Johan Theorin - The Darkest Room

Joakim went over and took out the tape.

“That’s it,” he said.

Lisa had risen to her feet. “Who was that?” she asked again. “Who was talking?”

“A friend. An old man,” said Joakim, slipping the tape into his pocket. “Nobody you know…But is it true?”

Lisa opened her mouth, but seemed unable to find any words. Finally she managed to say, “No. Surely you don’t believe all that?”

“Was Michael at your cottage on Gotland when Katrine died?”

“How should I know? It was back in the fall…I don’t remember.”

“But when was he there?” said Joakim. “I mean, he must have gone down there sometime to take the boat out of the water. Mustn’t he?”

Lisa looked at him without replying.

“I was here in Stockholm the evening Katrine drowned,” said Joakim, “and I remember I rang your doorbell. But nobody was home.”

He got no reply.

“Does Michael have a calendar we could look at?” asked Joakim. “Or a diary?”

Lisa turned her back on him. “That’s enough now, Joakim…I need to make a start on dinner.”

She went over to the front door, opened it, and looked at him.

Joakim said nothing. Before he left the house, he stopped next to the photographs on the wall and looked closely at one of them: a picture of Michael Hesslin on board his white motor cruiser. He was standing behind the shining gunwale in the prow, waving at the camera. There was no sign of any boat hook.

“Nice boat,” said Joakim quietly.

He left, and she quickly closed the door behind him. Joakim heard the lock click into place.

He sighed and went out into the street, but stopped when he heard a faint noise carried on the air. It was the hum of a car engine.

When it turned onto the street, Joakim saw that it was Michael’s car.

Michael drove up to the garage, switched off the engine, and got out with four long fireworks under his arm. His two boys jumped out of the back seat and ran off toward the house, each clutching their own bag of firecrackers.

“Joakim, you’re back!” said Michael, coming out into the street. “Happy New Year!”

He held out his hand, but Joakim didn’t take it. Instead he asked:

“What did you dream about that night at Eel Point, Michael? You woke up screaming… Did you see ghosts?”

“Sorry?”

“You killed my wife,” said Joakim.

Michael was still smiling, as if he hadn’t heard properly.

“And the previous year you lured Ethel down to the water,” Joakim went on. “You gave her a fix of heroin… then you pushed her into the water.”

Michael stopped smiling and lowered his outstretched hand.

“She was spoiling the idyll,” said Joakim. “And perhaps junkies might give the neighborhood a bad name… but I’m sure murder suspects are even worse.”

Michael simply shook his head slightly, as if his former neighbor were beyond all help.

“So you’re going to try and set me up for murder?”

“I can help,” said Joakim.

Michael looked at his house and started to smile again. “Forget it.” He walked straight past Joakim as if he didn’t exist.

“There’s proof,” said Joakim.

Michael kept on walking toward the gate.

“Your business cards,” said Joakim. “Where did you keep them?”

Michael stopped. He didn’t turn around, but stood there listening. Joakim moved closer and raised his voice.

“Thieving is always a problem with users. They’re always looking for something they can pick up. So when my sister went down to the water with you, she took the opportunity to steal something from you… something valuable out of your jacket pocket.”

Joakim took a Polaroid photograph out of his pocket. It was a picture of a small object inside a clear plastic bag. A flat case, gold colored, with the words hesslin financial services engraved on the front.

“Your case was hidden inside Ethel’s jacket,” he went on. “Is it made of gold? I’m sure my sister thought it was.”

Michael didn’t reply. He took a final quick look at Joakim and the photograph before going through the gate.

“I’ve already given this to the police, Michael,” said Joakim. “I’m sure they’ll be in touch.”

He felt a bit like Ethel, standing there yelling out in the street, but it didn’t matter any longer.

He stood there and watched Michael disappear up the path.

His rapid footsteps gave him away. Joakim could imagine what the new year would be like for Michael: constantly watching from the window, sweating as he waited for a police car to pull up on the street all of a sudden. Two police officers getting out, opening the gate, ringing the bell on the imposing front door.

In the houses further down the street, the curtains would be discreetly pulled to one side by curious neighbors. What was going on?

“Happy New Year, Michael!” Joakim shouted as Michael opened the front door and went inside.

The door slammed shut.

Joakim was alone on the street again. He breathed out and lowered his eyes.

Then he set off back toward the subway, but stopped for one last time at the gate of the Apple House.

The bunch of roses he had propped up against the electrical service box had fallen over in the wind; he propped it up again.

He stood for a moment, thinking of his sister.

I could have done more for her , he had said to Gerlof.

Joakim sighed and took a final look along the street.

“Are you coming?” he asked.

He waited for a few seconds, then set off again, back to his little family to celebrate New Year’s Eve.

Far away in the east the first fireworks could be seen over Stockholm. The rockets drew narrow white lines against the night sky, before they burst into a shower of light, then went out, like ghostly lighthouses.

I’ve read your book now, Mom. And since there are some blank pages left at the end, I’m going to write down some comments before I give it back to you .

You tell a lot of stories in this book. You claim my father was a young soldier, Markus Landkvist, who died when the ferry to the mainland capsized in a blizzard in the winter of 1962-but there has never been such a ferry disaster here. At least no one on the island that I have spoken to knows anything about it .

I’m used to it, of course. I mean, I’ve heard other stories about my father in the past-that he was a classmate of yours at art school, that he was the son of an American diplomat, that he was a Norwegian adventurer who ended up in jail for robbing a bank before I was born. You’ve always liked crazy stories .

And did you really poison an old fisherman when you lived here? Did you really hit your half-blind mother, Torun, and leave her to her fate one stormy winter’s night?

It’s possible-but you’ve always rearranged things and made things up. You’ve always been allergic to the reality of everyday life, to duties and responsibilities. Growing up with a parent like that isn’t easy-whenever I talked to you I always had to try and work out what had actually happened .

One thing I promised myself: that my own children would grow up in a much calmer, more secure environment than I did .

Joakim’s sister hated me because I took care of her daughter, but

she couldn’t do it herself. You ought to see what drugs really do to people, Mom, you with your romantic notions about that kind of thing .

Ethel’s hatred just grew and grew. But she could have stood outside our house yelling for ten years, I still wouldn’t have let her take care of Livia again .