Mari Jungstedt - Dark Angel

‘Why does everything always have to get wrecked? Why can’t I ever be happy for just one minute?’

I noticed that the people at the other tables were staring at Mamma with a mixture of surprise and alarm. And then, to my dismay, I suddenly felt something running down my legs. When Mamma saw it too, she got even angrier.

‘So now you’re peeing your pants like a baby? Haven’t you already done enough? Haven’t you? You stupid sodding brat! You always ruin everything – absolutely everything!’

Terrified, I sat frozen to my chair, incapable of moving. In one hand I still held the empty cone.

Mamma was silent and withdrawn the whole way back to Grandma’s flat. I never got to see the elephants. I would never visit Skansen again.

SUNDAY STARTED OFF slowly at the editorial offices of Regional News in Visby. Johan Berg rarely had to work on Sundays; it only happened a few times a year. What annoyed him most was that on this particular day, the editors in Stockholm had decided that they didn’t need any stories from Gotland. The news reports would consist entirely of stories compiled at headquarters on the mainland. Having to sit in the office when nothing was going on seemed to Johan like the stupidest waste of resources. But there’s no use trying to second-guess the managers of Swedish TV, he thought morosely. He really could have used a few more hours’ sleep.

At the moment he was sitting at his desk, having his morning coffee and eating a sandwich. He listlessly rocked his chair, casting a critical eye at the cramped quarters of the editorial office. He let his gaze wander over the bookshelves, the computers, the bulletin boards and the windows overlooking a park. He also glanced at the stacks of jumbled documents and the map of Gotland, which always gave him a guilty conscience because there were so many small parishes that they almost never visited.

Although Gotland was Sweden’s largest island, the distance between the northern tip of Fårö and the southernmost district, Hoburgen, was no more than 180 kilometres. And the island was barely 50 kilometres at its widest. That’s why we ought to be doing more, thought Johan. We should be covering more of the island.

As a reporter for Regional News in Stockholm, with Gotland as his beat, he’d become a bit jaded after so many years of meeting deadlines and working with inadequate resources. Although things had definitely improved: they’d moved from a musty cubbyhole of an office into the new and modern building that housed Swedish TV and Radio, only a ten-minute walk from the centre of Visby. The premises were admirably suited to their jobs, but they’d been forced to change their routines. They’d had to become much more organized. Now they set themselves goals, and pursued a specific strategy in their work. Usually he or his cameraperson, Pia Lilja, decided which stories to investigate, yet, since they were the only two employees in the local editorial office, it was difficult to find time to do the necessary research. Their boss in Stockholm, Max Grenfors, wanted them to deliver a story every day in a steady stream so that he had no problem filling the TV news programmes. He preferred their reports to be no more than two minutes long, which was considered just right in terms of newsworthiness and relevance, since the further away from Stockholm the programme ventured, the less important the news was deemed. At least that was how Grenfors viewed things. Johan couldn’t even count the number of times he’d beaten his head bloody against the brick wall that was Max Grenfors, trying to stir up interest for some issue on Gotland. The issue might be a regional problem, but it could still be placed in a larger national context.

Johan switched on his computer. They were working on an urgent topic that was even relevant to Stockholm – and the rest of the country, for that matter. It was the increasing incidence of violence among young people. He pulled up a photo of a sixteen-year-old boy that filled the entire screen: Alexander Almlöv, brutally assaulted late one night outside a popular club for teenagers in Visby. He had been beaten so badly that he had been taken into intensive care at the Karolinska Hospital in Stockholm. Now, two weeks after that fateful night, the boy was still in a coma, hovering between life and death. He’d got into a fight with a classmate outside the Solo Club down near Skeppsbron. The club had advertised a special evening for students. Hundreds of young people from all over the island had turned up, and even though no alcohol was served to anyone under eighteen, the kids had brought their own booze from home and consumed great quantities of it out on the street. The fight had started with a row inside the club and escalated when those involved were thrown out by the bouncers. Then several others jumped into the brawl. It ended with Alexander getting chased down to the harbour, where he was beaten unconscious behind a shipping container. He was kicked and punched, receiving blows both to the head and to the body. After he passed out, he was left on the ground to his fate. Some of his friends went out looking for him and found him only a few minutes later, which undoubtedly saved his life. If he survived. The outcome was still uncertain.

The number of assaults among young people had increased dramatically over the past few years, and they were getting more severe. Weapons were being used to a greater extent – knives, clubs and even guns. Johan wanted to do a story on the growing violence and its possible causes. Fights among teenagers usually occurred in the summertime when the island was invaded by tourists. Visby was popular because of its sunny weather, long sandy beaches and the lively bar scene.

‘Hi.’

Startled out of his reverie, Johan looked up from his editing. He hadn’t noticed that Pia Lilja had come in.

With a big yawn, she sat down at her desk across from Johan and switched on her computer.

‘How boring that we have to work on a Sunday. Is there really anything we should be doing?’

‘Not a thing, apparently. Are you tired?’

She gave him a sly look. As usual, she had put on a good deal of eye make-up.

‘Yeah. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘A new boyfriend?’

‘You might say that.’

Pia seemed to have a steady stream of new boyfriends. Her appetite for men was apparently insatiable, and the men seemed equally infatuated with her. Pia was twenty-six, tall and slender, with black hair sticking out in all directions. She’d had both her nose and her navel pierced and adorned with gemstones in various colours. And it was no exaggeration to say that her choice of eye shadow was vibrant. Right now her lids were painted a bright turquoise.

Johan was glad that she’d never tried to put the moves on him; he wouldn’t have been interested anyway. Just after they started working together, he had met Emma Winarve, who became the great love of his life. And they were now married.

‘Anyone I know?’ he asked.

‘I doubt it. He’s a sheep farmer from Sudret. A real hermit. But cute and sexy. Big muscles and tons of energy.’ A dreamy look came into her eyes.

‘How’d you meet him?’

‘I drove past his farm early one morning, and in the haze I saw hundreds of lambs in one of the pastures. It was an irresistible scene. I just had to stop and take a picture. And there he was, appearing out of the mist like some character in a fucking fairy tale. But what about you? Are you hung-over from the party last night? Was it fun hobnobbing with all the society bigwigs?’

Pia hadn’t stopped mocking him ever since he’d agreed to go to the dedication festivities at the new conference centre.

‘Sure. It was actually OK. Free champagne and great food. Those of us who are parents to little kids don’t get out very often, so we have to accept any invitation we can get.’