Camilla Läckberg - The Drowning

‘And I’ve hung him out to dry in one of Sweden’s biggest newspapers, so you’d better watch out, because he’s probably still wishing that I’d go to hell.’

‘It won’t be that bad.’

‘If I were in his shoes, I’d never speak to me again.’

‘Stop being so dramatic and pessimistic,’ said Patrik, lifting Maja on to the counter so she could sit there and see what he was doing. She loved to watch him cook and always wanted to ‘help out’. ‘Go over to see him tomorrow and explain what happened. Tell him it was never your intention for things to get out like this. Then I’ll have a talk with him and try to get him to cooperate with us.’ He handed Maja a slice of cucumber, which she instantly started gnawing on, using the few but very sharp teeth she had.

‘Tomorrow? Okay,’ sighed Erica.

‘Yes, tomorrow,’ said Patrik, bending down to give his wife a kiss on the lips.

Ludvig found himself constantly casting glances at the side of the football pitch. It just wasn’t the same without his father.

He had been to every practice session, no matter what the weather. Football was their thing. It was the reason their friendship had lasted, in spite of Ludvig’s determination to break free of his parents. Because they had actually been friends, he and his father. Of course they’d quarrelled now and then, just like all fathers and sons. But in spite of it, they had still remained friends.

Ludvig closed his eyes, picturing his father in his mind. Wearing jeans and a woollen sweater with ‘Fjällbacka’ across the chest. It was the sweater he’d worn so often, to his wife’s regret. His hands stuffed in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the ball. And on Ludvig. But he never yelled at his son – not like the other fathers who turned up at practice and football matches, spending their time screaming from the sidelines. ‘You better bloody well pull yourself together, Oscar!’ or ‘Damn it, get moving, Danne!’ Nothing like that. Not from his father. All he ever said was: ‘Good, Ludvig!’ ‘Great pass!’ ‘You show them, Ludde!’

Out of the corner of his eye Ludvig saw that the ball was about to be passed to him, and he automatically kicked it onward. He no longer took any joy in playing football. But he still did his best, running hard and fighting to win in spite of the winter chill. He could have easily thrown in the towel and given up. Stayed away from practice, saying to hell with it and the whole team. No one would have blamed him; everyone would have understood. Except his father. Giving up had never been an option for him.

So here Ludvig was. One of the team. But all his joy was missing, and the sideline was empty. His father was gone. He knew that now. Father was gone.

He wasn’t allowed to ride in the caravan. And that was only the first of many disappointments during the so-called holiday. Nothing turned out the way he had hoped. The silence, broken only by harsh words, seemed even more oppressive when it didn’t have a whole house to move around in. Being on holiday felt like having more time for quarrels, more time for Mother’s outbursts. And Father seemed even smaller and greyer.

This was the first time he went along, but as he understood it, every year Mother and Father would take the caravan to the place with the peculiar name. Fjällbacka. The name meant ‘Mountain Hill’ in Swedish, but he saw no mountains and only a few hills. The ground was completely flat in the camping area where they parked the caravan, squeezed in among scores of other campers. He wasn’t sure that he liked it. But Father had explained that Mother’s family was from the area, and that was why she wanted to go there.

But that was strange too, because he didn’t meet any relatives. During one of the arguments inside the cramped space of the caravan, he finally understood that someone called the Old Bitch lived here, and that she was what his mother meant by ‘family’. What a funny name that was. The Old Bitch. But it didn’t sound as if his mother cared much for her, because her voice got even harsher when she talked about the woman, and they never did see her. So why did they have to come to this place at all?

Yet what he hated most about Fjällbacka and being on holiday was having to go swimming. He’d never swum in the sea before. At first he wasn’t sure what to think. But his mother admonished him. Said she refused to have a wimp for a son, and she told him to stop whining. So he took a deep breath and timidly waded into the frigid water, even though the feeling of cold and salt on his legs made him gasp for air. When the water reached up to his waist, he stopped. It was too cold, he couldn’t breathe. And he could feel something moving around his feet, touching the calves of his legs, something creeping and crawling over him. Mother waded out to him from shore, laughing, and then took his hand to lead him further out. All of a sudden he felt happy. She was holding his hand, and her laughter bounced off the surface of the water and off of him too. His feet now seemed to move of their own accord, as if they left the sandy bottom and were floating. At last he couldn’t feel anything solid under his feet, but that didn’t matter, because Mother had hold of him, she was carrying him, she loved him.

Then she let go. He felt the palm of her hand slide over his, then her fingers slipped past his fingertips until not only his feet but his hands were fumbling with nothingness. Again he felt the cold pressing against his chest, and the water seemed to rise up. It reached his shoulders, his neck, and he raised his chin to prevent the water from reaching his mouth, but it rose too fast, and he couldn’t stop it. His mouth filled with salt and cold, which raced down his throat, and the water kept rising – over his cheeks, his eyes, and he felt the water close like a lid over his head, until all sound vanished and the only thing he heard was the roar of what was crawling and creeping.

He flailed his arms, lashing out at whatever it was that wanted to pull him downward. But he was no match for the massive wave of water, and when he finally felt someone’s skin against his own, a hand on his arm, his first instinct was to defend himself. Then he was yanked upward, and the top of his head surfaced. The first breath was brutal and painful, then he greedily gasped for air. Mother had a tight grip on his arm, but that didn’t matter. Because the water was no longer trying to get him.

He looked up at her, grateful that she had rescued him, that she hadn’t let him disappear. But what he saw in her eyes was contempt. Somehow he’d done something wrong, he had disappointed her again. If only he knew why.

He had black and blue marks on his arm for days afterward.

‘Did you really have to drag me over here today?’ It was rare for Kenneth to let his annoyance show. He believed in staying calm and focused in every situation. But Lisbet had looked so sad when he told her that Erik had phoned and he’d have to go over to the office for a couple of hours even though it was Sunday. She hadn’t complained, and in a sense, that just made it worse. She knew how few hours they had left together. How important they were, how precious. And yet she offered no objections. Instead, he saw how she summoned the strength to be able to smile and say: ‘Of course you have to go. I’ll be fine.’

He almost wished that she had got angry and screamed at him. Told him that it was about time for him to get his priorities straight. But she didn’t have it in her to do anything like that. He couldn’t recall a single occasion in their twenty-year marriage when she had raised her voice to him. Or to anyone else, for that matter. She had accepted all setbacks and sorrows with equanimity, and she’d even comforted him when he was the one to break down. Whenever he lacked the energy to carry on, she had mustered enough strength for both of them.