Johan Theorin - The Darkest Room

Joakim stayed in the dining room, drinking coffee with Roger and Maria Carlsson. The topic of conversation was fairly inevitable: looking after and renovating houses by the sea that were exposed to all kinds of weather. But he also had another question, which he eventually asked:

“I wondered if you’d heard any stories about our place? About Eel Point?”

“Stories?” said Roger Carlsson.

“Yes, ghost stories or other tales,” said Joakim. “Katrine said she’d talked to you last summer about… about the fact that it was haunted.”

That was the first time he had mentioned her name all evening-he took care not to talk too much about his late wife. He didn’t want to seem obsessed, after all. He wasn’t obsessed.

“She didn’t talk to me about any ghosts,” said Roger.

“She did talk to me about it when she came over for coffee,” said Maria. “She was just wondering whether Eel Point had a bad reputation.” She looked at her husband. “I mean, when we were little the adults used to talk about a secret

room at Eel Point that was haunted… do you remember, Roger?”

Her husband just shook his head-obviously ghosts weren’t one of his major interests-but Joakim leaned forward.

“Where was this room? Do you know?”

“No idea,” said Roger, drinking his coffee.

“No, I don’t know either,” said Maria. “But my grandfather said something about the ghosts haunting this room every Christmas. The dead came back to the manor and gathered in a particular room. And then they took-”

“That’s just ridiculous nonsense,” said Roger, picking up the coffeepot and offering it to Joakim. “More coffee?”

Tilda Davidson lay naked and sweaty on her thin mattress.

“Was that good?” she asked.

Martin was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her.

“Yes… I suppose it was.”

As he quickly pulled on his underpants and jeans after getting out of bed that Sunday morning, Tilda should have realized what was coming, but she didn’t.

He had sat down on the edge of the bed and was looking out of the window.

“I don’t think we can do this,” he said eventually.

“Do what?” she asked, still naked under the covers.

“This… all this. It’s not working.” He was still looking out of the window. “Karin’s asking questions.”

“About what?”

Tilda still didn’t realize she was in the process of being dumped. Screwed and then dumped-classic.

Martin had arrived late on Friday, and everything had seemed just the same as usual. Tilda hadn’t asked what he’d told his wife-she never did. That evening they had stayed in her small apartment; she had made fish stew. Martin had seemed relaxed, telling her about the new cohort of recruits that had started at the police training academy this term, some good and some less suitable.

“But I expect we’ll knock them into shape,” he said.

Tilda nodded, thinking back to her early days at the academy; she had been one of twenty recruits. Mostly boys, just a few girls. They had quickly divided their new tutors into three categories: old tutors who were members of the police force, nice but a little fusty; civilian tutors who taught law and hadn’t a clue about real police work; and then the young police tutors who were mainly responsible for the practical work. They came from the field and had exciting stories to tell; they were the role models for the students. Martin Ahlquist was one of them.

On Saturday they had traveled north in Martin’s car, right up to the most northerly point of the island. Tilda hadn’t been there since she was little, but she remembered the feeling of having reached the end of the world. Now, in November, a bitterly cold wind was blowing off the sea, and there wasn’t a soul in sight around the lighthouses. The chalk-white tower rising above the point, Long Erik, had reminded her of the twin lighthouses at Eel Point. She wanted to discuss the case with Martin, but didn’t bring it up-this was her weekend off.

They ate a late lunch at the only restaurant in Byxelkrok

that was open in the winter, then went back to Marnäs and stayed in for the rest of the evening.

It was after that that Martin became more reserved, Tilda thought, despite the fact that she tried to keep the conversation going.

They fell asleep in silence, but then in the morning Martin sat down on the edge of the bed and started talking. Without looking at Tilda once, he said he had done a lot of thinking since she moved to Öland. He had thought about the choices in his life. And now he had decided. It felt like the right decision.

“It’ll be good for you too,” he said. “Good for everyone.”

“You mean… you’re leaving me?” she said quietly.

“No. We’re leaving each other.”

“I moved here for your sake.” Tilda looked at Martin’s naked, hairy back. “I didn’t want to leave Växjö, but I did it for you. I just want you to know that.”

“What do you mean?”

“People were talking about us. I wanted to put a stop to it.”

Martin nodded.

“Everybody likes gossip,” he said. “But now there’s nothing for them to talk about.”

There wasn’t really anything more to say. Five minutes later Martin was dressed; he picked up his bag from the floor without looking at her.

“Right then,” he said.

“So it wasn’t worth it?” she asked.

“Yes, it was,” he said. “For quite a long time. But not now.”

“You’re so afraid of conflict,” she said.

Martin didn’t respond. He opened the front door.

Tilda suppressed the impulse to send her best wishes to his wife.

She heard the door close, and footsteps disappearing down the stairs. He would go out to his car in the square and drive home to his family as if nothing had happened.

Tilda was still in bed, naked.

Everything was silent. A used condom lay on the floor.

“Are you good enough?” she asked her blurred reflection in the windowpane.

No, did you think you were?

You’re just the Other Woman .

After sitting there feeling sorry for herself for more than half an hour, and getting over the urge to shave off all her blonde hair, Tilda got up. She had a shower, got dressed, and decided to go over to the home to see Gerlof. Old people without romantic complications were what she needed right now.

But before she could set off, the telephone rang. It was the duty officer in Borgholm calling her out; there had been a break-in at a vicarage north of Marnäs over the weekend. A retired couple living in the house had surprised the burglars, and the man was in hospital with head injuries and several fractures.

Work dulled Tilda’s pain.

She got to the house around two, when the daylight was already beginning to fade over the island.

The first person she met at the scene was Hans Majner. Unlike her he was dressed in full uniform and was walking around with a roll of blue-and-white tape and signs that said police no entry in his hand.

“So, where were you yesterday?” he asked.

“I wasn’t working,” said Tilda. “Nobody called me out.”

“You have to check for yourself whether there’s anything going on that you need to know about.”

Tilda slammed the car door. “Shut your mouth,” she said.

Majner turned around. “What did you say?”

“I told you to shut your mouth,” said Tilda. “Stop criticizing me all the time.”

She had definitely ruined things with Majner now, but she didn’t care.

He stood there motionless for several seconds, as if he didn’t really understand what she had said.

“I’m not criticizing you,” he said.

“Really? Give me the tape.”