Camilla Läckberg - The Stone Cutter

'Back to your mum?' Mellberg repeated, as if he couldn't believe his ears. It was an option he hadn't even considered.

'But I thought you didn't like living there? You said you hated "that damned bitch," when you arrived.'

'Oh, Mum's all right,' said Simon, looking out of the window.

'And I'm not?' said Mellberg in a grumpy voice. He couldn't hide the disappointment that had crept in. He regretted being so hard on the boy. Maybe it wasn't really necessary for the kid to start working right away. There would be plenty of time for drudgery in his life; taking it easy for a while wasn't going to ruin his chances.

Mellberg hurried to declare his new point of view, but it didn't have the effect he expected.

'Oh, that's not it. Mum will probably make me get a job too. But it's my mates, you know. I have lots of mates back home, and here I don't know a soul and…' He let the sentence die out.

'But what about all the great things we've done together,' said Mellberg. 'Father and son, you know. I thought you were enjoying finally being with your old pop. Getting to know me.'

Mellberg was groping for a convincing argument. He couldn't imagine why only two weeks earlier he'd felt such panic, waiting for his son to arrive. Sure, he'd been angry with him occasionally, but still. For the first time, he had actually had a feeling of anticipation when he put the key in the door after work. And now all that was about to disappear.

The boy shrugged. 'You've been great. It has nothing to do with you. But I was never actually supposed to move here. That's just something Mum says when she gets mad. She's sent me to Grandma before, but now that she's sick, Mum didn't know what to do with me. But I talked to her yesterday. She's calmed down now and wants me to come home. So I'm taking the nine o'clock train in the morning,' he said without looking at Mellberg. But then he raised his eyes. 'But it's been really cool. Honest. And you've been bloody great and tried really hard and all that. So I'd like to come and visit sometimes, if that's okay…' He paused for a moment but then added, 'Pop?'

Warmth spread through Mellberg's chest. It was the first time the boy had ever called him Pop. Damn it, it was the first time anyone had ever called him Pop.

All at once he found it a bit easier to take the news that the boy was leaving. At least he would be coming back to visit once in a while. Pop.

It was the hardest thing they had ever done. At the same time it gave them a feeling of closure that would enable them to build a foundation for their marriage in the future. The sight of the little white casket sinking into the ground made them hold each other tight. Nothing in the world could be more difficult than this. Saying goodbye to Sara.

Niclas and Charlotte had chosen to be alone. The ceremony in the church had been short and simple. They had wanted it that way. Only the two of them and the pastor. And now they stood alone by the grave. The pastor had spoken the words the occasion demanded and then quietly withdrawn. They had tossed a single rose onto the casket, and it shone bright pink against the white wood. Pink had been her favourite colour. Maybe just because it clashed with her red hair. Sara had never chosen the easy paths.

Their hatred for Lilian was still fresh. Charlotte felt ashamed to be standing in the stillness of the churchyard, with so much hatred gushing out of every pore in her body. Maybe it would be assuaged over time, but out of the corner of her eye she saw the mound of earth on her father's grave, formed when he was laid to rest for the second time. Then she wondered how she would ever be able to feel anything other than rage and sorrow.

Lilian had not only taken Sara from them, but also her father, and she would never forgive her for that. How could she? The pastor had talked about forgiveness as a way to lessen the pain, but how does one forgive a monster? She didn't even understand why her mother had committed these horrendous crimes. The meaningless- ness of the deeds only stoked the fury and pain she felt. Was Lilian completely insane, or had she acted according to some sort of demented logic? The fact that they might never find out made the loss even harder to bear; she wanted to rip the words of explanation out of her mother's mouth.

Besides all the flowers from people in town who wanted to show their sympathy, two small wreaths had also arrived at the church. One was from Sara's paternal grandmother Asta. It was placed next to the casket and had now been carried down to the churchyard to be placed beside the small gravestone. Asta had also contacted them to ask if she could attend, but they had politely refused. They wanted the time to themselves. Instead they asked whether she might consider taking care of Albin while they went to the church. And she had agreed with pleasure.

The second wreath was from Charlotte's maternal grandmother Agnes. Without knowing why, Charlotte had refused to have it anywhere near the casket and had ordered it thrown out. She had always thought that Lilian took after her mother, and in some way she knew instinctively that the evil came from her.

They stood in silence by the grave for a long while, with their arms around each other. Then they walked slowly away. For a second Charlotte stopped at her father's grave. She gave a brief nod of farewell. For the second time in her life.

In the little cell Lilian felt safe for the first time in many years, oddly enough. She lay on her side on the narrow bunk, taking calm, deep breaths. She didn't understand the frustration of the people asking her all those questions. What difference did it make why she had done it? The result was all that mattered. That's how it always was. But now they were suddenly interested in the reasoning behind the deeds, in some logic they thought they might find, in explanations and truths.

She could have talked to them about the cellar. About the heavy, sweet scent of Mother's perfume. About the voice that was so seductive when it called her 'darling'. And she could have told them about the rough, dry taste in her mouth, about the monster that lived inside her, still vigilant, still ready to act. Above all she could have told them how her hands, trembling with hatred, not with fear, carefully put the poison in Father's cup and then scrupulously stirred it, watching it dissolve and vanish into the hot tea. It was lucky that he always took his tea with so much sugar.

That had been her first lesson. Not to believe in promises. Mother had promised her that everything was going to be different. Once Father was gone, they would live a completely different life. Together, close. No more cellar, no more fear. Mother would touch her, caress her, call her 'darling', and never let anything come between them again. But promises were broken as easily as they were made. She had learned that back then and would never let herself forget it. Sometimes she had allowed her mind to consider the thought that what Mother had said about Father might not have been true. But she immediately dismissed that idea to the very depths of her soul. She couldn't even think about that possibility.

She had learned another important lesson as well. To never let herself be abandoned again. Father had abandoned her. Mother had abandoned her. Then she was shuttled from one foster family to another like a soulless piece of baggage, and they all had abandoned her too, if only through their lack of interest.

When she visited her mother at the prison in Hinseberg, she had already made up her mind. She would create a new life, a life in which she had the control. The first step had been to change her name. She never again wanted to hear that name that trickled like venom over Mother's lips. 'Mary. Maaaryyy.' When she had sat in the dark of the cellar, that name had echoed between the walls, making her cower and curl up into a ball.