Camilla Läckberg - The Hidden Child

Each time, Erik had listened and given in, but the feelings of guilt kept gnawing at him until, finally, only shame remained. To Erik the world had always been black and white. He dealt in facts, and was never more comfortable than when he was submerged in his books; there dates and names, times and places were set out in black letters on a white backdrop. Yet for sixty years Axel had persuaded him to inhabit a grey world of ambiguity and deceit. And they might have gone on that way had it not been for Elsy’s daughter – and Britta, whose defensive walls had begun to crumble from a disease that was slowly destroying her brain.

Axel had tried desperately to reason with Erik. Everything he was, everything he stood for, would be obliterated if he were to answer for this crime. No one would ever look at him in the same way. The work of an entire lifetime would be ruined. But this time his arguments failed to sway his brother. He was in Paris when he got the call from Erik. ‘It’s time,’ he said. Just like that. He had sounded drunk when he called, which was especially alarming because Erik never drank in excess. And he had sobbed on the phone, saying that he couldn’t take it any more, that he’d gone to see Viola to say goodbye so that she wouldn’t have to endure the shame when the truth came out. Then he had muttered something about how he had already set things in motion, but that he couldn’t wait any longer for someone else to air their dirty laundry in public. He was going to put an end to his own cowardice, put an end to the waiting, he had said, slurring his words as Axel gripped the phone, his hand sweating.

Axel had jumped on the first plane to Sweden, determined to make his brother see reason. He closed his eyes, heart aching as he relived that moment when he had rushed into the library and found Erik was sitting at his desk, scribbling absently on a notepad. In a dry and toneless voice he had said the words that Axel had lived in fear of for six decades. Erik had made up his mind. He couldn’t live with the guilt any longer.

He had been hoping that what Erik had said on the phone was merely empty talk, and that his brother would have come to his senses when he sobered up. But now he saw that he was mistaken. Erik was standing by his decision with frightening resolve. He had already begun to take steps to ensure that the truth would come out. He talked about the child, too. For the first time he revealed how he had managed to find out where the child had been placed, and the monthly payments he had made to the little boy’s adopted parents as a form of compensation for what they had taken from him. No doubt assuming that Erik was the boy’s father, they had accepted the payments without demur. But that still wasn’t enough for Erik. That act of penance hadn’t eased the pain that was tearing him apart. If anything, it had only made the consequences of their action all the more real. It was now time for the true penance, Erik had said, looking his brother in the eye.

In that instant Axel had understood that the life he had built – a life filled with admiration and respect – would be destroyed. Images from the camp flooded his mind: the prisoner next to him who had been shoved into the pit they were digging, the hunger, the stench, the degradation. The rifle butt striking his ear so that something broke inside of him. The dead man toppling against him in the bus as they headed home to Sweden. Suddenly he was back there: the sounds, the smells, the rage that had smouldered in his heart, even when he had no strength left and could focus only on survival. He no longer saw his brother sitting in the chair in front of him. Instead, he saw all the people who had demeaned him, harmed him, and who were now jeering at him, rejoicing in the fact that this time he would be the one who was led to the scaffold. But he refused to give them that satisfaction, all those people, dead and alive, who were lined up to taunt him. He wouldn’t be able to survive that. And he had to survive. That was the only thing that mattered.

There was a rushing in his ear, worse than usual, and he stopped hearing what Erik was saying; he just saw his lips moving. And then it was no longer Erik. It was the blond youth from Grini who had seemed so friendly when they talked, who had duped him into believing that he was the one human in that inhuman place. That same boy who had raised his rifle and then, with his eyes fixed on Axel’s, smashed the butt down into Axel’s head.

Filled with rage and pain, Axel picked up the object closest at hand. He had raised the heavy stone bust, held it high overhead as Erik continued to talk and scribble on the notepad on his desk.

Then he had let the bust fall. He hadn’t exerted any force, just let gravity make the bust strike his brother’s head. No, not Erik’s head. The prison guard’s head. Or was it Erik, after all? Everything seemed so confused. He was at home in their library, but all the smells and sounds were so vivid. The stench of corpses, boots stomping in time, German commands that could signify one more day to live, or death.

Axel could still hear the sound of the heavy stone striking skin and bone. Then it was over. Erik uttered a single groan before slumping lifeless in his chair, eyes still open.

After the initial shock and the realization of what he had done, a peculiar calm had settled over Axel. What was done was done. He had placed the stone bust under the desk, pulled off the bloody gloves he was wearing, and stuffed them in his jacket pocket. Then he had pulled down all the blinds, locked the door, and got in his car. He drove to the airport and caught the first flight back to Paris. And over the weeks that followed he had tried to suppress the whole thing and throw himself into his work, until the police phoned him.

It had been difficult to return home. At first he didn’t know how he would bring himself to set foot in that house again. But after the two friendly police officers had collected him at the airport and dropped him off at home, he had pulled himself together and simply done what he had to do. And as the days passed he had made peace with Erik’s spirit, which he could still feel as a presence in the house. He knew that his brother had forgiven him. But Erik would never forgive him for what he had done to Britta. Axel hadn’t laid hands on her himself, but he knew what the consequences would be when he had that phone conversation with Frans. He knew what he was doing when he told Frans that Britta was going to reveal everything. He had chosen his words carefully. Said what was necessary to provoke Frans into action, like a deadly bullet aimed with precision. He knew that Frans’s political ambitions, his longing for power and status, would make him react. During their phone conversation Axel could already hear the ferocious anger that had always been Frans’s driving force. So he bore just as much blame for her death as Frans did.

He pictured her face the last time he had seen her. Still beautiful. And Herman, looking at her with an expression of love that Axel had never even come close to. That love, that sense of togetherness, was what he had taken from them.

Axel watched yet another plane take off, bound for some unknown destination. He had reached the end of the road. There was nowhere for him to go now.

It came as a relief, after hours of waiting, to feel at last the hand on his shoulder and hear a voice speaking his name.

Paula kissed Johanna on the cheek and then kissed her son on the head. She still couldn’t believe that she’d missed the whole thing. And that Mellberg had been here instead.

‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she repeated for the umpteenth time.

Johanna smiled tiredly. ‘I have to admit that I did my share of swearing when I couldn’t get hold of you, but I know it wasn’t your fault that you got locked in. I’m just glad that you’re all right.’