bluff. They didn’t think she’d do that; they were sure they’d be able to sing and console her and terrorize her for ever without anyone ever finding out.

She poured water in the little copper pan, lit the stove with the lighter that only just managed to muster enough of a spark to ignite the blue flames.

The voices started up, weak, isolated…

She gasped for breath and slapped the side of her head with one hand to make them shut up.

Anne came into the kitchen in her stockinged feet; she had got some colour back in her face, an inquisitive look in her eyes.

Annika tried to smile.

‘I think they’re mostly trying to comfort me,’ she said. ‘They only sing nice things.’

She walked over to the pantry and felt in the half-darkness inside for the tea.

Anne Snapphane sat down at the kitchen table. Annika could feel her eyes on her back.

‘But it’s you doing it,’ Anne said. ‘Don’t you get it? You’re consoling yourself; you’re looking after the little child somewhere in there. Did anyone sing you songs like that when you were little?’

Annika blew away a mean comment about amateur psychology and actually managed to find some Japanese tea that she’d been given by someone at work.

‘Are you serious about moving?’ she said, returning to the now-boiling water. ‘I can recommend Kungsholmen. We islanders are a bit better than everyone else.’

Anne picked up a few stray crumbs from breakfast between her thumb and forefinger and thought for a moment before replying.

‘Somehow I suppose I thought Mehmet would move out to us, or that we’d just carry on like we were for ever, if that makes any sense? He sort of… belonged, and without him it’s… wrong. It’s miserable and a long way away and the old sod downstairs is always trying to sneak a look under my dressing gown when I go down to get the paper.’

‘So what’s most important?’ Annika said, pouring tea through the strainer into the cup.

‘Miranda,’ Anne said without thinking. ‘Although I realize I can’t be a martyr and give up everything important for her sake, but the house on Lidingö has never been that important to me. Of course I like modernism, but I can probably survive without the right sort of interior design.’

‘Maybe you could put up with a bit of art nouveau if you had to?’ Annika said, carrying the mugs over.

‘Even a bit of national romanticism. Cheers.’

Annika sat down facing Anne and watched her blow on the hot drink.

‘Östermalm, you mean?’

Anne nodded, grimacing as she burned her tongue.

‘As close as possible, so she can walk between us.’

‘How big?’

‘How expensive, you mean? I can’t add anything in cash.’

They drank their tea in silence, listening to the door of the bin room bang at irregular intervals down in the courtyard. The kitchen swayed gently in the weak winter light, the angels hummed uncertainly, the stone twisted and scratched.

‘Shall we have a look online?’ Annika said, and stood up, unable to sit there any longer.

Anne slurped her tea and followed her to the computer.

Annika sat down and concentrated on icons and keys.

‘Let’s start with the ultimate,’ she said. ‘Three rooms, balcony and open fire on Artillerigatan?’

Anne sighed.

There was one like that for sale, one hundred and fifteen square metres, three floors up, in excellent condition, new kitchen, fully tiled bathroom with bath and basin, viewing Sunday at 16.00.

‘Four million?’ Anne guessed, peering at the screen.

‘Three point eight,’ Annika said, ‘but it’ll probably go up when they start getting offers.’

‘That’s absurd,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘I can’t afford that. What would the monthly payments on a four million mortgage be?’

Annika shut her eyes and did the maths in her head.

‘Twenty thousand, plus fees, but minus tax deductions.’

‘What about something smaller?’

They found a two-room flat on the ground floor on the wrong side of Valhallavägen for one and half million.

‘Unemployed,’ Anne said, sitting down heavily on the arm of Annika’s chair. ‘Abandoned by my daughter’s father, halfway to alcoholic and with a two-room flat on the ground floor. Can I sink any lower?’